A Parliament of Bodies

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  The trapmaster came into the light. “It’s all right, Raych,” he said. “This is the officer from the thing at the Parliament. What are you doing here, miss?”

  “There’s another machine,” Satrine said. “And a young woman is trapped in it. I don’t know—”

  He held up a hand. “Where?”

  “A house in Keller Cove.”

  He sighed. “All right, let me get my tools.” He slipped off again.

  The baker looked sheepishly at the ground. “He didn’t really tell me what happened at the Parliament. Pretended he couldn’t.”

  “I understand,” Satrine said. “But . . . he saved a lot a lives. Even if . . . I presume he doesn’t want the credit.”

  “No,” he said, coming back with a satchel strapped over his back. “Let’s keep my name out of the prints, shall we?”

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said.

  “Let’s keep it that way, hmm?” He shook his head. “My brother would not believe I’m helping the Constabulary.”

  “You’re helping the woman who’s trapped,” she said, going over to the pedalcart. She picked it off the ground. It was well built; save a few scrapes, it seemed in perfect shape.

  “What is that?” he asked, looking at it carefully.

  “A stripped down pedalcart my partner made,” she said.

  That seemed to get his attention. “That is fascinating. Rather.”

  She took her seat. “Get on and grab hold. We’re going to go pretty fast.”

  He did as he was told, sitting behind her and grabbing her waist.

  “Get back here safely,” the wife said, looking at him. “None of that—just don’t—”

  “Love you, too,” he said. Satrine started pedaling, and after a slow start, hit a good speed back to Keller Cove.

  “How did you possibly find me?” he asked over the rushing wind.

  “A cloistress gave me a wrapper from the bakery,” Satrine said.

  “Well, that makes perfect sense,” he said. “Carry on.”

  * * *

  The Parliament halls were quiet, at least from Dayne’s apartment. Such a stark difference from yesterday. In the next few days, it would be filled with commotion again. Soon the standing members would return from their archduchies, the new members would settle in, and the latest convocation of the Parliament would meet.

  In a hall violated by death and blood for the second time.

  Dayne wondered if that was going to be his legacy. No matter how much he tried to be a vessel of peace, to be the shield between the people and harm . . .

  No matter what, there were still deaths.

  Today he had failed again, with Sholiar right there. He had failed and the killer had escaped. His fault, yet again.

  Jerinne had gotten him back to the apartment in his weakened state, made him rest. He must have fallen asleep for a short time, and when he woke, Jerinne was gone. The sun had gone down—it was probably half past eight bells at this point—so she probably had to return to the Tarian Chapterhouse for the night.

  Dayne should sleep, should let himself recover fully from the physical and magical ordeal he had been through.

  But there was no chance he was going to sleep. Sholiar was here, in Maradaine. At liberty to kill countless more.

  Dayne wouldn’t allow it. Not one more death, not if he could help it.

  He washed his face and took out a fresh uniform. His dress uniform, bright blue with the kite shield emblem in gleaming silver on his chest. He wasn’t just going to stop Sholiar, he would show him who was stopping him. A Tarian. A trained warrior of the Order.

  He strapped the shield onto his arm, once again saying the oath, if only for his own ears.

  “With shield on arm and sword in hand

  I will not yield, but hold and stand.

  As I draw breath, I’ll allow no harm,

  And hold back death with shield on arm.”

  He glanced over to the looking glass hanging on the water closet basin. “Now get out there, Tarian,” he said to himself.

  As he opened the door, Inspector Welling was standing there, about to knock.

  “Inspector,” he said, trying to keep his surprise from showing. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need your help,” Welling said. “You’re . . . very ready, I see.”

  “Sholiar is out there,” Dayne said. “I’m not going to fail again.”

  “That’s why I need your help,” Welling said. “He’s apparently taken two new victims—my friend Joshea, and your protégée.”

  “Jerinne?” Dayne asked. “How? Are you certain?”

  “Honestly, no,” Welling said. “Sholiar captured my cousin and left her on my front stoop with a message for me. For us.”

  “Another one of his games,” Dayne said with a sneer. “What’s the message?”

  “You and I go to the Kittrick Hotel in Fenton by nine bells. Or else they die.”

  Dayne understood this game. “And there would be consequences if any other Constabulary or Tarians show up?”

  “So I’m led to believe.”

  “Then let’s waste no more time,” Dayne said. “I’ll not fail you, Inspector. Not again.”

  “Nor I you,” Welling said. “We’ll save our friends, and bring him to justice.”

  Dayne smiled and bolted down the hallway, calling out, “Come on. We’ll hold back death together.”

  * * *

  Jace was standing just in the entryway of the Welling home—just within the bounds of not breaking the rules—when Satrine rode up with the trapmaster on the back of the pedalcart.

  “That was fast,” Jace called out as she ran up the walkway to the front stoop. “Which is good. Corrie’s been having a blazes of a time keeping everyone at bay.”

  “Language, son,” the trapmaster said with a smirk.

  “Who’s this fellow?” Jace asked, following them both as they came into the foyer.

  “He’s the guy who disarmed the contraptions at the Parliament,” Satrine said. “And that’s all you need to know.”

  “It’s already a bit too much,” the trapmaster said.

  They came into the sitting room, where Nyla now stood in the center, the furniture cleared away from her. Only Corrie, Nyla’s parents, and the Yellowshield cousin were still in there with her; the rest had decamped to the dining room.

  “All right,” the trapmaster said. He took a deep sigh and looked around the room. “I don’t suppose any of you care to clear out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving my daughter,” her father said.

  “I understand, Mister—” The trapmaster looked at his badge. He almost choked for a second, and covered it. He glanced back at Satrine. “Get them all out of here. I don’t care what you have to do. I’m going to get set up.”

  He pulled a small table and chair over and opened up his toolkit.

  Satrine tried to appeal to them. “Mister and Missus Pyle—”

  “Sergeant Pyle!” Nyla’s father shouted.

  The trapmaster slammed his hand on the table. “Out!”

  “This is delicate work,” Satrine said. “The fewer distractions he has, the better.”

  “Cole, dear,” Nyla’s mother said. “Maybe we should—”

  “Mama!” Nyla called.

  “Tricky,” Corrie said. “You’re sure you got this?”

  “I’m sure this is her best chance,” Satrine said. “That’s as sure as I can give you.”

  “Emma, Cole,” Corrie said. “Let’s clear the blazes out.”

  “I can’t—” Emma cried.

  “Go!” Nyla shouted. “Please, I love you, please.”

  The Yellowshield touched Satrine on the shoulder. “I’ll be just in the next room if you—if anything . . .” Her eye
s were full of tears.

  They all went into the dining room, where the rest of the Wellings were congregated. The trapmaster crossed the room to shut the door on them. “Sure, I’ll go help,” he muttered. “In a huge Constabulary family house.”

  “Get it together,” Satrine whispered to him, grabbing his shoulder. “That girl is terrified and you’re her only chance.”

  “I know,” he shot back. Glaring hard at her, he added, “I’m about to save the daughter of the man who killed my father, so you’ll grant me a moment to collect myself.”

  Satrine stepped away from him, not sure what she could say to that. She went over to stand at Nyla’s side.

  “Why are you still here?” Nyla asked her, her voice trembling.

  Satrine grabbed her hand. “Because if this goes poorly, your family already hates me.”

  Nyla squeezed her hand back so hard, it felt like it was going to break. “Please, please, I can’t—”

  “I know,” Satrine said. “Just look at me.”

  “All right,” the trapmaster said, sitting down in front of Nyla. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  Nyla looked up at the ceiling, breathing slowly and deliberately. “I’m not going to die here,” she said slowly. “There’s no way I’m going to die holding your hand.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Satrine said. “Trust me, hate is a fantastic survival tool.”

  “Trust you, sure,” Nyla said. “A cheat and a fraud.”

  “This is fascinating,” the trapmaster said. “I mean the work, not your squabbles.”

  “Can you disarm it?”

  “I’m going to give you a very qualified ‘maybe.’” He got up and walked around her. “Latch, hasp, gear, gear, and . . . yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “I found what I’m looking for, that yes,” he said. He counted the ticks of the gears for a moment. “Yeah, time to move fast.”

  “Fast?”

  “Rather,” he said, grabbing a tool. “I’m not certain, but I think this thing will decapitate her in two minutes.”

  “What?” Nyla screamed.

  “Or sooner,” he said. He gingerly patted her by her shoulders. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Springs are poised to release, and the turning of this mechanism is holding them back.”

  “Which means?” Satrine asked.

  “It means I can’t just take out the screws or jam the gears. The mechanics running is what is keeping her alive. If I stop the gears, clonk.”

  “Clonk?”

  “Forgive my ineloquent language,” he said. “Now, if our man who made this is true to form, there’re a few fail-safes in here. He’s a redundant cuss.”

  “Mister,” Nyla said. “Please, I don’t want to die.” She clutched at Satrine’s hand again.

  “Right,” he said. “Damn and blazes. Tell me quick, I saw a whole lot of people in that next room. All family, Miss Pyle?” He was taking out a number of tiny clamps and cutters and was placing them in various spots on the device on her body.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So, who’re the two who’ve got the best hands? I’m talking about precision.”

  “Davis and Ferah!” she said quickly.

  “I like the certainty,” he said. “Davis! Ferah! Get in here!”

  The door flew open and they ran in. “What, what?”

  “All right, here’s the thing,” he said as he walked around to her back. He further fiddled with the device while giving instructions. “You want her to live, four things have to happen simultaneously. Ferah, you’re the Yellowshield, hmm? Stand at her right side, get your hands on that clipper. Davis, grab the handles of those clamps at her waist. Don’t waste time, just kneel down.”

  They did as they were told.

  “All right, Inspector, you get the worst job,” he said. “And we’ve got seconds. Grab this right here.”

  Satrine moved around to Nyla’s back, where he had cut away at some fabric to reveal a pull zip holding the device shut.

  “The cuss used a strappercoat as the base of this, which helps us out,” the trapmaster said. “Now, I’m going to count to three, and on three: Ferah, you snip; Davis, you clamp; and Inspector, you unzip that thing like it’s on fire. Which it just might be. You got me?”

  “Got,” Satrine said.

  “All right, Miss Pyle,” he said, cupping her face. “I’m going to pull on this evil thing, and you got to jump back out of it as fast as you possibly can.”

  “Fast as I rutting can,” she said, sweat pouring off her forehead.

  “That’s the spirit,” he said, placing his hands on the front of the device. “Prayers if you’ve got them. And one, two . . . three!”

  Satrine pulled down the zip as hard as she could, and in the same moment Ferah and Davis acted, while the trapmaster twisted two parts and yanked. Nyla screamed and jumped back, falling onto Satrine.

  The trapmaster hurled the thing across the room, where it suddenly became alive with snapping and slicing, shredding itself in the process.

  Nyla cried out, grabbing Satrine in a frantic embrace. “I’m alive, I’m alive, he did it, I’m alive.”

  “Saints and sinners,” the trapmaster said, sucking on his finger. “Got a piece of me. Not a good couple days for my fingers.”

  Nyla scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around him. “You did it you did it every saint be praised.” She kissed him repeatedly on the cheek.

  “All right, all right,” he said, extricating himself from her. “I am a married man.”

  The rest of the family rushed in, grabbing Nyla and hollering in joy.

  “Do you want me to look at your hand?” Ferah asked the trapmaster.

  “It’s a scratch,” he said quickly. He stepped away to the foyer. “Not a worry.”

  Nyla’s father strode right at him. “Sir,” he said, grabbing the trapmaster in a mad embrace. “You’ve done a great service.”

  Satrine extricated the man. “All right, don’t smother him.”

  “I did . . . what any decent man would do,” the trapmaster said. “Much to my surprise.”

  “Even still.” Nyla’s father dug his calling card out of his pocket. “You ever need anything, I am in your debt.”

  The trapmaster took the card and nodded. “I suppose you are,” he said.

  “I’ll see you out,” Satrine said. She grabbed him by the arm and led him out the door.

  “I think I can find my own way back home,” he said sharply once they were outside, pulling himself free of her grip.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Yeah, well . . . she didn’t deserve to die because her father . . . yeah. I appreciate your discretion, though,” He shook his head, looking at the calling card. “I suppose you should get back to your people.”

  “My people?” she asked.

  He pointed to Nyla’s father in the window as he flipped the card over his fingers with the practiced ease of a born thief. “You’re both Waish, aren’t you?”

  “Where do you—”

  He showed the card to her. “Cole Pyle. That’s a Waish name if I ever heard one. Thought I suppose it’d be spelled something frightful—”

  The gears in Satrine’s own thoughts suddenly snapped together. The trapmaster had unlocked the thing that had been bothering her for two days.

  “Corrie!” she cried out. Turning to the trapmaster once more, she said, “Thank you, absolutely. Saints’ blessings on you and yours.” She ran back into the Welling house, calling for Corrie again.

  Now it made sense.

  “Corrie,” she said, coming into the room where the Welling family was celebrating. “Do you have your writ pad here?”

  “Of course,” Corrie said, handing it over. “What the blazes for?”

  “Because we need a Writ
of Search,” Satrine said, filling out a request. “Now. I need a page.”

  “What do you need?” Jace asked, stepping up.

  “You ain’t a blazing page!” Corrie said.

  “You need someone to run,” Jace said, looking at Satrine. “I can do that.”

  Satrine tore off the request and put it in his hands. “Head to the Inemar office, give this to Inspector Kellman. Have him put in the writ, and once he has it, meet me at HTC Imports on the north side.”

  “Meet us,” Corrie said, grabbing her belt and coat off the hooks by the door.

  “You’re coming?” Satrine asked. “Shouldn’t you—?” She nodded to the rest of the family.

  “It’s fine,” Corrie said. “Minox is out in the night, going after the bastard who did this to Nyla. That’s where I want to be as well.”

  “Let’s go, then,” she said. “One more favor, Jace?”

  “Name it, Tricky,” he said with a wink.

  “Head to 14 Beltner after that, in High River. Let my family know it’s going to be a very late night.”

  Chapter 24

  MINOX HAD NEVER been in this part of the city before. Most of the Fenton neighborhood was reminiscent of the stretch of “loyal houses” in Keller Cove that the Welling family lived in. Older houses, built larger and farther apart. No brick whitestones cramped together here, let alone crumbling tenements.

  But while the houses had a certain elegance, even in the dark of night it was clear that many of them were in disrepair. Fallen eaves, collapsed porches, and half-dead trees that tangled through broken windows. Houses like this were noticeable in the southern part of the neighborhood, but once he and Dayne were in the northern part, they had become the norm. As far as Minox could tell, these blocks were nearly unpopulated.

  “Here’s the absurd thing,” Dayne said, noting Minox’s confusion. “This neighborhood is expensive to live in. Or at least, it recently became that. It was a neighborhood for artists, writers, performers, and it was very popular for a few years near the end of the war. So rents went up, and soon the artists all left, and the allure faded. The money stopped flowing here. So you had people with houses they couldn’t afford to sell or repair.”