An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “We examined it, ma’am,” Welling said, holding his ground. The four Fuergan attendants all stepped a bit closer. “I apologize if our actions caused offense, but it was necessary.”

  “I will decide what is necessary for my isahresa’s body,” she said. “And it is time for his srehtai.”

  Satrine presumed that was a mourning or funeral rite. “It may be our people have concluded their examination and can release the body to you. Would that be all right?”

  “Perhaps. Take me to him now, Inspectors.”

  “We’re still in the midst of investigating . . .” Welling started.

  “I do not care,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. “Do not ignore me, or pass me on to your menials.” The four attendants all tensed their bodies, like they were about to spring on Welling. Welling didn’t budge, but there was a shift to his demeanor, including gripping his handstick.

  “Fine,” Satrine said. She might as well get on top of this, and try to get some further information out of Hieljam ab Tishai. “Welling, I’ll escort the heina back to the stationhouse, while you continue the investigation here.” Welling seemed to pick up on her cue, using the woman’s rank: this was part of treading carefully. The Hieljam were for all intents Fuergan nobility, and they needed to treat the woman like they would a countess in the same situation.

  Welling relaxed. “If you think that’s best, Inspector. Return here as quickly as possible. I think we’ll need several hours here.”

  Satrine gave him a quick nod, which he returned, and then he went inside the Tsouljan enclave.

  “Heina-jai, if you’ll come with me?”

  “Hardly, Inspector,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. “My sled is over there. You will come with me.”

  As Inspector Rainey went off with Hieljam ab Tishai, it occurred to Minox how strongly he had misjudged his understanding of the Fuergan people. What he had taken for cultural appreciation and mutual respect was merely his own affinity for tobacco and a shopkeep’s politeness with a valued customer.

  He passed through the portal into the Tsouljan gardens, again greeted by the red-haired guardians. “Qhat nek dav.”

  The Tsouljans seemed to be about their business, much the same as they were yesterday. There appeared to be no real reaction to a man’s death in their space; there was still no apparent reaction to their imprisonment within their compound.

  The place was the very picture of peacefulness. Which was why Minox couldn’t understand why it made him feel so restless. Just from crossing the threshold, he was already unnerved.

  Minox spotted the green-haired Tsouljan who had helped Mirrell and Kellman. “You there, boy. You speak excellent Trade, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said, jumping to his feet from the pruning work he was doing at the walkway.

  “I may have further need of your services, if you’ll come with me.”

  “Sir, it is . . . I should not have . . .” the boy faltered.

  Someone else—a yellow-haired Tsouljan—snapped some harsh invective syllables from across the garden. The green-haired boy scurried away.

  Minox marched over to the yellow-haired Tsouljan—was it the same one who they dealt with yesterday? He quickly determined it was not. This man was much older. “Why did you chase him away?”

  The old Tsouljan raised up two fingers. “Calm.”

  “Pardon?” Minox asked, not sure if the man was threatening him in some way.

  “No shout. Speak calm.” His Trade was heavily accented, probably limited in vocabulary.

  Minox lowered his tone, relaxed his shoulders. “You shouted at the boy.”

  “Boy out of place.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Minox struggled for a moment to find a way to express what he wanted to say in the simplest manner. “I need to ask questions, I need to understand answers. He speaks Trade and Tsouljan well.”

  “Out of place.”

  “But I need him.”

  “Not what you need.”

  This was not going anywhere Minox was interested in.

  “Where is Bur Rek-Uti? Is he in charge here?”

  “Bur Rek-Uti. Not what you need.”

  “I need . . .” Minox started sharply. He felt his temper rising, and with that a slight buzz in the tips of his fingers in his left hand. If history was any indication, that buzz would quickly evolve into prickly sensation up his arm; an unscratchable itch. This—the intense emotions and feeling of magic building within his extremities—must be tied to the use of the rijetzh. Sometimes, when the magic-dulling effect faded, the aftereffects were unpleasant. It typically didn’t last very long, and he was still working on mastering that aspect of its use. He hated the brief loss of his own person that it caused, even as the price for hours of control. He had no idea why it was affecting him so strongly now, though. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Druth man. Officer of law.”

  “Inspector Welling,” Minox said, indicating himself. Minox presumed that, unlike the Lyranans, this Tsouljan man didn’t care about the particulars of his Inspector Third Class status. “You are?”

  “Naljil Rek-Yun.”

  This was the one who had answered Mirrell and Kellman’s questions.

  “Yes, you are the one I’m looking for. Yesterday you—”

  Rek-Yun held up a hand. “I . . . center this place. You. . . . You do not yet know.”

  Minox took a deep breath. “I need to . . . investigate. Someone was killed here yesterday.”

  The old man looked pained. “I am . . . aware. But it is done.”

  “No!” Pure anger surged through Minox, including a wave of magical energy rippling up his arm to the center of his body.

  “Center!” the old Tsouljan said sternly. “Calm!”

  “Do not tell me my business, sir,” Minox said. This post-rijetzh fit was the worst ever, which made no logical sense. He pointed a finger at Rek-Yun, but he could see how much his hand was shaking. His left hand—numb and trembling. “I am here . . .” His knees buckled.

  The old man grabbed him firmly and pulled him to his feet, showing a surprising degree of strength. “You need Sevqir Fel-Sed.”

  “Who . . . or what . . . is that?”

  “This way,” Rek-Yun said, leading him to one of the huts. He called out to someone else in Tsouljan. Minox let himself be led, tamping down the urge to throw the old man off, trying to keep the magic from bursting out of his arms.

  Satrine was not prepared for riding in what Hieljam ab Tishai referred to as a “sled.” She had been on Waish dogsleds, built to run on the snow and ice. That was not what this was, though the design had a vague similarity.

  The vehicle was low to the ground, much like those dogsleds, and its lush cushioned seats were open to the air. Where the dogsleds would have had wooden runners or metal blades, this contraption had a series of small wheels. And it was yoked to a team of four Fuergan horses.

  Satrine would never consider herself an expert on horses—she rarely considered them anything other than functional beasts that people who were not her would tend to. But even she could recognize the magnificence of these particular animals, with musculature, power, and beauty that Druth horses couldn’t match.

  The creatures looked like they could run like thunder, and Satrine couldn’t imagine being on the sled when they did that could be pleasant.

  “Sit,” Hieljam ab Tishai said, taking her place in one of the seats. Only one of her attendants was taking a place on the sled, standing on the front to drive the horses. The rest stood at the ready on the sides, like they intended to run along.

  Satrine took her place in the offered seat, gripping onto it as tightly as she could. Instinct told her she might easily fly off this thing as soon as it started moving. The cobblestone streets of Maradaine would not be friendly to those wheels.

  Once Satrine was in place, Hiel
jam ab Tishai whistled to her driver, and he snapped the horses forward. The sled surged forward, rumbling and bumping over the stones as the whole contraption sped off, like on a whistle gallop.

  Satrine gripped onto the seat tighter, noticing the guards running alongside, shouting at anyone else in the street to clear the way.

  Hieljam ab Tishai was oddly sedate, maintaining a poised position in her seat as the sled bumped and caromed down the street.

  “You can’t go this fast,” Satrine shouted, feeling like there was no way Hieljam ab Tishai could hear her otherwise. The sled pounding on the stones made a horrible noise.

  “So it would seem,” Hieljam ab Tishai said, her voice raised but perfectly calm. “Your streets are in horrible state.”

  Shouts and whistles ahead, followed by the sled slamming to a stop, indicated they had reached the intersection at Upper Bridge. That was absurdly fast. Hieljam ab Tishai had a heated exchange with her driver, and then she sighed and turned to Satrine. “One of yours is blocking the road.”

  “He’s directing traffic,” Satrine said. “It keeps carriages and carts from bashing into each other. He’ll let you pass in a moment.”

  “Would one of your Parliament members be subjected to this? Or nobles?”

  “Actually, yes,” Satrine said. “Unless they had arranged to clear the streets.”

  “That is what we should have done. What does that cost?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. Permits and arrangements.”

  “Complicated, yes. Most things are with you people.”

  “Well, we do like our paperwork,” Satrine said ruefully. “I suppose we’re not unlike the Lyranans like that.”

  Hieljam ab Tishai sighed in a noncommittal way. So that wasn’t going to give Satrine any ground.

  “We’ve translated the message that appeared with your isahresa’s body. It was Lyranan.”

  “Lyranan message and Imach weapon,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. “So you’ve said.”

  “It’s apparently a form of Lyranan poetry,” Satrine said, and told her the poem, as best she could recall it. Hieljam ab Tishai frowned slightly when she finished. “Mean something?”

  “It’s odd. A Lyranan poem?”

  “Written in Lyranan, at least.”

  “The fire, air, earth, and water are Fuergan spiritual totems. The imagery—choking, burning, drowning. It matches our own imagery for a life out of balance.” She offered this as if it were a mere academic curiosity, nothing more.

  “I was wondering if, given that you’ve had time to consider it, there’s anything new you might want to tell us.”

  If Hieljam ab Tishai was about to say anything more about that, she was interrupted by the sled driving forward again. The rumbles of the wheels on the stone made further conversation impossible until they reached the stationhouse.

  Satrine directed them around to the back stable doors, which Hieljam ab Tishai did not care for. “We are to skulk in the rear, like some shameful va begging for mercy?”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” Satrine said, even though her memory lit up with the full list of Fuergan caste-rank krais. “Va” was the lowest rank of all, so destitute and indebted that many high-ranked Fuergans didn’t feel it worth the effort to feed or clothe them. “If you wish, we can enter in the front gates, but the sled would have to use the stable doors. And I presume we’ll be loading your . . . uncle’s body from here.” It appeared her telepathic education did not include the details of Fuergan familial relations.

  Hieljam ab Tishai scoffed. “We are bringing my isarehsa, the natir of my family, on his srehtai. It is appalling enough that it must be done here, through Druth streets. It will not begin from any back doors, or with anything less than the full dignity of his station.”

  That was an overload of Fuergan terms. “All right, but then your retinue will have to wait out here with the sled and the horses.” She whistled a couple of pages over—fortunately, they were milling about outside the stationhouse. “Lads, get some space open by the main gates for the—lady’s horses and sled.”

  She led Hieljam ab Tishai and the retinue through the main station floor, stares burning from every direction, and down two levels to the examinarium. The cold room was filled with macabre equipment, charts and diagrams of human bodies, and desks covered with stray paperwork. “Leppin? You down here, man?”

  The squirrelly little man came out from some hidden corner, his lensed skullcap askew on his head. “Something I can help you with, specs?” he asked.

  Satrine cleared her throat, “I’m here with the closest relative of a victim. The Fuergan man?”

  “Oh, right,” Leppin said. He gave a slight tick of his head to Hieljam ab Tishai. “May your road find your way back to him, ma’am.”

  Hieljam ab Tishai gave a slow nod in return. “May we all walk our own way.”

  Leppin scratched at his teeth. “So I figure you’re here for his body. Procession back to the house and all.”

  “That’s correct,” Hieljam ab Tishai said.

  Leppin nodded. “If you go around that corner, through the wooden doors, you’ll find him there. I’ve left a bowl of water and a candle there for you.”

  “Most kind,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. She issued a few orders to her people, and they all went into the back.

  “You were expecting that,” Satrine said to Leppin.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve made a study of death and burial customs of different peoples. A few years back, when Gorky was in charge of the examinarium, we had a real mess when he didn’t know he had ‘violated’ an Imach holy man’s body in an investigation. A little knowledge saves some trouble.”

  Captain Cinellan came into the examinarium. “Rainey,” he said, glancing around uncomfortably. “I heard you had come through with some suspects.”

  “Mourning family, not suspects,” Rainey said. “We’re releasing the body to them.”

  “That wise?” he asked, partly at Leppin.

  “I’m finished, and it’s the appropriate thing for them. Ain’t no harm.”

  “And it’ll help keep us from having some sort of diplomatic incident that’ll cause Marshals or Intelligence to sweep in,” Satrine added.

  Cinellan nodded. “Incidents are happening, diplomatic or not. Last night we had a few arrests up in the Little East. Most were nothing bits, cool off in the walls, but some real cases.”

  “We’re doing as much as we can,” Satrine said. “But people aren’t exactly forthcoming up there.”

  “Like they are down here.”

  “Fair enough,” Satrine said. “But we’ve got a long list of suspects, yet no one pops as obvious. Not to mention we’re kind of at a loss how it was done, let alone who did it.”

  “Keep on it,” Cinellan said. “I presume you’re heading back up there.”

  “Of course,” Satrine said. “Welling is still there, can’t leave him unsupervised.”

  Cinellan gave her a hint of a smile. “We’re sending in additional support up there—double the foot and horsepatrol, until things cool off a bit.”

  “Might be best to send those folks up soon,” Leppin said. “Because the Fuergans will be walking up the body in a bit. Wouldn’t be a bad thing if we sent an escort with it.”

  “What’s this ‘walking up the body’?” Cinellan asked.

  “She called it ‘srehtai,’” Satrine added.

  “It’s a ritual of bringing the body through the community and back home. So they’ll be going up the street—slowly—and chanting and calling out. They’ll get strange looks, probably some jeers—”

  “And if there’s trouble, it’ll be harsh,” Satrine said. “How many foot and horse are ready to go? Wouldn’t hurt to make a procession of it.”

  “You don’t think that’s a bit of a hard hammer?” Cinellan asked.

 
“Of course it is, but we’re going to bring the hard hammer regardless, sir,” Satrine said. “If we’re sending extra patrol up there for tonight, might as well put some show into it.”

  Leppin leaned back, listening down the hallway where the Fuergans were collecting the body. “If you want my advice, Cap, you should get that moving pretty quick. They’ll be coming up in just a few clicks.”

  “Just what I need, advice from my bodyman.” Cinellan muttered something unintelligible for a moment. “Stay on them, Satrine. I’ll get the lieutenants in gear. Looks like we’re going to have a parade.”

  Minox was brought inside the hut, virtually identical to the one that Hieljam’s body had been in. He couldn’t help but think that this might have been the same thing that happened to the man. Something in the air, in the garden, that he reacted to? Something that Leppin wouldn’t notice? Something that Minox, as a mage, was sensitive to?

  Rek-Yun laid Minox down on the table, not unlike the very position the body had been in. Was this how Hieljam died? Were they about to do the same to him?

  “No, no, wait. . . .” Minox said, but he found it challenging to even get words out. This was far beyond the usual aftereffects of the rijetzh. He could barely see anything, but he couldn’t tell if that was the dim lamplight or whatever was affecting him. He tried to get back on his feet. His legs barely held him up, but his arms still worked. He grabbed Rek-Yun by the front of his robe and dragged the man closer, magic crackling in his hands.

  “Please, sir . . .” the old Tsouljan said. He tried to pry Minox’s fingers off his robe. He got the right one off, but Minox’s left hand was clenched like iron.

  “You will not . . .” Minox wheezed out.

  Another hand grabbed Minox’s wrist, and all that magical energy was sapped. Minox’s hand spasmed open, releasing the old man’s robe, and a harsh female voice snarled in Tsouljan.

  Minox’s eyes focused on the new person—he hadn’t even seen her come in. A Tsouljan woman with blue hair. This face he had seen before—she had snapped at him the day before.

  “If you . . . if you . . .” he said. This woman had to know that if he died here, the Constabulary would swarm upon the compound, if not burn it to the ground.