“Clear,” Minox called out, following the escort protocol.
“Clear,” Mirrell called back halfheartedly.
Most people on the street avoided looking at the lockwagon. Most of them, living or working near the stationhouse, knew how to recognize a transfer run, and also knew well enough not to cause any trouble. The few pedalcarts and wheelstands in the street were quickly scurried out of the way so the wagon could pass unobstructed.
“Easting and Silver,” Minox called as they approached the intersection. There was a small crowd to the left, in front of Saint Limarre’s. Most likely going to sunset services. Nothing to be concerned about. “Clear.”
No return call from Mirrell. This was typical of the man, if annoying. The protocol was supposed to be followed, but many officers, including Mirrell, didn’t bother.
“Inspector Mirrell,” Minox said pointedly. “Left side clear.” That should be enough to shame Mirrell into responding.
Nothing.
Minox glanced back down the street. A small crowd had formed around something lying on the ground. Something wearing Inspector Mirrell’s coat.
“Driver!” Minox shouted. He drew out his handstick and crossbow and dropped off the runner. He ran around the front of wagon, crossbow aimed ahead of him. The lockwagon door was open on the right side. Minox took two steps closer so he could see inside. Jaelia Tomar was still there, still shackled into her seat. Her head drooped to one side, eyes closed. Welt across her temple.
Dead?
Still breathing, if shallowly.
Minox turned back toward the driver. “Did you see—”
The driver fell from the seat, his body hitting the cobblestone.
Minox leaped up onto the runner, and scrambled up to the seat. Before he got his footing, someone grabbed his right wrist.
The attacker was fast, yanking Minox’s arm out in a wide arc and forcing the crossbow to go flying out of his hand. Minox responded with his handstick, off-balance as he was, knocking his assailant in the ribs with a hard jab.
He hadn’t even gotten a good look at the man attacking him. Dark clothes, hood over his face. Nothing else before a fist cracked Minox in the face. Minox stumbled back, almost falling off the wagon. He forced himself to lurch forward at the hooded figure, use his imbalance to his advantage.
The figure grabbed Minox by the front of his coat and rolled back, hurling Minox off the front of the wagon, crashing through the yoke.
Minox was dazed, head spinning, barely able to get his eyes to focus on the figure as it dropped down off the wagon. The figure leaned into the open door. Minox tried to pull himself up on his feet, focus his thoughts. Push through the pain.
The figure pulled the limp form of Jaelia Tomar out of the wagon, slung her over his shoulder. Minox was up now. In the distance, people were screaming or running away. Never any help. Minox charged at the figure to tackle him. Missus Tomar would undoubtedly be injured in the process, but that was a necessary risk. The figure reacted before Minox reached him, throwing two darts that sunk into Minox’s shoulder. Minox cried out, but he still had momentum working for him. He piled into the figure and Jaelia Tomar, and all three of them hit the ground in a hard crunch.
A fist hit Minox again and again in the sides. Woozy and dizzy, Minox was unable to block the attacks or respond. The figure pushed Minox off from on top of him, then kicked him hard in the face. Minox lost a few moments in a red, blurry haze, and when he had his senses back the figure had run to a waiting horse, hurling Jaelia’s body over the animal before mounting it himself.
Minox’s hand found his whistle, getting it to his mouth as he struggled to draw enough breath to blow it. He managed a weak trill, followed by a sharper one. He gave a glance down the road. Mirrell was stirring, but not on his feet yet.
The man spurred his horse and was charging down Silver.
Minox pulled the darts out of his shoulder. Fortunately they had barely penetrated his coat and vest. They were the least of his worries. “You won’t outrace me,” he muttered, forcing his screaming body over to the wagon horses.
The yoke was in pieces already, and Minox summoned a burst of raw magic to crack the rest of it off one horse. Despite the aching protest every joint and muscle gave him, Minox forced himself to mount the beast.
This was not a riding horse, definitely not a racing horse, but it would do. Minox blew the whistle again, the signal to summon any regulars or officers who could hear, and kicked his horse to a gallop. He hadn’t ridden horsepatrol for five years for nothing.
Crowds had formed on the walkways along the street. People were cheering and jeering both. A part of Minox’s mind analyzed that the people really didn’t care what was happening, nor were they invested in his capturing the man, or in the man escaping from him. They just wanted the spectacle.
His horse pounded down the cobblestone. It was giving good chase, he had to credit the beast. The man’s horse was a stronger, faster breed, but it carried two people. In a few seconds, Minox had closed the distance. He had to take out the figure, and quickly, though, as his horse could not maintain this pace for long. No crossbow. He’d have to use magic.
He gave a quick, hard blast at the figure. To his surprise, the green energy bounced off the man’s back, no apparent effect.
Another blast. Nothing.
Minox’s vision blurred. He could barely breathe. He wasn’t going to last much longer.
Last chance. Last shot, poorly aimed. The magic was as weak as he was, splashing over the limp body of Jaelia Tomar like water.
That was too much for Minox. His head spun, his whole body went limp. He nearly fainted, barely managing to pull his horse to a stop before falling off it. His whole world went dark before he hit the ground.
“Minox!”
His face was being slapped. Consciousness came back into sharp focus.
He put up his hand to block another slap before it connected with his face. “I’m awake, Inspector Mirrell.”
Mirrell hovered over Minox, his face a mix of anger and concern. “The blazes happened, Jinx?” Minox noted the switch that Inspector Mirrell made from his given name to his assigned epithet, as soon as he realized he wasn’t dead.
“Our wagon was attacked, clearly.” Minox extended a hand to Mirrell, hoping the other inspector would help him to his feet. Mirrell took his hand and pulled him up abruptly. Minox’s whole body was hurting, especially the sharp pains in his right shoulder and hip. He must have landed on them when he fell off the horse.
“A breakout of the prisoner?” Mirrell asked.
“That’s one possibility,” Minox said. He glanced around the street. He had given chase almost to the corner of Silver and Nole. The horse stood a half a block away. It was too well trained to run off on its own. Minox started limping over to it.
Mirrell kept up with him, though it was clear by how he walked that his leg was injured. “One possibility? A constable lockwagon is attacked, and the prisoner is taken!”
Minox grabbed the horse’s rein. “‘Taken’ being the important word here, Inspector.”
“Oh, blasted saints, Jinx, what are you on about?”
“What did you see happen, Inspector?”
“Not much. We were rolling along, and next thing I knew, I was yanked off the carriage, and lying on the street.”
“Hmm.” Minox noted the streets were now empty of people to serve as potential witnesses of the event. “We should be making pursuit. I blew for footpatrol, and they clearly haven’t arrived. Have you tried yet?”
“Not yet,” Mirrell said. “I was still dazed, and then saw you on the ground.” He glanced down Silver, to the clock tower over Saint Limarre’s. “Six bells eighteen. How much lead do you figure he’s gotten since we’ve been out?”
Minox reached into his pocket. No whistle. He must have dropped it earlier. “Sev
en minutes. Have you seen my whistle?”
“No.” Mirrell took out his own and blew a call signal.
“At this point, it’s only procedure,” Minox said. He didn’t think anything useful would be gained from calling in regulars, other than getting the lockwagon back to the barn. “Our attacker was well prepared, and with seven minutes to get away, I’m sure he has enacted a spectacular escape. Have you checked on the driver?”
“Not yet,” Mirrell said. “Was he hurt?”
“I think so,” Minox said, leading the horse back toward the wagon. “The attacker was cleanly methodical. He attacked you first, quickly and efficiently.”
“Quite,” Mirrell said harshly.
“Then he . . .” Minox trailed off, thoughts racing.
“He what?” Mirrell asked.
“Incapacitated Missus Tomar,” Minox said. That was important.
“How do you mean?” They had reached the intersection, where the lockwagon sat, half broken. The driver was awake and kneeling, but clearly not in his full senses yet.
“Driver, are you well?”
“Do I look blazing well, tosser?” the driver snapped back.
“As well as any of us,” Minox replied. His own body was battered, he may have even broken a rib, and his thoughts were clouded with pain pounding against his skull. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on the idea that was trying to form through the haze.
Minox walked around the wagon, checking the door. “The attacker made a point of removing any conscious choice from Missus Tomar as soon as he possibly could. If he considered her an ally, surely he would want to keep a capable mage in play, able to assist him, wouldn’t he?”
“Unless the plan is to give her deniability,” Mirrell said.
“Impressive line of thought, Inspector Mirrell,” Minox said. “You raise a valid point. But she had been knocked across the head. Hardly something to do to an ally.”
“Except to drive home that deception,” Mirrell said. “I’ve seen people do plenty worse.”
Minox nodded. “Indeed. However, I still have the distinct impression that our assailant’s purpose was not to rescue Missus Tomar from us, but to take her away.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m not sure of,” Minox said. He turned to look back down Silver. His head was still pounding, but there a curious sensation drawing him in that direction. It was a singular thing, but it danced frustratingly along the outside of his senses. Almost a light mist in the corner of his eye. Almost a buzz in his ear. Almost the scent of a storm about to break. Almost a cord tied to his chest, pulling him forward. “What is that?”
“What?” Mirrell asked.
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
“Jinx, you got walloped pretty good,” Mirrell said. “We should take you over to the ward and have a splint check you out.”
“I’m fine,” Minox said. He stepped in the direction he was being drawn. “There is definitely something happening in this direction.”
“Nothing is happening there, Jinx.” Mirrell’s voice was fuzzy and distant.
“I’m certain that there is.” Minox took another step. His foot didn’t touch the road. It felt like it sank into sand. His head filled with mud. Fog and buzz and storm and cord. Mirrell’s voice shouting his full name. Darkness.
Chapter 11
SOUND RETURNED FIRST, just murmured voices in the background. Then taste—honeyed cider being poured in his mouth. Minox found the strength to open his eyes, to see Leppin’s face hovering over him.
“There you are,” Leppin said. “Welcome back.”
Minox tried to sit up, and found it incredibly difficult.
“Give yourself a few minutes, Minox,” Leppin said.
Minox coughed and found his voice. “What happened?”
“You dropped dead away in the middle of the street,” Leppin said.
“Dead away?” Minox repeated. “Was my condition that grave that I ended up in your care?”
“Not really,” Leppin said, stepping away. “Though Mirrell and Vince nearly believed it was.”
“Vince would be?”
“The wagon driver, Minox,” Leppin said. He shook his head. “Those two needed the splint to patch them up. But they were right shaken with your state. Pale, sweaty. Shaking in fit one minute, almost no pulse the next. So, of course, they call a specialist.” He brushed off his vest, looking all too proud of himself.
Minox managed to push himself up on his elbows. “How are you a specialist?”
Leppin shrugged. “Fairly, they thought you might have been poisoned or such, which is why they called me over.”
“Over where?” Minox was on a small cot, curtains blocking any other view.
“Ironheart Ward.” Leppin sat down on the cot. “Anyhow, luckily for you, my studies were always somewhat eccentric, so I was able to recognize the symptoms of Magic Depletion Fatigue.” He lowered his voice. “Plus the splints and Yellowshields didn’t really know you were a mage, so they wouldn’t have figured it.”
“What is Magic Depletion Fatigue?” Minox tried to tune his ear for any voices past the curtain. Aunt Beliah was a nurse at Ironheart, and he didn’t need her finding him here and fussing over him.
Leppin reached under the cot and pulled out Minox’s belt. “How many bolts for your crossbow do you carry?”
“Six, typically,” Minx answered.
“Right, so what happens when you shoot all six?”
“Out of bolts,” Minox said. “Is that what I did? Used all my magic? Forever?” Was that it? He had no idea that it would just be gone like that.
“Not for life, idiot,” Leppin said. “Just for . . . I’m explaining it badly. It’s more like a water well, you see. You draw a lot out at once, it goes dry. Takes a while to replenish.”
“How long is a while?”
“Blazes if I know,” Leppin said.
Minox struggled to pull himself up to a sitting position. “That is my problem as well.”
“You shouldn’t be getting up, you know.”
“I need to know the status of the situation with Missus Tomar. Has she been located? Or her abductor?”
“I thought she had been broken out,” Leppin said. “That’s what Mirrell reported.”
“Fool,” Minox muttered. “Are my clothes under the cot, Leppin?”
“What are you planning to do?” Leppin asked.
“I have to go to the stationhouse, report what happened.”
“Oh, no,” Leppin said. “You’ve got two choices, Minox. Stay here or go home.”
Minox was not interested in staying in the ward. “Home it is. Give me my clothes.”
Leppin pulled a crate out from under the cot. “I’m serious, Minox. Go home, eat something, and get some sleep. Do not come to the stationhouse until tomorrow. Promise that.”
Minox took out his clothes and started to dress. “Fair enough. What is the time?”
“Half-past seven bells. More or less.”
Minox nodded. “As you wish, Leppin.” In just four and a half hours it would be after midnight, and then he’d return to the stationhouse.
“Tomorrow morning, Mine.” Corrie came through the curtain, her face flushed. “You have to nail him down to blazing specifics, bodyman, or he’ll pull a blasted trick on you. Sinner would sneak back in at a click after midnight, I’d rutting well bet you.”
Leppin let loose a nervous cackle. “You’ve probably . . . um, you’ve surely got his number, Miss, um, Officer . . .” He trailed off, his hands fumbled on the lapels of his coat as he went through the curtain, his eyes fixed on the floor as he brushed past Corrie.
“Strange little rutter,” Corrie muttered. “Come on, Mine. I’m gonna put you on my horse and take you back home. Don’t you dare argue with me.”
“Of cou
rse not,” Minox said. “Aunt Beliah isn’t working here tonight, is she?”
“She’s off, and back at the house. Where we’ll tell everyone you got clocked in the head and knocked out. I don’t need to understand anything else the bodyman was rutting on about.”
“Fine,” Minox said. He felt no need to discuss specifics with Corrie or anyone else. “Let’s go.”
He noted, as they walked out of the ward, that Corrie did not extract any promise from him as to when he’d return. He certainly wasn’t going to remind her otherwise.
Satrine and the girls had eaten, the dishes were washed, the last of the soup left covered on the back of the stove. Caribet had taken soup in to her father, and Satrine was more than willing to leave that to her daughter. She knew it was a horrible attitude to take, but feeding her husband was a task that filled her with dread. Caribet genuinely enjoyed it, and she was welcome to it.
Rian sat in the kitchen, reading a school text. Satrine asked her about what she was reading; Rian had sullenly responded it was history, the Druth Reunification. Satrine nodded, grateful that Rian was receiving a far more traditional education than she ever had.
Satrine went up the back stairs and knocked on Missus Abernand’s door. The old woman was clearly still awake; Satrine could hear her clomping around in there. After a moment, Missus Abernand opened the door and walked back into her parlor wordlessly. Satrine took it for an invitation and joined her on the couch.
“I suppose that door will have to be open more often now?” Missus Abernand asked, pouring out a glass of apple brandy.
Satrine took the drink and sipped. “I don’t want to have to impose—”
“You don’t have people, Satrine,” Missus Abernand said. “You don’t and Loren doesn’t.”
“Loren has the Constabulary . . .”
“And where have they been, hmm?”
“Gave me a job.”
Missus Abernand scoffed. “You gave yourself that job, and don’t pretend otherwise.”
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 13
