A Parliament of Bodies

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Where the blazes are you?” Dayne shouted.

  “Mind your temper, Tarian,” Sholiar said. The voice seemed to come from every direction at once. More of Sholiar’s clever madness, or did he actually have magic on his side? He definitely understood magic, enough to make the gauntlet and the trigger of Nyla’s trap.

  Minox managed to pull his gauntleted hand free of the lever. The metal had been scorched, but its ability to dampen his magic hadn’t diminished.

  But if his hand had been normal flesh, it probably would have been irrevocably destroyed by doing that.

  Sholiar said his sacrifice. Maybe Sholiar didn’t know about Minox’s hand, what it was. That he didn’t feel any pain through it. No reason to let Sholiar know different. He could play that high card later. As he extracted himself from the press, a key fell down from a hole in the ceiling. Rencir picked it up and unlatched his collar, and then gave it to Miss Shartien.

  “What the blazes is this, Welling?” Rencir asked. The poor man looked an absolute fright, his skin pale and clammy. He looked like it was taking every bit of willpower he had to not vomit.

  “This is Sholiar, the Gearbox Killer,” Minox said.

  “Saints, for real?” Rencir said. “I thought . . . but why . . .”

  “I had to give these boys a test,” Sholiar said. “See how much resolve they had when the victims are people they have mild affection for.”

  “So now what?” Dayne shouted.

  “Now, you all have a choice,” Sholiar said. Two doors—which Minox hadn’t even noticed before—opened on their own. One of them revealed a back alley outside, the other a staircase. “You are all free to leave, if you wish. Or delve further into the adventure.”

  “Jerinne and Joshea,” Dayne said.

  Minox nodded. “We don’t all have to make the same choice, do we, Sholiar?”

  “Oh, it would be delicious to torture you with that, wouldn’t it? Make you choose between taking the beefy mustache there to a doctor or saving the others. But I’m not in the mood for that. Each of you can make your own choice, without hurting the others.”

  Rencir bolted outside.

  “Go,” Dayne told Miss Shartien. “Get Hemmit to a doctor.”

  As she and Niol helped Eyairin to the door, Sholiar’s voice came through again. “That said, should any Constabulary or marshal or even a fire brigadier come too close to the hotel, well . . . I can’t be responsible for what might happen.”

  “Are you going to be all right?” Shartien asked Dayne.

  “We will,” he said. “Go.”

  They went out the door, and then it slammed shut. A moment later, the shield in the printing press snapped and it slammed down as well.

  “Oh, I wish I could take credit for that,” Sholiar said. “You best hurry, gentlemen. Gears are turning, springs are winding. Miss Fendall and Mister Brondar do not have all night.”

  Chapter 25

  SATRINE STALKED AROUND to the other side of the HTC dockhouse. She wasn’t sure what she was going to find, if anything, but even though she was deep within her own whims of presumption, she couldn’t shake the feeling of absolute certainty. It felt right.

  She only wished her foot felt right as well. The damned boot kept digging into the arch of her foot, and it annoyed the blazes out of her. After tonight Nyla damned well better rush a requisition for her to get a new pair. Nyla would probably never stop hating her, but she should at least start giving Satrine some grudging respect.

  She couldn’t get to the HTC dock from here, not without blatantly trespassing, and that would spoil whatever case could be made. She had to keep that in mind. She was already flirting with all sorts of trouble. If she was right, this would come right up to the edge of the jurisdictional fight they had already lost to the marshals. Of course, if she was right, then that part wouldn’t matter. But that wasn’t something she could prove at all. Not yet. She could see to the river, though, and that at least confirmed the gut feeling she had had about coming here right now.

  There was a ship at the HTC dock, heavy in the water. Loaded with cargo. A few men worked rolling crates, with an expectant energy to their actions. None of the ships’ lamps were lit, though. Nothing she saw was illegal, but there was every sense that the ship was being prepped for launch very soon.

  And no one runs a ship at night with no lamps unless they were doing something very shady.

  She strained to hear their voices, hoping to catch something that would justify going in right now. She knew it would be ridiculous to charge in, just her and a crossbow. She should wait for the writ. Wait for Kellman and the squad.

  Kellman. She was going to have to be stuck partnering with him while Welling rotted in the archives. That was a waste. Kellman wasn’t horrible, but he had definitely picked up Mirrell’s worst habits. She might be able to train him, though. He at least listened to her.

  He wasn’t a bad sort, she kept telling herself. He had stuck up for her when she was found out. He had gotten hurt helping her fight Pra Yikenj, and he got up with a smile and went back to work the next day.

  Kellman would work out. She’d make it.

  And Welling . . .

  She just hoped Welling survived the night. She feared that Joshea Brondar and Jerinne Fendall were already dead, and Welling and Dayne were just going to walk into their own deaths. She didn’t know what to make of Sholiar, but he was clearly a deranged genius, and nothing about the man could be safe or trusted.

  No. Minox was brilliant as well. He’d see it all clearly, he’d figure it out. If anyone was going to outthink Sholiar, it would be Minox Welling.

  Presuming he was thinking straight.

  Satrine was so deep in her own reverie she didn’t notice the horse cart pulling up to the dockhouse. Someone had come outside to greet it. Even from this distance and the dim moonlight, Satrine could recognize that one. He had screamed at her enough in the boiler room. She wasn’t sure if it was Cole or Hunsen, but that didn’t matter. His presence was enough to confirm at least that part of her theory. She moved as close as she dared to not be spotted.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the cart driver. “You weren’t supposed to be here until midnight.”

  “Time’s gone short,” the driver said. “I need the ones for Senek, and that boat needs to get gone.” That voice was familiar, but Satrine wasn’t certain if she was right, or just wanted to be.

  “Saints and sinners,” the man at the door said. He opened up the dockhouse doors. “Get in here.”

  As the horse cart pulled in, Satrine slipped over to the main door. Now, as far as she was concerned, she had cause. But she still had to find out more, find out for sure. She checked her crossbow—loaded and ready.

  As they closed the dockhouse door behind the cart, she went through the main door and trained her crossbow at the two men.

  “What a surprise seeing the two of you together,” she said as they turned around. “Hands high, nothing fast.”

  “Who the blazes are you?” the man from the boiler room asked.

  “Inspector Satrine Rainey of the Grand Inspection Unit,” she said. “I saved your life yesterday, remember? And you would be either Hunsen or Cole. But I’m guessing Cole, yes?”

  “Shut it,” he said.

  She looked at the driver. “He’s Cole, isn’t he? Your, what, nephew or distant cousin? And that’s why you’re connected to this, aren’t you, Chief Quoyell?”

  * * *

  Corrie hadn’t seen Tricky for too many clicks, and still no sign of Kellman, Iorrett, or anyone else from the stationhouse. It was a whole mess of trouble, that was for damn sure.

  She was tempted to declare cause—a missing inspector certainly qualified—blow a Runner Call on her whistle and charge in. At least, if she was wrong, she’d be the one to take the heat from the City Protector. Mister Hilsom hated he
r anyway, and the feeling was mutual.

  But if she blew her whistle, then she might screw things up for Tricky. Screw up the writ that was probably on the way. Jace went to get it, and he would pester the sinners out of Kellman until it was on the way. And if it wasn’t, she knew damn well Jace would run here himself to tell them.

  That kid, he was something else. Proud as blazes of him.

  Which made her wonder how their brother Oren had turned out to be such a knob. Probably the influence of Timm’s boys.

  “Hey, hey, skirt.”

  She looked up to see two footpatrol steves wandering up to her.

  “That’s Sergeant Skirt to you tossers,” she said. “What’s your stumble?”

  “What are you, south side?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah, Inemar,” she said. “You from Trelan Stationhouse?”

  “That’s right,” the other asked. “You really a sergeant?”

  “Yeah,” she said, pointing to the chevron on her sleeve.

  “She’s young for sergeant.”

  “I ain’t seen any sergeant this young. How old are you, skirt?”

  “Nineteen, you got a problem with that?” she asked. “I did my—never mind, boys. Look, I’ve got a specs who went investigating something and she’s overdue.”

  “She’s overdue?” the first asked. “They do things different in Inemar. Skirt inspectors, skirt sergeants.”

  Rutting blazes, these two.

  “Right,” she told them. “Look, I’ve got cause to run at that dockhouse, and I’m going to whistle the Runner Call, and you two’ll need to have my rutting back, hear?”

  “That dockhouse?” one asked. “That one right there?”

  “Yeah, that rutting one, tosser.”

  “Hey,” the second one said. “That spec you’re missing, is she a Waishen-haired slan?”

  “Yeah, she—”

  Corrie knew she had rutted up as soon as she said this. His handstick was already coming down on her arm, knocking her crossbow out of her hand.

  “You blazing little pisswhistle,” she said, introducing her fist to his teeth.

  “Oh, she’s got fire,” he said, spitting out blood. “I bet she’s good for all kinds of spar.”

  “You want some spar?” she asked. She pulled out her handstick and jammed it at his gut. “I’ll give you some rutting spar!” She moved in close, driving her knee into his tenders. He screamed and grabbed her hair. His teeth full of blood, he hooted and slammed her nose with his head. That filled her eyes with rutting stars, and she fell to one knee.

  “She’s gonna make a good one, she is,” he said.

  “Saints, stop playing,” his partner said, and a handstick cracked across her skull.

  She saw nothing but stars as she was dragged away.

  * * *

  “You aren’t supposed to be here!” Quoyell shouted at her. “You don’t have the right or jurisdiction—”

  “Jurisdiction?” Satrine shot back. “So you admit that this is tied to the events at the Parliament.”

  “I’m not saying anything,” he said. “You are engaged in clear Constabulary misconduct by invading privacy without cause.”

  “Oh, I have cause. I even have a writ of search on the way. What I didn’t quite have was the connection, but this confirms the little buzz I had in the back of my head.” She turned back to Cole, pushing her point again. “So what is he? Uncle? Cousin?”

  That threw him. “How did—what—I mean . . . what a ridiculous idea.”

  “It’s not. It was bothering me for the past two days. I should have seen it sooner, but . . . it’s been rather busy.”

  “Oh, really?” Quoyell said. “Please, explain your great elucidation, Inspector.”

  “Your name is Waish,” she said. “I spent a few years in Waisholm, and so I recognized that. But what I had forgotten about is how Waish spelling is a bit odd compared to ours. Same letters, different rules. So what would get pronounced ‘Quoi-yell’ here, when you say it like the Waish would, is just ‘Cole.’”

  “Truly,” Chief Quoyell said flatly, “I’m dizzied by your deduction.”

  “I don’t care,” Satrine said, letting her anger build. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it’s going to be stopped. You—I know my husband was onto you—”

  “Your who?”

  “Inspector Loren Rainey!” she shouted. “He was found beaten and half-drowned right out there!”

  “First I’ve heard of him,” Quoyell said. “You mistake me for someone who cares.”

  “You should care!” She almost shot him with the crossbow right then. “You . . . you’re a goddamned King’s Marshal! You’re supposed to uphold the law and serve the king!”

  “No, I’m supposed to serve the throne and Druthal,” he said. “It’s a subtle difference.”

  “I don’t care how you justify it! You’re responsible for a dozen deaths, and for what?”

  “What is your point?” Cole asked. He almost looked bored.

  “The point is the two of you colluded to stage that atrocity on the Parliament floor—a horror show like the city has never seen before, and why? To divert all the city’s attention over there to buy yourself a few extra days, because that boat couldn’t arrive until now.”

  “That’s patently absurd,” Quoyell said, though his tone indicated she was hitting at the center. “You will never understand the reasons.”

  “And then you scrubbed the names of Cole, Tenning, and Hunsen from the victim lists because you didn’t want anyone to know they were involved. And I’m guessing that Tenning got cold feet, or was otherwise problematic, so you killed him today.”

  “If he’d just stayed calm,” Cole muttered.

  “Shut it,” Quoyell said.

  “So the only question I have right now is, where is Mister Hunsen?”

  “Oh, him?” Quoyell asked. “He’s behind you.”

  A hand grabbed the top of Satrine’s head, and slammed her into the floor.

  Chapter 26

  “ARE YOU HOLDING up?” Dayne asked Inspector Welling as they reached the top of the stairs.

  “I’m fine,” Welling said. “I’d rather we were done with this, with Sholiar in irons.”

  “That’s not going to happen, boys.” Sholiar’s voice echoed above them. “Though I respect the determination.”

  “You’re unwell,” Welling said.

  “Yes, you would know about that, wouldn’t you?” the disembodied voice said. Dayne was amazed at Sholiar’s technical ability—as always, the greatest shame was that genius of this level was tied to such a diseased mind. The good a man with Sholiar’s capacity could do if he were so inclined.

  Sholiar went on. “I mean, with your grandfather, your cousin Evoy. And you and Jillian aren’t far behind, are you?”

  Welling didn’t respond, but his face said volumes.

  “Now what, Sholiar?” Dayne shouted. The stairs had led to a small chamber with no obvious exits, beyond going back where they came. Dayne could hear the grinding of gears all around, though. “Is this your clever trap for us?”

  “Dayne, old top, there’s no trap for you. You already live in your own trap. Let me show you.”

  The wall opened up to reveal a large chamber, nearly the length of the whole building. Several of Sholiar’s machines were winding and cranking all around, but the center of Dayne’s attention was at the far end of the room. Jerinne was there, shackled at the ankles and waist. Dayne quickly saw the purpose of the machines: they were repeatedly firing crossbow bolts, steel balls, hammers, and other blunt instruments at Jerinne.

  She had her shield, and despite being immobilized, she was doing her best to block the attacks. Attacks barraged her from every direction, and her body was covered in welts. Sweat and blood pasted her hair to her face. She looked
exhausted. She couldn’t possibly keep up.

  “Look at her, old top,” Sholiar said. “I expected her to pass out after twenty minutes, but she’s been at this for nearly an hour.”

  Dayne charged forward on instinct, and before he knew it, he had pulled a tripwire. Three new machines sprang to life. Jerinne struggled to compensate, moving her shield as fast as she could, but took a steel ball in the leg. She cried out, but stayed standing.

  “Dayne, look out!” Welling yelled. Another machine flung a bladed disc across the room, which nearly hit him in the arm. Welling grabbed him and pulled him back up.

  “Be smart about it,” Welling said. “Watch the machines, learn the pattern. They’ve only got so much wind in them.”

  “She doesn’t have that kind of time,” Dayne said.

  “Just get the keys and unlock her, old top,” Sholiar said. Dayne saw it now: three keys hung on hooks from the ceiling. Right in the center of the room. Right in the crossfire.

  “You don’t have a shield,” Welling said, clearly seeing what Dayne was about to do.

  “I’m a Tarian,” Dayne said. “I am the shield.”

  He charged forward, bounding up on one of the machines and grabbing the first key. A hammer whizzed past him, inches from his ear. As he went for the second key, Welling darted into the room, sliding low and grabbing one of the steel balls that had already been fired. Winding his arm like pitching at tetchball, he hurled it at one of the machines, knocking it out of alignment. It fired its crossbow bolts far to Jerinne’s left.

  Dayne had the second key, and was about to grab the third when another bladed disc flew at him. He twisted to dodge it, but it sliced his arm as it went by.

  “Dayne!” Jerinne yelled. “Don’t—”

  She missed her block, focusing on him. A hammer hit her in the chest, and she collapsed as much as her shackles would let her.

  Dayne threw a key to Welling, who had managed to get closer to her, despite the waves of bolts and balls. Jerinne recovered, back on point with her shield, but she looked like she could barely get her breath as she struggled to defend herself.