“Inspector Rainey?” one of them called out as the wagon slowed down.
“That’s me,” Satrine said. “I take it we’re expected?”
“You’ve been very efficient this afternoon, Inspector. So your arrival was anticipated.”
Satrine cautiously walked up the steps. “And you all are?”
“Forgive me,” the man who had been taking the lead said. “Heston Chell, of Colevar and Associates. I’ve brought some of my colleagues, as well as a few dignitaries from the Fuergan embassy. I understand you are carrying some writs?”
“I am,” Satrine said, wishing she still had Hilsom by her side for this one. Chell reached out and took the writs from her. He glanced through the sheets, passing some of them to the fellows around him.
“Yes, well, the search warrant seems to be in order, though there are provisions and limitations that will be imposed.”
“I’m sorry?” Satrine asked.
“However, I’m empowered to allow you entrance to the household—to you and your people—so you may begin.”
He went up the steps and opened the door, leading Satrine and her people through the antechamber into a sitting room. The passel of officials followed close behind.
Sitting on low, elaborately embroidered chairs were Hieljam ab Tishai and her brother-husband ab Orihla. They had a retinue of servants surrounding them, all of them with sheer cloths draped over their heads. On the floor in front of them, a painting of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz lay flat, surrounded by flower petals, candles, and bowls of water and sand.
Chell stepped over to Satrine. “Now you must understand, this search is explicitly intruding upon the utietkha, one of the rituals of mourning.”
“I’ve been at two others so far,” Satrine said. “I’m almost insulted I wasn’t invited.”
He lowered his voice. “In this one, from what I’m told by the fine people from the Fuergan embassy, the official transfer of household title of natir is being bestowed upon Hieljam ab Tishai, as well as assets, debts, and obligations.”
“Fine,” Satrine said. “We have—”
“I’m telling you this to make something clear to you, Inspector Rainey. My colleagues and myself, as well as these fine people from the Fuergan embassy, were already assembled in the household for this ceremony. I would hate for you to think that Hieljam ab Tishai and her esteemed family were being anything less than transparent or cooperative in your investigations, calling an army of lawyers to shield her in some sort of way.”
“Of course,” Satrine said, letting her disdain drip in her voice. “I never considered otherwise.” She stepped over to Hieljam ab Tishai. “I’ve come here—”
Chell slid in front of her. “I’m afraid, as an aspect of the ceremony, Hieljam ab Tishai is unable to speak to you.”
“I have a Writ of Compulsion for her, as well as Hieljam ab Orihla.”
“Unfortunately,” Chell said, in a tone that made it seem like he thought things were hardly unfortunate, “I’ve been informed by the fine people from the Fuergan embassy that neither Hieljam ab Tishai nor ab Orihla are subject to a Writ of Compulsion. They are, of course, Fuergan citizens with residency in our nation in good standing, and I can assure you their paperwork is impeccably in order.”
“Even still,” Satrine said, trying to remember exactly what Hilsom had said with the Lyranans. “A Writ of Compulsion can apply to foreign nationals, even ones with good standing. There is precedent—”
“There most certainly is, though I would have to review the relevant statutes in the law, as well as trade agreements, residency code . . . I wouldn’t want to bore you, Inspector Rainey.”
“Never,” Satrine said.
“However, as the natir of a lavark level family, certain rights and entitlements are bestowed upon Hieljam ab Tishai and her hriesa.” He indicated Hieljam ab Orihla.
“Really, Mister Chell?” Satrine asked, turning her attention hard on Hieljam ab Tishai. “So now you are Lavark-jai Tishai? Is that what I’m to believe?”
“Inspector Rainey, it really is inappropriate . . .”
She cut Chell off this time. “I have good ears, Tish. And an excellent memory.” She pointed over to the dining room. “In there, two nights ago, you said, albeit absently, that you would not become lavark. Not enough money. And yet, here you are.”
Hieljam ab Tishai did not respond or even react. The servants behind her, though, began to hum a low note.
“Really, Inspector, this is out of the bounds of your applicable writs.”
“I’m only speaking while in the household, Mister Chell. I am in the house on a legitimate Writ of Search.”
“You aren’t searching the household.”
“Boys,” she said to her half-dozen regulars. “Scour the household for any and all paperwork that may pertain to shipping from and to Imachan. Don’t worry if you can’t read the language, seize anything that looks promising.” She raised an eyebrow at Chell and the rest of the assembled folk. “Now, I will wait here and see what my men find. In the meantime, I’ll exercise my own rights, and vocally pontificate key points of the case.”
“This is most unseemly,” one of the fine people from the Fuergan embassy said.
“And him?” Chell said, looking at Phillen.
“Senior Page Hace is assigned to watch over my health and safety.” She gave a sharp glance to him, hoping he would pick up her cue to not object to her giving him a title bump. Phillen probably had a few more months before reaching Senior Page. “Hace, do not let any of these people impose themselves on my person.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Phillen said, taking his set of irons off his belt. He held them like he would clap them across the skull of anyone who laid a finger on her.
“Now, I’m wondering what’s changed here. Everyone I’ve talked to about this case—as radically different as their stories are from each other, there is one consistent point—everyone agrees that the death of your isahresa means a financial loss all around. And your man—Uite? You know he’s been talking to us?”
That got something from Hieljam ab Tishai. Her eyes locked onto Satrine, hot and angry.
“Do you not want me to talk about what he said about the money? At least in front of the fine people from the Fuergan embassy?”
Hieljam ab Tishai looked like she wanted to say many things, but she was literally biting on her lip to keep them in. The hum from the servants became even lower—a deep, throaty sound that didn’t seem like it could be made by people.
“I can talk about your warehouse, though. The one with the Imach goods—that sticky sweet stuff? Which you were selling to the Kierans, but the Lyranans stamped off on?”
Tishai glanced at Orihla, just as the servants reached down to the floor and produced a long stole.
“I’m sure you aren’t concerned, even though we have that material impounded for now. Because timing wasn’t an issue, was it?” Satrine turned to Chell and the other officials. “I mean, I’m sure she showed you all how, on paper, they seem to be solvent. Right? To validate the claim she’s making to taking the mantle of lavark?”
The fine people from the Fuergan embassy all looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Inspector Rainey,” began Mister Chell, “perhaps I’ve been unclear about what is happening here. This is a sacrosanct ritual of the Fuergan culture, and you are behaving like a wild dog.”
“I’m behaving like an inspector in the Maradaine Constabulary, Mister Chell. First rule in looking for a murderer? Ask who benefits.” She spun back on Tishai. “Who seems to be benefitting, Lavark-jai Tishai?”
If Hieljam ab Tishai could kill with just furrowing her brow, Satrine would have been dead.
The regulars returned, carrying bunches of paper. “We, um, found this in an office, Inspector. It—seems to be something.”
“That’ll do, boys,” she
said. “I’m certain this will help me get to the bottom of things, Lavark-jai. Don’t you worry one bit about it. So, we’ll take this stuff with us to the party I’ve put together.”
“Party?” Mister Chell asked.
“Oh, right,” Satrine said. “You see, perhaps you are protected from my Writ of Compulsion. But I’ll tell you who isn’t: Kenorax, Hajan, Taiz. I have them and some of theirs all bundled together over at the Tsouljan enclave. I think between all of us, we’ll work out the truth of this.”
The servants, now chanting words with that same impossible throaty voice they were humming with, placed the stole over Tishai’s shoulders. “Khueth hre. Ahmen hre. Lavark hre.”
With that, Hieljam ab Tishai lek Lavark sprang to her feet. “I will not let that pack of liars destroy me or the work of my isahresa,” she shouted.
“Lavark-jai,” Chell said, holding up his hands as if to calm her. “You have no need to—”
“And I will not let you disrespect me, Inspector,” Hieljam ab Tishai snarled. “I will go to this ‘party’ of yours, and defend the business of the Hieljam from the jackals and crows who would eat at our dead.”
“Well then,” Satrine said. “I guess we won’t need the lockwagon.”
Mirrell scowled at the setting sun. The search for Jinx had been an empty hunt, and the most useful thing it did was fill the streets with sticks, especially in the Little East. That wasn’t nothing. The presence was felt. That probably stopped a lot of trouble before it even started.
No riots tonight, despite the fact that regular folk in Inemar were terrified of the Little East, and the folk in the Little East were all on edge. But nothing was breaking out.
Mirrell was annoyed by Jinx’s family being out in force with it all, but he had to admit, the help mattered. One uncle was the captain over in Keller Cove, and he brought a few dozen regulars to scour Inemar for Jinx. Another one came over from East Maradaine, and then there were the cousins.
Mirrell had a hard time believing all these folks actually liked Jinx. Maybe because they didn’t have to work with him.
Iorrett came back down from the apartment building he had just canvassed. “Ain’t no sign of him there, sir.”
“Yeah, of course not,” Mirrell said. “Ain’t no reason for him to go in there, is there? That’d be crazy.”
Iorrett gave him an odd look. “You said to canvass it, sir.”
“I know,” Mirrell groused. He checked his pipe idly. That was pointless, and he knew it. He had been out of tobacco for the past hour. Still some instinct kept him looking in his pipe. “Hey, Jinx smokes, right?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“No, he does, I know it.” He glanced about. They were right at the edge of Fuergan properties, and there were just a few blocks between here and Keller Cove. Almost no homes or shops in those blocks; all warehouses and factories. Plenty of places to hide. “All feeling like a waste of time.”
“Sir?” Iorrett asked. “What are you saying?”
He looked at Iorrett hard. “We’ve got our own people sticking close to Jinx’s family, right?”
“Blazes, yes,” Iorrett said. “I even put my cousin—he’s a cadet, sir—to trail Corrie. They ain’t gonna sneak him home or to the ward without us knowing.”
“No, they ain’t,” Mirrell said. Then it hit him. “Of course, we only got it on their word that he’s not there.”
“Pardon?”
“Saints, we’ve been a patch of fools,” Mirrell said. “We never actually checked the Welling house.”
“Yeah, but they would tell us—”
“If it was your cousin or nephew, Iorrett, what would you do?”
“I ain’t got a crazy mage for a relation, sir.”
“That ain’t—” Mirrell had half a mind to smack this guy. “That ain’t the point. We may all be Green and Red, but family is gonna rally.”
“I know, specs, we’ve seen them rally.”
“Right, look—point is, we need to check their house for ourselves. Gather me a few regulars from the search. No whistles, like a Quiet Call. Don’t want any of Jinx’s family getting word.”
Iorrett nodded. “I know who to get and how. I’m on it.”
“Good man. Ten minutes, however many you get, and we’ll all head up to Keller Cove. And we’ll storm that house if we need to.”
Chapter 23
THE HOUSE WAS FAR TOO QUIET when Ferah came in. She was used to her cousins being boisterous in the sitting room, Zura and Amalia cooking up a storm, Pop and Timmothen arguing over some point of petty pride.
But there was none of that. Not even the cooking.
“Hello?” she called out. This was very strange. “Who’s about?”
“Who’s there?” The voice came from up the steps. Granny Jillian.
“It’s Ferah, Granny.” She bounded up the stairs to find Granny working her way down slowly. “What’s going on?”
“All sorts of mess. Haven’t you heard?”
“No, what?” Her day had been full of its own mess. Major accidents in the chicken slaughterhouse and the fish cannery, as well as the usual dose of effitte wastes who would try to rip her head off when she helped them. That is if they weren’t in trance. Brought in two of those today. She took Jillian by the arm and helped her down.
“I don’t know all of it, but there’s an All-Eyes for Minox. He’s apparently lost his senses, throwing magic around and who knows what. Oh, don’t flinch at that, Ferah. We all know what he is.”
Ferah hadn’t even realized she had done that. “So where is everyone?”
“Most everyone is searching through Inemar, trying to find him. Even Amalia. She insisted on going out to Racquin streets.”
Aunt Amalia never did that. Ferah knew Amalia grew up in Caxa, but she never went there anymore.
“So it’s just you?”
“Me and Zura, but she’s locked herself in the basement, praying at that shrine of hers. She’s been plum useless since the news hit.”
“What about my mother? Surely she—”
Granny Jillian sighed as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “She got hurt—not too bad, mind you—but hurt during some trouble at Ironheart. And . . . Minox might be responsible.”
“What?”
“Might, girl. We don’t have facts, and we’re not going to iron or string up any man without them. Emma and some of the young ones are down at Ironheart with her.”
“All right,” Ferah said. “I should—”
“Stay here with me, girl,” Granny Jillian said. She cast a glance over at the basement door. “I need a pair of hands I can count on, you know?”
“Of course,” Ferah said, though it made her uncomfortable. But she would stay, and later have a few choice words with Aunt Zura. “Where do you want to be?”
“Kitchen,” Granny said. “Let’s see if we can find some decent grub. I’m not used to skipping meals.”
Ferah laughed and led her in there, sitting her at the back table. “I’m sure there’s some bread, cheese, and dried sausage on hand. I could try to cook something . . .”
“Those aren’t your talents, dear,” Granny said. “Mine either. Why do you think the cooks of this house are the daughters of other women?” This was something Granny had said over and over.
“Fair enough,” Ferah said, taking a jug of cider out of the icebox. She was going to need at least that, if not cracking into the beers.
There was a tapping on the window of the back door.
“What’s that?” Granny asked.
“Hold on,” Ferah said, moving closer. Who would knock at that door? Who would come around to the back? She opened the door a crack.
Evoy was there, standing a few steps away from the door.
“Evoy?” Ferah said. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and he looked horri
ble. She had dragged fetid bodies in effitte-trance out of abandoned dens that looked better than her brother did.
“Hello,” he said, looking down at the ground. “I, um, I was just . . . I’m sorry to be a bother.”
“Do you want to come in, Evoy?” she asked. “Maybe eat something?”
“I, um . . . no, I couldn’t, because . . . there’s a lot of—I am hungry, of course, but . . . no. No.”
She held up her hands. “It was just an offer. You can do what you want.” Pushing him would probably send him running back in.
“No, I know. I will.”
“All right,” she said. “But you knocked for a reason, right?”
“Mother isn’t there, is she? She’ll make me—I don’t want to come in and—”
“No, she’s not, but . . . I need to tell you something.” Ferah moved in closer.
“Arm’s length!”
Her brother had reached the point where he refused to let her approach him. “Fine.” She stayed in the doorway. “I don’t have all the details, but—”
“Mother’s been hurt, she’s at Ironheart.” He said it like he had just realized it, putting whatever pieces he had accumulated together. “That would—of course!”
“Evoy!” Ferah immediately regretted snapping at him, but she needed to bring him back to the conversation. “I know you aren’t going to want to go to the ward to see her—”
“No, no, definitely not.”
“But perhaps you could write something for her? Some kind words?”
“I could, yes,” he said. He turned and went back toward the stable. He got three steps and stopped. “Not why I . . . I came for a reason.”
Ferah was getting frustrated. There was a reason why she stopped bothering reaching out to him. “What is it?”
“Minox.”
“He’s not here right now, Evoy. In fact, he’s—”
“He’s in the stable,” Evoy said. “And he’s in very bad shape.”
An Import of Intrigue Page 31
