An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Satrine wondered if this was how she sounded to Grieson back in the day.

  “I’m going to solve this case, and if that leads back to her, put her in irons,” Satrine said. She looked again at her eldest daughter, thinking of what Yikenj had said. Carrying this girl had literally saved her life, and now she stood tall and strong, looking her mother right in the eye. “When did you get so tall?”

  “I’m wearing heeled boots,” Rian said, sounding like she was trying to be sophisticated, but also seeking approval.

  “Where did you get heeled boots?”

  “From the back of Missus Abernand’s closet.”

  “And they fit you?”

  “My feet were much smaller when I was a young woman,” Missus Abernand called out. “Are you two done muttering? There’s porridge and tea.”

  “Why are you wearing heeled boots, though?” Satrine asked as they went to the table.

  “Because—” Rian faltered. “Right, I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I’m meeting with the managers in the shop.”

  The job. She actually was trying to get it.

  “You’re interviewing for a shopgirl?” Satrine still wasn’t convinced it was a good idea.

  Missus Abernand interrupted, probably following Rian’s instructions to help her case. “By the way, the ice bill is due today, as is the milk bill. And I’m going to need to order dry goods.”

  “Point taken,” Satrine said. She looked back at Rian. “Make sure they’re having you work the counter. Do not accept any of that window model sewage.”

  “Window model,” Missus Abernand with a scoff. “A step above a primped-up doxy, saints forgive me!”

  “Ugh!” Caribet said.

  “I won’t, Mother,” Rian said.

  Satrine took a few more bites of porridge and got up from the table. “Be brilliant, then,” she said, kissing her daughter on the forehead. She then did the same for Caribet. She crossed into the kitchen to Missus Abernand. “About last night . . .”

  “Don’t think on it,” Missus Abernand said. “My Royce used to say, ‘When they come to scare you is when you’re doing the right thing.’”

  “He was a wise man,” Satrine said. “I’ll try to live up to that.”

  “Six bells,” Missus Abernand said as Satrine went to the door. “I’m holding you to that!”

  “I’ll do my best,” Satrine said, putting on her belt and vest. She was going to forgo the coat today, with this heat. “Be safe, all of you.”

  She opened the door, and the muggy heat of the day assaulted her.

  This day was going to be unpleasant, for certain.

  The tickwagon crowd was in a state, and all of them were carrying newssheets. And they had opinions they wanted to share with Mirrell.

  “Look, you’re an inspector, so what are they doing about this?” was the first thing said to him as soon as he hopped on, by one of the usual newssheet readers. The rest all shouted demands and shook their newssheets at him in empty fury.

  “Morning to you all,” Mirrell snapped. “The blazes are you on about?”

  One of the newssheet pair—the younger one who complained about inaction in the Parliament—shoved his sheet at Mirrell. “Riots in the Little East! Apparently those blighters knocked each other all around!”

  “Sticks and decent folk got knocked by them, too!” the old codger said.

  “First I’m hearing of it,” Mirrell said.

  “They’re all savages over there,” a woman said. “I don’t know why you don’t just pound them into the river.”

  “That’s not fair,” the young one of the newssheet pair said. “We bottle them up within five feet of each other, of course they’re going to explode.”

  The codger snapped at him. “You would have those tyzos and machs and who even knows live in our neighborhood? I bet there’s even ghosts in there. We were killing those pale bastards in the Islands when I was your age, and now they live here.”

  “There isn’t a Poasian district in the Little East,” the young man said. “Blazes, Poasia is west of us.”

  “Don’t you tell me where Poasia is! I was at Khol Taia, boy! I saw things—”

  “Hey, hey, enough!” Mirrell shouted. He snatched a newssheet out of someone’s hand. “This is a mess, but we’ve got people working on it. Just mind your own damn business.”

  “Is that an official statement, Inspector?” Familiar voice next to him. Sitting right there on his usual tickwagon, that rat Rencir from the Gazette.

  “Blazes you want?”

  “Question,” Rencir said. “Inemar Constabulary, over the course of investigating a single death, somehow decided to House Bind half the Fuergan and Imach population in the Little East, based on little more than the fact they don’t care for each other. You have no evidence, no real suspects. And now your holding cells are filled with people of foreign birth. The rest frightened out of their minds, holed up in their homes. Not to mention the illegal blockade of their ships.”

  “There wasn’t a question there, rat.”

  “Was the death of a Fuergan dignitary a convenient excuse to dredge the Little East of ‘undesirables’? After all, Inspector, they’re just feeks and tyzos to you.”

  Mirrell wanted nothing more than to grab Rencir by his stupid rat face and throw him under the wheels of the tickwagon.

  “We had a murder, we’re working to solve it. Anything else those people do is their own problem, and they’ll face the same law as anyone else.”

  He didn’t need this headache. He jumped off the tickwagon. The walk would do him good.

  Plus, if things were as bad as they all were saying, being late would be the least of the problems.

  Kellman was lurking around the square outside the Constabulary House when Satrine approached for morning shift. There was something oddly listless about his demeanor. If he had been a pipe smoker like Welling or Mirrell, she’d have believed he was desperate for a smoke.

  Maybe there was some other fix he needed.

  “You waiting on something, Inspector?” she asked, coming up to him.

  He startled, then eased when he saw her. “Not exactly, Trick. Just not too eager to be the first one to report for duty today.”

  “I always thought you were eager to catch new cases, Kellman.”

  “Nah, nah, it’s not that.” His west side accent was really coming through, thicker than usual. “You hear about what happened last night?”

  Satrine knew what happened to her at home, but she was certain that wasn’t what Kellman referred to. “News doesn’t reach me at night unless a page comes pounding on my door.”

  “Has that happened?” Kellman asked with a smirk.

  “Whenever Welling gets so wound up in a case that he doesn’t go home,” she said. “It’s not uncommon.”

  “I don’t know, Trick. It’s a lot of noise, and it’s gonna be on all our ears. Probably you and Jinx most.”

  “With the Fuergan case?”

  He nodded. “There are some night side blokes who live in the same boarding as me, and it was a scene up in the East.”

  “Worse than the night before?”

  “Full-on riot, I hear. Ironed a whole passel of those people—fee . . . Fuergans, Lyranans, Imachs, the whole lot.”

  “Lyranans?” Why were they involved in it?

  Kellman continued unabated. “And Ironheart has half of them, as well as quite a few of our folks.”

  “Blazes.”

  “That ain’t the worst,” Kellman said. “My blokes told me that Hilsom’s been in there since before dawn even cracked. Breathing fire about every single inspector-grade officer.”

  “Lovely,” Satrine said. “Well, do we face the noise, or you want to wait until Welling and Mirrell get here as well?”

  “I’m wondering if a stick sick i
s in order,” he said in a tone that made it seem like he was probably joking, but with a hint that he was being serious. A stick sick was an all too common way for officers to skirt some noise, especially from the Protector’s Office or the Council of Aldermen. Inspectors and patrolmen report that they’re too ill to work and stay home until the trouble blows over—sometimes nearly a whole stationhouse’s worth at once.

  Loren hated stick sicks with a passion, and loathed any officer who pulled one. Satrine felt about the same.

  “That’s not even funny, Kellman,” she told him. “Let’s get in there. Odds are there’s a blazes of a lot of things to handle today.”

  The main stationhouse floor was a madhouse. The holding cells must have been filled to capacity, as there were people ironed up in almost every spare space around the desks and benches where the patrolmen and floor clerks usually worked. It was as Kellman had said: Fuergans, Imachs, and Lyranans mostly, with a smattering of just about every other skin hue imaginable. There were a few Fuergans and Imachs shackled to the front benches—screaming at each other while officers did their best to break them up.

  Satrine noticed there were very few faces that didn’t have a bruise or a gash, anywhere on the floor.

  The Lyranans all looked calm, though. Like they were waiting. That made Satrine more nervous than anything.

  “Inspectors!” Zebram Hilsom, somehow still looking impeccably groomed and pressed, worked his way through the madness. “This is quite a mess we have on our hands. Do you have any idea what the Archduchy Court, not to mention the King’s Marshals, is trying to do to us here? I’ve even received notice from the Office of the High Lord of Diplomacy himself!”

  “Morning to you too, Protector,” Satrine said. “Why don’t we go up to the inspectors’ floor, and talk about this calmly over some tea?”

  “Talk calmly, Rainey?” Hilsom scoffed. “Would you look at this place? Let alone the property damage we have through several blocks on Peston Avenue. And the injured in Ironheart?”

  “You saying this is our fault?” Kellman asked. “Blazes, Zebe, we weren’t working the dark.”

  “You all started—”

  “We were doing our jobs,” Satrine hissed. “You can’t—” She cut herself off, spotting one familiar face among the arrested. A beefy Fuergan—the same one who answered the door at the Hieljam household. “Just a moment.”

  She ignored Hilsom’s protests as she went to the desk clerk.

  “Hey,” she said, “that one right there, the Fuergan.”

  “There’s a lot of Fuergans, Tricky,” the clerk said without looking up.

  Satrine banged on the desk. “Listen, you horse’s ass, look at that man on that bench over there. Who the blazes is he, or do I have to get Captain Cinellan down here to ask you?”

  “Hey, hey,” he said, throwing his hands up. “I ain’t got no idea. We’re still getting all these bastards noted and filed before they go into holding. We’re up to our ears if you ain’t noticed!”

  “I noticed.” She pointed at the beefy Fuergan and turned the clerk’s head so he had to see. “You note and file him next, and then get him to a questioning room before Welling and I have tea in our hand upstairs. You have that clear?”

  “Clear,” the clerk grumbled.

  Satrine turned off and brushed past Hilsom. “You want to talk, come upstairs,” she said, heading to the inspectors’ floor. She knew Hilsom would be hot on her heels, regardless.

  “You knew this would explode on us, Inspectors!” Hilsom shouted as they reached the inspectors’ floor. “Do you have any idea—”

  “We did have an idea,” Satrine snapped back at him. “Which was the whole point behind the Home Binding, the curfew, and the extra patrol. So what the blazes happened out there?”

  “They didn’t give a damn about Binding or curfew, and when that many people start a blazing riot, your extra patrol was mowed down!”

  “Zebram!” Captain Cinellan’s voice echoed through the floor. “You do not lean on my inspectors over this.”

  “Someone has to answer for this!”

  “And you’re afraid it’s going to be you,” Satrine said. “It was your name on those Binding orders.”

  “Yes, it is.” Hilsom pulled out a handful of papers from his bag. “And it’s your names on the action placed against this Constabulary House.”

  “What rutting action?” Cinellan asked.

  “Two businessmen, Ravi Kenorax and Estiani Iliari, filed complaint—through the Kieran embassy, even—with you. Namely Inspectors Minox Welling, Satrine Rainey, Henfir Mirrell, and Darreck Kellman. It’s all right here.”

  “That’s sewage,” Kellman said. “What’re they complaining about . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cinellan said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Take care of what?” Welling came onto the floor, Nyla right at his side. He looked like sewage—pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and his left arm curled against his body. His hand trembled noticeably.

  “Blazes, Jinx, what happened to you?” Kellman asked.

  “I’m fine,” Welling clearly lied. “What are Kenorax and Iliari claiming?”

  “That you are harassing them and obstructing their business.”

  “We’ve done nothing of the sort.”

  “Except for that stunt you pulled on the docks the other night, Welling.”

  “Even . . . even . . .” Welling faltered for a moment, and then went over to the closest desk. “Nyla, if you could bring me some tea?”

  “Of course.” She dashed off once he was in his chair.

  “Saint Ferrin, Minox,” Kellman said. “You sure you ain’t sick?”

  “I just need some tea, and I’ll be fine.”

  “Have you eaten?” Satrine asked. Welling nodded his head. She lowered her voice. “Do we need to get you to Ironheart?”

  Welling chuckled. “I just came from there.”

  “You should have stayed.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Hilsom asked, wedging himself in with the two of them. “There are grave concerns . . .”

  Satrine had heard enough. “Mister Hilsom, the grave concern I have is that you seem ready to allow potential suspects in an extremely sensitive murder case to walk all over you.”

  “They have filed complaints—”

  “Then challenge them, Mister Hilsom. Or are you doing the Justice Advocate’s job instead of your own?”

  “Help my challenges, Inspector. Get me some evidence I can use in court, and make an actual arrest!”

  “We’re working on it!” Welling snapped. “In the meantime . . .”

  “In the meantime, the results of your fishing expedition are on your desk. Are you going to dig through those records, or was that just to waste my damn time?”

  He stormed off.

  Captain Cinellan stayed by his office door. “Not to add to Hilsom’s sewage, but we’re on thin butter today. We’ve got several folks in Ironheart, and you’ve all seen what downstairs looks like.”

  “I take it this case can’t go to unresolved, then?” Welling asked.

  “We can’t handle any more trouble, is what I’m telling you,” Cinellan said. “If there’s much more trouble in the Little East like last night, or problems like Hilsom’s dealing with, then King’s Marshals are going to step in. The commissioner—”

  “I’ve heard,” Satrine said. “I take it there aren’t still any riots happening in the East?”

  Cinellan frowned at her—she shouldn’t have stepped on him. “Not right now, but about a quarter of the residents are either downstairs or in Ironheart. But patrols have been suffering in the rest of Inemar. Already this morning there’s been an unusual amount of petty thuggery.”

  “So we need to make a show of color and leave the East to itself?” Welling asked acidly.<
br />
  “We can’t devote everything we’ve got to a few blocks in the tip of the neighborhood, and let the rest go to sewage,” Cinellan snapped. “I’ve got no muscle to hold back King’s Marshals or anyone else if they come snatching.”

  “Understood,” Satrine said. She grabbed Welling by his good arm and dragged him over to their desks. “So you came from Ironheart. Were you caught in the riot?”

  “I was, to a degree.”

  “You look like sewage, really,” she said. “Did you hurt your arm?”

  “My arm is not relevant to our investigation, Inspector Rainey.”

  She let it drop, even though it was clearly a significant problem beyond mere injury. “Fine. Given that you were in the thick of it last night after our sign-out, did you learn anything that would help us close this case?”

  They reached their desks, half hidden behind the slateboards. Several leather-bound folios were piled on top of the usual clutter.

  “Not in the slightest,” he said, slumping down into his chair. He eyed the pile of folders wearily. “This situation has far too many moving parts to see clearly.”

  Miss Pyle came with two cups of tea, which she put on the desk without looking at Satrine. She crouched down and fussed over Welling. “Drink this, and stay put for a bit. You hear?”

  “I’ll do what my duties demand,” Welling said sternly. Despite that, it seemed like even picking up the teacup was a strain.

  Miss Pyle stood up, and despite keeping her back to Satrine, she clearly addressed her. “Don’t let him push himself. Am I clear?”

  “As the window, Miss Pyle.”

  She went off to her desk.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had any revelations,” Welling said, drinking the tea.

  “Oh, I have, not that they clear anything up,” Satrine said. She quickly told him about the encounter with Pra Yikenj at her home.

  He chuckled as she finished. “If Miss Yikenj’s intention was to remove herself from suspicion, it’s failed substantially. Which only further muddles the situation.”

  “Well, there’s one thing that could help,” Satrine said. “One of the Fuergans arrested in the riot was the Hieljam’s manservant.”