“I think it’s worth further consideration. I have a lead that will, I hope, bear some fruit regarding poisons that leave more subtle signs on their victims.”
“If you need anything, Inspector . . .”
“For now, only my issue.”
Rencir reached into his coat and pulled out a copy of the South Maradaine Gazette. “Always appreciate your time, Inspector.”
“And I your discretion, Mister Rencir.”
Rencir went off down the alley. Minox scanned through the day’s news. Nothing leaped out at him as being of interest, but it deserved deeper study. Inspector Rainey was surely waiting for him, and further delay would only bring about more questions.
Satrine found her chair occupied by a sneering man with long fingers and salt-and-pepper hair. He was bent over the desk, digging through papers and scribbling notes. The oddest thing about him was his suit—it looked expensive and well cared for, but it didn’t fit him right, and with its large brass buttons and high-necked collar, it was several years out of style.
“You’re at my desk, sir,” she said.
He glanced up at her, his eyes dark and beady. “Then they have given the Jinx a new partner.” He shook his head, clicking as if the idea was distasteful. “And a woman at that.” Educated accent. Private schools and Royal College of Maradaine, most likely.
“Is that a problem?”
“Far as I know, you might be the first woman to get an inspector rank. To get killed right away would be a horrible shame.” He bent back down to his notes.
“Who the blazes are you?”
“Language, Madam Inspector,” he said, putting down his pen. He extended his hand to her. “Zebram Hilsom, with the City Protector’s Office.”
A lawyer.
Satrine took the offered hand. “Satrine Rainey. Inspector.”
“Related to . . .” He let it hang.
“Loren Rainey, yes. His wife.”
“Condolences,” he said with a crisp nod.
“Why are you at my desk?”
“Because it’s the best way to force the Jinx to actually have a conversation, which really must happen. Though I suppose I must force the same thing upon you as well, mustn’t I?”
“I’m not sure,” Satrine said.
He shuffled through some papers. “Did you or did you not arrest one Missus Jaelia Tomar? For assault and disruption of the peace?”
“Inspector Welling and I both did, yes.”
“Excellent. I’ve already had several petitions to expedite this case in court, which is always tricky when magic is involved. Can you answer a few questions?”
“Of course,” Satrine said.
“Was this ‘disruption of the peace’ involving the applied use of magic?”
“Yes, I suppose it was.”
Hilsom shook his head. “Trouble, trouble. We may not be able to prosecute that charge with any success.”
“The woman let out a blast of magic that shattered every window on the street,” Satrine said.
“So there were tangible effects of disruption of peace?”
“Absolutely.” Satrine wasn’t sure what to make of the question. Her confusion must have been apparent.
“You see, Inspector Rainey—you’re new to this, else you would understand.” He shook his head with a look one would use with a poor student who hadn’t learned their lessons. “There is a long-established habit of filing a complaint of ‘disruption of peace’ against a mage for doing little more than being a mage. The complaint has been so misused, and therefore challenged by Circles in courts, that the legal standard for the charge is almost impossible to meet. If the Justice Advocate doesn’t tear it to pieces, the Circle’s lawyer certainly will.”
“What other charge should we use?”
“That’s immaterial, Inspector Rainey. The prudent thing to do would be to focus on the assault charge. Whom did she assault?”
“Me.”
Hilsom’s face brightened. “Now that is something we can have better luck prosecuting.” He dug through the papers on Welling’s desk until he came up with a blank sheet. He sat and took Welling’s pen out of the inkpot. “Please tell me how she assaulted you.”
“She struck me with a magic blast.”
Hilsom put the pen back in the inkpot. “A ‘magic blast’?”
“I’m really not versed on a more technical term, Mister Hilsom.”
“Surely,” Hilsom said, giving her a withering look. “Please, elucidate for me, Inspector Rainey. What injuries did you suffer as a result of this . . . ‘magic blast’?”
“Well, none, but that wasn’t from a lack of trying on—”
“No injuries.” He shook his head and scribbled a note on the sheet. “So we’re clear, you are attesting that she attacked you, magically, but through some sort of miracle, you escaped unscathed.”
“I wouldn’t say a miracle.”
“Then what would you say, Inspector? How did you survive?”
Satrine pulled the spike out of her coat pocket. “I think because of this.”
Hilsom raised an eyebrow. “Really? Is that your good luck charm? One of those trinkets that the swindlers by the bridge sell?”
“No, it—” Satrine stopped herself. Hilsom was already predisposed against everything she was going to say, there was no need to sound crazier than necessary. “The murder case that Inspector Welling and I are working involves a mage.”
“Oh, so the mage is a murderer.”
“No,” Satrine said. She was getting very tired of Hilsom’s attitude and the condescending smirk on his face. “The mage was the victim. He was pinned to the ground with this spike. We believe that the spike has the ability to disable magic.”
Hilsom’s smirk melted off his face. “You’re serious.”
“It’s a theory.”
“A strangely convenient theory,” he said.
“How is it convenient?”
“Do you know what is the biggest cause of headaches in the Protector’s Office?”
“Is ‘your voice’ too obvious a choice?”
Hilsom’s jaw hardened. He was not amused. “Unsubstantiated claims of magic attacks.”
“You’ve already said, Mister Hilsom. The charge has proven near useless.”
“Disruption of the peace is the charge that is nigh impossible to prove. Perhaps I might be able to get some traction on property damage, but I can assure you that the Circle will have a lawyer who will do their damnedest to cast doubt on the fact that Miss Tomar was the source.”
“She screamed and glass shattered.”
“Coincidence. How many other mages were present?”
Satrine considered. “At least three. Maybe more in the house.”
“So that’s out. It’ll be argued it might be any one of them, so I can’t prove which one it was.”
“But—”
“Brush up on the particulars of laws regarding Circles, Orders, Guilds, and Leagues. They are ridiculously complex, especially when it comes to proof regarding application of magic and its origin.”
Satrine nodded. “To make—let me see if I have the language right—‘spurious’ arrests of mages more challenging.”
“Exactly,” Hilsom said. “You know that from your husband?”
“Something like that,” Satrine said. She had worked with a couple mages in the service, and her husband had had a few challenges that he had griped about at home.
“But let’s allow that I pursue your ‘assault.’ Given your status as an officer and inspector, your testimony has weight, and your description of her actions would make it challenging for an advocate to argue it came from any other mage.”
“I would hope so.”
“And I am presuming that the Jinx would back up your claim.”
“I do
n’t know why he wouldn’t.”
“I can easily see why it’s in his interest not to. You don’t see it?”
Satrine shook her head warily.
“Of course you don’t. Then let me break it into simple ideas for you. Let us presume this spike does what you say. And you testify at trial to that effect. Are you following me?”
Satrine’s fist was about to follow its way into his nose, but she held back the bile and nodded.
“Then, if we convict Missus Tomar, we have established a legal precedent. A mage could be charged with assault with no actual injuries. Do you see how that would let sheep out of the yard yet?”
“You think these unsubstantiated claims would increase?”
“Yes!” Hilsom said, apparently jubilant at getting through to her. “Anyone could claim they had a protective device in their pocket when they were attacked. ‘Oh, thank the Saints I wasn’t hurt when that mage blasted at me, but I had my sacred spoon behind my ear!’”
“I get your point.”
“It would do wonders for the charlatans and junk peddlers, though.”
“So you’re not going to pursue the complaints, Zebram?” Captain Cinellan asked the question, having come around the slateboards to the desks.
“Of course I’ll pursue them. I’ve got a dozen people swearing about the broken windows, I can’t ignore that. But I can tell you now that the Firewings will bring in their counsel and Circle Law will get cited and in the end the Circle itself will pay a fine—admitting to no actual culpability—that won’t even cover the expense of keeping her here overnight.”
“Hmm,” Cinellan said. “So what should we do? The boys down in the holding pen aren’t too keen on keeping her overnight.”
“I can imagine. We might have a solid case here, but to pursue it, we’re going to have trouble with Circle Law.” He sighed. “As much as it frustrates me, the laws regarding mages, magic, and Circles have a purpose. There are plenty of towns out in the country where a tolerant attitude about a mage would be ‘Let’s only throw just enough rocks at him to chase him out of town.’”
Cinellan shrugged. “Everyone’s afraid of being stabbed by the Unseen Knife.”
Hilsom groaned but didn’t say anything else.
“So what do we need to do?” Satrine asked. Cinellan gave her a questioning look. “It’s my first arrest. I can’t let it fall.”
Cinellan grinned. “That’s good. I’ll tell you what you need to do, Hilsom. Kick it up.”
Hilsom winced slightly. “You’re asking me to give up my claim.”
“Does it really matter if your name is on the case, as long as the conviction holds?”
“Especially if the conviction holds,” Hilsom said.
“Sounds like you can’t get it to hold,” Satrine said. Hilsom’s eyes narrowed on her, but Cinellan put a hand on his shoulder.
“Justice, Zebram, not glory. Kick it up to the Archduchy Court.”
Satrine remembered her husband talking about this sort of thing. The archdukes—and by extension their courts—had the authority to lay a charge against the Circle as a whole entity. Doing that meant handing the claim over, which any city official worth their ink would hate doing. More than once she had heard Loren rant about Archduchy Sheriffs or King’s Marshals trampling over his investigations.
Hilsom didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “I’ll have it done. But that means you’ll have to transfer Missus Tomar over to Eastwood tonight.”
“Fair enough.”
Hilsom picked up his papers and gave a glance over to Satrine. “You’re picking up a cinder with this one, Brace.”
“I got tough hands,” Cinellan said. “Send a page over with the transfer orders.”
Hilsom nodded and stalked off.
“Thanks for that,” Satrine said.
“Eh,” Cinellan said. “He knows it’s right.” He turned and looked straight at her for the first time. “That vest works pretty well on you.”
“Thank you, sir.” That was more compliment than she was expecting to get from the captain today.
“One murder, one arrest, and one bloody nose on the inspectors’ floor. Blazes of a first day.”
Satrine couldn’t get a read on the captain, if he admired or admonished her for knocking Mirrell down. “Just doing what I can.”
“Let’s try more arrests and less bloody noses tomorrow, hmm?”
“Right,” Satrine said. She couldn’t keep herself from smiling.
Cinellan looked over Welling’s desk, running his fingers over a few of the pages. “I hate the nickname, by the way.”
“Mine or Welling’s?”
“Welling’s.” Cinellan gave her a quick wink. “Yours is almost a badge of honor. But Minox, he . . . he doesn’t deserve that.”
“Good to know,” Satrine said. That made one thing clear: Cinellan hadn’t stuck her with Welling as some form of hazing. “I’m still trying to figure out how an Uncircled mage ended up in the Constabulary.”
“He told you already?”
“I deduced it.”
Cinellan gave an approving nod. “It’s one of those things that’s not exactly a secret, but not exactly public. Most people are more comfortable not talking about it at all. Including Minox.”
“I gathered that.”
“The question is, Rainey, do you have a problem with it?”
Satrine sat down at the desk. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the idea of an untrained mage didn’t make me nervous. There is a reason why Circles were established in the first place.” The mages she had known often spoke of training and Circling as an absolute necessity.
“True,” Cinellan said, his tone completely neutral.
“But as for Welling himself, he’s clearly a brilliant investigator. And with this case in particular, we wouldn’t have accomplished what we did without all of his unique gifts.”
“Good,” Cinellan said. His shoulders relaxed, and he sat on the edge of her desk. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is your husband now? Ward of Saint Alexis?”
“Blazes, no,” Satrine said. “He’s at our home, where he belongs.”
“I had gotten the—well, we had all heard that he’s . . .”
“He’s awake,” Satrine said. “But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move, except his eyes. He’ll eat if you put food in his mouth, but . . .” She trailed off. There wasn’t much need to say anything else.
“So he’s like an infant?” Cinellan asked. His face blanched. “I’m sorry, Satr—Rainey. That was—”
“Pretty accurate, actually,” Satrine said. “And there’s nothing to be done for him at the ward that couldn’t be done at home.”
Cinellan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got people, right?”
“Our landlady. Her own husband was sick for years before he passed, so she knows what to do here.”
Cinellan shook his head, eyes on the desk. “It’s just . . . I can’t imagine what that’s like for him.”
“Had you ever met him?”
“Never had the pleasure,” Cinellan said. “Not a lot of our business crosses the river, after all.”
That was a point Satrine was counting on.
“He was brilliant, you know. I want to believe that his mind is still alive in there, some spark of it. But then I think, if it was, if he was aware, then . . . that would be even more horrible.” She felt tears welling up at the corner of her eyes, and she be damned if she was going to let herself cry in front of the captain.
“Well,” Cinellan said, standing up. “Shift is just about up. You’ll be able to head back to him soon.”
That was good. She had told Missus Abernand that she’d probably be back home before four bells. That estimate had been based on the idea that her whole plan would fail and she’d spend the rest of the day scrounging
up money however she could.
Welling came around to the desks. “Any news?”
Cinellan’s face went back to all business. “You missed Hilsom.”
“Shame,” Welling said, sitting down and pulling his journal out of his pocket. “Did he say anything worthwhile?”
“Your arrest is getting kicked up to the Archduchy Court,” Cinellan said.
“Missus Tomar? What for?”
“Hilsom thinks the assault charge will hold better if it’s brought at that level,” Satrine said.
Welling’s face screwed up. “The assault charge hardly matters. Not that assaulting an inspector is immaterial, but you weren’t even injured. Her value as a source of information on our current case is far greater than that conviction.”
“She hasn’t said a word since she was brought in,” Cinellan said. “On that, Welling, you know better than to send in a charge with the lockwagon unaccompanied.”
“We had pressing matters,” Welling said. “Further people to question for our investigation.”
“And how did that pan out?” Cinellan asked.
“Less than ideal.”
“Do you mean it got you no further?”
“The case is not yet resolved,” Welling said.
“Fair enough,” Cinellan said. “Well, you better go question her, since in about two hours, you and Mirrell will be doing a transfer escort over to Eastwood.”
Satrine didn’t like the sound of that. “Welling and Mirrell, sir? Shouldn’t I be doing that with him?”
“Against protocol, Rainey.”
“What protocol?” she asked, though she had no hard time believing that there was a rule against women doing escort duty.
“She’s charged with assault of a Constabulary officer, Inspector,” Welling said. “With such charges, the assaulted officer is forbidden from escort, guard, or interrogation duty.”
“Ah,” Satrine said. “So I can’t go question her either?”
“No,” Cinellan said. “It’ll have to be Welling. You’ll have to listen in from the transcription gallery.”
Welling frowned. “I don’t think I’d get much from her.”
Cinellan shrugged. “The clock is clicking away, Inspectors.” He rapped his knuckles against Welling’s slateboards. “This isn’t going to solve anything this time. I’ll have her sent to Interrogation. And I want a report on your other case, Welling.” He left their desks. Welling opened his leather notebook and started writing.
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 10
