An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “We should question him immediately.”

  “I’m already working on that,” Satrine said. “Downstairs has their hands full, so it’ll be a moment.” She sat on the desk in front of him. He really did look like he was about to fall over. “This isn’t from the riot.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself—”

  “Sewage,” she said, putting her hand on his forehead. He was burning up. “With a fever like that I’m amazed you’re able to talk coherently.”

  “My reasoning faculties are fine. My condition is not relevant to the case.”

  She lowered her voice again. “You only shut your trap like this when it’s about magic. I want to respect your privacy about that—”

  “Then do so.”

  “But in your condition you could put my life and yours at risk on the streets, not to mention jeopardize this case. So don’t sell me any bunk that you’re fine.”

  He glowered at her for a moment, and then put his left arm on the table, pulling up his coat sleeve. The hand had turned an unnatural shade of blackish purple, and was starting to wither.

  Satrine was almost afraid to touch it, but she forced herself to. It was nearly cold. “When did this start happening?”

  “Last night,” he said quietly. “But it’s been causing me difficulty ever since Plum.”

  “But this is new. What changed?”

  Now Welling looked down at the ground. This was something she had never seen in him before: shame. “The Tsouljan enclave.”

  “What about it? Were you investigating there last night?”

  “I was, but not the case.” He pulled himself to his feet and moved himself over to the other desk, so he would be hidden from the rest of the inspectors’ floor by his slateboards. “The Tsouljans understand magic, and are not bound by Circle doctrines or other Druth superstitions.”

  “Oh, blazes, Minox,” she said. “They did this to you, can’t you see?”

  “I don’t . . . I just . . .” He stammered. “I’m just trying to be a whole person, in command of my own self.”

  “I get that, I really do,” she said. Tapping on her forehead, she added, “Blazes, it took me a long time to figure out who I am out of all the things in this skull.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Welling whispered.

  “Let me ask you something, and tell me plain. When this arm was broken, did you use magic to heal it, or help it along?”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know how to do that.”

  “And you didn’t try?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she said. “Since no one would have told you this, you need to know: never do that. I don’t know a lot about magic, but I do know that. You can’t use it to heal injuries.”

  “It can cause something like this?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know.” Her mind was racing, trying to bring up any other bit of psychically jammed knowledge that could help. “Listen—”

  “Hey, Tricky,” Kellman called. “That feek you wanted to talk to is now in interrogation.”

  “Thanks,” she shouted back. “You and I will drill into him in a minute.”

  “Me?”

  “Him?” Welling echoed.

  “You’re in no shape to,” she said. “If you refuse to go home or to the ward, then just . . . stay here. Go through these records. I’ll question the servant, follow up on that, and . . . I don’t know. Maybe we can go to Major Dresser—”

  “He would not help me.”

  “I’ll make damn sure he will,” she said. “We’ll get this sorted, hear?”

  “Understood,” he said. “You deserve a partner at his best.”

  “Damn right I do,” she said. She finished the rest of her tea and called out, “Kellman! Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 15

  THE INTERROGATION ROOMS were down in the basement levels of the stationhouse, near the holding cells. As Satrine came down with Kellman, she saw one of Hilsom’s scribes waiting for them, as well as a young man in an ill-fitting suit.

  “Miss Trennar,” Kellman said to the scribe, his voice filled with cream and honey. “Glad to see you on duty today.”

  “Are you?” she asked coolly, not even looking up from her notebook. “I would think a person glad to see me would come to the social he was informed about.”

  “That’s not fair, Miss Trennar,” he said.

  “Save it for off-duty, Kellman,” Satrine said.

  Miss Trennar glanced up, throwing darts over her spectacles at Satrine. “We’re here to work, after all,” she said.

  The young man shoved his hand in between Satrine and Miss Trennar. “Inspectors,” he said, taking Satrine’s hand with an overeager grasp. “Cheed Cheever, Justice Advocate Office. I’ll be watching for Mister . . .” He let go and looked at his own notebook. “Oo-eetay. His interests.”

  Kellman voiced what Satrine was thinking. “Saints, kid, when did you get your Letters? Last month?”

  “I did, indeed, receive my Letters of Mastery just a month ago, from Delikan Public, which is as noble an education as any of the Elevens or the University of Maradaine.”

  “Don’t have to prove it to me, kid,” Kellman said. “I’m just a grammar book rat they gave a vest to.”

  “He really is,” Miss Trennar said. “He could stand some education of manners.”

  “Hey, now, I never said—”

  “Please,” Satrine snapped. “Can we move along to the interrogation? Thank you.”

  “Right,” Cheever said, glancing at his own book again. “Now, according to my understanding, Mister Oo-eetay has been detained out of a general roundup during a moment of disorder. Accordingly, I will have to insist you produce a witness—”

  Satrine snatched the book out Cheever’s hands. The Fuergan man’s name was listed as Uite lek Ni, and that came from his documents of residency, so it was probably a reasonable transcription of his given name. “You came here for this interrogation, Mister Cheever?”

  “Well, no. Justice Advocate sent several of us when we got word of the general roundup. We’re here to make sure—”

  “Yes, that proper arrest procedure and application of rights is observed,” Kellman said. “You know that these are all feeks and tyzos—”

  Miss Trennar gave an audible gasp.

  “That is, many of these folks ain’t Druth citizens. So the application of rights—”

  “Still applies, Inspector,” Cheever said. “They are called the Rights of Man for a reason. They are universal truths which we—”

  “Save me the speech,” Satrine said. “Let’s be along. I presume you don’t want to watch from the booth.”

  “I cannot properly administer to the interests of Mister Oo-eetay—”

  “Uite,” Satrine said, correcting his pronunciation.

  “Without being present,” he finished.

  “As you wish.”

  Satrine went into the interrogation room, where the beefy Fuergan man sat with his head down on the table, wrists ironed to it. A footpatrolman stepped out as they came in, giving a small nod to Kellman.

  “Are those necessary?” Cheever asked, pointing to the irons.

  “We’ll see,” Kellman said. He sat down opposite Uite, while Miss Trennar took a seat at a small desk in the corner. “Morning, Mister Ute.”

  “Uite,” Satrine corrected again, sitting next to Kellman. Cheever sat opposite, next to Uite. The Fuergan man ignored all of them.

  Kellman knocked on the table in front of Uite. “I’m talking to you.”

  “Not necessary, Inspector.” Cheever’s voice cracked with nerves.

  Uite looked up and mumbled a few Fuergan words.

  “What was that?” Kellman asked.

  Uite repeated himself, louder, and with more spittle.

&nbs
p; Kellman wiped off his face. “Think you’re funny?”

  “You speak Trade,” Satrine said. “I know you do.”

  Uite squinted at her. He shot a bit of Fuergan invective, but it was clear he understood what she said.

  “Let’s not harass the man,” Cheever said.

  “Fine,” Satrine said. “You do understand you’re in trouble here, don’t you, Mister Uite? Uite lek Ni. How in debt are you?”

  That made him blink.

  “Let me tell you something, Mister Uite,” Satrine continued. “This man next to you is from Justice Advocate. His job is to make sure you are well treated, your rights are observed, and make sure that your trial is conducted fairly.”

  “Or that there isn’t even a trial if there’s no just cause,” Cheever said. “Which I’m finding hard to justify.”

  “He was in a riot where Constabulary officers were attacked,” Satrine said. “I imagine finding a witness who will testify that Mister Uite attacked them won’t be hard.”

  “Not at all,” Kellman said. “Blazes, I can go find a few right now.”

  “That’s spurious,” Cheever said.

  “Maybe,” Satrine said. She focused her attention on Uite. “But it’ll mean legal fees, fines, who knows what else. And who is going to pay those, Mister Uite? You, a ‘lek Ni’?”

  “Hieljam,” he said quietly.

  “Right, because that’s what they need. To throw more money at you, deepen your debt, drop your status further.”

  “They’ll probably let him hang,” Kellman said.

  “Oh, they can afford it,” Satrine said. “They’re a lavark family, after all. Deepening Uite’s indebtment would put more of his family in their permanent employ.”

  Uite scoffed.

  “Something funny?” Kellman asked.

  “She said.” Uite’s accent was thick and halting.

  “What did I say? That your family would be indebted? For generations, even.”

  “My family is and always will be,” Uite said. “These fees? Nothing.”

  “So the Hieljam will take care of you,” Satrine said. “Good.”

  “Hieljam will do what they can.”

  What they can. Was that just Uite’s poor Trade, or did it mean something more. “Why ‘what they can’? They’ve got the money. Blazes, they threw enough money in the street yesterday.”

  “Had to. Appearances.”

  “Are you going to ask him about the riot and his part in it?” Cheever asked.

  “A little latitude, Mister Cheever,” Satrine said. “What was that about appearances?”

  Uite now looked quite nervous. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Appearances. What they can. Satrine thought back to his scoff. It wasn’t about his indebtment. It was about the Hieljam.

  She leaned in. “Are the Hieljam out of money, Mister Uite?”

  Nerves shifted into cold sweat.

  “It is not mine to say,” Uite said.

  “What does this have to do with him being in the riot?” Cheever asked. “I’m afraid your questions are exceeding scope.”

  “We’ll decide what our scope is here, Cheever,” Kellman said.

  Miss Trennar offered her own opinion. “The inspectors are investigating a murder of a man that this man worked for. In light of that, there is some interrogative latitude that they must be granted.”

  “I should have been informed,” Cheever said. “This is quite improper, Inspectors. You cannot question a man—”

  “The Hieljam are out of money, yes,” Satrine pressed. “Or at least their money is tied up in goods and trade, something going wrong?”

  “There is concern,” Uite said quietly. “It is not my place to know details.”

  “But their position is at stake now, isn’t it?” Cheever was sputtering something and Kellman was snapping back at him, but Satrine focused entirely on Uite. “That’s what you scoffed at, yes, when I said they were lavark and could afford your fees?”

  “I should not speak of such things.” Uite pressed his hands against his forehead. “I am but to serve.”

  “The Hieljam aren’t lavark anymore, especially with Wefi Loriz dead.” She barked this at Uite. He nodded pathetically.

  “Lavark should be gone. Empty claim.”

  “Why?”

  “It is not my place to know.”

  “Don’t give me that sewage.” Kellman said this, pointing a beefy finger in Uite’s face. “You work the household, you hear things.”

  “You have to stop badgering him,” Cheever said.

  “So what do you know?” Kellman shouted.

  “It’s very complicated,” Uite said quietly. “I say it is not my place, I mean I do not understand. I serve the house, I don’t know about business or schedules or deliveries.”

  That was something. “Did something go wrong with the schedules?” Satrine asked. “Were deliveries missed?”

  Uite nodded.

  “You’re leading him,” Cheever said.

  “For who?” She almost offered the Kenorax name, but that would be too much of a lead. Even a tadpole like Cheever would catch that and spoil the arrest.

  “I don’t know,” Uite said.

  “Then we can’t help you,” Kellman said. “Maybe he should join the rest going to Quarrygate.”

  “That hasn’t been established,” Cheever said.

  “Oh, but use your head, Cheevs,” Kellman said. “We’ve got cells out there packed beyond capacity, right? It’s damn near inhumane, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “And we’re going to have to feed them, and this house doesn’t have the resources to do that for that many people. We can’t let them go hungry.”

  “No, you mustn’t.”

  “So we’ve got to be efficient about this, Cheever,” Kellman continued, his West Maradaine accent making him sound like a streetcart shuckster. But a damn good one. “Folks in the riot get charged with Disruption of the Peace and Ignoring a Whistle Call. Harsher charges for those we can pin them on.”

  “You can’t just charge everyone with that!”

  “But then we can wagon them to Quarrygate for trial, and those who can afford Collateral will be released until their day in court. Beats them being crammed and starving in here while we sort it out.”

  Kellman’s twisted logic seemed to have confused Cheever for a moment. He stammered, thinking about how to respond.

  “Now, you can’t afford Collateral for release, can you, Uite?” Kellman asked.

  “No.”

  “If we had a good reason to not lump you in with the rest of those poor sods, then maybe we don’t need to send you over to Quarrygate to wait trial. Because Cheever is right, in the end you might not even need a trial. But why spend a week in the Quarry waiting to find that out?”

  Cheever was still in a fugue of deep thought. Uite looked like he was about to crack. And a glance at Miss Trennar showed that she had stopped writing to gaze starry-eyed at Kellman.

  For half a second, Satrine could understand that.

  “Give us something,” Satrine said, giving as much South Maradaine honey as she could to her voice. “It doesn’t need to be much.”

  “There . . . there’s a warehouse,” Uite said. “Goods are waiting there for something. I don’t know more than that, but I know whatever is in there was very important to the lavark. Much of his fortune—as well as the rest of the family—centered on those goods.”

  “See?” Kellman said. “Now, if we get an address and it checks out, I think we can overlook your role in this riot. He’d be free to go, Mister Cheever. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Cheever said.

  Uite gave the specifics of a warehouse near the Little East docks, which Miss Trennar
dutifully transcribed. That finished, they all left the interrogation room, giving the patrolman on duty instructions to let Uite stay there, and maybe even bring him something to eat. Cheever mumbled something about the rest of the mob and wandered off, while Miss Trennar lingered for a moment, tapping her fingers on her notepad.

  “I’ll bring this straight to Mister Hilsom, so you can get a Writ of Search,” she said warmly, eyes on Kellman. “There’s another social at the Halliday House in three days, you know.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Miss Trennar,” Kellman said as she left.

  “See what you can do?” Satrine echoed back at him. “You’re terrible, you know this?”

  “Nah, I’ll be there,” he said with a grin. “But I can’t seem too eager, you know?”

  “Come on, Prince Fulton,” she said, referencing the classic romance Demea. “Let’s bring this to the captain.”

  Muted clattering and conversation pulled Corrie back into consciousness, which she regretted as soon as it happened.

  “Rutting blazes,” she said, not even opening her eyes. Her voice creaked out dryly. Several places on her body hurt, especially her head. Wet and soft on her head. Bandaging. Left leg hurt like blazes as well.

  She pulled herself up from whatever she was lying down on, fighting through the fog in her head the whole time. Opening her eye she saw only light filtered through white gauze. They had bandaged over her eyes.

  And she could only get the left one open. The right eye, she could only feel pain.

  “Where the rutting blazes am I?” she shouted, but her voice didn’t give her much more than a hoarse whisper. “Any of you bastards there?”

  “Language,” a familiar voice said to her, soft hands on her face.

  “Beliah?” she asked. “I’m at Ironheart?” Either she was at the ward her aunt nursed at, or somehow she had been taken home.

  “You and several score more, dear,” Aunt Beliah said. A cup of water touched Corrie’s lips, which she took in greedily.

  Having taken enough to drink, Corrie pawed at the bandages on her face. “Do I need this? Is something rutting wrong with my eyes?” She couldn’t remember what had happened last in that scrum with all those foreign folks. There had been that one Imach lady with the knife who had jumped her, but past that, nothing.