“My grandfather was born in a Kieran Debt Camp—born a slave, in debt with the interest for a fine levied on his grandfather’s grandfather for a crime no one could even remember. He escaped to Druthal, a land of ‘free’ men, without so much as shoes on his feet. And he was forced to wander until he reached Maradaine, where his prison camp was the three square blocks of Kieran ghetto in the Little East. The only place he was allowed to live.”
“That was never true,” Phillen snapped back at him. Satrine gave the boy enough of a glare to silence him. She admired his moxie—it would serve him well if he ever became a regular.
Kenorax picked up on where Phillen led him. “Of course, boy, there were the slums on the west side of the city, around the prison and the old quarry pits. Anyone could live there. But even now, with Druth birth and a business and fortune built from nothing—”
“Mister Kenorax . . .” Satrine started.
“Even now could I buy a home in Callon Hills? Or Fenton? Sun and moons, even in High River? Could I be your neighbor, Inspector?”
“Mister Kenorax, your railing doesn’t change the fact that a man is dead,” Satrine said. “And your ties to his business are far more intricate than you let on.”
“Intricate, yes,” Kenorax said. “Meaning I stand to lose money from his death. Remember that, would you?”
“Would you?” Satrine shot back. “That’s the part I’m having a hard time sussing out. Which is why we want to question you.”
“I am here, Inspector! Ask me your questions!”
“No, I don’t think so,” Satrine said. “You see, between you, the Hieljams, Hajan, and the Lyranans, I’m hearing a lot of different stories. So you and your man there will come with us, so all of us can talk this out together.”
“I will do no such thing,” Kenorax said. “Eject these people.”
Satrine wasn’t sure who this directive was aimed at, as there was no one in the room for him to order beyond Iliari and the old servant. How they intended to eject a half dozen constables was beyond her.
“Take them both if they don’t comply,” she ordered. “Misters Ravi Kenorax and Estiani Iliari, by lawful order of the City Protector’s Office, you are hereby compelled to be escorted to a session of questioning with the lead inspector regarding the murder of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz.”
Kenorax looked stunned, and then dashed down the hall. The regulars didn’t need any further cue—they went after him. Two of them tackled Iliari straightaway, as he moved like he was trying to block them. The other four regulars gave chase, with shouts and cries of a fight. Satrine was about to run after them all when Hace put his hand on her shoulder.
“No running, no fighting,” he said firmly.
“Damn it, Hace, I should—”
“They got it.”
The sounds of the struggle reached a peak, and then dulled down. The four regulars came back, dragging Kenorax with them. He was still struggling despite the four of them holding on to him and irons on his wrist.
A few other people came into the room—clearly to see what the fuss was. Kierans all, much like the other morning, all dressed similarly in gauzy, flimsy robes. Satrine didn’t have to wonder what kind of event they had interrupted.
“Go back to your business, folks,” Satrine said. “We’re just taking these gentlemen in for some questions. Unless you would like to interfere?”
The Kieran hangers-on all scattered.
“Cowards!” Kenorax shouted. “I’ll have you all put out of doors before long!”
“Good loyal friends you have here,” Satrine said. “Let’s move along, we’re losing the day.”
Kenorax and Iliari were brought out into the lockwagon, and it took all six of her regulars to stuff them into the back and lock them in.
“We’re running out of manpower, and we’re going to need all we can get on the last stop,” Satrine said.
“Right,” Hace said, pulling out his whistle. He blasted out an escort call. “Let’s bring someone in to take these brawlers over to the Tsouljans.”
“Is there anyone?” Satrine asked.
“I bet there’s a few of us working the All-Eyes for Inspector Welling.” Hace blew the call again. “Which is a waste of people, you ask me. Inspector Welling surely can take care of himself.”
No one looked at him, at least right at him. They all looked around him. It made sense. He looked like a sick Racquin after all, and they probably feared that he would beg for money if they made eye contact.
He even looked right at a few of them, and they turned away in fear.
He saw them for what they were. Not just the fear. Their crimes and sins were written all over their faces now. Plain as writing on a slateboard.
The slateboard. He had written something there. There were answers.
More answers in the barn. There he could escape it all, especially the burning heat of the summer evening.
He had to move quickly down Escaraine. The average folk might fear a mad Racquin beggar, but they also wouldn’t stand it in their street for too long before they brought a constable. He didn’t need that trouble. He needed to solve this situation.
He just needed to find the answers.
The house was just ahead, a few lamps burning in the windows. No one on the front stoop. No one visible in the sitting room, at least from the street. None of the family looking out the window, either.
This was his house, he remembered. But he didn’t want to go inside. He had a purpose. He fought through the fog and fire to remember that. He was Inspector Minox Welling, and he had a purpose in coming here.
Minox went up the darkened walkway, now confident with each step. No one had thwarted him on his way to the barn.
He went inside to find a few candles burning, and Evoy poring over newssheets. Evoy, with his overgrown, disheveled beard and long, black fingernails. “Leave the tray,” he muttered.
“I don’t have a tray,” Minox said, closing the door behind him.
“Minox!” Evoy’s eyes went wide, and showed as much joy as those sunken, dark-circled eyes could. “It’s been a few days, yes?”
“I think it has,” Minox said. He looked up at the wall, where Evoy’s true work was spread out. Newssheets, slateboards, names, places, and dates, a wide web patterned out. “This is it, isn’t it? All the secrets in the city?”
“I don’t know about all of them, but quite a few,” Evoy said, looking quite proud. “But there’s something more I’m still grasping at the edge of.”
“Yes, I understand,” Minox said. “It’s why I’m here.”
Evoy nodded. “The Fuergan lavark, and the riots, right? It’s all connected.”
“More than you know,” Minox said. Finally, he could talk to someone who understood. “I had it, Evoy.” He tapped at his temple. “I had it all worked out, but then it faded away.”
“Yes!” Evoy shouted. “You have it, but you don’t get it written down, and then someone speaks or there’s a dog barking and then it’s gone in smoke.”
“We need silence, focus,” Minox said. He pulled off the Racquin pullover and tore strips off the edge. He was far too hot to be wearing such a thing.
“Why are you dressed like a Racquin beggar?” Evoy asked. “And your face is colored.”
“Needed to sneak past the regulars, and then get to the house,” Minox said. It should have been obvious, especially to Evoy.
“Why would you sneak past regulars?”
What was with these questions? “Are you writing for the Gazette again? Are you doing a story on me?”
“I can’t—”
“Then why are you wasting my time?” Minox snapped. “We have work to do.”
He wadded the strips into balls and shoved them into his ears. It was a bit challenging—left hand wasn’t properly obeying him at all. It was just flexed in
a claw, black as pitch.
“What happened to your hand?” Evoy asked, though it was hard to hear him through the wadded strips. As it should be.
“Nothing that matters,” Minox said. He looked up at the wall, finding the first name he needed to craft a path, spin the web to the answers. Kenorax.
He grabbed a piece of chalk and went to write a connection. But he couldn’t quite grab hold of it. The answer was clear, but yet he didn’t have the word in the front of his mind. His hand wouldn’t write it. Maybe because it was too hot. He was burning up again, inside and out.
“Minox, maybe you should—”
“Quiet!” Minox snapped. “I’m going to figure all of this out. All of it.” He pointed to a part of the wall. “There was an agenda behind the Haltom’s Patriots and their murderous attacks. Is it connected to this? Fuergan trade deals were at the center, tied to the Kierans, but does it touch the Parliament? Do you know?”
Evoy stammered, and stepped back.
“Good,” Minox said. “Let me work this out, then.”
Still the answers weren’t coming. Something wasn’t right.
Minox placed the chalk in his withered, black hand. It gripped onto it, but not of his own will. He wasn’t moving his hand; his hand understood what he wanted.
It started to write. He let it take him into the fire.
Chapter 22
ANOTHER BLAZING WHISTLE CALL pierced the air, this one for a horserider. Escort call. Corrie knew she’d have to answer it; it was just a block away. One part of her hoped that maybe someone had found Minox and needed help, but she couldn’t believe that was the case. He had gone into the wind. No sign of him at the tobacco shop, and every damn feek in the place yelled at her when she asked about him. She didn’t need that sewage.
The call brought her around to the Kieran blocks of the East, where a couple of lockwagons were parked in front of one of the swell houses—bright white walls with the purple roofs.
Tricky was standing outside one of the wagons, with a page standing at her elbow, six other regulars standing around. Blazes, were they doing calling for her?
“You called a rutting escort?” Corrie asked, sliding off her horse. “Looks like you got some here already.”
“I still have another pickup, and I’ll need them on hand,” Tricky said, coming up to her. “Saints, your eye.”
“It’ll heal,” Corrie said.
“Surprised you’re on duty,” Tricky said.
“Well, yeah, your buddy Mirrell called an All-Eyes for Minox, so I still got one that works.”
“There’s no word, nothing?” she asked. Skirt did sound concerned.
“Nah,” Corrie said. “So what did you whistle for?”
“We’ve got a wagon with two unruly Kierans, taking them over to the Tsouljan enclave.”
“Why the blazes over there?”
“It—it’s complicated. But I need someone who can keep them in line.” She moved closer. “There are a lot of moving parts here, and I’m trying to solve this case. I could use someone to show the color until I get over there.”
“And you’re asking me, a night-horse slan?”
“I thought I was asking a Welling.”
Saints, Nyla was right about her. Pretended to be an inspector, and pretending to know who she’s talking to.
“Don’t try that sewage with me, Tricky,” Corrie said. “My brother says you deserve that vest, so I won’t make you eat the road and tear it off you. But don’t act like you know me.”
“Fine,” Tricky said. “Officer, escort this wagon over to the Tsouljan compound, make sure the men inside are brought in, and deliver them to Mister Hilsom inside. Stay there and report to him until I relieve you. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Corrie said, pulling herself back up on the horse. “Always a pleasure to serve.”
She whistled to the lockwagon driver and led him along over to the Tsouljan enclave.
The place was a strange batch of some crazy tyzo rubbish, that was for sure. Like they had built their own little park with fancy trees and ponds and sewage like that. She spotted a few normal folks, standing around on one of the bridges, as well as some regulars keeping an eye on the other tyzos and machs.
“Oy!” she shouted. “Tricky sent me with a couple of piries, said they were for you.”
One of the steves in a suit came over—this guy, she had seen him around the station plenty. “You’re saying Inspector Rainey sent you?”
“You’re Hilsom, right? Yeah, I got some piries, she said to bring them over, keep an eye on them, and report to you.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I suppose that’s good. She’s almost done collecting the people for the compulsion.”
A few of the regulars came over when he waved, and they brought the two piries out of the lockwagon, who were kicking and cursing the whole way.
“Where do we put these two, sir?” one of them asked.
“This is very unseemly behavior on your part, Mister Kenorax,” Hilsom said. “For now . . . first, um, Miss—” He bent down close and peered at her name badge. “Ah, Welling. Related to the inspector?”
“Sister.”
“Never would have guessed.” He glanced around, and pointed across the garden. “Check out those huts over there to make sure they’re clear. If one is, we’ll put them in it until Rainey comes to get the show started.”
Corrie gave the tosser a salute and went over to the huts. The first hut she checked out had a bunch of blue-haired tyzos humming and rubbing stones together. They didn’t even seem to note her when she came in, and ignored her as she looked around. She was tempted to push one of them over just to see what they would do, but decided to listen to the saint on her shoulder.
The next hut was also occupied, by two red-haired tyzos and a familiar face.
“Corrie!” Joshea Brondar was sitting at the table, the two tyzos hovering over him like they would wallop him if he got up. He even started to stand when he saw her, but then sat back down as the two men edged over him. He didn’t look bound or hurt. And he was wearing a Constabulary inspector’s vest.
“Joshea, what the blazes are you doing here? Where’s Minox? Is he here?”
“I don’t know where he is, not anymore,” Joshea said. He glanced awkwardly at the tyzo guards. “He was in a bad way, and . . . I brought him here. It was probably a stupid idea, but it was what he wanted.”
“Why the rutting blazes would he want to come here?”
Joshea hedged for a moment. Did he not want to say things in front of these tyzos?
She reached out to take Joshea’s hand, pull him up out of his chair. One of the tyzos moved like lightning, somehow moving Joshea and keeping her from touching him without laying a hand on her. Which was smart, because that tyzo would get a new elbow if he touched her.
“Excuse me, pal, but I’m going to get my friend out of here.” She reached out again.
The tyzo held up a hand, and that seemed to stop her as she stepped closer, despite never making contact. It was almost as if he made her want to stop walking. “When the damaged mage returns.”
“When the what?” Corrie asked. “You know I’m a rutting stick, don’t you? I could arrest the two of you and drop you into the cages at the stationhouse.”
“You will not. He needs to stay until the damaged mage returns.”
“What the blazes is going on, Joshea?” she snarled.
“Minox—in his state, he thought . . . he thought the Tsouljans here could help him. I don’t know, I was scared, I didn’t know what was going on with him. It was something magic, right? They’re calling him the damaged mage.”
“Where is he? Returns from where?”
“From where he went,” the tyzo said cryptically. “He was not in balance, according to the fel.”
Corrie didn
’t know what to make of that sewage. “Josh, can you translate that rubbish?”
“They were doing something to him. Healing him, fixing him, I don’t know. And he . . . he exploded, like he did in the hospital ward. And then he ran out of the compound. And they haven’t let me leave since.”
“Yeah, I ain’t having that,” Corrie said. “You listen to me, tyzo. My brother is in trouble out there, and when I find him and find out what your folk did to him, I’m going to take it out of your skin.”
“You will not,” the tyzo said.
That tore it. She drew out her handstick and brought it down on his arm, and followed that with slamming it into his chest, and drove the palm of her left hand into his chin.
At least she would have, but each swing and strike hit nothing but empty air. She threw a few more blows at him, but each time he was gone by the time her fist reached where he had been.
“Continue if you wish,” he said calmly. “We will wait until the damaged mage returns.”
“Fine,” Corrie said, trying to hide how winded she was. “Sit tight, Josh. We’ll sort this out.”
She left the hut to see Hilsom staring at her. “Is it empty?”
“No, sir,” she said.
“Well, then find me one,” he said. “Stop wasting time.”
Corrie went into the next hut, all the while forming a short list of who she would punch in the face before the day was over.
Tricky was at the top.
The sun was almost down as Satrine led the final lockwagon over to the Hieljam household. She hadn’t yet felt any of the horrid effects that Leppin had warned her about. Maybe she would be just fine.
And maybe this case would come together, Welling would be fine, and they would both sign in tomorrow morning with some perfectly ordinary murder to solve.
A few people stood on the stoop of the Hieljam house as they approached. Not muscle or bodyguards, though. These were respectable folk, and two of them were in Druth attire. Fancy suits, northtown types. The rest were Fuergan, but their clothes also gave a sense of refinement. Longer vests than the rest of the Fuergan folk on the street, for one.
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