An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Then she went to the kitchen. The source of the distracting noise was easy enough to find. A henzh—a Lyranan dart—was imbedded in one of the cabinet doors. Yikenj grandstanding even as she left, showing that she could throw her weapon with just as much silent grace as she caught the crossbow bolt.

  Yikenj was in all likelihood being honest—neither she nor any other Lyranan was the killer here. But that didn’t make Satrine feel any better. Once again that woman had violated her, and then let her go just to show she could. Just to be magnanimous.

  Satrine would be damned before she gave Pra Yikenj a third chance to do that.

  Chapter 13

  THERE WASN’T A DECENT PLACE to get a bite in this blazing part of town. Certainly not now, after dark with a soft curfew. Corrie hadn’t had anything significant to eat since—blazes, when? Last she remembered was before she went to shift the night before. All day without eating, that was rutting stupid of her.

  She had done three circles around the Machie part of the East. Quite a few of them had been in the street, and she stopped a few who looked up to no damn good. She hadn’t caught anyone under Home Binding out of doors, and it seemed most of them were going to the same place: a public house or community center of some sort. Maybe a church for them, Corrie had no blazing idea. She didn’t care, all she knew was her stomach was screaming at her.

  “Any luck?” she called out to two other horsepatrol as they approached. Just about everyone on horse tonight was dealing with the same problem she was, and everyone was trying to find something to eat in the Little East that didn’t make them want to puke it right back up.

  “Not really,” one of them said back to her. Venkins, who had been riding the night shift for almost a year now. “We heard that there’s a Lyranan public house still serving food, but we haven’t heard much about what they eat.”

  “Have you been patrolling bleeding Tyzoville?”

  “A bit,” Venkins said. “That part of the East is still pretty crowded, stuff happening.”

  “Should we crack down on that?” Terrick, the guy riding with Venkins, seemed a little too eager to have something to crack down on. He’d been talking like that all night.

  “Ain’t no Lyranans on those writs,” Corrie said. “Can’t bleeding well chase them off for doing nothing wrong.”

  “Smells like trouble,” Terrick said.

  “Then do a rutting ride-through,” she snarled. “Show the color, and maybe there’s some tyzo who’ll give you some food.”

  “And what are you bleeding doing, Cor?” Venkins asked.

  An idea sizzled in her head. “I’m going to head up to Feektown, circle around it for a bit. You all keep an eye out.”

  “You too,” Venkins said, and Corrie spurred her horse forward.

  Of course she wasn’t going to Feektown. She’d go through it, and then only two blocks away from that was home. There she could pop in, get some decent food, and pop back over with no damn problem.

  Corrie spurred her horse, heading over to Peston. She wasn’t riding Hosker or Brane, her two usual mounts—blazes, she didn’t even know this one’s name—so she’d actually have to guide it home. If it was Brane, she could doze off and it would take her there. But this one she wasn’t fond of. It was a bit sluggish and stubborn. Easy to see why it was one the day shift had left in the stables. So she had to focus on making sure it went where it should and stayed on the right side of the road, instead of daydreaming of the food that she would find at home. Dinner was already over, of course, but Mother would have squirreled a few things away in the larder.

  It was hardly the first time Corrie would pop to the house for a bite of something mid-shift.

  She was letting herself think about spiced cured lamb, soft cheese, and mustard when she heard voices on one of the side streets. Not speaking Trade, and certainly more than one or two folks.

  Gritting her teeth, she turned the sluggish horse up that street. Eating would have to wait.

  Five feeks—big bruisers, even the two ladies—were striding down the walkway. They were going somewhere with a plan, and from the looks of them that plan would involve some broken teeth.

  “Hey,” Corrie called out, moving the horse up on the walkway to block their path. “Where you all headed?”

  The one in the center said something in Fuergan to her. She didn’t know a word, but she could imagine he suggested shoving her handstick somewhere.

  So she pulled her handstick out. “Let me rephrase. Show me some papers and explain why you’re out of doors.”

  The group stopped. They all stood still for a moment, staring down Corrie.

  Her blasted horse took a step forward.

  The leader yelled something in Fuergan, and the five feeks all ran in different directions.

  Corrie spurred the stupid damn horse and pulled out her whistle, giving out a quick Runner Call.

  She charged after the leader, figuring that was the best one to iron. He ducked into one alley, which she tried to turn into. The stupid rutting horse balked, giving the guy a blazes of a lead.

  Return Call whistled through the night. She spotted two footpatrol coming down toward her. “Five feeks out of doors, ran every which way! Run them down!”

  She dropped to her boots, leaving this rutting horse behind. It was worse than useless.

  The feek was nearly through to the other end of the alley, but she tore down after him, pulling her crossbow out as she closed. He turned to the left, into the open street, but there was only so far he could go before she caught up.

  She came out of the far end of the alley, turning to see him duck into one of the households. “Stand and be held!” she shouted, though she didn’t expect him to listen. Blazes, the feek might not even understand Trade. Certainly the bastard wouldn’t care about arrest rules.

  Corrie bounded up the steps of the household, to find a stout feek woman blocking the door. She shouted in feek sewage, with a few “No!” in there for good measure.

  “Stand aside, I have just cause,” Corrie snarled.

  The woman responded by pushing Corrie in the chest, knocking her down the steps. She managed to keep her feet as she went down, but she fumbled her crossbow. It fired wildly into the street.

  Her lieutenants were always chiding her for keeping her blasted finger on the trigger.

  “You rutting slan!” Corrie shouted. She swapped the crossbow for the handstick, intent of giving the feek skirt a few bruises.

  “Welling!” One of the other horsepatrol came thundering up. Kenty. Good stick, if a bit of a priss. “Where’s your mount?”

  “Left that nag behind,” she said. “We got a runner hiding in this household. Just cause for entry.”

  “No time,” Kenty said. “A whole mess of the Fuergans went into Machie. Kicked in the doors of their church.”

  Corrie pointed her handstick at the feek matron. “I’m gonna remember you, skirt.”

  The feek shut her door.

  “Get your horse and get over there,” Kenty said. Did he outrank her? Corrie couldn’t even remember. Maybe. “We’re looking at a Riot Call.”

  And as soon as he said it, the piercing whistle cut through the air.

  “No time for my rutting mount,” Corrie said, and pounded her boots back to Imachtown.

  She barely made it half a block when a horde of those bearded freaks came flooding toward the Fuergan houses.

  Even from the serenity of the Tsouljan gardens, it was clear there was chaos in the streets of the Little East. Shouts, screams, and whistles pierced through the air. Minox quickened his pace while making sure his crossbow was loaded and he had his handstick. The fact that his vest probably wasn’t buttoned would have to wait.

  “Patrolman, I appreciate your diligence. But no matter the call, you and your partner keep your stand on the gates to this place.”

 
; “Really, sir?” the patrolman asked. “You might need . . .”

  They pushed past the blooming trees and reached the gate. “What I’ll need is irrelevant. If this unrest is tied to the murder, this place and the people inside might be targets. I am not assigning you a meaningless task.”

  “Aye, Inspector,” the patrolman said.

  He was out in the street and heading toward the sounds of the disturbance—somewhere where the Imach and Fuergan districts met, likely—when he realized Joshea was at his elbow.

  “This is no place for civilians,” he said.

  “Good thing I’m not one,” Joshea said. Minox glanced back and noticed Joshea had grabbed a Tsouljan gardening tool on their way out.

  “Joshea,” he said firmly, “you could be charged for assault, or possibly murder. Not to mention theft.” He glanced at the tool in Joshea’s hand. “You have no authority to take action here.”

  “I have a right to be armed and protect my person,” Joshea said. He placed a hand on Minox’s shoulder. “And I think the law even provides for protecting a fellow person.”

  “Within reason,” Minox said. The hostilities he was hearing were growing increasingly violent in tenor. There was no time to waste. “Do nothing that could be considered actively aggressive.”

  “Aye, sir,” Joshea said with military crispness, the sort of tone he reserved for his father. Minox couldn’t read if that was sincere or some sort of jibe, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Trouble was afoot.

  They approached the market square at the corner of Peston and Necker, which had erupted in a full brawl between Fuergans and Imachs. The riot between them had spread out in almost every direction. A handful of regulars were in the thick of it, but they looked like they were in danger of being overrun by the fighting. Footpatrol were coming in from all over, most of them too stunned to take action.

  Understandable. They had never seen anything like this. Minox certainly hadn’t.

  “Trouble,” Joshea said, pointing out one thing in particular. Minox saw, and was impressed with Joshea’s eye, picking out a particular piece of this chaos that was worse than the rest.

  Two footpatrol had their crossbows drawn, screaming at the Imachs around them to back away, their orders laced with obscenities. These two were spinning around wildly, no discipline with their weapons. There was already enough danger and destruction going on; the worst thing would be for the Constabulary to add to it.

  “Sir?” one of the footpatrol asked. “What’s the word?” A good dozen of them had gathered by him.

  Minox was the ranking on scene. Of course they looked to him.

  “I need those two pulled out now,” Minox said, pointing to the regulars who had nearly lost their minds. “We need horsepatrol to form a perimeter. Call for lockwagons and Yellowshields. Gather a line of footpatrol and prepare to sweep in.”

  “Aye, sir,” the footpatrol said. Two of them ran back out down Necker and blew out the calls needed. A couple more charged in toward the two wild regulars and dragged them out.

  “Joshea,” Minox said. “I have a job for you.”

  “Name it,” Joshea said.

  “Yellowshields aren’t going to have an easy time getting into here. Once we sweep through, you see anyone in critical need of care—”

  “Pull them out of field, aye,” Joshea said. “I can do that.”

  “Sir?” one the footpatrol asked. “Do we wait for the lockwagons to sweep?”

  “I don’t think we can, son,” Minox said. “On my mark, we go.”

  He drew out his handstick.

  Before he could give the order, there was a different cry from the east side of Peston. A couple dozen men and women came pouring in, armed with truncheons, clubbing down Fuergan and Imach alike.

  Lyranans.

  Ferah went around the sitting rooms of the Welling household, putting out oil lamps. Usually Aunt Amalia did this, but between Corrie staying on for a double and Minox not coming home at all from his shift, she was a mess. Jace and Alma got her to bed, and Emma and Nyla helped clean the kitchen instead of going to their Suffragist meeting. Despite her feet aching from running her Yellowshield shift, Ferah stayed up to shut down the house for the night.

  At least as much as it should be shut down. Corrie and Minox were still on the job. Mother was working a night shift at Ironheart, and Pop . . . Pop and Colm had both been working doubles and sleeping at the Brigade house after the big fire in North Seleth. Pop blamed himself that the Brigade hadn’t been there.

  Ferah worked her way over to the kitchen. She checked the oil lamp in the window by the back door. It was burning low. She went into one of the cabinets to find the oil jar. Ferah had little hope that her brother would come out of the stable and back into the house during the night, but if he did, she would make sure there was a light there for him.

  “Why ain’t you asleep yet?”

  Edard had come down the back stairs, out of his footpatrol uniform, but otherwise fully dressed.

  “Why aren’t you?” Ferah asked. “You heading out right after midnight?”

  “Things need doing,” Edard said. He let that hang there.

  Of all her cousins, Edard was the one Ferah was closest to. They both worked Dentonhill, they both had seen things. Ferah knew damn well that a few of her fellow Yellowshields did sew-up work for Fenmere’s thugs. Edard never spoke about it, but she was worried he was taking some look-the-other-way money. Maybe even doing a favor or two, if not for Fenmere’s people, then for another stick in Denton who was deep in Fenmere’s pocket.

  She didn’t say anything either. Unlike anyone else in this house, she knew what working Dentonhill was like. She’d patched up enough sticks and doxies and ’fitteheads to know. She also knew Edard was trying to get shifted to any other part of town. He’d even work deep west side, even in the landfill in Old Quarry. But his lieutenant wasn’t letting go of him.

  “Can’t keep the left waiting,” Edard said after the long moment, heading to the front door. “Really wish you’d been asleep.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Ferah said, following after him. “Damn it, Eddie, don’t do anything—”

  “I ain’t talking about it,” he said. He reached the door, his hand resting on the handle. “Look, it’s all right. It’s just this guy, he’s a real—he ought to be ironed and in Quarrygate. We’re going to take care of it.”

  “For who?” Ferah pressed.

  “Just doing what I’m told.”

  He opened the door and went out. She wanted to shout after him, but at the same time, she didn’t want to make a scene, wake up his father and brothers. They wouldn’t understand at all.

  Not that she understood either.

  Before she could say anything else, he was in the dark of the night.

  She was about to go back in, latch the door, when a whistle cut through the air. Two short and one long.

  A call for a Yellowshield. Somewhere east, probably Inemar. It’d have to be the Little East to hear it from here.

  Then there was another Yellowshield call. Then another. Five. Seven. All east of here, and they kept repeating. Then other calls. Riot Call. Panic Call.

  Her coat and her kit were hanging on a peg by the door. She grabbed both and ran out into the night.

  Satrine startled. She had dozed off. The oil lamp was still burning low, and she could see Missus Abernand asleep on the couch. Her joints aching, Satrine picked up the crossbow in her lap and stood up from the rocking chair.

  As soon as Yikenj had left, Satrine had brought Rian and Caribet down to their room, and made Missus Abernand sleep on the couch. The old woman had gotten significantly spooked, so it wasn’t hard to convince her.

  Once they were secure, she double-checked the latch on her door, and then wedged a broomhandle in place to keep it jammed shut. Brute force would still kn
ock it down, but that’s what it would take to pull it off.

  Then she went up to Missus Abernand’s apartment, checking every point of entry and sealing it off best she could. She hoped it would make a difference, though for all she knew, Pra Yikenj had long since snuck back into the house and was just biding her time.

  Of course, that was paranoid. Absurdly so. If for no other reason than if Pra Yikenj wanted to kill her and her family, she could have easily done so.

  Yikenj wanted her scared, and she certainly was.

  She double-checked the door, the windows, and the girls’ room. No sign of trouble. She checked the threads she put over the door to the upstairs. Still in place. Not that Yikenj couldn’t work around such a basic trick.

  It was still dark out. Probably around four bells.

  She went to the bedroom. Loren was asleep, quietly so.

  Back over to the kitchen. Looking through the cupboards, she found the bottle of wine that Enbrain had brought the night before. She briefly considered forgoing the cup, but decided she wasn’t that deep in yet.

  After all, on some level, she was still a noble lady.

  Pouring herself a cup, she went back to the rocking chair and lay the crossbow back in her lap.

  Pra Yikenj might scare her, but she’d face all damnation before she let that Lyranan woman hurt anyone she cared about.

  Corrie had given up trying to quell or even control this rutting riot. These blasted feeks and machs had swarmed around her, mostly intent on beating on each other. All she could manage was to push her way out of this mess.

  “Welling!”

  Corrie turned to see Kenty pulled off his horse by a group of feeks. As he went down, one of them got on the mount and charged at the machs.

  Corrie swore even more profusely than usual and dove into the crowd, handstick swinging liberally. Feek and mach alike, she knocked them down, not caring about anything other than carving a straight line to Kenty.