An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Yes, she called you a murderer,” Welling said. “We find that interesting, as the murder weapon in our case is a Kadabali one. You are Kadabali, aren’t you, Mister Jabiudal?”

  “I was born there, but my path led me here,” he said. “The weapon was a talveca? Then you know that I am innocent, for mine is at my hip. As are all my people’s here.”

  Satrine noticed that each and every Imach man and woman were armed with the weapon. This riot could have gotten very ugly.

  “Why are you all carrying those?” Welling asked.

  “It is our right, and it is our duty to God.”

  God of the Imach faith. Not the same one invoked at Saint Limarre’s. And Jabiudal’s friends were clearly among the deeply faithful.

  “And there’s no chance you could have gotten another person’s talveca, right?” Satrine asked. “Or gotten a new one after leaving one in Hieljam ab Wefi’s chest?”

  “You speak profanely,” Jabiudal said. “I will not be having it from you.”

  “Won’t be having it?” This came from Mirrell, who had stepped back over to them. “Maybe he’s wanting to start something. Looking to get ironed and brought in.”

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Jabiudal said. “Bring me in, question me in your stationhouse, and God be praised! You have a confession to present to your magistrates.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Welling said.

  “I know well how it works,” Jabiudal said. “I will go to my home.” He glanced around at his followers and gave them instructions in his native tongue. They went off, with a dozen footpatrol following them.

  “Don’t suppose either of you understood what he said there?” Mirrell asked.

  “Something about prayers,” Satrine said. That was one of the few words she was able to pick out. Apparently her telepathic education contained a small sample of Imach dialects. So small she couldn’t help but think it was a useless thing to include.

  “Maybe he told them all to go home and pray.” A new voice from behind Satrine. She turned, as did Welling and Mirrell, to see Mister Rencir of the South Maradaine Gazette standing there.

  “You all are off your usual beats, aren’t you?” he said.

  “It’s an unusual situation, Mister Rencir,” Welling said. His attention was still elsewhere, not paying attention to Rencir. Satrine knew well enough that they were usually on friendly terms.

  “Death of a Fuergan lavark, a funeral ceremony throwing money through Inemar, a near rumble in the streets here.”

  “What’s your interest in it?” Satrine asked. Something about Rencir rubbed her the wrong way, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Still, she wasn’t interested in developing much of a professional relationship with him.

  “Well, it’s the sort of thing that sells the newssheets. Salacious-sounding stuff, and with it all leading here, well . . .” He shrugged. “It has the allure of the exotic.”

  “Very little allure, Mister Rencir,” she said. “Right, Welling?”

  “Yes,” he said, still not paying full attention. He snapped out of his reverie again. “I’m sorry, Mister Rencir, we have no further comment at this time, as we are still proceeding with our investigation.”

  Satrine wasn’t sure what was distracting him. Maybe it was hunger—they hadn’t eaten since the Lyranan public house. However, this wasn’t how he usually behaved when hungry.

  “Beyond the salacious element,” Rencir added, stepping closer, “I would be negligent if I didn’t point out how unusual handing out so many Home Bindings at once is. I don’t think you could get away with it in a more . . . traditional sector of Inemar.”

  Now the man was goading them. Satrine was going to be annoyed, but Mirrell was already stepping forward. “We said, no further comment. Unless you want to test who else we’d give a Home Binding to?”

  Rencir stepped away from them all, hands up. “I’ll find you again when you aren’t so busy,” he said. With a small lift of his page cap, he strolled off around the corner.

  “Welling,” Satrine said in a low voice, “What’s going on with you?”

  “It’s nearly five bells,” Welling said. “We should return to the stationhouse.”

  “Right,” Satrine said. “We’ve done enough damage around here today.”

  Chapter 11

  “PLEASE TELL ME you have a key suspect.”

  Captain Cinellan looked harried, even more than usual. His gray-salted hair was a tangled mess, and his desk had seven teacups scattered around it.

  “Perhaps,” Satrine said. “We have a few good prospects.”

  “Tell me,” he said, gesturing for her and Welling to sit down. “And I really hope those prospects are among the ones you ordered the Home Binding for.”

  “Some of them,” Welling said. “We’ve identified the key players in this tangle, for what that’s worth. First there are the immediate relatives of the deceased, Hieljam ab Tishai and ab Orihla.”

  “I don’t think either of them are responsible,” Satrine said.

  “No? Could be a simple inheritance thing, right?” Cinellan fumbled through his desk for his pipe.

  “Inheritance is a very complicated thing in Fuergan society, and I think they’ve lost more prestige and influence—at least here in Maradaine—than they would gain.”

  “They aren’t being entirely forthright, though,” Welling said. “But I’m not sure if the secrets they are keeping are relevant to the investigation.”

  “Fine, those two aren’t suspects,” Cinellan said.

  “Aren’t key suspects,” Welling said. “I wouldn’t rule them out entirely.”

  “Who are key suspects?”

  “First, for me, would be Assan Jabiudal,” Welling said. “Though I admit that is mostly due to Miss Hieljam’s reaction to him.”

  “Hajan implied that Jabiudal might have something to gain from it,” Satrine added.

  “Hajan is?” Cinellan asked.

  “Nalassein Hajan. Imach importer. He seemed genuinely broken up over Hieljam’s death.”

  “So, you’re thinking the killer was Imach?”

  Satrine really didn’t. “The weapon was Imach, and even if neither Jabiudal nor Hajan personally committed the murder, they both seem to have a decent entourage of loyal followers.”

  “Zealots, you mean.” This was Kellman, standing in the doorframe.

  “People who would kill for their leaders, either way,” Cinellan said.

  Kellman nodded. “I’d bet a week’s pay that if we came close to pinning it on Jabiudal, one of his folks would confess to keep him free.”

  “Who else are you looking at?” Cinellan tapped on his desk. “Welling?”

  Welling was again staring into the distance, his thoughts clearly not on the conversation in the room right now. He popped back. “I’m still seriously considering that someone at the Tsouljan compound is responsible. One of them has easiest opportunity. And I’m . . . I’m certain they have magical means at their disposal. A factor we should consider.”

  “There’s a Tsouljan mage in there?” Satrine asked.

  “A member of the blue-haired caste, Sevqir Fel-Sed. She’s . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Three words I rarely hear from you, Minox.” Cinellan looked concerned.

  Welling brushed past that. “In addition, while I don’t have significant suspicions of Kenorax or his people, but again, there are things they are hiding from us.”

  Satrine agreed with that. “If we crack the stone of why Hieljam was murdered, I’d bet the reasons tie back to the Kierans.”

  “Are those all your suspects?”

  Satrine hesitated. “I have one more. Among the Lyranans we met with, there was a woman named Pra Yikenj.”

  “I’m not convinced the Lyranans had any meaningful connection,” Welling said.
“The poem was there to deliberately mislead us in some way.”

  “I don’t know about connection, but Pra Yikenj has the skillset to sneak into the enclave, quickly kill a man, and slip away.”

  “You know this how?” Kellman asked.

  Kellman didn’t know about her time in Intelligence, let alone the things she did there. “I met her once before, long ago.” She gave Cinellan a meaningful glance, so he could glean her meaning. He seemed to understand.

  “Worth paying attention to. In the meantime . . .”

  “I put in a request for documents from the Protector’s Office,” Welling said. “Records regarding imports, exports, and assets connected to Hieljam, Kenorax, Hasan, and so forth. I’ll start combing through those—”

  “Not tonight,” Cinellan said. “Both of you, sign out and go home.”

  “That seems premature,” Welling said. “We haven’t made significant headway in today’s investigation.”

  “I know, and the two of you look like you’re ready to collapse. Blazes, Minox, I’ve seen healthier-looking men laid out in the examinarium.”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Welling protested, though now Satrine realized he looked far more pale and drawn than usual. “I think it’s crucial—”

  “I think it’s crucial that you both go home, have a proper meal and a decent night’s sleep. I don’t want to hear any word that either of you were in here before eight bells tomorrow morning. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Satrine said, getting to her feet.

  “Welling?”

  “Understood, Captain. Not back in here before eight bells.” He got out of his chair and left the office.

  Satrine gave a last salute to the captain and went after him.

  “Welling,” she called out as she caught up to him on the stairwell. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re following orders and signing out,” he said flatly.

  “I mean with you. Did something happen to you in the Tsouljan compound?” She lowered her voice a bit. “Something magical?”

  He looked down to the floor, unable to meet her gaze. “I experienced a disturbing loss of control. Fel-Sed, she . . . stopped it. I found it very troubling.”

  Satrine decided not to press. He was clearly embarrassed by the whole thing. “I understand. We’ll tackle this all tomorrow, then.”

  “Until tomorrow,” Welling said. “A good night to you, Inspector Rainey, and my best to your husband.” He turned back down the stairs. He was already gone before Satrine made it to the ground floor.

  Minox stopped at the fast wrap shop for two wraps as he left the stationhouse. The day had left him spent and famished, even though he was feeling little connection to his power at the moment. Ever since the Tsouljan enclave, it was almost like the magic had been turned off altogether, and not in the same way as with the rijetzh. So now he was having the negative effects of the magic with none of the benefits. That was even more annoying.

  Inspector Rainey was clearly aware of something being wrong with him. Not that she could help.

  Swallowing down the wraps as he walked—wasting little time with any banter with Missus Wolman—he went over to the Brondar butcher shop on Jent and Tannen. The situation was unique and distressing, and he needed to speak to someone about it, and that meant Joshea. He didn’t typically just stop at Joshea’s home without warning, due to the Brondar family’s attitude toward magic. The father, especially, had a near apoplectic reaction to the mere mention of magic, and thus Joshea’s ability and that being the reason their interaction was kept secret from the family.

  But today’s events warranted immediate discussion.

  The father wasn’t in the front of the butcher shop when he arrived. The elder brother, Gunther, was cleaning up the cutting block when Minox came in.

  “Eh, we’re shut for the—oh, hey there, stick. You crawling around for business?”

  “No, not tonight,” Minox said. “Would Joshea be around, by any chance?”

  “Ayuh,” Gunther said. “Now, look, stick. I know he feels terrible that he sent you to get your arm broke by that crazy fellow. But you can’t be holding a debt over him too long over that.”

  “You’re right,” Minox said. This must tie into whatever elaborate excuse Joshea had given his family for being in Minox’s company at all.

  Gunther laughed and clapped Minox on the shoulder. “But milk him a bit longer. Does him good, eh?”

  Minox nodded. The blend of affection and aggression the Brondar family showed each other was harsher than in the Welling house, but it had a familiar air for Minox. Army or Constabulary, there was always a degree of grit found between members of a service family.

  “Eh, Josh! Your stick buddy is here for a lesson!”

  Joshea came out from the back. “Inspector,” he said calmly. “Wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

  “I had an early sign-off,” Minox said.

  “Right,” Joshea said, wiping off his hands on his apron. He untied it and threw it to his brother. “Finish up, Gunth.”

  “Finish up, yourself,” Gunther said, tossing the apron back in Joshea’s face.

  Joshea threw it back, and then knocked his brother on the arm. “Just rutting do it, I’ll take opening tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow and next.”

  Joshea sighed. “Fine. Tosser.”

  Minox stepped out of the shop with Joshea right with him. “There some sort of emergency?”

  “Rather,” Minox said. “What are you supposedly teaching me?”

  “Army fighting, so you don’t get jacked again,” Joshea said with a chuckle. “So what’s the story?”

  “Let’s get farther away before I explain,” Minox said. “It is rather involved, and I need to eat something as well.” Those fast wraps had done nothing to quell the hunger.

  They headed five blocks away before ducking into a corner pub, one which Minox had never frequented and was far enough from the Brondar shop to risk bumping into one of Joshea’s family. They ordered food and drinks and took a back corner table, away from most prying eyes.

  “You look spooked, Minox,” Joshea said. “What happened to you?”

  Minox laid out the entire escapade involving the Tsouljan compound and the strange effect the place had had on him, as well as the actions of Sevqir Fel-Sed. That right now his magic appeared to be blocked.

  “Blocked?” Joshea asked. “They can do that to you?” It was hard to tell if he was concerned or excited. “How did they . . .”

  “She did something with stones on my body,” Minox said. “But it’s like the magic is still affecting me. I’m ravenous right now.”

  “I noticed,” Joshea said. Minox looked down at the table. Somehow over the course of the story he had eaten five lamb sausages and two heckie pies.

  “And I’m still hungry,” Minox said. “What can we do? This is horrifying.”

  “I can imagine,” Joshea said. “All right, then, I don’t like this, but I can only think of one thing. You and I need to go see that Tsouljan lady.”

  As they reached the Little East Minox wasn’t sure what Joshea’s intentions were. He was excited, and Minox’s first thought was the idea of learning something about magic outside of Druth Circle politics had invigorated him. But the more they walked, the more Joshea’s energy seemed primal, aggressive. Minox wondered if Joshea was planning on starting a fight with Sevqir Fel-Sed.

  “Never come up this way,” Joshea said, his eyes darting about. “I mean, even when I go to your house, I usually take Promenade to head north until I hit Oscana. You?”

  “I’ll admit, save my tobacconist, the past two days are the most time I’ve spent in the Little East.”

  “Your boys are out tonight, eh?” Joshea said. “Green and Red on every corner.” He was right, the presence of the footpatrol and horsepatrol was verging on
oppressive.

  “And not much else,” Minox added. “Which is good, given the tensions.”

  “You can’t talk about the case itself, I imagine,” Joshea said.

  “You would find it tedious and confusing. Far too many moving parts, almost by design.”

  “By design?” Joshea asked, his interest clearly sparked.

  Minox was probably saying too much, but it distracted him from what was going on in his body. Everything inside him felt out of sorts. Disconnected. Like his body was a puppet he controlled from a distance. “Without delving into details, it seems the murder scene was staged to explicitly draw attention to a number of parties, none of whom are necessarily guilty.”

  “I get it,” Joshea said. “Instead of giving you no clues, the killer gives you many different ones, in order to spread you thin.”

  “Spread thin is how I feel right now.”

  “All right,” Joshea said. “So there’s not usually this many sticks walking in the East at night?”

  “Not at all. Even when I worked foot and horse, we almost never came up around here without a specific call. Which were rare.”

  “Makes sense, really,” Joshea said. “Let these people deal with each other their own way, and only clean up the big messes.”

  “Which we’re in,” Minox said. They were now crossing through the Kellirac and Racquin blocks of the Little East. This was where Minox’s mother grew up, when she was Amalia D’Fen. She rarely ever spoke of her childhood, and never with anything resembling wistful fondness. The buildings were especially shabby—it seemed all the doors had been pulled off their frames. There were only a few locals in the streets, a group of old Racquin men in big floppy hats like Minox remembered his maternal grandfather—his namesake—always wearing. These men sat around a makeshift firepit made from an empty metal barrel. Exactly the sort of thing that would get someone cited, if not ironed, in any other part of the city.

  Two of those old men looked up at Minox as he passed, and openly snarled.

  “Looks like your colors aren’t too popular here,” Joshea said. “I imagine it’d be a lot worse if I were wearing my army colors.”