A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “You there,” he said. “Tell the pub owner that I would buy his lantern hanging there.”

  The young man raised an eyebrow. “You been taking the ’fitte, friend?”

  “I’m well in my right mind, sir, though it is good of you to express such concern, given my unusual request. But I’m in need of light, and I am in some haste.”

  The man opened the door. “Hey, Garren. There’s a stick who wants to buy your lamp.”

  A beefy, sweaty man came out of the pub, wiping his hands on his apron. “What’s the word, stick?”

  Minox took a few coins from his pocket. “Your lamp there, good sir. A crown and twelve is more than fair.”

  The pub owner screwed his face. “I ain’t seen you before, stick.”

  Minox held open his coat. “Inspector, sir. I don’t do walking patrol.”

  The man nodded. “Right, I get it. I just . . . it’s usually not the sticks offering money to me, if you get my meaning. Little confused.”

  Minox knew, from his own walking days, many patrol took bribes, or worse, shook citizens for “donations.” He found such acts loathsome. “I assure you, I simply have urgent need of a lamp and I would find it distasteful to take it from you without fair recompense.”

  “All right,” the man said, taking the lamp down. “Crown and twelve.” He gave it to Minox and took the money. He gave Minox an appraising look. “Though, if you don’t mind, Inspector, come back when you have the chance. I wouldn’t mind talking to you about your fellows who have a different opinion of ‘fair recompense.’”

  “Absolutely. Though it may take me a day or two.” Minox paused. “Quickly, though. These fellows. Night or day? Foot or horse?”

  “It varies. But mostly night. And horsepatrol.”

  “I’ll look into it.” He handed the man a calling card. “If you don’t hear from me in reasonable time, ask for me at the stationhouse.”

  “I understand,” said the man, and he went back in the pub. Minox held up the lamp, drew out his handstick, and went into the alley.

  Satrine sipped at the brandy in the dull lamplight. Caribet had gone to bed. Rian continued to study, pointedly ignoring her mother. She seemed to turn each page in annoyance, as if Satrine’s mere presence in her own sitting room was disturbing her.

  She was welcome to feel that way. Satrine wasn’t in any hurry to go into the bedroom.

  She sipped again. Glass was empty. She tilted it back as far as she could, trying to drain those few stubborn drops at the bottom.

  That was it. No more left.

  Was there any wine in the pantry? There might be some. Or some cider.

  No, she finished the cider last night.

  “Blazes.”

  “What, Mother?”

  Blazes, Rian was still in here.

  “Nothing,” Satrine said. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly ten bells, I figure,” Rian said. “Don’t you have to work in the morning?”

  “Don’t you have school?”

  Rian came over to the couch and picked up the brandy glass. She gave it a light sniff and took it into the kitchen. “You barely slept last night. If you’re going to work this job, you need to rest.”

  “I know, I know,” Satrine said, getting to her feet.

  “I can do my part, you know.”

  “Rian, I told you—”

  “When you were my age—”

  “My mother had already run off. That isn’t something you have to worry about, is it?”

  “But—”

  “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  Truth was, when she was Rian’s age, she was hidden in a secret room on a slow ship to Waisholm, getting etiquette, accent, and manners crammed into her skull. Learning to become a Waish quia, turning a street rat into a noblewoman.

  Had she really been the same age as Rian when that happened? It seemed impossible. Satrine couldn’t even contemplate Rian being able to handle anything like that. Being able to handle any of the things she had had to do.

  But Rian hadn’t had to grow up on the streets of Inemar. Things were harder then. Children were harder then. Her mother had vanished, probably presuming that Satrine could take care of herself.

  Rian would never have to worry about things like that.

  “Focus on your studies,” Satrine said, after she realized she had been in silent reverie for several seconds.

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Fine.” Satrine got off the couch and went to the bedroom door. “Go to bed soon, all right?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Rian sounded hostile, Satrine thought. Then she mused that when she was the same age, she would have broken the teeth of anyone who told her the same thing. In comparison, Rian was a diplomat.

  Satrine put her hand on the knob. Nothing left to drink to steel herself with. Time to face it.

  She opened the door.

  There were no signs of life in the alley, at least none that stepped out when an armed constable came down. If anyone other than Missus Tomar and her abductor were hiding back here, Minox was not concerned with them unless they interrupted him.

  The current led him all the way to the end of the alley. The abductor had come this way with Missus Tomar. The signs were so obvious that Minox was overwhelmed with excitement. Hoof prints in the dirt. Boot prints as well, leading to the sewer grate leftover from the abandoned backhouses. The grate itself sat slightly askew. Minox would have preferred to have an obvious explanation as to where the horse went, or something tangible like Missus Tomar’s shackles, but there was more than enough here to justify continuing along the path.

  Minox pulled off the grate, as the current beckoned him to descend. There was a rope hanging from the edge of the grate. That increased the likelihood that the abductor and the killer were the same person, and the killer used underground passages to move about the city.

  The main question left unresolved was whether Jaelia Tomar was the killer’s next victim or his accomplice. Minox’s inclination was it was the former, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility of the latter. It was not impossible that this entire business was an extraordinarily elaborate marital dispute.

  Minox holstered his handstick, hung the lantern in the crook of his arm, and lowered himself into the sewer. Here the odor was atrocious, but not unbearable. He reached the stone floor with a half inch of fetid water flowing along. That wasn’t the current he was following, though.

  Walking through the sewer tunnel was fascinating, as it was far more elaborate than Minox had expected it to be. The construction was solid, and as Minox followed along the magic current’s path, he saw several side passages, large chambers, and even doors. Minox made a mental note to give the area under the city further research. He wondered if there were maps anywhere, or if its cartography was long lost.

  Eventually, after tracing through what must have been several blocks, the path led to another rope leading back up to street level. As Minox climbed up, he sensed something familiar about the area, which was confirmed when he emerged: he was in the same alley that Hessen Tomar was killed in that morning. Minox drew out his handstick again, prepared to find the worst at the mouth of the alley.

  There was nothing. No one. That was the good news.

  The bad news was the current had vanished. Minox walked back down, trying to find it again. It still existed at the sewer grate, but as he went out toward the street, it dissipated. He took each step meticulously, trying to sense where he lost it, where it fell apart. It was no use. He couldn’t figure it out.

  “Blast it!” he shouted to no one in particular. “Blast it to blazes!”

  The back door of the butcher shop opened. “Who’s there? I’m armed.”

  “Constabulary,” Minox responded. “No need to be alarmed.”

  The door opened further, a
nd the elder Brondar stepped out. “You again, stick? Why are you swearing in our alley?”

  “I was . . . I was following a lead on something, and . . . it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “You aren’t here to hassle me again?”

  “No, sir,” Minox said. An idea crossed his mind. “But, if possible, I would like to speak to your youngest son.”

  “Youngest living son,” the old man said. “Why you need to talk to him, eh?”

  “Is there a problem?” Minox asked. “Is he not here?”

  “I asked you a question, stick. Why you need to talk to him?”

  “You are aware there was a murder right over there just this morning, sir? You should know I have more than enough cause to have the City Protector’s Office issue a Writ of Justice to give us warrant to enter and search this home, as well as detain you and your whole family.”

  “So why don’t you do that?”

  “Simply put, Mister Brondar, that would be a lot of work and hassle—which I’m willing to do, mind you—when an easier solution would be to let me come in and have a few words with Joshea. That way no one’s life gets disrupted.”

  “No one gets disrupted.” Old Mister Brondar chuckled. “That is a good joke, stick. Yes, come in. But you will eat some meat, yes?”

  This surprised Minox, but after what he went through, eating some meat, any kind of food at all, would be quite agreeable. “Yes, of course.”

  Brondar stepped back, allowing Minox to enter. He led Minox up through the back stairway. The apartment upstairs was cramped, with low ceilings and a larger table in the center of the room than there was adequate space for. The three Brondar sons sat around the table, in shirtsleeves and suspenders. The table was overcrowded with plates of meats, as well as bread, bottles of wine, and various other foods.

  “Hey!” the eldest son—Jonner, if Minox remembered correctly—yelled when Minox walked in. “The stick came back!”

  Joshea Brondar looked at Minox with surprise, suspicion. His eyes darted to his brothers, his father, and back to Minox. Minox had to admit, Joshea looked like a guilty man hiding a secret—but the secret he carried wasn’t a crime. Not unless he had another one. The fact that the trail died right outside the butcher shop’s back door was something Minox couldn’t ignore.

  “The stick wants to talk to Joshea!” the father announced, squeezing into the room and taking a chair at the table. “Sit, stick, and talk!”

  “You’re eating supper at ten bells?” Minox asked. “I didn’t realize.”

  “It’s when we eat, stick,” Jonner said. “This meat needs a long time to cook properly.”

  “Very long, or very quick,” Old Mister Brondar said. “Never in between. Sit!”

  Minox took the chair closest to the door. The middle Brondar son—Gunther—reached out for a piece of meat, but his father’s hand swatted it away. “New man at the table!”

  “But, Pop!”

  “We do it right, boy.” He lit a taper off one of the candles on the table, and then snuffed all of the candles with his fingers.

  “Blessings of each saint rain down on this table,” he said, lighting one candle. “Bring warmth and joy and prosperity to all who sit and enjoy our bounty.”

  “May we be blessed,” all three Brondar sons said in unison.

  The father lit the second candle. “Blessings of Saint Jaspar, bless these men and this meat. May we eat knowing you watch over us, and our safety is in your hands.”

  “May we be blessed.” The elder Brondar boys said it rotely, eyes hot on the food. Joshea’s eyes were closed, reverent.

  The father lit the third candle. “Blessings of Saint Ilmer, whose day just passed. We honor and respect you with this bountiful meal.”

  “May we be blessed.”

  The father sat down. “Now we can eat.”

  The Brondars—save for Joshea—smiled while grabbing chops or ribs and savagely biting into them. Joshea refilled his wineglass and poured another for Minox. “So what is it, Inspector?”

  Minox studied Joshea’s face, arms, and hands. No sign that he had been in a fight of any sort this evening. Boots clean, no appearance of having trudged through the sewers. Finally, Minox realized upon this inspection that Joshea Brondar did not have the right body type to have been the assailant at the lockwagon—he was a good six inches taller, and broader in the shoulder.

  Plus there was an energy coming off of Joshea, but it had none of the flavor of the current that had led Minox here.

  Minox picked up the cup of wine and sipped. “An incident occurred earlier tonight, connected to the murder from this morning.”

  “An incident!” the father said. “You mean someone beat you, hmm?” He pointed to Minox’s face. “You’ve been hit pretty hard there, stick. Eat!”

  The only thing holding Minox back had been a sense of Constabulary etiquette that needed to be maintained. “As with the murder, it had been suggested that Joshea had some connection. I came to ascertain that possibility.”

  “And?” Joshea asked.

  “Have you all been here together all evening?”

  “Yes,” Joshea said.

  “Anyone else here?”

  “Just the four of us,” Jonner said.

  Minox picked up a roast rib of beef. “Then I believe that it is highly improbable Joshea was involved.” He took a bite of the meat. It was succulent, perfectly prepared, with a sweet spiciness he was unprepared for.

  “Good, yes?” the father said, watching Minox’s face. “This stick is a good man, I think. I like you, Inspector. Eat more!”

  Minox took another bite. The style of seasoning was from eastern Druthal. All the pieces fit: the late hour for supper, the specific prayer to Saint Jaspar, the hint of an accent from the old man. Minox asked the question to confirm, “Are you originally from Monim?”

  “Born there, yes,” the old man said. “After my tour, I stayed here in Maradaine. We go back from time to time. The boys visit their cousins, who then drive good Monic beef back to Maradaine. Best beef you can buy, no one else brings it all the way out here.”

  “It’s very good,” Minox said, helping himself to more.

  “You have a big appetite, Inspector,” Gunther said.

  “Just like Joshea,” Jonner said. “He eats and eats and is still a runt!” Jonner grabbed Joshea by the arm and twisted it behind him. Minox noted that Joshea would be a runt only in the context of his two brothers, who were ox-like men.

  “Saints, Jonner!” Joshea shouted. “Grow up, would you?”

  The large hand of the father swung out and cuffed Joshea on the back of the head. “Don’t blaspheme.”

  “You all served in the army, eh?” Minox asked, doing his best to give an impression of convivial joviality. He was surprised, though, at how the three Brondar sons, especially the elder two, acted more like boys just out of school instead of men of nearly thirty years. They also acted like his cousins. In a way, Joshea reminded him specifically of his cousin Davis.

  “Blazes, yes,” Jonner said. He put Joshea in a headlock, though the younger Brondar didn’t really resist. In the process Jonner showed his muscular arm to Joshea, including his army tattoo. “Five years.”

  “You five as well?” Minox asked Gunther.

  “Absolutely.” Gunther showed his tattoo with the five hash marks. “Jonner and I did a Kellirac border skirmish together four years back.”

  Joshea had served only three years. Minox made a note of that aberration, but didn’t vocalize it. He suspected that it might, at least, be a point of soreness between Joshea and his brothers, or possibly be tied to a larger issue. Either way, mentioning it was more than likely to evoke an emotional reaction in Joshea Brondar, and Minox recognized it would not serve his purpose.

  Minox ate more of the meat, and as he was chewing
it occurred to him that he didn’t know exactly what his purpose here was. He had already ascertained the key point that he had come to investigate; neither Joshea, nor any of the Brondars were directly involved in the attack on the lockwagon and the abduction of Jaelia Tomar.

  Minox helped himself to another serving, while the two elder Brondar brothers continued to torment and berate their younger sibling, as if they were all schoolchildren. Despite the ludicrousness of continuing to sit and join in their dinner, Minox felt compelled to stay. This is patently irresponsible, he thought. You need to devote your full attention to finding—rescuing—Jaelia Tomar.

  And it would be a rescue, if he could find her in time. The likelihood of Jaelia Tomar’s abductor being her husband’s killer was too high to give other possibilities serious weight. It was also likely that, despite being a notable mage, she would be unable to protect herself. Minox had made a direct magical attack on the assailant that had proved ineffective. Just as Jaelia Tomar had on Satrine this afternoon, when she held the spike used in the murder of Hessen Tomar.

  “I’m very sorry,” Minox said, getting to his feet. “But I’ve just had a sudden realization about a case. I really must go.”

  “What?” Old Mister Brondar asked. “No, sir. You need to eat. You’re too skinny, you know, like Joshea.”

  “Believe me, Mister Brondar, I would find it highly pleasant to remain. I do not have the luxury.” He pushed himself through the tight space of the room to the door. Joshea was already there.

  “I’ll see him down and latch up, Pop.”

  “Good, good,” his father said. “Hurry back.”

  Minox reached the door to the street before Joshea had been able to get into the stairwell.

  “Hold up, Inspector!” He tore down the stairs, bounding three steps at a time. Joshea grabbed the door as Minox was opening it, pulling it shut. “What do you think you are doing?” he hissed out.

  “I was investigating something that led me here.”