What the blazes was Quoyell into?
Another couple blocks. Another few fibers. She had no sense of where they were, or how long she had before they were out of the public eye. She had to get free, and quickly.
She cut through another bit of rope, and she now had enough play to twist her hand out of the knot. Her wrists were ravaged, raw and torn, but she had one hand out, and then the other.
The cart hit a hole in the road, bouncing Satrine up into the lid of the trunk. It popped open. She sat up as quick as she could, looking around and getting her bearings. Darkened road, houses and shops, a few streetlamps lit. She was in one of five trunks on the cart.
Quoyell turned from the driver’s seat, noticing she was out. He dropped the reins and lunged at her.
Rather than let him grab her on his terms, she jumped backward off the cart. He overreached to get hold of her, and she latched on to his wrist as she fell. That pulled him off the seat, and they both tumbled onto the cobblestones as the cart trundled on.
She landed on her back, sharp pain shooting through her. Despite that, she got on her feet. Quoyell was up as well, his great fist coming down on her head.
“I will not let you—” he started.
She didn’t let him finish, taking a jab at his nose, knocking him back, and then burying the knife in his shoulder. He screamed and dropped to his knees. A couple of people on the street ran over, either to help or to gawk.
“Constabulary!” she said, kicking him down so she could force him on his face. “Get to a whistlebox and call me a wagon!”
“But I—”
“Stop her!” Quoyell shouted. “I am a King’s Marshal and I order you to stop her!”
Satrine planted her knee in his back, keeping him on the ground. The two people stood dumbly for a moment. Fortunately, Satrine was still wearing her inspector’s vest, while Quoyell was out of uniform.
“Call a wagon,” she said calmly. “And let them sort it out.”
One of them—the man of the couple—ran over to the corner and called the wagon. The woman still stood, staring transfixed at Satrine.
Quoyell stopped struggling. “You’re a fool, Rainey. You can’t charge me. You don’t have authority or jurisdiction.”
“You tied me up and put me in a trunk,” Satrine said. “That’s abduction, and of an officer of the law. That’s definitely in my jurisdiction.”
“Based on your word?” he sneered. “Against a marshal’s?”
“And mine,” the woman said quietly. She looked up at Satrine. “I’ll bear witness to whatever you need. Saw you come out of that trunk.” She handed a calling card over. Missus Irilia Hammond.
Two horsepatrol rode over. “What’s what?” one of them asked.
“Pass me your irons,” Satrine said. “I’m Inspector Rainey of the Grand Inspection Unit, and I’ve got a lawful arrest here.”
“She does not!” Quoyell shouted. “I am a King’s Marshal!”
“I read about her,” the other horsepatrol said. He tossed his irons over to Satrine. “She’s a right lunatic, but she’s the real thing.”
Satrine accepted that, shackling Quoyell up and hauling him to his feet. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“What you need, Inspector?” one of the horsepatrol asked.
“Get control over his cart,” she said, though the horse had stopped walking with any urgency. “There are four other trunks, and I bet they aren’t empty.”
The horsepatrolman trotted off and led the cart back over to them.
“This is illegal seizure!” Quoyell shouted. “You have no right or cause—”
“I was abducted and put in that open trunk,” Satrine said. “Cause enough to search the others.”
The patrolman had hopped onto the cart and opened one up. “Oh, sweet saints,” he said. He looked over to Quoyell. “What sort of sick business were you doing?” He hurried to open the other trunks.
Passing Quoyell over to the other horsepatrolman, Satrine went over to the cart. Each of the trunks had three small children piled into them, shackled together. None of them were moving. Satrine reached in, touching their faces and chests. All warm. All breathing. Thank every saint.
“What is this, specs?” the horsepatrolman asked.
“Saints only know,” Satrine said. She turned to Quoyell. “I will see you thrown into a very dark hole for this.”
Quoyell didn’t speak. And his expression told her he wasn’t planning on it. It didn’t matter.
“Call me a wagon to get to the docks, and then get this one to the Inemar Stationhouse for processing. And let’s bring these victims to Riverheart, or whatever hospital is closest.”
A wagon came in a few minutes—far more efficient here on the north side than in Inemar—while a cadre of Yellowshields came for the children. After they were secure, the horsepatrol escorted Satrine and her lockwagon back to the HTC docks. When she arrived, Kellman was there with a squad and Leppin’s people, as well as Mister Hilsom, who was looking both angry and exhausted.
“Rainey,” Kellman said as they approached. “Where the blazes were you? We got here, no sign, but we served the writ and started our search.”
“I was abducted,” she said. “But I brought back a prize.”
Hilsom looked in the back of the wagon. “That’s Chief Quoyell of the King’s Marshals.”
“I’m aware. He abducted me.”
“But why—”
“Because he was behind this. Along with whatever Hunsen and Cole were doing here in the HTC. You have the ship?”
“Ship?” Kellman asked.
“They were loading a ship,” she said. “You’re telling me it’s gone?”
Leppin came over, carrying a waste bin that had wisps of smoke coming out of it. “Didn’t see a ship at all.”
“Call out the River Patrol,” she said. “There’s probably a ship heading downstream to the ocean, with no lamps. Maybe Corrie saw it, saw when it launched. It must just be downriver, we should—”
“Corrie?” Kellman asked. Was he going to repeat everything back to her as a dumbfounded question?
“Corrie Welling,” Satrine said. “She was here with me. She was keeping watch just a ways away while I— She isn’t here?”
Kellman looked pale and spooked. “No, Tricky. Haven’t seen a hair of her.”
Blast and blazes. “Go find her.” She looked at the rest of the squad. “Spread out, look for Sergeant Welling!”
Kellman nodded and called out orders to the squad, his voice cracking with desperate urgency.
Satrine looked to Leppin. “Did we find anything in the search, at least?”
He nodded. “A few crates, with children, shackled and drugged.”
“The missing ones?”
“I don’t have any way to identify them right now,” he said. “We’re calling Yellowshields in. Hopefully they’ll recover.”
Satrine shuddered. “They said they had already loaded some on the ship. And others were on the wagon that Quoyell took me away on. What the blazes were they doing with these kids?”
“Unless the kids can tell us, we probably won’t find out.” Leppin held up the bin. “A handful of ledger books, badly burned.”
Satrine shook her head. “So we have nothing? This was useless?”
He shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do. I have a few tricks for these books that might tell us something.”
Hilsom came back over. “You’re going to press and testify for abduction?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Between that and the children, we must have him for a dozen charges.”
“Maybe. We can at least get him for you, with strong testimony.”
“He had children in the cart with him as well,” Satrine pointed out.
Hilsom nodded. “That’ll help.” He glanced over
to the lockwagon, where Quoyell sat stoically. The marshal didn’t look the slightest bit nervous or worried. “I’m just saying, my instinct is that it won’t be an easy case.”
“Is it ever?” Satrine asked.
“No, but he’s sure to—”
Before Hilsom finished that thought, a blinding violet light engulfed the lockwagon. Satrine shielded her eyes and grabbed Hilsom as the light burst out throughout the street corner in a deafening blast. They both were knocked to the ground, covered in ash and splinters.
“What—what was that?” Hilsom shouted. Satrine imagined his ears were ringing as badly as hers.
“Magic,” she said loudly. The world was dull and muted, her eyes filled with the echo of light. But her vision had recovered enough to see the lockwagon had been reduced to nearly nothing, and its passenger a pile of charred bones.
“Saints, is that—” Hilsom said as they approached.
“Chief Quoyell,” Satrine said, looking around. “Did anyone see where that came from? We have a mage assassin here!”
Patrolmen scrambled, but Satrine wasn’t sure if they were running to search for the killer, or to hide.
Not that it mattered. Chief Quoyell was gone, and with him, their best chance for answers.
Kellman came back over carrying something. “Found this in the alley refuse.” It was a crossbow. Constabulary issue.
“Nothing else there?” Satrine asked.
He shook his head mournfully. “I . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”
Then Satrine remembered what she had heard in the trunk. The other one, going to the ship. Young, strong, pain in the ass.
Corrie.
“They got her, too,” Satrine said, tears blurring her vision as she watched the dark river. “They got her on that goddamned boat.”
* * *
There had been no sign of Sholiar in the remains of the hotel. No sign of anyone. Minox had to hope that the hotel register was an honest document, that no victims were left behind.
The only other witness of the whole thing had been Rencir. He obviously hadn’t run far, once he was clear of the place, instead standing on the curb across the deserted street.
“What happened in there, Minox?”
Minox had barely taken four steps away, now propping up Joshea as he weakly limped with him. “Are you asking me as a source?”
Rencir took a moment, and then said. “Not if you don’t want to be. And . . . I shouldn’t write a story that I was a part of.”
“There shouldn’t be a story,” Joshea whispered.
Rencir nodded. “If you feel that way, Minox, I’ll honor that.”
Minox considered this, and he didn’t have an answer. There was too much to digest. “For now, leave it be,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Well, this has been the worst night of my life,” he said. “But I’m glad to be standing here, breathing.”
“Did you see anyone else leave?”
“The ones I was with—the Veracity folk? They left right behind me. I stayed and saw the big guy and some girl, and then the whole place collapsed and you two are here.”
No Sholiar. He probably had his own way out.
“We should get you to a hospital ward,” Minox told Joshea. “Probably you as well, Rencir.”
“I’m not injured,” Rencir said.
“No hospital ward,” Joshea said. “I can’t—”
“The stationhouse doctor, at least,” Minox said. “Just to be checked out before you go home.” Joshea acquiesced to that. The three of them stumbled out of the desolate neighborhood until they reached a main avenue, and finally hailed a cab that took them back to Inemar.
Minox let himself collapse in the cab’s seat, the full weight of everything he did finally hitting his body. Joshea lay there, half asleep, while Rencir sat in awkward silence. Minox wasn’t certain if it was because he was refraining from asking questions, or if he was still in shock from his own experience.
When they crossed the bridge, Rencir got up to hop out. “I’ll check in with you in a few days,” he said. “I won’t print anything unless you agree.”
“Thank you,” Minox said, and Rencir went off into the night.
“Are you hungry?” he asked Joshea.
“Ravenous,” Joshea said. “That’s what I need more than to see a doctor.”
At this hour, the options were limited. Missus Wolman and her reliable cart were surely home for the night. He remembered one of Corrie’s suggestions. “There’s a pub about half a block from the stationhouse that serves stews and sausages deep into the night. I understand it’s a favorite of the night patrol.”
“You realize he’s just in his skivs,” the cab driver—a man who looked like he could be Acserian or Imach, though his accent was pure far-north Maradaine—told them, turning his attention from the road. “And you barely look better. Whatever business you all had tonight, and it looks rough, you can’t go in some pub like that.”
“Also, money,” Joshea said.
“You two better have money,” the driver said.
Minox wasn’t sure if he did.
“Then go to the Constabulary stationhouse, sir,” Minox said. “I have some bills in my desk.”
“You expect me to wait here for you?” the driver asked.
“Yes,” Minox said. “I’m an officer of the Constabulary, sir.”
“Fine. But the naked man stays.”
“Bring me a coat or something,” Joshea said.
Minox stumbled out of the cab—he felt as weak as a kitten, and made his way to the stairs to the inspectors’ floor. There was an unusual amount of commotion and activity on the main work floor for the late hour. He was so distracted by that and his exhaustion, he was taken by surprise when someone grabbed his coat and pulled him into a closet by the staircase.
He reacted defensively, or at least tried to, but he didn’t have the strength to even push back. But in a moment he saw it was Inspector Rainey.
“Minox,” she whispered low. “Why are you here?”
“I came back after—why are you? Is Nyla—”
“Nyla’s fine, I got her free. But—a lot has happened, too much to explain right now.”
“I could say the same. In the morning—”
“Yes, but . . . do you trust me?”
“Of course,” he said.
She glanced around cautiously, despite the fact they were in a closet and no one else was around. “Then continue to trust me, no matter what I say.”
“Of course.”
She nodded. “Joshea, Jerinne? They all right? Dayne?”
“Everyone is . . . alive and not significantly injured,” he said.
“And you didn’t bring in Sholiar in irons.”
“He’s escaped again, yes. And . . . many things happened. I’m not sure how I can make a proper report of it.”
“Then don’t,” she said. He must have shown his surprise. “Just . . . you weren’t there in any official capacity, and don’t write anything.” She sighed. “I will explain, it’s . . . I made a significant . . . revelation, if not arrest and . . . that’s not important. Just . . . I’m sorry, Minox. I’m so sorry.”
“What?”
“Your sister came with me, and . . . she’s gone.”
Minox’s breath stopped. “Corrie’s dead?”
She seemed to be holding back tears. “I don’t even know for certain. We only found her crossbow.”
“Only—” He couldn’t even conceive.
“Just hold yourself together,” she said. “I know, I know it’s a lot, if anyone—”
“No, I—” He paused. “We all know each ride out could be our last.”
He said the words, but he didn’t feel them. His heart was screaming, but he couldn’t let that show.
&n
bsp; “There’s so much more that happened, Minox,” she said. “But this is the most important part: I’m pretty sure we were betrayed. Someone warned them we were coming.”
“Who?”
She shook her head. “No way of knowing. Kellman or the boys on Iorrett’s squad had easy opportunity, but frankly it could be anyone working late in this house or in the Protector’s Office.”
Minox took this in. He remembered Leppin telling him about evidence going missing, including all records that the evidence even existed.
“And you suspect that this betrayal involves a grander scope.”
“Almost definitely. This was the children, Minox.”
“You found the missing children?”
“We rescued fifteen,” she said. “But . . . who knows how many there were total.”
He took this in, but he was having a hard time concentrating. Between his fatigue and the news about Corrie . . . he could barely think straight. “I need to handle other things right now . . .”
“Of course. Go upstairs, do whatever you came here to do.”
“Get some money and clothes for Joshea.”
She furrowed her brow. “I’ll be upstairs in a moment. I have an idea, and just— no matter what I do . . .”
“I trust you.” He meant it.
She prodded him out of the closet, and he went up the stairs. As he went to his desk, Kellman and a few of the squad were all standing around, their faces downcast.
“Jinx, hey,” Kellman said. “What are you—did you come in because—”
“I just need some things from my desk,” he said.
“No, sit down,” Kellman said. “Saints, you look like blazes.”
“With good reason.”
“Yeah, sure, but—saints, someone has to tell you. I’m sure the cap would want to do it in some official way, but . . . Tricky and your sister went to stake something out, and we got the writ request and went out to join them. By the time we got there, they had both been nabbed—”
Both? Minox took that in.
“Tricky had managed to get away, and bring back the crook. That rutting chief from the King’s Marshals.”
“Quoyell? He abducted them?”
A Parliament of Bodies Page 35