“Your Honor,” Welling said, shaking the man’s hand.
“What do we know?” Enbrain said.
“I don’t know much of anything yet,” Montrose said. “But I’m determined to find out.”
“Shall we not dally further, then?” Welling asked.
“We’ve heard there’s a monstrous machine,” Satrine said. “With several victims.”
“Several victims, yes,” Enbrain said. “Hopefully there’s something that can be done for them.”
“Done for them?” Welling asked. “Do you mean to say—”
“Yes,” Enbrain said. “Many of them are still alive. But—”
Enbrain didn’t get any further before Welling bolted to the doors.
“Wait!”
A large man—possibly one of the tallest men Satrine had ever seen—put himself between Minox and the door. He was also wearing a Tarian uniform, a shield strapped to his arm. “I can’t let you go through that door.”
“Sir,” Welling said, his hand firmly on the handle of the door. “It is imperative that we take action and save as many of the victims as we can.”
“I agree,” the Tarian said. “That’s exactly why you can’t open the door.”
“I don’t—”
“Inside there is a machine of death and butchery, devised by a brilliant madman. There are over a dozen people trapped within the machine, and more already dead. We cannot safely . . .”
“That doesn’t explain—”
“And the machine has many elements and moving parts. Some of which are connected to these doors.”
Welling let go of the door handle.
The large Tarian hadn’t raised his voice a bit—the whole time he spoke with calm, quiet assurance.
“Dayne,” Jerinne said. “These are the ones you asked for.”
“You’re Inspector Welling,” the large man said, offering his hand. “Dayne Heldrin.”
“Of the Tarian Order,” Welling said, taking the offered hand.
Dayne approached the rest. “You must be Inspector Satrine Rainey.”
“I know about you,” Satrine said, taking his hand as he came over. “My daughter brought home that pamphlet.”
“I didn’t ask for the press,” Dayne said. “I just do what I can to save lives.”
“Our paramount concern . . .” Welling started.
“Of course, this way,” Dayne said, leading them to a stairwell. “The press gallery is safe to enter from.”
The gallery door at the top of the stairs was watched by another King’s Marshal. “We’re in the process of a rescue, Mister Heldrin,” he said. “It’s very delicate.” A small squad of Yellowshields were encamped outside the door. Clearly they had been instructed to stay out of the Parliament for the moment, but Satrine couldn’t imagine why. Surely their skills were needed inside.
“These two inspectors are experts in this machinery and the methods of the killer,” Dayne said. “You shouldn’t try anything until they’ve gotten to see it.”
The marshal fretted for a moment, glancing at Dayne, and then Parliamentarian Montrose. “All right, but it’s on you. If Chief Quoyell asks, I wash my hands of it.”
“Such nobility,” Dayne said as he went in. He turned back to Satrine and Welling. “You will want to steel your stomachs. This is not something to look upon lightly.”
“I’ve had more than my share of that,” Satrine said, pressing through. She had heard so much of what a horror was awaiting them, she was certain that nothing could live up to the myth.
Five steps into the Parliament hall, that was belied. If anything, the atrocity machine had been minimized.
“Sweet saints and sinners preserve me,” she whispered.
From the press gallery, they had a perfect view of the whole Parliament floor. Down below, there was an atrocity of machinery and people. Ropes, chains, gears, and pipes. Weights and counterweights. Blades, hammers, spikes, and clubs. And blood. An untold amount of blood.
The chains and gears and pipes formed a sort of spiderweb, connecting to devices on the floor that clicked and whirred, pulling chains and pushing pipes, changing the tension on the ropes. All of those spread out to the doors around the circular hall.
And then there were the people, shackled into chairs in a rough circle around the machines. All the chairs moved.
Everything moved. The people trapped in the device were being pulled and dragged around the Parliament floor in their chairs, and the deadly instruments around them spun and slammed and cracked. The people were gagged with leather straps, so none of them could cry out. They all could struggle just enough to make it clear that they were still alive. Most of them were strapped to the chair in such a way that their faces were covered by horrific masks, masks that were also contraptions of gears and blades and springs.
By Satrine’s immediate count, there had been eighteen people total—mostly men but three were women, all relatively youthful. Twelve were still alive—including all three women. The other six had been sliced, shredded, and ground by the horrific machine.
And yet, as everything moved, the hall echoed with clicks and clangs and pounding that almost became music. It had a rhythm, a sonorous beauty that in any other circumstances might bring a tear to one’s eye.
Satrine’s eyes were full of tears.
Welling’s hand was on her shoulder. She looked at him and saw his eyes were just as full. She had never seen any such emotion from him before.
“We can save these people,” he said.
“And then let’s find this bastard.”
A half-dozen King’s Marshals grabbed them both and pulled them back to the door.
Chapter 4
SATRINE ELBOWED ONE of the marshals in the gut, forcing him to let go. With one arm free, she drew out her handstick and cracked it across another’s wrist. In a moment they all let her go.
“I’ve been manhandled enough today,” she snarled. “How dare you grope us like that?”
“You shouldn’t be up here,” one of the marshals said, rubbing his arm. “You might have triggered—” He then looked and saw Dayne, Commissioner Enbrain, Montrose, and the rest. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Montrose said. “Did you think they would have just wandered up here on their own?”
“Well, no,” the marshal said. “Just Chief Quoyell said no one was supposed to be up here.”
“And where is Chief Quoyell?” Dayne asked, stepping forward. “He was actually supposed to be up here. Even the Yellowshields needed to be staged outside.”
The marshal pointed to the other side of the gallery, where three other marshals—including one with stars on his shoulders—were assembling a rope and pulley device that extended over the gallery floor.
“What’s their intention?” Welling asked.
“Lower themselves down to disassemble the device, getting the people out of there.”
Commissioner Enbrain pushed forward to the gallery railing to look down to the floor. “Is it possible? Can they do it?”
“Get down there? Sure,” the marshal said. “Once they get that thing ready, it should be no problem.”
Dayne came over to Welling and Satrine. “The marshals who first opened the main door downstairs—when they did that, it started these machines in motion. That’s when the first three people died.”
“You saw it?” Welling asked.
“I saw right afterward.”
“And that door is, I presume, inaccessible?”
“Once the machine was started, spinning and whirling blades blocked the door, as well as the other entrances on that level. I sent Jerinne to fetch you two, and I tried to get through. But my attempts were futile.”
Satrine noticed that his uniform coat was sliced and cut on the arms.
“He mea
ns his interference triggered another part of the device,” the marshal said, glowering at Dayne. “That’s part of the problem. We try to do much of anything—like open a door down there—we trigger something else. And the deaths speed up.”
“Speed up?” Welling asked.
“The thing is like a clock,” the marshal said, pointing at the moving gears. “Every minute they’re all pushed or prodded or knocked. And on the hour . . .”
“Someone dies,” Welling said.
“And we already figured out opening any door anywhere but the gallery makes the clock go faster,” Dayne said. He scowled and shook his head. “He wanted an audience.”
“We have to stop it,” Satrine said. It was clear Dayne had a specific “he” in mind, but this wasn’t the moment to address it.
The marshal sneered at her. “I don’t know what makes you think you are part of the ‘we,’ Inspector.”
“I called them in,” Dayne said.
“And I want them here,” Commissioner Enbrain added. Satrine came back over to him, looking down at the people on the floor.
“Which one is it?” she asked him softly.
He looked over at her, his face stricken, and then pointed to one of the victims. “That one. My nephew Niall.”
His nephew. Of course. Enbrain was a widower, no children of his own. He was close to several of his nieces and nephews.
Welling looked over. “And the rest of these people? Do we know who they are? What is their connection to each other or the rest of these murders?”
“We’ve identified some, and those are Parliamentary functionaries. I presume they all are,” Mister Montrose said. “Niall there is my head clerk. The ones I recognize have similar positions with key members of Parliament.”
Welling nodded, moving closer to the edge of the railing to look down. He was absorbing it all, his eyes darting all over the machinery. “Windup. Spring tension. Releases started when doors were opened. We presume that if we had left everything alone, it would run its course over eighteen hours and everyone in there would be dead.”
“How does that help?” Dayne asked.
“Information always helps. Our immediate priority, of course, is rescuing the people alive down there. But we must learn all we can about what is happening, so we can use that information to find the killer.”
“About that—” Dayne said.
“Yes,” Welling said, holding up a finger in the big man’s face. “I’m certain you have critical knowledge, and I’ll want to interview you fully. But that will have to be after the immediate crisis is resolved.”
“After it is resolved I need to interview you, Inspector.”
Satrine had forgotten that Miss Morad was still with them. She had to admit, she was impressed by the woman’s moxie. Most people wouldn’t be able to stomach being in this room, let alone doing so with such a stern, disinterested expression.
“In due time, Miss Morad,” Welling said, giving Satrine a look. He then turned to the marshals who manhandled them when they first arrived. “Of those marshals with Chief Quoyell, which of them is the engineer?”
“The what?” the first marshal asked.
“Engineer. Machinist. Tinkerer, clockmaker? Anything of the sort?”
“I don’t—”
Welling shook his head, “They’re going to get everyone killed. Miss Fendall!”
“Yes?” Jerinne asked.
“My sister—the officer with the colorful tongue—do you recall her?”
“Oh, saints, yes,” Jerinne said, with almost too much enthusiasm.
“She’ll be coming this way with a charcoal sketcher from the Constabulary. Please make sure they are able to get in here.”
“All right,” she said, looking to Dayne for a moment for approval, and then ran off.
“Inspector Rainey,” he said, looking to her, “I’m going to attempt to engage the rest of the marshals—you will intercede on my behalf, Mister Heldrin?”
“Of course.”
“But we need someone with some experience with machinery like this on hand, and quickly.”
Satrine looked back down at the monstrosity. “I don’t know who would—”
“So I presume you do not at the moment?”
He knew her telepathically induced education sometimes needed a trigger for her to actively access it. But in this instance, it didn’t help. “Nothing like this was needed to be a princess.” There had been an Intelligence officer outside. Perhaps there was someone out there she could reach out to. There had to be people in Intelligence who had experience with this kind of machinery. Gadgeteers or security consultants. “I have an idea, though.”
Welling nodded. “I always have trusted in your ideas. Mister Heldrin, with me.”
He stormed off to walk around the gallery to where the marshals were working with the pulleys. They had already started to lower someone to the floor.
“Satrine,” Enbrain said. “We have to save everyone, but Niall—”
“We’ll do anything we can for him,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
As she left the gallery, she noticed Kendra Morad calmly writing in a notebook as she followed Welling to the other side. With everything else happening right now, the last thing anyone should be worried about was an inquiry into Minox Welling. If Kendra Morad couldn’t see him for the dedicated and tireless city servant that he was, she had no business judging anyone.
* * *
The East Maradaine Stationhouse was so damn quiet, it was rutting unnerving. Corrie had expected what she usually saw in the front office of their own stationhouse—scabs and other rats ironed up and waiting on benches for the desk sergeants to process their paperwork; shouting and threats and the sense that a fight would break out any minute.
Instead this house had a handful of sergeants and clerks silently writing and filing, no one waiting to be brought into lockup, and a distinct lack of shouting.
Not a proper stick house in the slightest.
A clerk who must have been old enough to have hired Granny Jillian back in the day was at the front desk. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Yeah,” Corrie said, coming closer. The lenses on her spectacles were thick enough to stop a crossbow bolt. “I’m looking for—”
“Oh, my!” the old lady said. “You’ve got your sergeant’s stripes. So few young ladies have those on their collar.”
“Right, well—”
“And look how young and pretty you are. How old are you, now?”
“I turn twenty in a month,” Corrie said. “I’m looking for—”
“Sergeant before you turned twenty, and for a lady constable as well. That’s incredible. That sort of thing would never have happened when I was your age.”
“I need—”
“But girls today are so very remarkable, I’m just amazed at all you are accomplishing. We’ve quite a few accomplished girls in this stationhouse, I can tell you—”
“Yes, and I need to—”
“But none of them have made sergeant before they turned twenty, that is for certain. Where are you coming from?”
“The Inemar house,” Corrie said, biting her tongue before she added additional invectives to that.
“Oh, Inemar, yes, that’s some rough and tumble.” She peered with her giant glasses. “Probably how you have that scar by your eye. Probably how you earned those stripes.”
“Yes.” Screaming all sorts of profanities would feel wonderful but help rutting nothing.
“Are we holding someone who’s supposed to go to you? We don’t see as much trouble in this house.”
“No,” Corrie said. She had to get this out before the old bat interrupted her again. “I just need to find Jilly Welling.”
“Oh, Jilly. Lovely girl, lovely. Yes, she’s right there.” She pointed to a desk in the
corner, where a honey-brown-haired woman was working, her back to the floor.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re a Welling!” the old woman said, tapping Corrie’s badge. “I didn’t know she had another sister.”
“Cousin,” Corrie said. “Excuse me.”
She pushed her way through the office floor to the desk. “Jilly, I need you—”
She realized the mistake before she even finished the sentence. But it was too late.
“Jillian is down in the examinarium, as she always is,” the young woman said without even looking up. “Even if you didn’t use your eyes, you could use common sense.”
It wasn’t Jilly, but her twin sister Sherien.
“Sorry, Sheri.”
Sheri looked up, hard eyes. “Corrianna. What ever are you doing so far from your milieu?”
Corrie never understood how these cousins talked like they were so properly rutting educated. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t all gone to the same public prepatory in Keller Cove.
“I came looking for Jilly, but the lady at the front desk pointed me in the wrong rutting place—”
Sheri winced like she had been physically slapped.
“But now I know to go to the examinarium, so I’ll be out of your hair.” She bit back a “blasted” and “damned” that she had wanted to throw in there.
“You’ve never been here, and you’ll get lost,” Sheri said, getting to her feet. She brushed off her long skirt as if it had gotten rutting dusty just sitting at her desk. “Come along, and I’ll show you.”
“You don’t—” Corrie started, but it wasn’t worth it. She was rutting glad that things were already this civil. No need to poke the dog anymore. “Thanks.”
Sheri led her down a hallway to a dark stairway. “So, Corrianna, you’ve been promoted to sergeant. When did that happen?”
“Couple months ago. You didn’t hear?”
“Well, Father didn’t mention it, but he might not have taken note of it.”
Uncle Terrent had been a sergeant for twenty years, never getting promoted to officer or inspector. But he was walking the streets here in tony East Maradaine. Not that Corrie had seen him or the twins much in the past couple years.
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