“This Inquiry—”
“You are missing a critical point here, Mister Cheever,” Olivant said, interrupting Miss Morad. “It’s fundamentally about his fitness to serve because he’s an untrained, unverified, Uncircled mage.”
“And that is not in dispute,” Miss Morad said coldly. “I’d like to excuse Inspector Mirrell and call the next witness, Mister Joshea Brondar.”
Mirrell opened the door and called out Joshea’s name, and immediately Minox felt a bristle of magical energy from the hallway. Almost like a sharp spike that ran up his arm from his left hand.
Olivant perked up. He felt something as well. If Joshea came in, Olivant would sense him, and he’d be exposed. It would ruin him.
“Wait,” Minox said. “If this is entirely about my magery, then further testimony is pointless. I confess that I am an Uncircled mage. Does that make me unfit to be a inspector? I say it doesn’t,”
“That’s hardly for you to say, Inspector,” Miss Morad said. “We must—”
“I will tell you in detail what happened to me that night,” Minox said.
“Inspector, you don’t have to—” Cheever said.
“It is all right, Mister Cheever. Your aid has been most welcome. But there is no need for further witness statement. I will give you the best account I can of what happened, and accept your judgment, on one condition.”
“Which is?”
Minox took off his glove and held up his hand, black and glassy and shining with magical energy. “If Mister Olivant can explain what my hand is, and how it became this way.”
* * *
Satrine’s shirt was coated with sweat, in part from the sheer heat of the day combined with her heavy riot coat, and in part from the nerves of what she was doing. It was a terrible, horrible plan, but it was the only one she had.
That wasn’t entirely true. She could have just left Aventil, decided this wasn’t her problem. But she couldn’t live with that. She had earned a small sliver of trust from Lieutenant Benvin, who just wanted to make Aventil a better, safer neighborhood. He was exactly the sort of constable the city needed: decent, uncorrupted, and willing to fight the good fight.
If he was doing that, the least she could do was match it, prove to him, to herself, and everyone else in Maradaine that there were sticks ready to do the right thing. What it meant to serve the city, serve the people.
This is what Loren must have felt, even as he lost the fight that took him from her.
Whatever happened, she was going to keep fighting.
In her walk to the Kemper Street Kicker den, she noticed plenty of Kickers taking note of her, trailing her along as she went up to the tenement. None of them made a move, but they all kept her under close watch. They weren’t nervous. Why should they be? As far as they knew, she was alone—single Constabulary inspector, walking through Kicker territory without anyone backing her up. Why should that worry them?
The tenement was crumbling, covered with Kicker inkjobs, and half the windows were broken. In a couple of those windows, up on the fourth floor, she spotted archers taking aim. Bows had become popular again in this neighborhood, it seemed. A lasting influence of the Thorn, possibly.
Posturing on their part. Even if they thought she was alone, there was no way they would kill an inspector in broad daylight. They would have to know a stick full of arrows in the middle of the street would bring the full weight of the Aventil Constabulary on their skulls. The Aventil house might be lazy and half corrupt, but plenty of them liked an excuse for a brawl.
Also, Satrine wasn’t alone. Jace and Saitle were in position near the entrance, dressed as cart boys hawking salteds with mustard. Saints, Jace had spent a fair amount of time coming up with his character—he couldn’t just pretend to be a food hawker, he had to have a story about a family business and a sick mother. Saitle tried to do the same, but his creativity didn’t match his energy. It was fun to see them just love their work, enjoying being constable patrolmen in disguise as something else.
Benvin, Wheth, Tripper, and Pollit couldn’t play the same game—all of them were too known on the streets to play any sort of disguise. They were paired off and walking the neighborhood a couple blocks away. Far enough that the spotters in the windows wouldn’t notice them, or realize which building they were targeting. Close enough to hear whistles and come running.
Corrie and her boys were on horses, slowly working their way up Lower Bridge, ready to thunder in when the whistles came.
But Satrine was alone when she went into the building. She had her whistle palmed in her left hand, but if things turned bad, she’d barely get a chance to blow it. Hopefully her backup would get there in time to help her, should she need it.
All that backup was official and in Constabulary uniform—save Jace and Saitle. But there was also Jerinne. Satrine wanted her to hang back with Corrie, or at least with Benvin. Jerinne wanted to go in with Satrine, but Satrine wasn’t about to allow that. Last thing she needed was a girl with shield and sword coming in with her. This had to look official but friendly, and Jerinne would be neither. So she went and had a cider at the dive across the street from the tenement—surely a Kicker hangout—looking as subtle as a runaway cart.
The tenement had a wide lobby, where the tile floor had cracked and broken to reveal wide patches of dirt. In some places, sickly weeds were even growing. At least a dozen boys and girls—Kickers all by the kerchief tied around their ankles—hung about on the steps and rotting benches.
“What’s what?” one of them asked, hopping to his feet as Satrine entered. His kerchief was blue, as opposed to everyone else’s gray, so he was a captain. “What are you walking in our place of sanctum, stick?”
“Place of sanctum?” Satrine knocked back. “You’ve got an awfully high opinion of this sewage hole.”
“Maybe so, but it’s our sewage hole. You’re not welcome here.”
“Doesn’t matter if I’m welcome here. Got to talk to a man named Musky.”
“Oh, you got to,” he said. “Well, that’s different.”
“Saints Ilmer and Soran,” one of the other Kickers said. “She ain’t just a stick, she’s a specs!”
“Ain’t no lady specs,” one of the girls said. She had a nasty scar on the side of her face, nearly taking her eye out.
“Are so,” Satrine said. “Right in front of you.”
“No chance,” the girl said. “Ain’t allowed, I’m sure.”
The captain shoved his way over to Satrine. “What ain’t allowed is her coming in here looking to make a ruckus on us.”
“Make a ruckus?” Satrine asked. “I’ve got some questions for someone named Musky. That one of you?”
“What do you want to talk to Musky for?” the captain asked.
“That you?” she asked. “If not, it’s not your business.”
“People who want to talk to Musky is my business, stick.”
“Look,” Satrine said, pulling out one of the writs. “I’ve got a Writ of Seizure here that says I can come in here with a whole passel of patrolmen, haul every last one of you away in irons, and put everything that isn’t nailed down in lockaway. But that’s gonna be a mess. I ask Musky some questions, and maybe this can all just slip away nice and easy.”
The writ said nothing of the sort—it wasn’t a Writ of Seizure, and a Writ of Seizure didn’t even mean what she said—but she was banking on these kids not being able to read more than a handful of words. All they had to do was get out of her way and let her go up the stairs. She already knew from Linnia that Musky hung out in a flop on the fourth floor, and he was likely keeping her son there with him. Yetter, that was the boy’s name.
“Nice and easy, we can make things, skirt,” the captain said. He moved a bit closer to her, putting his hand on the handle of her handstick. “You wanna go up, you leave your weapons behind.”
&
nbsp; “No,” Satrine said. “That’s not how it’s going to work.”
“Oh?” He moved in a bit closer, his lips curling in a grotesque way as he came deeper into her space. He stroked her handstick. “And how is it gonna work?”
“You take a step away, and I go up those stairs,” she said. “And you go to bed tonight grateful that your arm isn’t broken.”
His hand went up to her face. “Now that isn’t easy—”
Satrine grabbed his forefingers and twisted. He screamed and dropped to his knees.
“See?” she said. “Just fingers.”
“You crazy slan! Why did you—”
She turned to the rest of the group in the lobby, putting as much fire in her eyes as she could. Saints knew this was just a bluff. “Anyone else need something broken? Or am I going to go up there now?”
The captain skittered away, cradling his hand to his chest. “Saints, lady, you didn’t have to—”
“I don’t need any trouble,” she said. She pointed to the girl with the facial scar, who had been impressed with her being an inspector. “You, come on. Bring me up to Musky.”
“I ain’t supposed to—”
“Well, today you are. Come on.” Satrine made for the stairs, and Face Scar came with her and led the way up the three flights to the flop. She gave a few hisses and whistles to other folks as they went up. Warnings: there’s a stick in the building. Satrine could hear a bit of scurrying behind the doors as they went up.
The girl knocked on the flop door on the top floor.
“What’s what?” someone shouted.
“There’s a stick inspector lady here to talk to Musky.”
The door opened, and an unkempt man peered at Face Scar.
“Inspector lady? The blazes?” He then noticed Satrine. “Saints, she is the blazes!”
“And she needs to talk to Musky,” Satrine said. “Step aside.”
“Or what?”
“Do we really have to press that?” Satrine asked. “I’ve got writs, I’ve got questions. This can be smooth as butter if you let it be.”
“Let the stick in,” someone called from inside. “I want to know what she wants.”
Unkempt stepped back, letting her into the flop. Face Scar followed behind, looking more like she was getting away with something, coming into the boss’s flop when she normally wasn’t allowed.
The place was a dingy, moldy-smelling hole. Four more Kickers sat at a table covered with beer bottles and greasy plates. Short-haired woman with a pair of knives on her hips. Dusky-looking fellow with a pair of hatchets. Short guy with a tetchball bat. Ugly bruiser with thick arms and an eyepatch.
And Musky—obviously Musky—lying on a bed in the middle of the room in his skivs.
Behind the table—over by the stove—was a young boy. Dirty face, nibbling on a hunk of dried meat as he sat on the floor.
“This is an inspector?” Musky asked. “They certainly are making a better breed of them nowadays.”
“That’s lovely,” Satrine said, letting the contempt flow out of her voice. “Mister Musky, I presume.”
“You’ve got writs, you’ve got questions?” he asked, sitting up in the bed. “You ain’t one of the specs from Aventil.”
“No, I’m with the Grand Inspection Unit,” she said. She paced a bit, to put herself close to the window, so she wouldn’t have the table between her and the boy. “We’re stationed out of Inemar, investigating large-scale crime throughout the city.”
“Fancy,” he said. “And that brought you to me?”
“Well, it brings me everywhere,” she said. “Yesterday I was at the Parliament.”
“Meet anyone special?” he sneered at her.
“Prince Escaraine,” she said.
“Really?” Eyepatch said.
“Shut it,” Musky shot at him. “What do you want, skirt? What’re your blasted questions?”
“I just have one question,” Satrine said. “Hey, Yetter?”
The boy looked up.
“Wanna go home?”
The four at the table got on their feet. Before they were all the way up, Satrine had the whistle to her lips, and her handstick out with her other hand. She swung out, crashing through the window, as she sent out the call as loud and as sharp as she could.
Now she just had to live long enough for help to arrive.
Chapter 15
SATRINE HAD SEVEN people between her and the door, and she had to get Yetter out that door with her. Four bruisers: Eyepatch, Hatchets, Short Hair, and Tetchball Bat. All of them brawlers, surely. Both Disheveled and Musky looked past their prime, but they couldn’t be discounted. Face Scar was farthest away, right in the doorway. She didn’t look like much, but Satrine knew not to minimize her threat. Any one of these people could put an end to her.
Eyepatch looked the roughest—and the closest. Satrine spit her whistle out at him, right at his good eye. That startled him enough for her to bring her handstick into his chest, and then flip it over across his head, while driving her knee into his tenders. As he dropped, she kicked at the table, knocking Hatchets and Short Hair back.
No one between her and Yetter, she charged toward him, drawing her crossbow with her left hand. She fired—a wild shot. She had been hoping to hit Musky, but instead got Disheveled in the leg. He screamed out and went down. When she reached Musky, Tetchball Bat was on her. He swung like he hoped to score a Triple Jack with her head. She darted backward, feeling the wide edge of the bat fly just past her nose. The hard swing threw him off balance, and she lurched forward, cracking her crossbow across his head. It shattered into a mass of splinters, and he stumbled dazed in front of her.
Grabbing Yetter’s arm with her left hand, she shoved her way past Tetchball and tackled Face Scar through the door. This got her in the hallway, dragging the kid along with her.
Face Scar screamed out, clawing at Satrine’s head, pummeling her on the shoulders and back. Not effective, but not pleasant either. Satrine pulled herself out of Face Scar’s paltry grip, and cracked her handstick across her jaw. Then she knocked her again, dropping the girl.
Now to the stairs. Satrine was already dizzy and winded, and her right leg was reminding her that she had been shot twice in the thigh this year. She was many years from the street brawler she had once been.
Or that girl who trained on a slow boat to Waisholm in between her psychic instruction sessions.
“Get up. Do it again.” Grieson watched from his deck chair as his four goons stepped away from the sparring circle.
Trini wiped the blood off her lip as she got on her feet. “Why can’t he shove this sewage in my brain like the princess stuff?” Her head was a swirly mess already—not just a bunch of useless book learning, but garbage about dinner forks and dresses and the sorts of things swells worried about. She was having dreams of going to the fancy school she had never been in and having friends she’d never met. Getting clobbered by Grieson’s goons over and over again didn’t help. They were all taller, stronger, and trained. Trini had bested plenty of street rats who had been the first two, but not the third. And certainly not four of them.
“Doesn’t work that way. This has got to be in your body, in your muscles. He can’t do that for you.”
“I can brawl fine,” she said, getting in the stupid stance he made her hold.
“Brawling is all right if it’s just you and someone else. You got to hold up against three, four, five others—”
“You get killed.”
“You control the situation or you get killed.”
“There’s no way to fight that many people and not get beat.”
“True,” Grieson said. “The secret is to keep going despite getting beat. Again.”
She took a moment to catch her breath, and pushed through the pain to pull little Yetter with her to the stairs.
A doorway in front of her burst open, and Short Hair came out, knives drawn. Satrine glanced behind her, and Hatchets had come out of the apartment she had just come from. Obviously the rooms up here were connected. And it wouldn’t be too long before the rest of them recovered enough to get out here.
“Back to the wall, kid,” she said, drawing out her handstick.
Short Hair and Hatchets both leaped at her at the same time. Short Hair pounced like a cat, knives first, while Hatchets swung in tight circles—not enough space in this hallway to really go wide. Satrine stepped to the side—to keep Yetter between her and the wall—knocking one of Short Hair’s blades with the handstick before pivoting and sweeping the stick at Hatchets’ tight swings.
She caught the handstick against the hatchet handles, below the blades, and pushed hard to throw him off balance into the wall. Short Hair came up with another swipe, which Satrine pulled back from. She could feel the blade pass by as it barely missed the tip of her nose. She kicked at Short Hair’s knee, while bringing the handstick into the girl’s sternum.
Both Short Hair and Hatchets reeled for a moment, and Satrine pushed Yetter toward the stairs. “Run!” He went like a crossbow bolt down the hallway, and Satrine tried to shove past Short Hair to do the same. Instead something yanked at her leg and Satrine fell to the floor.
She flipped herself over to land on her back, just in time to get her handstick up to block the two knives coming at her chest. She tried to pull up her leg, jam a knee into Short Hair’s side, but Face Scar was on the ground with her, holding on to her boot.
Satrine kicked, knocking Face Scar in the nose while holding back Short Hair’s desperate press to bury her knives into Satrine’s heart. Satrine kicked again, and this time her leg was free—as her foot had come completely out of her boot. She kicked Face Scar again, pushing the girl into Hatchets, who fell on top of Short Hair’s legs.
That distracted Short Hair enough for Satrine to jerk the knives to the side. Short Hair tried to push harder, but just jammed her knives into the floor. Satrine gave her two quick jabs to the face and scrambled out from under the girl.
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