Satrine left the office, feeling every eye on the floor boring into her. Kellman and Mirrell had already returned to the floor, and had placed themselves along her path to the stairs.
“Didn’t take long,” Kellman said.
“Were you expecting it to?” Satrine asked, though in the back of her mind she was cursing herself for even engaging with them.
Mirrell gave her a look something between a grin and a sneer. “I thought ‘Tricky’ would at least last a week.”
“You weren’t the only one.” She brushed past the two of them and went for the stairs.
As she passed, Kellman muttered, “Looks like the Jinx strikes again.”
Satrine turned on him, shoving the huge man in the chest. “You want to knock me, Kellman, knock me. But leave Inspector Welling out of it. He’s the best thing this house has going for it.”
Mirrell pushed her shoulder. “You want us to knock you, Rainey? Knock you to the floor?”
“Take your best, Mirrell!”
“Stop it!” Miss Pyle marched up to them. “You two need to let Missus Rainey get off the floor.”
Both the inspectors stepped away, giving a final glare at Satrine before going back to their desks.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Satrine said.
“I most certainly did,” Miss Pyle said. “This floor is for the inspectors and support staff, or civilians here on official business. You, Missus Rainey, are not any of those things.”
There was venom in her voice. Satrine went toward the stairs, ready to leave the building completely. She was halfway down when she heard Miss Pyle hiss at her from the top.
“Missus Rainey, there will be a woman—my cousin Corrie, perhaps—who earns that vest that you tricked your way into wearing. And her life is going to be that much harder because of what you did.”
Satrine had no response to that, and Miss Pyle didn’t stay around to hear it.
From across the street Minox watched Inspector Rainey—correction, Missus Rainey, as evidenced by her lack of uniform—leave the stationhouse. If she had looked, she would have seen him sitting at the counter of Missus Wolman’s cookstand. She had left with her head hanging low, not observing anything of the world around her.
Minox’s potato-and-meat-filled roll sat in front of him, cooled and congealed. He didn’t have the appetite for it.
That was a strange development.
Minox contemplated that, focusing his attention on his stomach. He did not have an appetite.
He briefly considered the idea that this was an emotional reaction to Missus Rainey’s dismissal. She possessed an exceptional mind, and was an incredible asset for the MC, and he could not deny that loss angered him. This theory did not hold, as a variety of emotions had never stayed his hunger in the past.
In addition, he had barely eaten all day. He hadn’t thought about it, though it was clear that something more was happening to him.
It had to be Joshea’s Poasian spice.
There was also the moment in the warehouse, when he had failed to create a magical light. He had attributed that to being unable to concentrate in the moment, but given the other evidence, that must not be the case.
Minox held his fingers out in front of his face, and tried to make flame, one of the few things he could do reliably. A pitiful fizzle of sparks spurted from his hand.
Joshea’s theory held. The Poasian spice had given him mastery over his magic, removed it from his concern.
A thought jolted across his mind. He had been focusing too much on the magic with these murders. The fact that the victims were mages was important, certainly, but the other specific elements might be just as important. More important, even. He needed to move past the loss of Missus Rainey and consider every possibility.
He went back into the stationhouse, and bounded up the stairs to the inspectors’ floor. “Nyla,” he announced as soon as he saw his cousin. “I will be in need of your deft and able assistance.”
She stood up straight, her sour expression quickly melting away. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“Can you acquire a map of the neighborhood?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Bring it to my desk, with all possible haste.” He went back to his slateboards. It was time to work out each murder, every step, until the illuminating details became clear.
Chapter 27
SATRINE DIDN’T WALK BACK HOME. She didn’t even cross the river. She just shuffled through Inemar, every familiar sight burning a hole in her throat.
She didn’t have a plan. She needed to figure out how to survive. She had to work, that was clear, but her options were poor. Up on the north side, she might be able to get a clerk position of some sort, or secretary. At best something like that would pay ten crowns a week. Seven or eight was more likely.
She’d have to pull Rian from school, put her to work. Apprenticeship of some sort. That might bring enough in to pay for Caribet’s tuition. At least one of her daughters might get to university. Move out of the apartment and take a low-rent flop in Inemar, or saints help her, somewhere farther west. Maybe Rian having the Tullen boy’s attention wasn’t the worst thing.
The real truth was most of her problems could be solved by smothering her husband.
She shook that out of her head. She’d choose meeting sailors on the docks before that.
Satrine looked up. Her feet had led her over to Saint Limarre’s. That was surprising. Why had she wandered this way?
Three cloistresses swept the front steps, including Sister Alana. She stopped her work and approached Satrine. “You here as a repentant sinner, or as a stick?”
“I don’t know about repentant.”
Alana smiled. “We all have a bit of sinner in us. So why are you here?”
“Not sure.” She sat down on the steps. “I don’t know what the blazes I’m doing.”
One of the other cloistresses gasped. Alana shooed them off and sat down next to her.
“I notice you don’t have the vest on. Have you already quit?”
“Failed. Caught for the fraud that I am.”
“Hardly. I know all about frauds. You definitely are not one.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me,” Alana said. She closed her eyes for a moment. “May our voices be heard only by God and the saints, for our words are for no one else.”
Satrine bit her lip to keep herself from scoffing. “I wasn’t looking for absolution.”
“You didn’t realize you were,” Alana said. “But the saints lead us where we need to be.”
This time Satrine did scoff. “I seriously doubt this is where I need to be.”
Alana sat quietly for a moment. “How did you first leave the corner?”
“I can’t talk about that,” Satrine said.
“I’m bound to silence by the rite,” Alana said. “And I doubt you want to risk damnation by ignoring me.”
Satrine couldn’t argue with that. At least, she didn’t have the urge to. Alana was right about one thing, she needed to unburden her soul. “I was . . . recruited by Druth Intelligence.”
“Interesting. Why did they choose you?”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems the obvious question. Even presuming Intelligence needed a tough street girl for some reason, why were you the one they chose?”
Satrine pulled at a lock of her red hair. “A Waish quia—princess—died suddenly while studying in Maradaine. And I was her perfect twin.”
Alana’s eyes went wide. For a moment, Satrine saw the little girl she had known years ago. “They replaced her with you?”
“As the quia, I gathered information, charmed lords, and slit a few throats when asked to.”
“Why?”
Satrine hadn’t
thought much about those particular days for a while. “I’m told that I kept the right clan on the Waish throne.”
“‘Right’ according to whom?”
“According to Druth Intelligence. We were at war at the time, remember?”
“I remember,” Alana said. “It’s why I had no father or brothers.”
Satrine mused. Her father had always been a mystery that her mother had never shed much light on. Satrine imagined he might have been a Waish trader, or even a nobleman. After all, how else could a Maradaine street girl look just like a Waish princess? In her years in Waisholm, she often idly wondered whenever she talked to a man of a certain age if he had been the one.
“Same,” she lied. Dead soldier had always been her mother’s story, until she found a new living one to run off with. “And I did my part, too. By tricking our closest allies. Not exactly the authority of God and the saints, hmm?”
“You were Tricky Trini.”
“Wasn’t much worse than life down here, really. Did what had to be done. Instead of getting by and keeping my stomach, I flirted and listened and killed. As a Waish noblewoman.”
“How did an Inemar street girl pull that off?”
Satrine put on her highborn Waish accent. “After intensive training.”
Alana cackled in delight. “That’s incredible.”
Satrine switched to a regal Druth accent. “It really is quite amazing. With the right tone and manners you can fool just about anyone into believing that you are a person of substance.”
“Is that what they taught you?”
A thought crossed Satrine’s mind, and her heart sunk. “It would be so easy, you know,” she said, returning to her current normal accent. “I could just walk away, invent some documents, become a baroness or something. Live off the good graces of a fellow noble.”
“It just occurred to you.” Alana stated it as a matter of fact.
“I could only do it if I were alone. Abandon Loren and the girls. I would be—I’m probably damned just for thinking it.”
Alana shrugged. “I never took stock in sins of thought, myself. Saints know, it is our actions that define us.”
“My actions are pretty damning. Falsified documents, pretended to be a stick.”
“From what I’ve heard, you didn’t pretend that. You did the job well.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard some dirty sticks were running a blood pit, children fighting dogs.”
“Sick bastards,” Satrine said. Her stomach twisted again just thinking of it. She knew people loved to see fights, but making children do it? That was grotesque.
“And that a skirt stick called Trick chased down the boss of it and dragged him off the street.” Sister Alana giggled. “That’s what they’re saying. And that, in my opinion, is what a real constable does.”
“Well, you and God and the saints. The commissioner has a different opinion.” Satrine got to her feet. “So, Sister, you’ve heard my plea. Do I get absolution, or am I damned?”
Sister Alana stood up, brushing off her cloak. “A long time ago, a thirteen-year-old girl pulled four boys off of me and chased them away with a piece of glass. As far as this earthly agent is concerned, that girl will always have absolution.” She kissed Satrine on both cheeks.
“I appreciate the blessing,” Satrine said.
“Good.” Alana looked back at the other two cloistresses, who had finished the sweeping and looked put out. “I should return to my more mundane devotions. And you to yours.”
“Thank you,” Satrine said. “I still have to figure out what I should do.”
“Do something for yourself,” Sister Alana said. “I think you deserve a small ministration of selfishness.”
Satrine laughed. “I just might.” As soon as she said it, she realized exactly what she wanted.
The maps did not help. Minox had noted the three murder sites, and while he could note patterns, there were too many possible patterns to be of much use. He drew circles of equidistance. He drew out four-pointed crosses, five- and six-pointed stars. All he was able to narrow down was that the killer, and the next murder, were likely to be in the southeast of Inemar.
This was not helpful.
Walking through the necessary actions was not helpful, at least doing it alone on the inspectors’ floor. Nyla did her best to help him, but she did not have Missus Rainey’s instincts. Also she had other duties that she needed to attend to.
Sketches of the three murder sites, provided by Leppin’s charcoal-man, did not bring further insights. The fact that the killer made use of sewer tunnels to move about the city without notice was clear, but did not make narrowing points down any easier.
He did work out that the killer could perform each murder alone, given sufficient strength. Again, this did not yield any revelations.
Minox’s head pounded. The knock to his skull was not helping his thought process. And he wasn’t hungry. He had always considered the hunger a distraction, but now its absence was even more so. He didn’t feel like he was in his own skin.
He needed to stop thinking in spirals. Focus on the specifics he had, go through every detail, piece by piece. He tacked the maps and the sketches up on the slateboards and sat back down.
Evoy would probably look at the board and announce the killer’s name in half a click. Minox wondered if he could let his mind drop into the same snakehole, just for a moment, and see things the way his cousin did.
He shook the thought off. He had to stay focused, clear of purpose.
The killer had a purpose, a plan. The information had to be in what he already knew. Two killed by removing their hearts, both in the same Circle. One, from a different Circle, hands removed and eyes cut out. An alley off Jent, a private house on Downing, and a church on Silver. The connections had to make logical sense to the killer.
The killer. Knowledgeable about magic. Meticulous planner, well prepared. Clear of purpose.
Very clear of purpose. He could have killed Satrine Rainey if he had wanted to. For that matter, Minox himself. Or the wagon driver and Inspector Mirrell. The priest he used as a hostage he had only injured, just enough to cause distraction. He had quite deliberately not taken more lives than the ones he specifically intended. He was able to fight past two patrolmen—and a cloistress—without using lethal force. The man was clearly gifted in the fighting arts. Minox had seen plenty of evidence of that in the carriage.
Not gifted in fighting arts. Trained.
A memory clicked. Joshea had said it last night.
His unit had been decommissioned a few weeks ago.
Which meant Joshea wasn’t the only soldier who had recently come back home.
Nyla came to his desk with a cup of tea. “Have you figured something out?”
The revelation must have been clear on his face. “Perhaps so. Please tell the captain that I am off to follow up on a lead. If my theory holds, I should return with a short list of potential suspects.” He gave a brief nod of thanks, and raced out of the inspectors’ floor.
After some searching, Satrine found Plum’s Books. The narrow shop was easy to miss—a tiny, faded sign hung over a plain wooden door, the rest of the storefront featureless brick. Absently, Satrine opened the door, jangling a hidden bell, and went in.
She realized that in her childhood, she had never entered the shop. There was something funny about that, she thought, since she owed so much to Old Man Plum and his book-throwing temper. The place was crammed with books, every shelf nearly bursting, and the multiple shelves forming a small maze that obscured the back of the store from her view.
“Can I help—oh, Inspector!” Nerrish Plum emerged from the shelves. “Why are . . . is there something you need?”
“Not inspector right now, Mister Plum,” Satrine said. No need to burden him with further details.
&nb
sp; “So you are here as a customer!” His face brightened. “There are never enough of those.”
Satrine glanced around the shelves. “Business not what it should be?”
“No, it’s exactly what it should be, given that I have a bookshop on this corner. It’s just that it’s hardly what I would like it to be.”
Satrine noticed Plum’s marriage bracelet. “Enough for you and your family to get by, though?”
Plum apparently felt her gaze, and he wrapped his hand around his bracelet. “It’s just me, but yes. My wife passed a few years ago.” He let out a deep sigh, and then widened his smile. “No need to go into that, though. You are looking for a book.”
Satrine knew she shouldn’t be buying anything. Every coin in her pocket was sacred at this point, not a tick should be wasted. But then she realized what she wanted, what she needed, and she knew she deserved one last frivolous expense. Something to save her life again.
“I cannot find my copy of Lost Poems of the Sarani,” she said. “I was hoping to get a new one.”
Plum’s eyes widened, just for a moment. “Yes, of course. We discussed that briefly the other day. My grandfather threw that book at you.”
“So perhaps it’s finally time I pay for it,” Satrine said.
Plum nodded, and went in the back. “It is a powerful book,” he said as he disappeared from view. “I can imagine the words had quite an effect on you.”
“You have no idea,” Satrine said.
Plum came back out, book in hand. “But I do. I have found . . . I found quite a lot of solace in this book.” His nimble fingers danced through the pages, well-practiced at finding his place. He smiled—a sad, melancholic smile—as he looked at the page. “But I think I’ve gotten what I need from it, and it needs a new home. I have a feeling that you are the right person for that.” He closed the book and handed it to her.
“How much?”
“I would like to tell you no charge—”
“I couldn’t possibly take it for free.”
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 30
