A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Alana knocked on the cell door. “Graces? It’s Sister Alana. The inspector would like a word.”

  A man’s voice came from the other side. “We don’t know anything, Sister. We would prefer to stay in seclusion until the matter is concluded.”

  “I understand, your grace,” Sister Alana said. “The inspectors would just like to search the church and grounds, for evidence.”

  “Of course,” the priest said from behind the door. “Our chambers need not be searched, however. Some measure of sanctity must be observed.”

  Satrine gave a nod. The priests being as cooperative as they were being was almost a miracle, there was no need to push the matter.

  “As you say, your grace,” Alana answered.

  The priest coughed. “Please let us know as soon as things are concluded, Sister. We will want to begin preparation of the evening meal as soon as possible.”

  Sister Alana gave a nervous glance to Satrine. “Absolutely, sir. I will.” She walked away from the door, grabbing Satrine by the elbow. As soon as they reached the end of the hallway, her voice dropped to a whisper. “The priests are never involved in cooking.”

  Satrine drew her crossbow—Welling’s crossbow, truly—and took a quiet step back toward the cell door. “Get the others. Quiet.”

  Sister Alana nodded and went off down the hall.

  Satrine slinked down the hall back to the door, checking the bolt of the crossbow as she approached. She braced herself against the wall and took aim at the door.

  Welling was at her side, quiet as a cat. “We think he’s in there?” His voice was barely a breeze.

  Satrine only nodded.

  Welling had his crossbow out. “I’ll take the door.” He counted to three with his fingers, and then snapped.

  The door flew off the hinges.

  Satrine bounded in, ready to shoot when opportunity presented.

  Two priests were bound up in one corner of the room, blindfolded and gagged. Welling stepped in, moving over to the priests.

  Satrine spun on her heel to face the next room in the cells. One priest stood in the doorframe, pure terror on his face, steel blade pressed against his throat. From the side of the door, Satrine only saw the gloved hand holding the knife.

  She briefly considered taking the shot at the killer’s hand, but she knew she couldn’t do it.

  “There’s no way out,” she said.

  Satrine heard the barest hoarse whisper from behind the frame.

  “He wants you both to lower your weapons,” the priest said.

  “That won’t happen,” Satrine said.

  The blade slid slowly along the priest’s neck, leaving an impression but not breaking the skin. “Please,” the priest said.

  Welling put his crossbow back in its holster.

  Satrine glanced at him, but he shook his head. She hated it, but she followed his lead.

  “Weapons are away,” she said.

  More whispering. “Remove your belts as well.”

  Satrine unbuckled and let it drop to the ground, as did Welling.

  “Anything else?”

  There was an extended amount of whispering. Satrine strained, but couldn’t make out any words. The priest looked worried. “Which of you is Inspector Welling?”

  “I am,” Welling said.

  “You are to go to the hallway,” the priest said, his voice cracking. A tear welled at the corner of his eye. “Please step out now.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “He says if you do not cooperate, he will kill me, and you, and Inspector Rainey.”

  “I doubt that,” Satrine said.

  “Rainey,” Welling hissed. “We cannot risk the priest.” He stepped out into the hallway.

  “There,” Satrine said. She hated that they were capitulating, but she would be damned if she was going to let this murderer get past her. “Now you’ve got just me here.” She held her hands up, showing herself unarmed, but ready to grab the killer the moment he moved.

  The blade flashed, and blood spurted from the priest’s neck. In an instant, the killer shoved the bleeding priest at Satrine and darted past to the hallway. Satrine reacted, grabbing for the priest, instinct drawing her to help him first. She caught the victim, she had him. Welling wouldn’t let the killer get past him.

  The killer—in the same dark, hooded outfit from before, carrying a bloody sack—threw something at Welling, something soft. Welling batted it out of the way, a cloud of chalky dust erupting from it when he made contact. Immediately, his arm started trembling. He grasped at the killer, fingers only grazing the man.

  Satrine laid the bleeding priest on the floor. She knew she should press her hand against the wound, focus on saving that life. Every click of the clock was precious, but she couldn’t let the murderer get the best of her. Not again. She grabbed her crossbow off the floor and went out the door.

  Welling’s tremors filled his whole body, his skin clammy. Despite that, he stumbled toward the killer. Satrine grabbed her partner, held him up with one arm while taking aim. Welling became dead weight, and as he fell, his body burst forth with a wave of energy. Satrine dropped him and was thrown against the wall.

  All the candles in the hallway blew out, leaving them in the dark.

  Satrine pulled herself up, slightly dazed, unsure if she had lost any time. She couldn’t see a blazing thing. She could feel Welling’s body on the ground next to her, still but breathing. She had to hope that he would be all right, as well as the priest in the next room, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She charged down the dark corridor, toward sound and light.

  Her knee screamed at her as she ran. She must have banged it when she fell down. She couldn’t think about it right now, she had to keep going.

  The only one still standing in the chapel was Sister Alana, and she had blood trickling out her mouth. The two patrolmen were laid out on the ground.

  “Got a piece of him,” Sister Alana said.

  “Where?” Satrine couldn’t say anything else.

  “He went into the cellars,” Alana said.

  “They need help in the priest quarters!” Satrine shouted, running out the other way, through the kitchen to the cellar.

  Only a single oil lamp hung above the stair landing. No sign of anyone, but a team of horses could hide in the shadows. Satrine checked her crossbow. Still cocked and loaded. She pointed it out into the darkness.

  No sound. Not a scuff of a shoe or a hot breath.

  She kept the weapon trained at the shadows, ready to shoot at any sign of motion. She reached up to the lamp, keeping her gaze focused at the dark room.

  Her fingers grazed the bottom of the lamp. Not enough to get a grip. She pushed herself up on her toes. Eyes still forward, crossbow aimed, not looking away.

  She grabbed hold of the lamp, hotter on her fingers than she expected, tried to get it off the hook. It wouldn’t come loose. She let go before her fingers burned.

  “Blazes,” she muttered.

  There was—a chuckle? A breath? Nothing? She wasn’t even sure. She took a step into the dark.

  “Rainey!”

  Satrine’s heart hammered, and she spun toward the voice at the top of the stairs, almost shooting on instinct. It was Welling, pale and red-eyed, face dripping sweat. He held himself up in the doorframe and looked as if he didn’t have the strength to go down the steps.

  “He came down here,” Satrine said.

  “Likely how he got in,” Welling said. “He got pinned in the priests’ quarters when Sister Alana came down to the chapel. This is where he wanted to go.”

  “Do we have any patrolmen on their feet?”

  “Not sure,” Welling said. “Barely on mine.” Despite that, he took a tentative step down the stairs.

  “Need you in one piece, Inspector. Stay here.�
� She went back to the lamp, now feeling secure enough to use both hands and full attention to get it down. “I’ll go.”

  “This killer is too dangerous, Rainey,” Welling said.

  Satrine didn’t want to hear that. “I can handle it.”

  “He just made fools of the two of us together. You shouldn’t venture after him alone.”

  Satrine held the lamp high and went farther into the cellar. At a far end, past several barrels, there was a hole knocked through the wall, brick and mortar scattered on the floor.

  “There we have it,” Satrine said. She looked inside, and seeing no sign of anyone, entered.

  “Satrine!”

  That pulled her back out. “You can’t expect me to let him go.”

  “I don’t want you to take that risk,” Welling said. She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but he was looking at his feet, not at her. “The killer is clearly prepared for us, and we are not for him.” He started coughing.

  Satrine swore and went back to the steps. “What happened to you back there?”

  “I don’t know,” Welling said. “It was like . . . magic just fell into me and then flew out.”

  “You look awful.”

  “Appearances do not deceive, Inspector. I’m afraid we should have the body collected and return to the station, given the circumstances.”

  Satrine glanced back at the hole. “Let’s get the blazes out of here, then.”

  Chapter 20

  MINOX HAD TO STOP for breath every few steps. He had never felt like this, never experienced loss of control on this level before. Inspector Rainey came up from the church cellar and supported him on her shoulder. He had every urge to push her away, but he could hardly argue that he could walk on his own.

  “Was it poison of some sort?” she asked.

  “I can only presume,” he told her, though he had a lingering suspicion that wasn’t accurate. The killer had targeted that dust at him, after having isolated him in the hallway. Logically, it stood to reason that it had been a weapon to be used on him specifically.

  The dust had affected him on a magical level as well. Given that the victims were all mages, and the killer had neutralized their magic, it stood to reason he had an understanding of how to manipulate mages. The dust surely served that very purpose.

  Possibly its only purpose.

  He glanced at his hand. The chalky powder still coated his fingers, which felt numb and swollen. He should clean the powder off if he had any hope of feeling normal again. But he also needed to know the exact nature of it.

  He brushed the powdered hand on Inspector Rainey’s cheek.

  “The blazes you doing?” she snapped, letting go of him. He fell to the floor.

  “Testing a theory,” Minox said, pulling himself back up. There was a well basin in the corner of the kitchen, and he stumbled over to it. “How do you feel?”

  “Annoyed.”

  “Not weak? No shaking or shortness of breath?”

  “No.” Rainey came over. “What does that mean?”

  “Confirms that the powder was a poison, at least for mages.” He opened the spigot and let the dust rinse away. “We should collect the pouch, but I am confident that it will be dangerous only to me.”

  Rainey brushed the dust off her face, glowering at him. “I’m so glad I could help you.”

  Minox got as much of the dust as he could off his hand. The effect was noticeably rapid; while he still felt drained, he no longer felt incapable of walking without assistance. “That does not change the fact that we are significantly stymied. The frustrations of this case are myriad.”

  Rainey shook her head. “Twice we had him, and he got away.”

  “Thrice,” Minox said. “You forgot about last night at the carriage transfer.”

  “He has us beat,” Satrine said.

  “Indeed, he is clearly well prepared for not only his murderous plans, but our involvement. Fortunately, our failures have not been in the realm of inspectors. At least, yours have not.”

  “He got past me. Twice. Once he stole my crossbow.”

  “True,” Minox said. “But you, at least, found him twice. Forced him to get past you. I’ve yet to be able to discern anything regarding our killer’s identity, motivation, or future intentions.”

  Rainey shook her head and walked out of the church kitchen. Minox had the distinct impression that something he had said or done had upset her.

  “You two look like every saint had dragged you through the coals,” Captain Cinellan said as Minox and Rainey returned to the inspectors’ floor. Minox wasn’t much of one for making theological comparisons, but the idiom was apt. On top of the beating they both had taken, an afternoon cloudburst hit as they returned to the stationhouse. “Blazes happened to you both?”

  “The killer was still at the church,” Rainey said. “But he got past us and escaped.”

  Cinellan raised his eyebrow. This was not an expression that Minox had ever been able to fully read on the captain. “How?”

  Minox stepped forward. “The killer was prepared for us, specifically me. He used some form of powder that mages are susceptible to. This resulted in a loss of control on my part, giving him a window to escape.”

  Inspector Rainey opened her mouth, looking for a moment like she intended to amend Minox’s statement. Then she turned away.

  Cinellan nodded. “He’s got a plan, then.”

  “One which I fear he is not finished with.”

  “So where do we stand?”

  “As far as the murders of the three mages are concerned, we still are on the hunt for the killer, as well as trying to determine his identity.”

  “You don’t have that sussed out yet, Welling?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I fear the situation is outside of the realm of obvious suspects. The killer is of grave concern to me, but I believe we must focus on a secondary matter.”

  “Three mages dead, two Circles involved, and the second dead on the front step of one of them.” Cinellan groaned. “Another Circle Feud?”

  “I do not believe that the murders were about a fight between the Circles,” Minox said. “However, they may cause one to erupt. In fact, the most logical analysis of the evidence is that the killer wished to instigate such a feud.”

  “You don’t think so?” Rainey asked.

  “I believe the killer has a purpose that is far more specific than that. I just cannot discern what that purpose is.”

  “All right,” Cinellan said. “This isn’t really my element here, Welling. What do we do about the Circles?”

  Minox paused. This was hardly his element either. He had failed more than once now in his deductions about magic or mages.

  Inspector Rainey focused back onto the conversation. “Protective patrols around both chapterhouses, full details all night long.”

  “They aren’t going to like that,” Cinellan said.

  “The Circles, or the night shift?”

  Cinellan laughed. “Either one, I’d gather.” His expression quickly sobered. “Look, this whole business is getting ugly, and we need to get it locked down.”

  Minox understood. “I know Hilsom is ready to bite through leather if we don’t arrest someone.”

  “I’ll keep Hilsom in check,” Cinellan said. “But you two have been knocked by enough stray carts for one day, you hear? Go home. Get some sleep. Saints, Minox, you look like you can barely stand.”

  That was too close to the truth for Minox’s liking.

  “As you wish, Captain,” Minox said. Cinellan went back into his office.

  Inspector Rainey turned around and went straight to the stairs. Clearly she needed no further prodding. Minox followed after her. “Rainey?”

  She stopped and stared at him, but said nothing.

  Minox stammered a moment, unnerved by he
r intense eye contact. “Despite our poor results for the day, I do not believe I could have achieved better with any other partner.”

  Rainey shrugged, clearly not heartened by his attempt at praise. “We certainly couldn’t have achieved much worse.” She continued down the stairs.

  Minox stood still for several minutes at the top of the stairs. The elements of the case were not adding up. There was a pattern, surely, that made sense to the killer. Minox simply was unable to see it. His thoughts were cloudy and thick.

  The captain was right, and Minox decided there was no value in gainsaying his orders. He went back to his desk for his coat, where both Nyla and Corrie were waiting for him.

  “Your skirt partner took some blasted hits today,” Corrie said.

  “We both did,” Minox said, noting the slight blush on Nyla’s cheeks. “Inspector Rainey gave as good as she was given, however.”

  “And you, you rutting little cheat.” Corrie pressed a finger into his chest. “You were supposed to stay home.”

  “Slipped away and spent the whole night here,” Nyla said, clucking her tongue at him.

  “There was a pressing matter of a woman in danger. I was hoping to prevent another murder.”

  “And did you?” Corrie asked.

  Minox sat down, head slumped. He had failed utterly.

  Nyla put a hand on his shoulder. “Minox, you can’t blame yourself—”

  “You blazing well know he will, Ny,” Corrie said. “Look, Mine. You’re not going to do anyone any good running your head into the rutting ground. Go the blazes home and rest.”

  “I have every intention to,” Minox said.

  Nyla scooped up the pile of newssheets he had piled up on the desk. “Come on. We’ll take the tickwagon together.”

  “Make sure he doesn’t come back here, Ny.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nyla said, giving Corrie a mock salute.

  Minox got back to his feet. “Two things, Corrie.”

  “You’re asking me to favor you now?”

  “They’re business,” Minox said. “The captain is going to assign some night shift to patrol duty around two Mage Circle houses. Volunteer for that.”