Ferah bounded down the back steps and ran to the stable, barely noticing how hard she checked into Evoy on her way through. She tore open the stable doors, and there was Minox.
Saints, he was in a state.
Minox was a sweaty, sticky mess, stripped down to his trousers. He was babbling nonsense while he made scratch marks on the wall with the chalk in his left hand.
His left hand was truly horrifying. It looked like it belonged on a dead body.
“Minox,” she said. He didn’t respond.
“Minox!” she shouted.
He twitched in her direction, but otherwise continued his chalk scratching unabated.
She moved closer. He wasn’t writing anything of substance—literally just scrawls and scratches.
“He came in here, and he didn’t seem right. But then he got stranger and stranger, and soon he wasn’t making any sense at all.”
For Evoy to be the one saying that, Minox must have really been bad off.
“Minox,” Ferah said, kneeling down in front of him so he’d have to look at her. “It’s Ferah. Do you know where you are?”
“Abidada,” Minox said, his mouth just flopping and drooling as he spoke. His eyes were dull and glassy. It was like there was nothing of him left in there.
A yellow-haired Tsouljan greeted Satrine as she arrived at the compound with the Fuergans and Hace in her shadow. Bur Rek-Uti, that was his name.
“We welcome you, Inspector Rainey,” he said, pronouncing her name in two distinct syllables. “We hope that you are able to conclude your investigation with this . . . collective.”
“You aren’t the only one, sir.”
“Allow me to guide you to this grove of trees. I’m afraid your assembled group will be too large for our huts to fit comfortably. It appears that tonight will be quite pleasant, at least in terms of atmosphere. We have done our best to make you comfortable.”
Indeed, a bunch of green-hairs were setting up tables and benches underneath a trio of the sweet-smelling trees filled with purple flowers. Satrine was grateful. This was going to be unpleasant, but at least the setting would be lovely.
Hilsom came up to her from the grove. Satrine waved to her regulars to lead Hieljam ab Tishai and ab Orihla to seats at the table, where Kenorax, Hajan, and Taiz were already in place, each with their own people close by.
“You do have a plan?” Hilsom asked.
“You mean, besides shake them all around until someone confesses?”
He did not look amused.
“Here’s what I’ve got, Hilsom—four groups of people who all had a hand in some shipping venture that came through Maradaine. I’ve been churning it in my skull now, and I’ve got a good grip on the whats and whys behind this murder.”
“Court of law is mostly interested in the whos and hows. You have to—oh, saints, is that Heston Chell?”
Chell was staying right at the Hieljam’s elbows, making sure that none of the regulars went a step out of line with them.
“You know him?”
“We were a couple years apart at RCM,” Hilsom said. “I take it he’s representing the Hieljam family.”
“He tried to keep me from legally compelling them. Fortunately I was able to goad ab Tishai into coming along.”
“Eyes on him,” Hilsom said. “Cheever is a tabby cat, but Chell has teeth. Be aware you don’t overstep.”
“My, Mister Hilsom, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Don’t give me any mouth, Rainey.”
Satrine didn’t feel any strong need to respond to that, and instead approached her assembled group. They all sat, glowering at Satrine and the rest of the Constabulary. There were several regulars behind them all, including Corrie Welling. She was at the very end, near the Lyranans, her focus more on one of the huts instead of the group. She was also the only one of these regulars who looked like she’d been in uniform for more than a month.
“Welling,” she said, coming up to Corrie. “Any word on the All-Eyes?”
“None that I’ve rutting heard,” Corrie said. “I’ve been here.”
“Right,” Satrine said. She glanced around to find a page who wasn’t Hace. “You! Do you know where Inspector Mirrell is on his manhunt?”
The page came up, giving her a crisp salute. “I don’t, but I can start a running word. We’ve got a lot of feet in the neighborhood tonight.”
“Good,” she said. “Tell him I need him and his people to come here.” Keep it simple, no explanations. Mirrell would grouse. Let him. She needed some bodies who could handle trouble if it broke out.
And something deep in her gut told Satrine that it was going to. As the page ran off, she turned her attention back to her assembly of interested parties.
“Good evening,” she said to everyone. “I’ll start by stating that this is an official Constabulary inquiry, invoked under compulsion. This inquiry is being observed by representatives from the City Protector and Justice Advocate. Your statements here are a matter of record and can be presented as evidence in court. Your statements here are presumed truthful and if proven false can be used in charges against you.”
Mister Chell cleared his throat. “I would like to assert that Miss and Mister Hieljam are not here under compulsion, and their statements cannot be used in charges of Willful Falsehood.”
“So noted,” Hilsom said.
“You have us assembled, albeit at force,” Heizhan Taiz said. “So what do you wish to ask us?”
Satrine considered this carefully, having drummed over the points and questions in her head all afternoon. She had her finger on the what and why, but not a full grasp. Now to draw the rest out of them, needle them until they led her to the who.
“We have two connected things,” Satrine said. “A dead body and a warehouse full of an intriguing shipment.”
“And that pertains to me, how?” Mister Hajan asked.
Satrine didn’t directly acknowledge him and pressed on. “The dead man—a Fuergan man, here to meet with you, Mister Kenorax—”
“I never came here!”
“But killed with an Imach weapon.”
“A Kadabali weapon,” Hajan corrected.
“And the body marked with Lyranan writing. And then we have that shipment. Imach goods—excuse me . . . Ghaladi goods,” she said on Hajan’s glare. “Marked to be delivered to you, Mister Kenorax, and paperwork stamped with a Lyranan seal.”
“So you’ve told us, Inspector,” Taiz said. “Do you have evidence that these are connected?”
“Well, there is definitely the curiosity that the goods have a Lyranan inspection seal, but not a Druth one. Did we check into that, Mister Hilsom?”
Before he could answer, Hieljam ab Orihla interrupted. “Every shipment cleared Druth customs completely legitimately.”
“And that’s the thing that really puzzles me,” Satrine said, though she wasn’t puzzled at all, not on this point. “Because your records showed the goods were scheduled to be sent to Kenorax, who would then send them back to you, to then deliver back to Imachan and Fuerga. The Kierans aren’t charged, but rather take a commission.”
“Please do not refer to me as ‘the Kierans,’” Kenorax said. “I have a name, and I am not a whole people.”
“Apologies.”
“Are there actual questions here, Inspector?” Chell asked.
“Yes, this is most irregular,” Mister Cheever added, giving a small nod to Chell, like they were in union with each other. Chell ignored the man.
Satrine turned her attention to Kenorax. “What were you doing with these goods—the sukkar?”
“Nothing, Inspector. As you note, I never received them. I never received the commission from Hieljam ab Wefi or his factors in Maradaine.” He indicated the two Hieljam spouse-siblings.
“What were you going to do with th
e goods?”
“I’m not qualified to answer that.”
“Not qualified to say why you’re earning a commission?”
“Inspector,” Kenorax said, his tone condescending. “I may be compelled to be here, I might have to answer all questions honestly under threat of imprisonment . . . but I’m in no way obligated to give you answers you like.”
“All right,” Satrine said. She expected hostility. Time to give him a yes or no question. “Does your commission involve a facility you are having built on a plot of land in Shaleton?”
Kenorax looked suitably surprised by that.
“Mister Kenorax?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Here’s what I think,” Satrine said, moving over to the Hieljams and Hajan. “This sukkar—hsugir—whatever we call it, is the heart of the matter.”
“I hate to interrupt,” Cheever said. “But what does it matter if they are doing something with this, how did you call it? Shu-gar?”
“What matters is they both were fully invested in it. Isn’t that right?” She looked at Tishai and Hajan. “Grown in various parts of Imachan, including Kadabal and Ghalad, and it needs to be processed. I saw one the of boilhouses when I was there years ago.”
“You did?” This was Bur Rek-Uti. Satrine noticed for the first time that he, as well as a whole collection of Tsouljans of all four hair colors, were standing to the side observing everything. He sounded shocked.
Satrine didn’t answer the Tsouljans. She kept her focus on Hajan. “I’m guessing that Imachan—Ghalad—doesn’t have the capacity to process materials that Druthal does. Nor does Fuerga. I asked myself, why bring things all the way out here and then send it back East? And the answer was plain as day. None of your nations matches Druthal in manufacturing goods.”
Which was why Shaleton. The whole west side of Maradaine had become factories, workhouses, and canneries for large-scale processing to supply the war in the islands. Most of those had been shuttered when there was no longer a need for regular shipments of uniforms, weapons, and food preserves to go halfway across the ocean. But the structure and technology still existed.
“That’s why you’re here in Maradaine in the first place, shipping Druth cloth, metalwork, and woodwork as luxury goods back home.”
“That was why this one convinced me we had to bring it here,” Hajan snarled, pointing at Hieljam ab Orihla. “He said they could increase its value tenfold for our investment! But when he couldn’t get it done, his concubine brought in Wefi Loriz to solve the matter.”
“You would not respect my title or standing, you impudent swine!” Hieljam ab Tishai spat back at him. “If you had bothered to listen to me, my isahresa would not have needed to come!”
“Do not inflate your value, woman,” Hajan said. “Neither of you could build the facility you needed on your own.”
Satrine jumped back in. “And that’s why you went to Kenorax.” She turned back to the Kieran man. “You needed something far more than a boilhouse—you needed a—” She struggled for a word.
“Refinery?” Kenorax offered smugly. With his role out in the open, he now seemed quite proud. “And the last thing they wanted was for the Druth to take control of yet another luxury good. So they came to me, yes, so they could have Druth ingenuity without you getting your grubby hands on it.”
“Because you had the means to invest in a refinery,” Satrine said. She took an educated guess. “But you weren’t ready to start the work, that was the problem.”
“He didn’t—” ab Tishai started to her feet, before catching herself and sitting back down, silent.
“Was there something you wanted to add, Lavark-jai?”
She stayed silent.
“This is very fascinating,” Taiz said. “But it really has nothing to do with me or the domain of my office.”
Satrine turned her attention to him. He and Nengtaj both sat in their chairs, looking disinterested and haughty.
“You’re quite right, Mister Taiz,” she said. “I cannot figure out why the Lyranans are involved.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Then perhaps we may be free to leave.”
“No,” Satrine said. “I said I can’t figure out why. But it is plain that you are. Specifically, that you’ve decided to involve yourself.”
“Because of a seal?” Nengtaj was engaging. “It is a standard inspection that our government performs in the eastern oceans. It is not of Druth concern.”
“The seal, among other things. But your government has taken it upon themselves to police the eastern seas.”
“There are pirates, smugglers—”
“Yes, fine. But your actions are telling. For example—Officer Welling?”
“Oy, what?” Corrie asked, looking annoyed to be called upon. Her eye was definitely on the hut. Was it possible Minox was there, and Corrie knew? He had said something about coming to the Tsouljans before.
Satrine couldn’t focus on that, couldn’t interrupt things to find out. If Minox was here, and if Corrie knew, then they would have to sort that out later. “You were in the riot last night when the Lyranans joined in, yes?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“How did the Lyranans become involved in the riot?”
“Yeah, well,” Corrie said. “The feeks and machs were all smashing each other up, and we sticks were trying to pull them apart. Then a cadre of tyzos marched in, started knocking down everyone in there.”
Every one of the assembled suspects flinched and snarled at Corrie’s speech.
“A cadre?” Satrine said. “So they appeared to be organized?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
“So, Mister Taiz, I put the question to you: why have the Lyranans here in Maradaine taken it upon themselves to police the Little East?”
Taiz seemed to give the barest bit of a smile. “Because someone has to, Inspector Rainey. It is not like your Constabulary took much interest until right now.” He stood up, and Nengtaj followed his lead. “I believe I am done with this charade.”
“Sit down, Mister Taiz,” Satrine said, standing in front of him.
He gave a glance off in one direction, and then said, “No, I think I will be leaving now.”
He took a step, and the regulars went to grab at him and Nengtaj. Satrine reached out to stop him herself, but then she heard a sound that triggered an instinctive reaction.
She grabbed Taiz by the front of his robe and spun him in front of her, just in time for three darts to strike him in the back. He suddenly went insensate, falling down like a sack of potatoes.
Satrine had no time to deal with that, as Pra Yikenj and a dozen other Lyranans were charging across the field.
Ferah put her hand across Minox’s forehead. He was scorching hot with fever.
“Saints,” she said. “Evoy, help me get him up.”
“I . . . I don’t think—”
“Damn it, Evoy!” Ferah shouted. “He’s going to die unless you help me get him into the house!”
Something clicked in Evoy’s eyes, and he ran over, getting under Minox’s arm as Ferah took the other side. Minox offered no resistance as they hauled him into the house. Granny Jillian stood at the back door.
“Oh my saints,” she said as they brought him in. “What happened to him?”
“That’s not what matters,” Ferah said. “I need to break his fever or he’ll never make it. Bring him to the tub.”
They carried him to the downstairs water closet, which included a large bathing tub. They placed Minox inside it. “Start pumping, Evoy.”
Evoy got the water flowing on Minox.
“What can I do?” Granny asked.
“My bag is by the door,” Ferah said. “Get it for me.”
Ferah was back out to the kitchen to pound on the basement door. Now was not the moment fo
r Acserian religious sewage. “Zura! Open the blasted door right now!”
No response from Zura.
“Zura, saints help me, I will knock this door down and drag you up by your hair!” Ferah shouted. Wouldn’t be the first time she had to break through a locked door to save a life.
Now she heard steps come up from the basement, and the door unlatched. Zura came out, cold fire in her eyes. “By all that is holy, Ferah, why would you speak so profanely to me?”
“Because Minox is dying. Do we have any ice on hand?”
“No, child,” Zura said. “Iceman comes tomorrow. Why do you want that?”
“Minox is in heavy fever,” Ferah said, going back to the water closet. Granny had brought her bag. She dug through to find something in her kit that could help. Doph wouldn’t help. Oil of mesk? That might mitigate the fever, as well as challon root resin. She pulled out the vials and went over to the tub.
“It’s worse than I feared,” Zura said, kissing her knuckle and rubbing it on her forehead. “He is taken, he is gone.”
“Not if I can help it,” Ferah said, rubbing the oil on his forehead. She then daubed the resin on his tongue. His face was covered in some sort of gritty grime. Ferah had no idea what it was. She grabbed a cloth and started to scrub it off.
“Look at his hand!” Zura screeched. “He is unclean, I tell you! I knew this day would come!”
Ferah was about to snap back at her aunt when Granny Jillian slapped Zura hard across the face. “We’ll have none of that about any of my grandchildren.”
Evoy crept over to the tub. “He could do it, I think.”
“What?” Ferah asked.
Evoy leaned in over Minox. “Remember the snows last winter, Minox? Don’t you want to be in the snow?”
“Too . . . hot . . .” Minox whimpered.
“What are you doing?”
“Planting the idea in his head,” Evoy said. “I know it’s too hot, Minox. If only it were winter again. If only there was snow.”
“How does that help?” Ferah asked. She started to think of other things she could do. How far to Ironheart? Could she get him there in time? For all she knew, more riots were brewing in the Little East. Creedport Ward was closer, but it was a joke. They couldn’t do a damn thing. Where did the iceman come from? Their stock was in great houses in the Keller Cove docks, somewhere. Maybe one of the icehouses would be a good place to take him. “We need a cab,” she started to say.
An Import of Intrigue Page 32
