He had to talk to Inspector Rainey.
He made his way across the bridge, buying a pair of crispers from a cart vendor on the High River riverbank. He personally found the north side version of the hot lamb sandwich—cooked in red wine and onions—inferior to its South Maradaine equivalent, the striker. But he didn’t eat for the flavor, he ate to fill the unending ravening of his magical body. A hunger that had only grown worse since his hand had changed. He finished the first by the time he reached 14 Beltner and knocked on the door.
In a few moments, Satrine Rainey opened up, in slacks and shirtsleeves, crossbow in her hand.
“Minox,” she said, stepping out and closing the door behind her. She glanced around cautiously, but her front door was at the bottom of a stair, below street level. It was highly unlikely they would be observed. “Why are you here at this hour? We agreed—”
“Shared messages at the church is nowhere near as effective as direct conversation,” he said. “Especially ones where we can spark inspiration in each other.”
“Missed you, too,” she said. “I have to tell you, pretending to hate you at the stationhouse is exhausting.”
“Surely that endears you with our fellows there,” Minox said.
“Oddly, it’s eased their enmity of you,” she said. “They think I’m being too cruel.”
“Fascinating,” Minox said. He had had enough of pleasantries. “Children are going missing again.”
“I’ve heard,” she said. “Dayne is looking into it in Dentonhill.”
“That’s good,” Minox said. “Dentonhill is part of the problem.”
“Part of it?”
“The patterns have been clear. There are three parts of the city where there have been spikes. Dentonhill, where the house is fully corrupt and under the thumb of Willem Fenmere.”
“Right,” she said.
“North Seleth, which seems to suffer from laziness and bureaucratic oversight. And Callon Hills, where the city-dwelling nobility tend to rely on private guards over the city Constabulary.”
“All right, what’s the connection?”
“All three areas have had reports of missing children in the past few weeks. We have to presume that, due to the intrinsic flaws in reporting in those three areas, that the actual number is much higher.”
“As in, you think areas are being targeted where missing children would be the most unnoticed. Or at least, where no larger pattern would be noticed.”
Except by me, Minox thought. “I wanted to talk to you about that night.”
“I’ve told you everything about Corrie—”
“Not about Corrie,” he said sharply. Far harsher than Rainey deserved.
“Sorry,” she said.
“You heard a name, who Quoyell was delivering you and the children to. Senek, correct?”
“That’s right. Though Jerinne told me of a witness who saw the giant taking children. He said the children were for the Dragon.”
That struck an old memory. “That was the word she used? Dragon?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t familiar with the term. Is it meaningful? Like a title or something?”
“It’s . . . a creature in an old Kellirac folk tale. My mother used to tell me it as a child.” The story “Aladha va calix” always terrified him, yet as a small boy, he wanted to hear it again and again. He had always appreciated how the beast was beaten with cleverness. The trickster who managed to bind him up and drag him back to his cave.
“Does that connect to Senek?” she asked.
“I don’t know how it could. But I think I’ve determined who Senek is,” Minox told her. “In the Mage Rows in 1211, several arrests were made at the Inemar stationhouse of mages involved. Dismissed, Circle Law protecting most of them. But one had his case kicked up to the Archduchy Courts: Ithaniel Senek of the Blue Hand Circle.”
“Why does Blue Hand sound familiar?”
“The day we met, I was connecting two separate cases about dead constables in Dentonhill, two dead assassins, and three mages from the Blue Hand Circle.”
“Right,” she said. “In retrospect, that was probably all to do with the Thorn.”
“True. I’ll want a word with him about that, but there is something else. The Blue Hand’s chapterhouse was in Dentonhill. Perhaps that is exactly where the children are being brought.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Though getting writs, working around Circle Law, based on supposition . . .”
“I know,” he said. He swallowed hard. He knew what he had to say, but it was so very difficult. It went against every value he had been raised with, but he knew it was right. “I have built up a store of unclaimed personal days. I will be using at least one tomorrow. I’ve already left word at the station.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow I will not be in uniform or acting as an officer of the law.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure—”
“I’m certain that someone must give this deeper investigation, and given the nature of it—in Dentonhill, with fetid corruption, as well as a mage chapterhouse protected by Circle Law—then that investigation must be done outside the bounds of the law.”
“Do you need me—”
“No,” he said firmly. “Satrine, I—you have a much heavier burden of home and family, and that weight is on you. I know you cannot risk your position or your salary.”
She took that in. “And are you prepared to?”
“My position is tenuous as it is. I have examined the risk versus the benefit. I have a bit more investigation I wish to do first, for I have additional theories of connecting circumstances I wish to research, but . . . if there are children who require rescue, and they are in that house, I will take whatever punishment the city metes out to me as fair exchange.”
She nodded. “You remember, though. You need help—”
“I cannot place that—”
“If you need help, Minox,” she said firmly. “I’ll always come for you.”
He made a smile come to his lips, so she could see it. “I do miss your partnership, Satrine.”
“Get home,” she said. “Get a proper night’s sleep, and I’m going to do the same. There’s a robbery that’s not sitting right with me, going to look back into that. That’s my day tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said. “My . . . my best to your family, Satrine. Take care of them.”
She went in and latched the door.
That would do. He’d go home now, sleep in his bed, have breakfast with his family in the morning. And tomorrow . . .
Tomorrow would bring what it would.
Antepenultimate Interlude
“COME ALONG, JARED.”
Kimber had decided to make Jared Scall—pulling him away from the precipice, saving his soul—her own dedicated project. While most of the former residents of Holver Alley had recovered from the fire, or at least moved on, Jared had sunk further and further. She couldn’t stop him from drinking—she knew if she cut him off, he would just go somewhere else. But she could temper it, and get him back on his feet and starting his day as soon as possible. That was her new strategy with him. Transform him into a man who was up with the dawn and ready to face the day.
He had made it clear he wouldn’t sit at a service at Saint Bridget’s, but he had agreed to go with Kimber and pray with her at the statue in the narthex. Going right at dawn, they were almost certain to have it to themselves.
They didn’t.
Kimber was surprised to find a Cloistress of the Blue at the foot of the saint in the narthex. But she wasn’t praying; she was curled up, asleep on the ground.
“That usually happen?” Jared grumbled out.
“First time,” Kimber said. She gently touched the cloistress on the shoulder, triggering a far more
sudden and aggressive reaction than Kimber was ready for. The girl screamed, her hand shooting out to Kimber’s neck, her eyes bloodshot and wild.
“None of you will pass these doors, foul—” She blinked, her eyes focusing on Kimber. “No, sorry, sorry, what—I—” She looked around, noting Jared. “And you. You are not in service of Saint Alexis.”
“No,” Jared said. “Girl, I think you should let her go.”
Kimber wheezed out, “Please.” The girl looked back at her, and seemed to only now realize that her hand was at Kimber’s throat.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, letting go. “I don’t know—where even—was I asleep?”
“Yes,” Kimber said. “Are you all right?”
“No, I most certainly am not,” the girl said, anger rising in her voice. Her attention turned back to Jared. “And you, I—you’re not the—” Suddenly she stopped, her face going pale. Her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so sorry. I’ve lived through so many tomorrows that should not be, and . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Sister?” Kimber asked. She was very confused and concerned. “Does Reverend Halster know you’re here?”
“Here as in this church, or here as in sleeping in the narthex? Yes, and probably not. And I—what day is it?”
“The twenty-sixth of Oscan,” Jared said.
“Twenty-sixth. Good. Good. I’m actually here. I’m actually now. Tomorrow is coming so many ways, and I must have the wisdom to guide it.” The cloistress got to her feet and brushed her habit off. “I am very sorry, I’ll leave you to your prayers. Be in grace, as Saint Alexis calls to you.”
“Saint Bridget,” Kimber said, pointing to the statue.
“Yes, I—” The cloistress stopped. “I’m sorry, I am—called, I believe. And I must act. I have much to do.” She went out of the narthex into the street square.
“Are you all right?” Jared asked Kimber, his hand gently touching her shoulder.
“Yes, just . . . just surprised. Who is that girl?”
“I’ve never seen her,” he said, looking out to the street, watching where the girl went.
Nor had Kimber. She didn’t even know there was a cloistry here at Saint Bridget’s. But she did not know all things; that was on God and the saints. “Are you ready for our prayers?”
“I am,” he said, turning back to her. “More than I’ve ever been, I think.”
That was a start. Perhaps there was salvation, even for his soul. For every soul the saints watched over.
Though as she knelt at the foot of the saint, Kimber wondered who was watching over the clearly troubled soul of that cloistress.
Chapter 6
DAYNE WOKE TO FIND LADY Mirianne making tea in his Parliament apartment, which was quite a surprise.
“You didn’t stay here, right?” he asked. “I would have remembered that.”
“No, but I wanted to be here when you woke,” she said. “Something very important happened and you’ll want to know about it.”
That cleared all the cobwebs out of his head. “What’s going on?”
“I went to visit Baron Vollingale, who has been going through quite an ordeal.” She poured the tea for Dayne and handed him the cup. “His son is missing.”
“What?” Dayne asked. “You think it’s—”
“It definitely is,” Mirianne replied. “I heard about it a few days ago, as he had confided in a few close friends. He’s not involved the Constabulary or marshals or anyone, because he’s terrified of public scandal.”
“What?” Dayne couldn’t believe that. “Surely the safety of his son would be more important.”
She shook her head. “It’s more complicated than that, but he’s willing to explain it to you. That’s why I raced off last night. You mentioned the giant, and so had he—”
“He’s seen this giant?”
“And that’s, apparently, part of why he’s avoiding the authorities.” She gestured to the teacup. “Drink up, get yourself together. I imagine you don’t want to waste any time on this.”
“Not at all,” Dayne said, blowing on the hot tea. “Thank you.”
“No need,” she said. “I just hope you and I can do something for him, and hopefully help that poor boy.”
Dayne took a sip and put the cup down on the table and went to his wardrobe. “I’m just hoping he—and all those other children—are alive. Though I think they must be.”
“Why is that?”
“Should this be dress uniform or simply tunic?”
“Tunic is fine. Why is that?”
Dayne came out with his tunic in hand. “When Inspector Rainey rescued abducted children, they were still alive. Assuming the underlying cause behind these abductions is the same, they want the children alive.”
Miri’s brow furrowed. “Those were all orphaned or street children, yes?”
“As are the Dentonhill ones. Well, not orphaned, but definitely underprivileged.”
“Odd,” she said. “I mean, Baron Vollingale’s son fits the same pattern, but he is far from that.”
Dayne paused while he pulled the tunic on. “Maybe it’s not connected, save some coincidental similarities. I want to hear more, regardless. Even if it’s not connected, I want to help, and—”
The words caught in his throat, his heart flooded with an intense need to find this boy, so strong it almost made tears burst forth.
He knew saving this boy wouldn’t redeem him. Wouldn’t change what he did to Lenick Benedict. Wouldn’t change his fate in the Tarian Order.
He had to do it anyway.
Miri was on her feet, hand on his shoulder.
“Of course. Are you ready?”
“Almost,” he said. He took his sword up and belted it, and looked at the dented, cheap shield on the wall. Taking that with him would be an insult.
No shield on arm today. Fitting.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning to Miri. “A child’s life is on the line.”
Satrine left for Inemar early, wanting to spend some time at Saint Limarre’s with Sister Alana before having to go to the stationhouse, let alone stop at her mother’s flop with Phillen Hace. Talking with Sister Alana was one of the few bits of solace she had outside of her family, the oldest friend she had.
For once, Sister Alana wasn’t waiting outside the church’s quarters with tea and pastries, so Satrine knocked on the back door. After a brief pause, Alana opened the door, looking slightly bleary-eyed.
“You beat me today,” Alana said. “That’s a first.” She stepped back to allow Satrine in.
“Won’t happen too often,” Satrine said. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Alana took the teapot off the stove and brought it to the table. “I actually got to sleep through the night for once. The other cloistresses aren’t up and about yet, so we have a bit of time. Though Sister Enigaria is stirring, and she’s always putting her nose in business.”
“I know the type,” Satrine said. “I can sit?”
“Please,” Alana said, getting out bread and preserves. “Just because she’s got her opinions doesn’t mean I’m not the ranking Cloistress of the Blue here.”
“Does rank mean higher salary for you?” Satrine asked.
“We are in service of god and the community,” Alana said. “But it does mean I get to be bossy. But hopefully all the ladies here will be a bit calmer now.”
“What’s now?” She had slept through the night, so something had changed.
Alana sighed and sat down. “Sister Myriem is gone, left for Saint Bridget’s yesterday.”
Satrine’s own interactions with Sister Myriem had always been disconcerting—the girl was somehow both completely in her own world and eerily in tune with whoever she was talking to. Her words made no sense, but yet could cut straight to the heart.
Somehow, Sister Myriem had led
Satrine directly to the trapmaster right when she needed to find him, just with a pastry wrapper.
“Are you relieved?”
“No,” Alana said. “I can’t help but think I failed that girl.”
“How so?”
“She needed help,” Alana said. “I thought through faith alone, I could, I don’t even know, save her. But this cloister wasn’t suited to her problems.”
“But Saint Bridget’s is?”
“Maybe,” Alana said, shaking her head. “I mean, Reverend Halster offered to take her in, knowing her history. But in my soul I know she—” Alana trailed off. “She asked me to do something, and, I don’t know if I should.”
“What is it?”
Alana got up and went to a cabinet. With a glance down the hallway to check if any other sisters were coming, she took out a book. “This is her copy of The Testaments of the Saints. She’s . . . she’s torn pages, written in the margins, blotted out words. I don’t even dare let any of the others see this, they’d think it was—”
“Blasphemy?” Satrine offered.
“At the very least. But she gave it to me, and . . . she said she wants you to have it.”
“Me? Why?”
“I have no idea,” Alana said. “But you don’t need to—”
“I’ll take it,” Satrine said impulsively, reaching out for it.
“Really?”
“Lannie,” Satrine said. “I don’t know if I can explain it, but that girl—she’s . . . she’s guided by something. Whatever it is, I’m not saying I understand it, but—and I’m amazed I’m saying this—I have faith in it.”
“I want to have faith in it. In her. Even in this torn-up book.” She thumbed through the pages. “I can’t even imagine—she actually rewrote the first part of the Testament of Saint Jesslyn, so it opens with ‘listen to the gardener, seek answers when she calls.’”
“Listen to the who?” a voice called from down the hall. Satrine reached out and grabbed the damaged book from Sister Alana before the other cloistress came into the kitchen.
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