People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  He went up to the door of the house, noting that there were more than a few folks with crossbows on the roof, and other fellows with handsticks on the grounds. One of those gentlemen was at the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, holding out his hand to block them.

  Dayne took that hand in a friendly shake. “Hi, I’m Dayne, this is Jerinne. We were hoping for a word with Mister Fenmere.”

  “Mister Fenmere isn’t going to see you.”

  “That’s surprising,” Jerinne said. “Saints, this morning we were on the palace grounds. Now some choad thinks they’re too good for us.”

  “Shut that mouth, girl,” the man said.

  “Make me,” Jerinne said.

  “Don’t think I won’t,” the fellow said, drawing his handstick.

  “Jerinne, there’s no need for a fight.”

  “I agree,” Jerinne said. “How about a bet?” She pointed her finger at the man. “I’ll give you ten tries. If you land a hit, we walk away. But I say you’ll swing at air ten times, and if you do, we go in to see Fenmere.”

  “It’s your teeth, girl.” The man made a show of flipping the handstick around for a moment to get it in position to punch with it like a knucklestuffer. It was a bit of silly excess, as if flamboyance could stand in for technique. He took a sharp, heavy jab at Jerinne, which she dodged easily. She took two steps back.

  “That’s one.”

  The guy charged at her, throwing several more punches that failed to connect.

  “And six, seven, eight,” Jerinne counted. “Two more.”

  “Hey, Deggie, what are you doing?” one of the other guards shouted. “Just flatten her!”

  “The girl moves like a mouse!” he yelled back. He tried to feint a punch with his right before bringing in a sucker shot with his left, but Jerinne saw it coming and stepped out of its way.

  “I’ll be kind and call that nine,” she said. “But really that was two punches at once.”

  “Damn it!” he yelled, charging to tackle her, but she rolled out of the way.

  “And that’s ten,” she said. “I win.”

  “Win this!” another fellow yelled, bringing up his crossbow. He fired in a snap, but Dayne was there with his shield. The bolt clanged off it and dropped to the ground. The other men brought up their weapons.

  “That’s enough!” a man at the door in an expensive suit said. “This has been quite entertaining, I’m sure, but there’s no need for such foolery. Mister Fenmere would like a word with these two Tarians.”

  “Spirited,” Jerinne said. “I appreciated the spar.”

  “Come on,” Dayne told her. “You can play later.” He was glad the conflict had ended here—the cheap shield he was carrying had been dented by the crossbow shot. He’d be hesitant to rely on it in a real fight.

  “Yes, Dayne,” she said in a mocking tone.

  They went inside, following the well-dressed man, and were led to a sitting room. Dayne had seen more of his share of rooms like it, but it was surprising in contrast to the cramped, shabby apartment three blocks away. Here, the furniture was impeccable, imported from the Kieran Empire if Dayne’s eye was correct. Several paintings hung in the room, including what looked like a Garston.

  The well-dressed gentleman left them alone in there for a moment.

  “This room is a brag,” Jerinne said. “He’s showing us how rich he is.”

  “If we didn’t grow up in noble households, we might be impressed,” Dayne said. He and Jerinne were both unusual within the Order, having been children of household staff, growing up in the presence of conspicuous wealth. Jerinne leaned in to the Garston, inspecting it as close as she could without touching it.

  “Do you like that one, young lady?” An older man, with a tightly trimmed graying beard, stood in the doorway. “The Last Stand of Queen Mara. I find it a good reminder that no amount of righteous fury can match the strength of numbers.”

  That was an interesting interpretation of the history. Mara, Druthal’s only female monarch, was ousted from her throne in a brutal insurrection, at one of the lowest points of the Shattered Centuries period. According to legend, she killed twenty of Lord Ferrick’s soldiers before dying, sword in hand, still sitting on her throne. Queen Mara was the inspiration for quite a few pieces of art, including Whit’s historical play, and the poem Killed but Never Defeated.

  “Interesting,” Jerinne said neutrally. “Queen Mara was the last monarch of the Line of Halitar, but quite a few nobles trace their heritage back to that line.”

  “Do they?” the man said with no sense that he was interested in what Jerinne was saying. “I under—”

  “Including Baron Fortinare, which is why his great-grandfather commissioned the The Last Stand of Queen Mara from Garston.”

  “Did he?” the man asked, now with an edge in his voice.

  “He did. That’s why the Baron has it proudly hanging in his study. But this, sir, is an excellent forgery.”

  The man’s jaw set, and he forced a smile to his lips as he looked to Dayne. “You’re Dayne Heldrin, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet the hero of the Parliament, the savior of the elections. We don’t get any real heroes in this neighborhood.”

  “You must be Mister Fenmere,” Dayne said.

  “In the flesh,” Fenmere said. “Though I am puzzled why two members of the Tarian Order would come to see me, just a simple businessman. It can’t just be for art criticism.” He looked over to the doorway, where the man in the suit was waiting. “Ask Olliman to come join us.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and he went off.

  “We’re looking into some trouble here in the neighborhood,” Dayne said. “Apparently there’s been a rash of missing children in the area.”

  “And you come to see me? Surely you don’t think I’m abducting children.”

  “We were given to understand you have some influence in this neighborhood,” Dayne said. “Thus you might have . . . knowledge or resources outside of more conventional avenues of investigation.”

  “What a very diplomatic phrasing, Mister Heldrin,” Fenmere said. “It’s true, I am aware of quite a lot of the things that happen in this part of the city. I’ve heard some stories, of course. Quite a few of the people here work long hours at the cannery or the chicken house, and then drown their sorrows in beer. Or stronger substances.”

  “Stronger substances, indeed,” Jerinne said.

  “And in the midst of all that, they lose track of their children. It’s quite a tragedy,”

  “If only that tragedy had an architect,” Jerinne said.

  Dayne gave her a little scowl. He understood where she was coming from, why she was needling Fenmere, but it wasn’t very helpful right now.

  “Every person makes their choices,” Fenmere said. “They’ll leap into danger and death without a thought, it seems.”

  The man who led them in came back with another man, also very well-dressed. “Willem, were you going to come back—oh.”

  “Olliman,” Fenmere said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to help these fine people find their way back to their part of the city. They’ve clearly been in Dentonhill a little too long.”

  “Yes, of course,” Olliman said. “I’ll convey your regards to the High Lord.”

  “Please,” Fenmere said. “I’ve enjoyed this little lesson on history and art, but it’s not something I need to repeat.” He left the room.

  Olliman looked at Dayne and Jerinne like he was their father, angry and embarrassed by their behavior.

  “What did you two do?”

  “Do we know you, sir?” Dayne asked.

  “No, but I know who you both are. Come on, we need to get out of here.”

  “We don’t know you,” Jerinne said. “And I don’t think we’re in any danger.”

/>   “It’s because people don’t know me that I can even be here,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “What High Lord?” Dayne asked.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Olliman said. “I’ll explain as we go how badly you just screwed up.”

  Veranix had made a nightly ritual of patrolling Dentonhill, especially since the stories of the missing children had ticked up again. More and more of them.

  He still didn’t know what to do about it, but he felt if he took some time each evening, watching from the rooftops, he might see something. The stories persisted of a giant taking children. That should be easy to spot.

  Between that, shutting down the efhân dealers, and his classwork, he was close to the edge of his endurance. But he’d endure.

  Tonight his patrol included the Fenmere mansion, in the heart of Dentonhill. He knew where it was now, thanks to Inspector Welling’s records. Not that knowing made a difference. The house had dozens of guards on the ground, more with crossbows on the roof, and most troubling: dalmatium pylons at regular intervals. If he tried to assault it, he’d be massively outnumbered and magically hobbled.

  He couldn’t just charge in there, he’d need a plan. For now, he’d scout it and form that plan. Maybe he could call on the Rynaxes for a favor.

  He watched as the front door opened, and three people came out. Clearly not from this part of town. One of them looked very official, with his suit and cravat. The other two looked like soldiers, matching uniforms and swords at their belt.

  And the big guy had a shield.

  Very big guy.

  A giant, one might say.

  He was tempted to follow them, but he had been out too late already. He was already drained from today’s earlier fight and the magic class. If he had learned anything, it was not to push his limits when it wasn’t urgent. The last thing he needed was to follow this giant warrior farther away from campus.

  That didn’t mean he’d just let them go.

  He shrouded himself to be nearly invisible, and leaped off the roof, landing with soft magic half a block from them. Then he pushed just a little bit of speed into himself, and darted past the big fellow, tagging him with a magic charge as he passed.

  Just enough to track him later.

  He watched as the big fellow looked about to see what brushed him, and they all went on their way.

  That needed to be enough for tonight. Time to get home, get something to eat, and sleep. And probably study a little as well. He did have classes in the morning.

  Chapter 5

  “SO WHO ARE YOU AGAIN?” Jerinne asked as Olliman, the strange, officious man, led them through Inemar.

  “Unofficial,” Olliman asked. “I don’t have a title or a position in the government or the nobility. But my brother is the chief of staff to the High Lord of Diplomacy.”

  “And it’s in that capacity you were in the home of a drug smuggler and crime boss?”

  “Yes,” Olliman said. He stopped, lighting a taper from a street lamp and using it to light his pipe. “All right, you two, since you’re both so smart, let me ask you a question. You were at the Royal Gardens this morning, right?”

  “Yes,” Dayne said. “You were as well?”

  “I was,” Olliman said. “But you wouldn’t have noticed me. The point is people don’t notice me, and if they do, they only see two brothers talking. I’m never seen talking to anyone else in power. But to my real point. Did you see, for example, an ambassador from the Kieran Empire?”

  “Maybe,” Jerinne said. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but Olliman looked terribly agitated about it. It was also a little hard to hear him, with him speaking in a low, smoky whisper. Maybe that was his intent.

  “And an ambassador from the Imach Nations? From Tsoulja? Acseria?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jerinne said.

  “You may not have noticed, but they were there. Do you know who was not there? An ambassador from Poasia. Because that doesn’t exist.”

  “We have a treaty with Poasia,” Dayne said.

  “We have a peace right now, but we don’t have relations with them. We do not have any sort of embassage with them, we only had one diplomatic mission where foreigners were allowed to step foot on Poasian soil, and that was ten years ago.”

  “But there are Poasians in Maradaine,” Dayne said.

  “There are, which we allow because we’re trying to demonstrate how open and tolerant a nation we are, the crossroads of the world. It drives Intelligence mad, let me tell you.”

  “What does that have to do with you being at Fenmere’s?” Jerinne asked, annoyed with this odd man and his roundabout explanation.

  “We do not have relations with Poasia,” he said. “We have, instead, a smuggling kingpin who specializes in Poasian goods, who has established roads of contact with influential people in the Poasian Pankchamnta.”

  “That’s your diplomacy?” Dayne asked.

  Jerinne couldn’t believe her ears. “Is that why he lives in that palace amid a crumbling neighborhood? So he can be your contact with Poasia?”

  “I’m saying, for now, the Druth government has a vested interested in letting Willem Fenmere continue his operations. If that means some drugs get into the city, and some people choose to get addicted to them, that’s the price we pay.”

  “That’s monstrous,” Jerinne said.

  “It’s what’s been accepted,” Olliman said. “The two of you are both well regarded in the public eye thanks to your service, and whatever else may happen in your careers, you should bear in mind you both need that good esteem, and what might happen if you lose it.”

  “Is that a threat?” Dayne asked.

  “Not from me,” Olliman said. “I’m not a person who can do a thing about that. I’m just the brother of a minor official. But I do know that people who have threatened Fenmere’s position, his ability to do what we need him to do . . . those people have found trouble for themselves. I would not wish that for the two of you.”

  “But what about—”

  “Is your mission specifically about Fenmere? Are you trying to take him down?”

  Dayne scowled. “Well, no, but—”

  “Then find something else,” Olliman said. “Find a way that doesn’t involve Fenmere.” He shook his head. “I trust I can leave you on your own reconnaissance. I would like to just get home, have a nice supper with my brother, and we can talk about our day.”

  “Yes,” Dayne said through gritted teeth. He looked very unhappy, but he nodded. “We’ll not harass him further.”

  “Good. Have a good evening.” He went off toward the river.

  “Now what?” Jerinne asked.

  “You should probably get back to the chapterhouse for supper,” Dayne said. “They’ll be expecting you.”

  “And you?”

  Dayne looked down the street. “One more stop.”

  “Saint Limarre’s?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’ll leave word for Welling and Rainey, maybe they know something we don’t, and maybe we can do something they can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He went off toward the church, and Jerinne decided he was right about one thing: Inspector Rainey needed to know what they were looking into. One more reason to go to her house. Not that Jerinne didn’t already have a very good reason to visit.

  Satrine had finished her shift having accomplished very little. Two new murder cases, neither one very elucidating. Theft in East Maradaine, where the victim had been evasive about what exactly was stolen. They were very interested in finding the thieves and reclaiming their property, though balked when Satrine and Kellman pointed out that identifying the property was the best way to find the thieves. There wasn’t much to go on.

  Still, that was the case that stayed in her head as she came home, looking forward to having a hot meal, and falli
ng into her bed. She was pleasantly surprised to hear warm laughter as she opened the door to her apartment.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as she came in. Down the hallway to the sitting room, where her daughters, Rian and Caribet, were cackling with Jerinne Fendall, the young Tarian warrior.

  “Mother,” Rian said, catching her breath and looking slightly guilty, like she had just been caught in something inappropriate. “Jerinne was telling us about her day.”

  “Must be a good story,” Satrine said, sitting at the table where they were all drinking tea. “Your day had to have been better than mine.”

  “It started at the Royal Gardens,” Caribet said. “She saw the king!”

  “And that was funny? Could I get a cup? And is there supper?”

  Rian grabbed a cup out of the cabinet. “Missus Abnernath stewed some lamb ribs with root vegetables, and there’s bread.”

  “Lovely, yes,” Satrine said. As annoying as her new partnership with Kellman was, the promotion to Inspector Second Class, compounded with Rian’s work at the Majestic, meant they had more money, and the meals had been far more satisfying of late.

  “I don’t want to impose,” Jerinne said.

  “Nonsense,” Satrine replied. “We love having you visit.” She wanted Jerinne and Rian to be close. She wanted to know Rian would have a friend, a protector, in case anything ever happened to her. “So, what was the funny thing?”

  “She told a crime boss that his beloved painting was a fake,” Rian said.

  That was intriguing. “How did you know?”

  “I don’t,” Jerinne said. “I made it up. But his face was priceless.”

  “Girls, why don’t you serve supper,” Satrine said, looking to her daughters. Rian and Caribet both sighed, but got up from the table. Satrine looked to Jerinne. “Crime boss?”

  “Fenmere?” Jerinne said. “Pompous git, but he’s apparently protected from on high.”

  Satrine scowled. “I know the Dentonhill office won’t touch him, but on high?”