Satrine took another swig of the apple brandy. Missus Abernand had no idea how true that really was. “Even still, they have been his family.”
“Family steps up in times like this. They take you in, they do what’s right. I know you don’t get what it means.”
Satrine poured a second glass of brandy. “Commissioner Enbrain did what he could.” That wasn’t true, and Missus Abernand jumped right on it.
“You should have had your widow fund. Not giving it to you was an insult.”
“I’m not a widow.” That was the story Enbrain had given her, it was the official ruling from the brass in the head office. Loren hadn’t died in the line of duty. Even if he died now, she wouldn’t see a tick of her fund.
“It’s sewage,” Missus Abernand said. She put down her glass. “Excuse my crudity. I just can’t stand it when excuses are made not to do the decent thing.”
“That’s because you’re extraordinary,” Satrine said. “I don’t think I could do this without your help.”
“You couldn’t.” Missus Abernand finished her drink. “I’m to bed. You should do the same. When do you need to leave here?”
“Seven bells. But the girls will probably be around until eight.”
A bony finger pointed to the stairs. “Rian was giving some mouth to me, you know. Be on her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Satrine said.
“Sleep well,” Missus Abernand said. “Get the lamps and close the door behind you.” She went into her bedroom and shut herself in.
Satrine went around the parlor and snuffed the lamps. With only one left burning, she finished her brandy. Glancing at Missus Abernand’s door, she poured a third glass and threw the contents down her throat. She poured herself one more, stoppered the bottle, and went down.
The Welling household was a three-story whitestone on the Keller Cove side of Escaraine, just half a block from Escaraine Square, where the neighborhoods of Inemar, Dentonhill, and Keller Cove met. Despite Corrie and him working in Inemar, the family had always been a Keller Cove family. Much of the family—that is, the children and grandchildren of Fenner and Jillian Welling—lived in the house. Not Fenner himself, of course. He hadn’t lived here for years.
Corrie had blathered on profanely the entire ride over. She kept coming back to the subject of Inspector Rainey’s appointment, which was a thorn she clearly couldn’t pull from her foot. “I was running streets as a page, cadet years, footpatrol for how rutting long? And as a blazing lamplighter half that time. I had to rutting well knock some blasted teeth out of a few wastrels before they let me get a horse under me. And only in the goddamned night shift at that! But she walks in the blazing door—”
Jace and Ossen sat on the front stoop, the two youngest of the grandchildren, save for Minox’s sister Alma. Jace—Minox and Corrie’s eighteen-year-old brother—was in his cadet uniform. He had just come from his shift at the Aventil stationhouse. Ossen—their cousin, Nyla’s brother—was two years younger, only a senior page at Keller Cove. They both perked up at their approach.
“What ya doing riding home, Cor?” Jace asked. “You ditching the night shift?”
“You wish, rutter,” Corrie said. She thumbed to Minox, who dismounted uneasily. He still wasn’t up to strength. “Giving the inspector a ride home after he took a hard knock.”
“Saints, Minox,” Ossen said. “Quite the bruise you got there.”
“Took quite the knock.”
“Some rutter busting on a prisoner escort,” Corrie said. “Took out Mine here, as well as the driver and another inspector.”
“Saints!” Jace said.
“Don’t you need to get back to Inemar?” Minox asked. He didn’t need any more of Corrie’s commentary.
“Right.” She turned her horse around. “Get some rest, hmm? See you all at breakfast.” She spurred her horse and went off.
“How bad is it?” Jace asked.
“Looks worse than it is,” Minox said.
“You should let Aunt Beliah look at it,” Jace said. Minox gave him a withering look. “Or Ferah. She’s home, too.” Their cousin Ferah was a Yellowshield, and her ministrations would be less annoying than her mother’s.
“I just came from Ironheart, I don’t need anything more.” Minox knew Jace and Ossen would let it rest at that. “Is supper ready?”
Ossen shrugged, as did Jace. “Let’s find out.”
Jace led the way in. The front sitting room was crowded: Uncle Timmothen and his three sons were drinking beers and talking with Cole Pyle—Nyla and Ossen’s father—and Oren, Minox’s other brother. All were still in Constabulary uniform: Timmothen a captain, Oren a lieutenant, Cole a horsepatrol commander. Only Timm’s youngest son, Davis, stood out in this crowd, with his spectacles and slight build. He was an examinarium assistant, but he did his best to laugh and drink with his brothers.
“Hey, Inspector!” Oren called out. “You get knocked down good there?”
“Took it and got back up,” Minox said, mimicking the phrase their father had always said.
“That’s how you do it,” Cole said, his South Maradaine accent thick. He raised up his beer and drank. Back in the day, Cole had been the horsepatrol partner with Minox’s father.
“Supper on, Pop?” Ossen asked, coming over to Cole. He made a grab for his father’s drink, which Cole easily dodged, grabbing Ossen in a headlock with his other arm.
“Nice try, boy,” Cole said. “I think it’ll be on in a click or two.” He let Ossen go and pushed him away playfully.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Minox said, passing through the sitting room. Oren clapped him on the shoulder as he passed through, as did Timmothen, but they let him through without any further comment.
In the dining room, the table was set, though no food had been placed out. Despite that, Uncle Tal—Beliah’s husband—sat with two of his three children. Ferah had changed out of her Yellowshield uniform into a simple dress and coat. Colm wore his Fire Brigade uniform, as did his father. The two of them were eating stew and rolls, the only food on the table.
“Eating without us, Tal?” Minox asked. “Or just couldn’t wait?”
“Colm and I have to head out,” Tal said, taking another bite. “Chief Yenner keeps switching schedules around. Not making a lick of sense, but he’s not listening.”
“He’s trying to scrape every tick together or something,” Colm said.
“I’m telling you, son, the way it looks, there will be nights where there’s no Brigade at all in Seleth.”
“I’m sure it’s covered somehow,” Colm said.
“Hmm,” Minox said. “I might need to join you with the early eating.”
“Never enough with you, Minox,” Tal said. “You can chance asking. Dark ones will probably chase you out.”
Ferah stood up and put an arm around Minox. “Don’t pay them any mind. Let’s go see what we can do for you.” Scowling at her father, she led Minox into the kitchen.
The “dark ones” Tal referred to were Minox’s mother and Aunt Zura, Timmothen’s wife. Zura was Acserian, had dusky brown skin and black hair. Minox’s mother was half Racquin—her father was Minox’s namesake—and she had a rich olive complexion. The two of them ran the kitchen in the Welling house, and they were cooking up a storm as usual. Aunt Beliah sat at the table, shelling peas, while Minox’s youngest sister Alma studied next to her.
“What happened to you?” Beliah said, dropping the peas and coming over to Minox. “You had this looked at?”
“Yes, Beliah,” Minox said. “I’m fine.”
Mother came over from the stove. “Are you sure, Minox?”
“I could use a bite, though,” Minox said in a lowered voice. Mother understood. Minox’s magical ability was not spoken of, not openly, in the household. The consequences of it, however, were obvious and dealt with discreetly.
&
nbsp; “Of course,” Mother said. She went back over to the stove.
“You were treated, yes?” Beliah asked. “Where?”
“At Ironheart.”
“Who treated you? Was it Doctor Westron?”
“I’m not sure. I woke in the care of Mister Leppin from our stationhouse.”
“Leppin? I don’t know him,” Beliah said. She looked up at Ferah. “Do you know him?”
“He’s—” Minox paused. He didn’t feel he should have to answer this, but he knew well enough that Beliah was not about to let things go unless he gave her a full report. She was a Welling, and Wellings do not give up. “He’s the bodyman at our stationhouse.”
“Were you dead?” Beliah screeched.
“Of course not, don’t be absurd.” Minox wished he could take his food and retreat to his room. “The doctors did think he might have insight to my condition, however. And he is a—” Minox stumbled on the word for a moment. “Close associate.”
Minox’s mother came over with a plate piled high with sausages, white beans, roasted beets, flatbreads, and spiced cracked wheat. Classic Druth cooking with Racquin and Acserian accents.
“Blessings of each saint,” his mother said quietly as she put the plate down.
“May we be blessed,” Minox said, which Beliah and Ferah repeated with him. Zura, back by the stoves, said nothing, but pressed a knuckle to her forehead. Minox sat down next to Alma and started eating.
Mother stood over him. “Rough day?”
“Aren’t they all?” he asked.
Zura came over with a tray with another plate, more modestly portioned. “Ferah, dear, bring this up to Mother Jillian. Then come back for another one for your brother.”
Minox perked up at that. As Ferah left with the tray, he looked over at his aunts. “Is Evoy still—out in the stable?” For the past months, Evoy had been spending more and more time in the old stable, often locking himself in there for days at a time, refusing to come in, refusing almost any contact except delivery of food.
“He doesn’t want to come out,” Beliah said, her voice cracking slightly. “You’re the only one he really listens to, Minox. Could you have a word with him?”
Minox sighed, taking another bite. “I’ll try, Aunt Beliah. But I can’t make him do anything . . .” He trailed off.
Zura nodded and kissed her knuckle, touching it to her forehead. “God and Acser willing, he’ll get through this. I’m sure he will. Not like—” She stopped, staring at Beliah, and then scurried back over to the stoves.
It didn’t need saying, they all knew. Twelve years ago, Fenner had started the same way. Locking himself in his room, obsessively writing in his journals, collecting newsprint articles. He grew more agitated and reclusive, periodically screaming at family members. It eventually reached the point where they had to put him in Haltom Asylum, where he’d been ever since.
The last thing anyone wanted was to see the same thing happen to Evoy. They were all afraid he had inherited his grandfather’s madness.
Especially Minox. Not just because Evoy was his favorite cousin.
Because every day Minox fought the urge to lock himself out there with him.
Aunt Beliah continued to talk while Minox ate, switching to mundane topics. Nyla and Aunt Emma—her mother—had gone to the dressmaker shop for the evening. She harped on not seeing Terrent—“Poor Terrent” she always called him, as he was widowed—in over a month. Terrent was the only one of his father’s siblings who didn’t live in the big house, instead living with his twin daughters out in East Maradaine, where they all worked for the Constabulary. There had been the occasional whispers among the aunts that Terrent might be facing the same sort of affliction as Fenner and Evoy.
Minox wasn’t worried about Terrent, though. Terrent was sometimes eccentric, but never coming close to madness. Minox had it on good authority, through contacts in East Maradaine, that Terrent and the twins were doing just fine. At times he envied them. More than once the idea of taking a room at one of the boardinghouses in Inemar crossed his mind. Things would be easier if he could stay in Inemar.
“Minox?” Beliah said, her tone indicating she had said his name more than once. “Are you still hungry?”
He looked down at the plate, which was empty. He had been lost in thought, scraping at nothing for some time.
“No, I—”
“You’re awfully distracted,” Beliah said. “That’s not like you.”
“True,” Minox said. “Perhaps I’ve been more affected than I thought.” He looked down at himself. There were drops of blood all over his shirt and vest. “I should go clean up, I think. If you’ll all excuse me.”
Without waiting for permission or acceptance from any of his family, Minox made for the back stairwell to the second floor water closet. He stripped off the offending clothes and scrubbed his face and arms clean. He checked his face in the mirror. Some degree of stubble had grown on his cheeks and chin.
That wouldn’t do.
He dug through his sack of personal items until he found his straight razor. Of course, it would be ill advised to continue without—
“Hot water?” Alma was at the door carrying a pitcher. “Mother thought you might need some.”
“Indeed,” Minox said. He took the pitcher and filled his basin. “What was today’s study?”
“History. Eighth century.”
“The mad kings of the Cedidore line?” Minox took the razor to his face.
“Exactly.” Alma looked distinctly unhappy with the reading.
“Do yourself a favor, skip ahead to the ninth century. There’s some good stuff in there.”
She smiled weakly. “You really all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” Minox said.
“Then why are you pointing the razor at the window?” Alma asked.
Minox hadn’t even realized his arm was outstretched. But he was pointing, his arm responding to something other than his own conscious directive. Pointing to the southeast.
Toward Inemar.
Minox put down the razor and wiped off his face. “Alma, you will have to forgive and excuse me. Something . . . something is afoot that I cannot explain. But I believe I must take action.”
He went into his room and put on a fresh shirt and vest. Alma still stood in the hallway, carrying the pitcher and looking stupefied.
“What’s happening? Are you leaving?”
“I must,” Minox said. “Please extend my apologies to . . . everyone.”
“You’re scaring me a little, Minox.”
Minox knelt down in front of her. “To be honest, Alma, I’m a little frightened myself. Keep this our secret.”
She looked dubious, but nodded in agreement.
Minox nodded back, and went off down the front stairs and out the door before anyone could catch a word with him.
Chapter 12
THE STREETS WERE QUIETER NOW, only a few people bustling about by the light of the oil lamps. The lockwagon had been cleared out of the way; street sweepers had brushed away the splintered wood from the shattered yoke. There were no signs of the earlier excitement.
And nothing in the way of clues that could lead him to the current location of Jaelia Tomar, be she fugitive or victim.
But there was something. A compulsion drew him here, beyond the usual compulsion he had to solve every mystery to a satisfactory conclusion. This was something external. Something he could feel. Something he had felt when he was here before.
Tether. The word crossed his mind again.
He turned to look down Silver. Was what he had sensed there before just a figment, half imagined before losing consciousness?
No.
Whatever it was, it was still there. Fainter than earlier, but still there.
It felt like a pull, west down Silver. The path he had chase
d Missus Tomar’s abductor down. He took a few steps along with the pull.
Then he stepped fully into it, like a current in the river.
He walked down the street with the current, letting it guide him.
This was clearly magic, there was no point in denying that. Was it Jaelia Tomar’s magic? His own? Some conjunction of the two? Was that even possible? He had to admit, he had no idea. Still, the best possible lead he had was to follow it.
It led him down several blocks. In the back of his mind, he chided himself for even giving credence to the idea of following an ill-defined feeling instead of relying on solid observation, investigation, and deduction.
A block past Fannen, the current curved into an alley. The feeling, the shift in direction, was too powerful to ignore or dismiss. Minox was convinced that, if nothing else, the sensation was real and worth following. The only question remaining was if it would lead to anything of significance for his case.
He took two steps down the alley, letting the sensation guide him. The alley was nearly pitch dark, and Minox had no reason to believe it uninhabited. There was also no reason to be foolhardy, especially given his condition. He went back out to the street and reached for his whistle.
Not in his pocket. He had lost it in the scuffle earlier.
He briefly considered the possibility that, since he had lost it a block from here, he might find it in the street nearby. He then dismissed it as absurd to count on such serendipity.
A glance around the vicinity showed no patrolmen in sight.
He didn’t want to go back to the stationhouse, or even search nearby for a patrolman. The idea that he might lose the current crossed his mind, and he could not shake the belief, irrational though it was, that this current was leading him in the direction of Jaelia Tomar.
If he could find no backup to pursue this possibility, he’d at least need light. He dismissed the idea of making some light magically. He had never had any success in the past with that, and he felt that any attempt to use magic right now could be catastrophic to his health.
A lantern hung over the door of a pub right next to the alley. Minox couldn’t bring himself to justify theft, even in the name of pursuing justice. He called out to a young man exiting the pub.
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 14
