A Parliament of Bodies

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “And you?” Corrie asked, though she didn’t know why she was bothering with pleasantries. “Anything new for you?”

  “Work in the day, cause in the evening, it keeps me busy.”

  “Cause?” Corrie regretted asking as soon as it came out of her lips.

  “The only cause, Corrianna: suffragism.”

  “Right. Aunt Emma is working in that, too. Her and Nyla.”

  “Hmm,” Sheri said coldly. “We’re a different chapter of the movement.” She opened up the door that was clearly marked “Examinarium” and led Corrie in. “Jillian? Are you down here?”

  Jilly was there, sitting at her desk right next to a slab with a dead body on it. She and Sheri were exact doubles, except Jilly had changed her hair to a short boyish cut instead of Sheri’s prim bun. She also had painted her face in a way that made her look almost like the corpse she was sitting next to.

  “Corrianna,” she said in a way that was almost musical. “Don’t tell me that all the girls downtown are short-cropping.”

  Corrie realized Jilly was talking about her own hair. She touched it reflexively. “This? Nah, some machie bint chopped it off me in a riot.”

  “Savage,” Jilly said, almost excited at the prospect.

  “Language, Corrianna,” Sheri said.

  “So why have you come to haunt us?” Jilly asked. “Please don’t tell me your mother sent you here to convince us to get Father to come up to the house.”

  “No, no,” Corrie said. “Nothing like that. This is business.”

  “Well, I have work to do,” Sheri said. “Corrianna, it’s been a pleasure to see you.” She didn’t sound like it had been anything of the sort. “Jillian, I’ll see you at sign out.” She left.

  “What business do you have with me?” Jilly said, getting to her feet. “I didn’t realize you were interested in me or my sister.”

  “Don’t rutting say that, Jilly,” Corrie said. “I’ve never given you any damn grief for anything.”

  “No, I suppose not. Still, it’s not like you’ve ever come to see us.”

  “You don’t exactly head into Inemar or come all the way out to the house.”

  “We don’t care about the stupid house,” Jilly fired back. “Why do you all insist—”

  “Hey, hey,” Corrie said, putting up her hands. “I don’t give a pig’s whistle about the house or whatever grief your pop and the rest have. Live how you want.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Minox asked me to come get you,” Corrie said.

  “Minox? Asked for me?” Jilly’s voice softened a little. “Whatever for?”

  “He’s been working this case, the springbox murders?”

  “The Gearbox Murders,” Jilly said. With a tone that seemed far too energized for Corrie’s taste, she added, “Those have been gruesome.”

  Jilly was always fascinated with the gruesome.

  “Yeah, well, there’s another one, and it’s apparently big. Minox asked for you to come out to join him.”

  Jilly’s hand went to her sketchbook and charcoals. “Don’t you have sketchers in your Grand Inspection Unit?”

  “Minox told me he needed you. And right away.”

  “Hmmm,” Jilly said, drawing out the word like she was sipping a fine wine or something. “Well, I’m glad that Minox, at least, recognizes talent.”

  Corrie didn’t want to say a rutting thing to that.

  “Let’s just get moving, before it’s too late. We got to get across the river.”

  “Really? What, is this murder in the Parliament or something?”

  “Exactly.”

  Jilly snatched up her gear. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  * * *

  Minox rushed through the gallery seats to navigate his way to the other side, fully aware of the looming presence of Dayne Heldrin right behind him.

  “Forgive my brusqueness, Mister Heldrin, but I assume you have a formal position of authority here in the Parliament?”

  “Formal, yes,” Heldrin said. “But the exact nature of my authority is nebulous.”

  “I appreciate your honesty here,” Minox said. “And I must act quickly. Are you at least versed in Parliamentary rules and procedure? It is a significant gap in my knowledge. I am counting on you, especially since the marshals surely have standing.”

  “I can help with that, Inspector.”

  “Good,” Minox said. They were now a quarter of the way around the Parliament hall. The change in angle did nothing to mitigate the horror below. Out of the corner of his eye, Minox also noticed Kendra Morad following behind him. He wanted to behave as if it didn’t bother him, that her observation was welcome. But she unnerved him, and that drew his concentration away from the task at hand.

  And this task would require all his focus.

  Minox came up on the two marshals who were lowering the third. Speaking directly to the one with chief’s stars, he said, “I’m going to have to insist you cease this operation immediately and cede authority in this matter to the city Constabulary’s Grand Inspection Unit.”

  “And who the blazes are you?” Chief Quoyell asked, his brass name badge so polished it shone. He was an older man, most of his hair, which appeared to have been at one time the same red as Inspector Rainey’s, was either white or gone.

  “Inspector Minox Welling of the aforementioned Grand Inspection Unit. If you direct your attention over there, you can see Commissioner Enbrain speaking with Mister Montrose. I’m afraid it is imperative that this situation fall under our authority.”

  “You have no authority or jurisdiction here.” He turned to Heldrin. “Was this your doing, Tarian?”

  “I called in Inspector Welling, yes.”

  “Always meddling,” Quoyell said. “But you have no cause or reason for claiming authority over the King’s Marshals.”

  “Save one,” Minox said. “You, Chief Quoyell, and everyone under your command, are suspect in this matter, and therefore cannot be allowed to supervise or interfere in the investigation.”

  “How are they suspect?” This came from Kendra Morad.

  “This is outrageous!” Chief Quoyell said.

  “But utterly sensible. As you said, Chief, this is your jurisdiction. And, specifically, maintaining the security and integrity of the Parliament is the responsibility of you and your men. This,” Minox said, gesturing to the mechanical horror below, “is a monstrous failure of your security. Which means your people—and by reflection you—are either corrupt, culpable, or incompetent. Regardless, you cannot be allowed to continue this investigation.”

  The whole time, their man kept lowering himself to the Parliament floor. It didn’t escape Minox’s attention that he was almost all the way down.

  Chief Quoyell did seem slightly fazed by this argument. Or at least shamed. “Exactly why this is our responsibility. No one else’s.”

  “And who are you accountable to?” Minox asked.

  “King Maradaine XVIII.”

  “And the people,” Heldrin said. “I can easily let the press know that your pride and incompetence are impeding a proper, independent investigation.”

  “Which is what you need, Chief.” This came from Kendra Morad.

  They all looked at her.

  Miss Morad continued. “Your obstinacy is hurtful to yourself and your fellow marshals, to the process of neutrality, the process of justice, and the king himself. None of these things have been particularly popular in the press of late.”

  Chief Quoyell was almost red-faced and sputtering. “Who is this woman?”

  “She’s a special inquisitor with the Archduke of Sauriya,” Minox said.

  That seemed to have some effect on Chief Quoyell. Perhaps, despite his claims of only being accountable to the king, the threat of archducal authority had some sway ove
r him. “Yes, of course, ma’am. But there is a matter of protocol. City Constabulary has no jurisdiction or authority here. Even if I ceded ours—”

  “Which you should,” Morad said.

  “I can’t give run of this situation to a Constabulary Inspector. He doesn’t have the clearance to—”

  “But I do,” Heldrin said. “My role is to liaise with the Parliament, the marshals, and with that mandate—from the king himself—I am empowered to take independent action in service of the security and safety of the Parliament. I’m claiming that authority now, Chief.”

  “Hey, Chief,” the man on the floor called out. “I’m able to get at the first victim here. Looks like just a few leather straps holding her in. I should be able to—”

  Minox almost leaped over the railing. Heldrin grabbed him by the belt to keep him on the gallery.

  “Doesn’t he know—” Minox started to say, but he could see the man was already starting to unbuckle the leather strap on the woman’s wrist. “Stop!”

  It was too late. As soon as he undid the buckle, a grinding sound emerged from the machinery below. The marshal below looked around, as if he couldn’t identify exactly where the new noise was coming from. Then he scrambled to undo the strap on the woman’s other wrist. She was still otherwise immobile, and her mouth was gagged, but even from this distance Minox could see the terror in her eyes. She desperately tried to thrash out of the chair while the marshal struggled to set her free.

  “Haskin!” Chief Quoyell yelled.

  The grinding then transformed into a series of pops.

  The chair the woman was sitting in suddenly split apart, the two halves of the chair pulling in opposite directions. The woman in the chair was torn open, blood and viscera dropping to the floor in a sickening splash.

  In place of the chair, a great pike sprung up, and the blade buried itself in the marshal’s skull.

  “Oh, sweet saints,” Heldrin said.

  Minox turned on Chief Quoyell, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Two more deaths. That was on you, sir.”

  “That was my man!”

  “And an innocent woman whom we might have been able to save!”

  “Inspector!” Miss Morad called forcefully.

  Minox quickly realized why. He was pointing at Chief Quoyell with his left hand, and it was glowing in a blue nimbus through his glove. He pulled the energy down while putting his hand into his pocket. He hadn’t even realized that he had been pouring his anger into his hand.

  Looking Chief Quoyell in the eye, he said, “We need to handle this situation with deliberate care. This is possibly the most dangerous, volatile thing any of us have ever encountered.”

  “Possibly,” Quoyell said, glaring at Minox.

  “We cannot underestimate the genius behind it.”

  “I can tell you about—” Heldrin started.

  “Oh, damn it, Dayne, I don’t need to hear this madness again!” Quoyell said. “Fine, I’ll acknowledge that we don’t know what the blazes we’re doing with this. Are you happy? Does that help those poor bastards down there?”

  “It’s a start,” Heldrin said.

  “Very well,” Quoyell said. He yelled over to Commissioner Enbrain and Mister Montrose, who both were stricken pale by the further carnage below. “This mess is yours now, Enbrain! You and yours can take the fall for it!”

  He stormed off to the nearest exit.

  “Well, Inspector,” Miss Morad said quietly. “What’s your next step?”

  Chapter 5

  SATRINE TOOK THREE steps out of the Parliament gallery before she stopped to lean against the wall, let the horror of it wash over her. She took deep breaths, hoping her stomach would settle itself from the horrible churning. That she had kept her breakfast inside her this long was incredible. She hadn’t even consciously realized the extent she had been saturated by the slaughterhouse scent of the room until she was outside it. She could still smell it on her clothes.

  After a moment, she realized the Yellowshields outside the door were staring at her.

  “Have you even seen what’s in there?” she asked them.

  “No ma’am,” one—the squad leader—said. “A lot of people have emptied their stomachs over it, though. Or worse. Water closet is over there if you need it.”

  “I’m fine,” she half lied.

  He nodded, coming a bit closer to her. “It’s probably almost as bad in there, based on the sounds I’ve heard.”

  She waved him off, heading down the stairs to the lobby.

  She spotted the Intelligence officer she had seen earlier—or, at least, someone in a formal Intelligence uniform. Those were not something often worn in public, but this sort of situation was unusual. The officer—a woman with a sallow face and short-cropped hair that made her almost look Lyranan—was talking to man in a fine bespoke suit and another in an Army uniform. Satrine swallowed down the bile in her throat and approached.

  “Ma’am?” she asked. “Might I interrupt for a moment?”

  “And you are?” The stripes on her collar marked her as a colonel in Druth Intelligence, making her one of the highest ranked people in the organization.

  “Inspector Satrine Rainey of the Grand Inspector’s Unit.” No look of recognition crossed the woman’s face, and her companions looked distinctly annoyed by the interruption. Satrine added, “And formerly of Innetic Project?” Bringing up the official name of the project that encompassed her mission to infiltrate the Waish nobility and place the man Druth Intelligence wanted on the Waish throne should get the attention of anyone with a colonel’s stripes.

  “Innetic Project?” the man in the suit asked.

  The colonel’s eyes widened for a moment, and she grabbed Satrine by the arm. “Of course, Inspector. Forgive me for not remembering you. Gentlemen, a moment, please?” She squeezed hard and pulled Satrine aside.

  “I apologize—”

  “You had no idea who those men were and you mention something like Innetic?” She glared hard at Satrine. “Who the blazes are you?”

  “I told you, Inspector Satrine Rainey. Though I understand I’m still on the Register as Satrine Carthas.”

  “Someone on the Register wouldn’t—”

  “You can blame Grieson.”

  The colonel almost shuddered with revulsion. “You’re one of his pets.”

  “That isn’t the term I would use.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have my attention, Inspector. What is it?”

  “Thank you, Colonel. There are, last I knew, twelve men and women trapped in that atrocity machine in need of rescue.”

  “I’ve heard. And you’re coming to me, why?”

  “I’m actively investigating this case. We—”

  “Who is we? I thought the marshals were in charge of the situation.”

  “Commissioner Enbrain wanted me and my partner to be on hand.”

  “Surely not to interfere with the marshals. You don’t see me bringing in a team.”

  “In fairness, ma’am, would I even see that?” Satrine raised her eyebrow just a bit.

  “Valid point,” the colonel said. “But this isn’t our dance.”

  “But given that the music is playing,” Satrine said, lowering her voice a bit more, “I imagine you’ve got people who know the steps.”

  “Intelligence doesn’t—”

  Satrine knew the rest of the sentence. “Doesn’t ‘operate within Druth’s borders.’ I know the line. I know it’s far from true.”

  “We’re not allowed to take official action.” The colonel gave a little wink. “And with something this big, and public, unofficial action isn’t an option.”

  “But you might have something to pass on to someone who can take official action.”

  “And you think it should be you instead of the marshals?”

 
; “We all want the same thing.”

  The colonel scoffed. “I think that’s far from the truth. But I actually pay attention to the goings-on in Parliament and national politics.”

  “I just work the city, ma’am.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the colonel said. She gave Satrine an odd regard. “But that isn’t even what you came to me for.”

  “No,” Satrine said, realizing she had let the colonel walk her around. She had asked for a favor—not the one she came here for—without intending to, and the colonel knew damn well that put Satrine at a disadvantage now. Satrine reviewed the exchange they just had, and didn’t even realize that she had been manipulated. It had felt so natural.

  Blazes.

  “The machine those people are trapped in, it’s beyond our ken, and I’m certain the marshals are equally lost. From what I have seen about this killer’s methods, a rescue attempt could result in more deaths—”

  A snapping sound echoed through the entire lobby, emanating from the direction of the Parliament floor.

  “So it would seem,” the colonel said.

  “Is there anyone on the Register, or in uniform, who has experience with machinery like this?”

  The colonel nodded. This time, no guile—at least, none that was obvious to Satrine. “I don’t know exactly, but I’ll send word.” She walked off.

  Commissioner Enbrain came down from the gallery with Mister Montrose, both of them pale and clammy.

  “What happened?” Satrine asked as she approached.

  “The marshals’ rescue was a fiasco,” Enbrain said. “Chief Quoyell yielded command of the situation to the Constabulary.”

  “That easily?” Satrine asked.

  Mister Montrose shook his head. “Quoyell already knows his head is on the block with this whole mess. Something like this defiles the Parliament floor. The sheer scope of the undertaking, the manpower required . . . I can’t even comprehend how it was accomplished.”

  “But it’s a colossal failure on his part, right,” Satrine said.