“Druth? Waish?”
“Piss yourself,” Satrine responded, dropping into her native Inemar street accent.
“Druth,” the woman confirmed. A slight smile played over her lips. “Foolish.”
She squeezed, and Satrine flailed impotently with her free arm, a vain attempt to get free. The woman’s eyes were locked onto Satrine’s as her vision started to cloud. Satrine struggled for air, struggled with the woman’s hand, kicked lamely at her feet. Just as she was about to slip into blackness, something changed in the woman’s face.
She let go and looked Satrine up and down with discernment. Then her hand shot to Satrine’s abdomen.
She didn’t strike this time. Instead, reached under Satrine’s shirt and placed her palm on her belly. After a moment of groping—which Satrine was far too weak to resist—she let go completely and stepped back.
Satrine collapsed to the floor.
She lost time in a haze of confusion—next thing she knew she was lying in the dirt back in the crop field. Something was burning. As she struggled to find her feet, she saw in the distance the boilhouse on fire.
“This is done,” a harsh accented voice said next to her. “Neither of our governments need worry about it.”
Satrine couldn’t quite get herself upright, but she turned to this woman—the Lyranan who had just beat her senseless. “What the blazes did you do?”
“What was necessary. The masters are dead, the place is destroyed, and the western children who had been stolen and enslaved have been given mercy.”
“Mercy?” Satrine managed to say. Western children enslaved? Was that what she was sent to discover? “Did you kill them?”
“Painlessly,” the Lyranan woman said. “They had no chance of rescue or escape. Certainly not from you.”
“Who are you to—”
The woman crouched in front of her. “You will go back to Kiad now. In the northern wharf there’s a Fuergan ship leaving for Druthal at dawn. Be on it. Go home.”
Satrine pulled herself to her feet. “Why the blazes do you think I’m doing that?”
“Because, foolish girl,” the Lyranan woman said, “the only reason I am not killing you is the innocent life that grows inside you. Go home, and cherish the gift the child has given you.”
Before Satrine could protest anymore, she was grabbed by the scruff of her neck and thrown back down to the ground. Lying in the dirt, panting for breath, the Lyranan woman’s words hit her harder than any of her blows.
The innocent life inside her.
Once she could get on her feet, she wasted no time getting to the northern wharf.
The tunnels underneath the Tsouljan compound were astounding. It wasn’t just some sort of interconnected root cellar, which was what he was expecting, but an elaborate network of hallways and chambers. It wasn’t just elaborate, but elegant: ceramic tiles along the floor, painted frescoes on the walls, lamps in engraved sconces, detailed woodwork in the support arches. The air even felt fresh, like a breeze flowed through the whole place.
It was also far more populated than he had thought the entire compound was.
The hallway they were led through opened up to some form of community kitchen, where several green-haired Tsouljans were cooking and serving, food that at the same time smelled sweet and rancid. Minox wasn’t sure what to make of the assault on his nostrils, but he was sure that there were several dozen Tsouljans seated at the circular tables. Men, women, old, young, with blue, red, yellow, and green hair.
It immediately struck Minox that this could represent almost a hundred potential suspects.
It was also now clear why they had no argument to being confined to their compound. They had everything they needed here.
“Who knew this was hiding under the city?” Minox said out loud.
“It is impressive,” Joshea said.
“They must have utilized old sewers and catacombs and built this up.” Minox thought to the last time he had been underground, when Nerrish Plum had assaulted him and brought him to hidden mausoleum tunnels under his shop. There was almost an entire second city hiding underneath Maradaine.
He wondered who, if anyone, was in charge of that secret city.
“Mister Rek-Yun,” he called out, “do these passages lead outside the compound? Or connect to the city’s own tunnelwork?”
“I am told they do not,” Rek-Yun responded. Minox noted that he did not answer definitively in the negative.
“But why do this?” Joshea asked.
They were being led down a set of stairs into a deeper chamber, and Minox could hear something echoing in the distance.
“Why build high towers, great walls?” Rek-Yun asked. “This is what we do.”
Fel-Sed added her own thoughts, though in her native tongue.
“What did she say?” Joshea asked.
Rek-Yun sighed, like he was having to correct a slow child. “She said it comes from our ancient history, when our ancestors were set upon by aggressive neighbors. Due to their own faith, the idea of going underground was terrifying to them.”
“So you build down, and they don’t bother you.”
“That is the legend,” Rek-Yun said with a strange shrug. “I do not know how much I would draw from it.”
“You don’t believe it?” Joshea asked.
“There are sources of lore, and sources of research. I am not of the Fel, I do not read the former.”
The stairway opened up to a chamber, this one just carved right out of the white limestone. There was also an underwater stream running through it, flowing in from a hole in the rock on one side, and out through the other, presumably to the river.
Minox immediately considered the idea that a capable swimmer might be able to penetrate the compound by this stream, and then escape the same way. Of course such a person would clearly be seen in the hallway. The hallways were like busy streets.
“That was not what I was expecting,” Joshea said.
The two blue-hairs with Fel-Sed started placing candles along the side of the stream, lighting each one of them as they were placed.
“This is where you’ll teach us?” Minox asked.
Fel-Sed gave him a slight nod, and then proceeded to remove her robes. Once she was undressed, she stepped into the stream.
“Do as she does,” Rek-Yun said.
“This is really what we’re doing?” Joshea pressed.
“I think we must trust this process,” Minox said. Everything about this went against his instincts of what was appropriate, but something about Fel-Sed’s manner struck him as utterly genuine. He began undressing.
With a chuckle, Joshea started to do the same. “This better be useful, that’s all I have to say.”
Minox stepped into the water—far warmer than he expected it to be. Almost hot, even. A few steps in and he was already up to his chest. The current was far stronger and more turbulent than he was expecting. It took a fair amount of concentration and strength to simply stand still.
“Saints,” Joshea said, taking his place next to Minox. He seemed to be struggling to keep his footing just as much as Minox was.
“The ge-tan flows around you and through you.” This seemed to be the voice of Fel-Sed, who stood serenely in the stream facing the two of them, now speaking in Trade. But she didn’t speak. The words both echoed around the cavern and whispered right in Minox’s ear. Was this the telepathy that Rainey had spoken of? Was Fel-Sed a master of both arts? “You stand in the current, and you cannot let it control you, or you will be swept away.”
“That’s what this is,” Joshea muttered.
Ignoring his interjection, Fel-Sed cupped her hand in the water, allowing it to flow over and through her fingers. “Hold it, but let it flow.”
Minox mimicked her action, though he needed to use his left hand, as it was the
downstream one. It still felt odd, stranger than the rest of his body.
“Feel where the ge-tan is in your body. Be as aware of it as the water.”
The magic was always in the pit of Minox’s stomach, like a churning fire. When he needed it, he pulled it out of there and sent it to his hands. But that was what wasn’t working right now. He closed his eyes, holding his arms out to keep his balance in the rushing water. The fire was there, as always, but as an angry ember.
“Find it in every part of you. Know those parts, and let the ge-tan flow through it.”
Water buffeted his body, flowing over his hands and fingers.
Minox reached for the magic, trying to pull it to his hands, where he could shape it. Again, just like in the street earlier, it went nowhere.
“Slowly,” Fel-Sed’s voice soothed. “It is not just a fire.”
Did she know his thoughts here? How he saw the magic? “Then what is it?” he asked.
“It is water and breath and fire.”
That wasn’t helpful.
“Breathe and flow.”
That definitely wasn’t helpful.
He looked back at the fire in his stomach. He tried pushing it, like air in his lungs, out from his center into his arms.
That time there was something. It didn’t quite go to his hands, but now he had a sense of where it was stopping, how it stopped.
“Now bring the flames of the candle to you.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Joshea asked. He looked about the room like he was expecting a group of Tsouljans to leap out of the shadows at any moment. Minox understood that—he certainly felt ridiculous.
“The ge-tan flows. The water flows, the air in the chamber. The flame of the candle. Feel each of those things, and how each is part of the room, part of you, part of your balance.”
Minox didn’t quite understand, but an idea in what she was saying clicked with him. Magic wasn’t something he could just do, it was something he could sense. He could feel it in himself, in the world around him, just as he could feel the water rush past him, the air he breathed, the heat of the candle.
He had trained his other senses to be aware of fine details around him, in order to be the best inspector he could be. Notice everything.
This was a sense he had never trained.
He tried to tune out everything but the magic, find where that sense was located. He remembered the tether he traced that led him after Jaelia Tomar. That was this sense. He knew it was there, he just needed to focus.
The magic was there, in his stomach.
It flowed in the water; it swelled around him, Joshea, and Fel-Sed. It danced around the flames of the candles.
He opened his eyes, and for a brief moment, he saw it, as light that moved like smoke. Fel-Sed pulsed with the light. Joshea was surrounded in a nimbus of it. His own body was infused, save his left arm. There it was—right above his wrist, a blur of purple and blue.
On instinct he pushed light into that blur.
In an instant there was no flow of magic. Instead it burst, so bright it deafened him.
Then heat, flame, a rush, and water. No air. Darkness. Pulling. No air. Water.
Hands on his leg, arm, body.
Pulled back, he was back in the air. On the stone. Couldn’t breathe. Hands on his face.
“Minox! Minox!”
Blurs of light became Joshea’s face. Minox found himself being handled, turned onto his stomach. Struck on his back, water came out of his mouth and nose. He gasped, thirsty for air. He couldn’t get enough, coughing out more water.
“Sweet saints, woman!” Joshea was shouting. “This is craziness! You could have killed him.”
Fel-Sed responded in Tsouljan nonsense, real words from her mouth. Minox realized he was out of the water, on the stone floor, Joshea crouched next to him. Whatever method she was using to speak to them before must have ended when they left the stream.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice more of a hoarse whisper than he expected.
“You tell me,” Joshea said. “She said the magic was part of our balance, and then you went under. I barely got you before the current swept you down that tunnel.”
“That quickly?” Minox asked.
“More or less. I wasn’t counting the clicks of the clock. But it was barely a moment.”
That didn’t track for Minox. It felt like it had been several minutes of trying to sense the magic. Had that affected his perspective of time?
He flexed his left hand. It felt different now. Almost hot.
Fel-Sed emerged from the water, snapping at them in Tsouljan.
“What is she saying?” Minox asked. Was Rek-Yun still present?
“Nonsense, I’m sure,” Joshea said, pulling his pants back on. “Let’s get dressed and get out of here.” He tossed Minox his own clothing.
“She said you have shattered the dam. She must rebuild it or you will be in great danger.” Rek-Yun still stood at the bottom of the stairwell.
“A dam?” Joshea snarled. “You hear that? She blocked your magic. She did it to you. There’s your mystery.”
“Why?” Minox asked, first looking at Rek-Yun and then Fel-Sed. “Why do this to me?”
“Because you are out of balance,” Rek-Yun interpreted her words as she spoke. “You will activate horrible things.”
Joshea was fully dressed now, his hair still dripping. “If you don’t let us out of here, back up to the open sky, I will show you terrible things.”
Minox pulled his pants on. “There is no need for threats. I’m sure they’ll let you leave.”
“Threats?” Joshea asked. “Minox, they almost killed you, and for what? Come on.”
Minox hesitated. As unorthodox as this process was, it hadn’t been useless. For a moment he felt like he almost understood how his own magic and body worked. He wasn’t sure he could find it again on his own.
“Maybe we should . . .”
There was a commotion above them, someone shouting. Druth Trade.
“Inspector! Are you all right?”
Minox pulled on his shirt and vest. “Everything’s fine, Patrolman,” he called back.
“No, it isn’t!”
Minox came up the stairs to the kitchen chamber, Joshea charging with him. One of the patrolmen from the gate was in a frantic state, two of the red-haired Tsouljans holding him back.
“Report, Patrolman.”
“We’re hearing trouble in the streets, sir. Shouts, cries, and then whistle calls soon after, of all sorts. There’s definitely a brawl going on, sir. Maybe even a riot.”
Satrine stared down Pra Yikenj, as the smug Lyranan woman smirked at her. The same damn expression she made fifteen years ago in that burning field outside of Kiad. “So tell me your business here, or get out.”
“You suspect I am your murderer, and with good cause.”
“Because you’re quite capable of committing it.”
“I have the skills and the will, yes. As you know.”
Satrine resisted the urge to reload her crossbow and take another shot.
Yikenj continued. “But I am, like you, an officer of order. I was true to my word fifteen years ago, and I am now. So I’m telling you that I am not your killer. I do not know who your killer is, and I am not interested in putting my considerable skills to work in determining it for you.”
“And here I thought we were going to be friends,” Satrine said. “How surprising.”
“I am telling this to you out of . . . is ‘kindness’ the word?”
“Probably not.”
“No, I have done you one kindness already in this lifetime. The word I want is ‘warning.’”
“I presumed you being here was a warning of some sort.”
Yikenj scoffed. “Not from my government. I have tak
en this initiative out of professional courtesy to you. I recognize you have a job that you must do, and it is a worthy and important one.”
Satrine took this as her cue to scoff. “As we say here, I don’t need all this butter. Tell me what you have to say.”
“It is this, Inspector Rainey: despite the remarkable poem at the scene, this murder has nothing to do with Lyrana.”
“That’s for me to determine,” Satrine said.
“We have extended you two courtesies today to assist your investigation. That is more than any other party, no matter how tangential they are to this case, has been willing to do.” Yikenj was now standing like a cat getting ready to pounce.
“Fine,” Satrine said, getting on her feet. If this was going to be a scrap, she’d not be found wanting. “So what is it you want, Yikenj? I presume you’re not here for dinner.”
“Am I not being clear, Inspector? Very well. This murder does not involve Lyranans. Therefore you and the rest of your Constabulary will not involve yourself in Lyranan affairs. Myself, my superiors, or any other Lyranan in Maradaine. Even the band that plays at the public house. No one.”
Satrine stepped forward, getting in Yikenj’s gray, hairless face. “Am I not being clear, Miss Yikenj? That’s not yours to say.”
Unsurprisingly Yikenj was not cowed by Satrine’s bravado. She gave no ground, simply flashing that disturbing smile of hers. “Ignore my warning if you wish, Inspector. It is ironic, if you’ll allow me. Two days ago your Constabulary gave little thought to what occurred in the Little East. Two days from now some shiny object will capture your attention, and you’ll stop thinking of it. That is why we’ve had to act.”
“Act how?”
The question wasn’t answered. A sound from the kitchen drew Satrine’s eye for a moment, and in that brief instant of distraction, Yikenj moved. Not a blow was thrown, though. Instead, she was just gone. The front door slammed shut before Satrine was even sure what had just happened.
She went to the door and threw the double latch closed. She doubted that would keep Pra Yikenj out if she intended to get in, of course, but it made her feel a little safer.
An Import of Intrigue Page 18
