An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “You can’t do that, Miss Welling!” Higgins yelped.

  “He put hands on me,” Corrie said. She whistled for Higgins to throw his irons over. “You can’t do that to a Constabulary officer.”

  The crazy drunk didn’t put up any fight when she ironed him, he just kept babbling about butchers and flesh and horror from below. Once he was ironed, she yanked his pants back up, restraining her urge to knock him about some more.

  “So you’re gonna call for a lockwagon?” Higgins asked.

  “Blazes, no,” Corrie said. “This hour, they never respond to a whistlecall. Your first time on the dark?”

  “Not the first,” Higgins said, in a way that made it sound like it was the second.

  She hauled the drunk over, now half limp, as if ironing had drained his spirit. With a heave, she lifted him off the ground and draped him, facedown, over the back half of Higgins’s horse.

  “Why are you putting him there?”

  “Because you’re the chum, Higgins,” she said. “If you rutting outranked anyone, you could make them do it.”

  “He better not puke on me.”

  “Oh, Higgins.” She pulled herself back on her horse. “Don’t you know? Drunken vomit is the ointment of initiation when you work the dark.”

  The ride back to the stationhouse was quick, as they were only a couple blocks out, and Higgins groused the whole blasted way.

  “Take both horses around to the stables,” she told him, pulling the drunk off the back. “I’ll take this one into holding.”

  “Aren’t we going back out there?”

  “Blazes, no,” she told him. The dull gray of sunrise was starting to dust up the eastern sky. “We’re just about off shift, ain’t no rutting cause.”

  Higgins frowned, but took hold of her horse’s reins and led it off around back.

  Corrie dragged the drunk into the holding desk, where Binter was working. Fat bastard was the worst of the desk riders. Far too interested in Corrie’s blouse on any given night. She pushed the drunk down on the bench in front of the desk.

  “Whatcha got, Corrs?” he asked.

  “Drunken mess making a nuisance of himself,” she said. “Laid hands on an officer, namely myself, so he can spend a few days here to dry out.”

  “Can’t.”

  That was new. Binter usually gave Corrie a hard time, but never flat out denied putting an iron in holding. “What do you rutting mean, can’t?”

  “Well, shouldn’t. Apparently there’s been scuttle out there, we need to keep the cells clear for the real problems.”

  “What the blazing sewage is that?” she snapped at him.

  “I’m telling you—”

  “It’s been rutting quiet out there. This bastard was about as exciting as it got.”

  “Maybe for you—”

  “So what the rutting blazes do you need to keep the cells clear for?”

  “Would you listen, Corrs?” he snarled. “Down here it may have been quiet, but there was scuttle up in the Little East.”

  “What kind of scuttle?” In her months riding the dark, she almost never got sent up to the East. Usually they ignored it.

  “Blazes if I know. Mostly feeks and machs giving each other some business, based on what got brought in.”

  “So you can’t take this guy?”

  “Not for just a dry-out.” He shook his head. “If you had a solid knock, I’d find space, but this guy?” He gestured to the drunk, who had slumped down, half asleep. “He ain’t worth it, not right now.”

  “What the blazes you want me to do?” she asked. “Can’t exactly put him back in the alley I found him at.”

  “Maybe I can do you a favor, Corrs . . .” he said softly. Rutting gross.

  “Do your blasted job,” she said. “I brought him ironed, he’s on your bench. Your rutting problem.”

  She strode off before she heard another word from his disgusting mouth. She figured she’d hit the water closet, slowly work her way back down to the stables, and it would be past six bells and she could sign out.

  “Corrie!”

  That was a pleasant, familiar voice. Nyla, her cousin, looking fresh and crisp in her clerk uniform. “Aren’t you here rutting early?”

  Nyla gave a slight blush. “This is about when I always come in.”

  Corrie hadn’t noticed that, but with her working the dark, she didn’t see much of the family coming or going at the house. “Thought you came in with Minox most mornings.”

  Nyla made a disgusted noise.

  “Minox do something wrong?”

  “You mean besides stand up for that . . . woman?”

  For a moment there it sounded like Nyla was going to use a word that was typically only part of Corrie’s vocabulary. She didn’t like that skirt Minox was partnered with. Most didn’t, she was a liar and cheat. Most didn’t, except Minox, and most people here didn’t like Minox either. They didn’t say so around Corrie, of course, because they’d eat their blasted teeth.

  But most of the folk here had no qualms talking sewage about the skirt. Corrie didn’t like her, either, but she respected Minox’s opinion. He said Tricky was worth being his partner, so Corrie believed it. She didn’t have to work with the skirt, though. Nyla did.

  “You can’t be mad at him about that.”

  “I’m not,” Nyla said quietly. “But he gets in when she does. I come in now, I have a couple hours to get things done without having to deal with her. Fortunately she and he will be spending most of the day out in the Little East.”

  “Something big up there?”

  “Something. Turned out most of the specs there yesterday, and they didn’t close it up at all.” She smiled. “All right, need to work, cousin.”

  “I feel you, Ny,” Corrie said. “I’ll leave you to it.” She gave her cousin a quick wink and went off.

  She eventually made her way down to the stables, where the rest of the boys riding the dark were coming back in to sign out, and the horsepatrol for the day were coming in.

  “Listen up,” Lieutenant Firren called out to the crowd. “Those of you just coming on, we’ve got word that we need you making a presence up in the East, and surrounding blocks. They need to see a bit more Green and Red, hopefully that’ll calm them down. Those of you who just finished riding the dark, we need some more out there on mount. Anyone want to sign back in to ride out right now, check with me. If you need a few hours in bunk first, and then go out in the afternoon, we need that, too. This ain’t an order, just on choice for coin.”

  Extra shift on choice for coin, and working during the day. Corrie could use a chance like that. Saints knew that she could use the coin, the opportunity for the chiefs on dayside to see her in action.

  “Hey, Left,” she called to Firren as she moved in. “I could take some bunk right now, work the back half of the day and straight through my dark shift tonight.”

  “Glad to hear it, Welling,” he said. “Head up to the bunks, then. I’ll send someone for you around two bells.”

  “Will do, Left,” she said. She took a moment and then added, “So it’s bad up in the Little East?”

  “Something is brewing, that’s for sure,” Firren said. “Those folks have got a fire in them right now.”

  The early dawn tickwagon ride into the heart of Inemar was crowded as usual. Most of the same faces Inspector Henfir Mirrell usually saw on this ride. The three ladies who lived on his block and worked at the soapworks. The old codger who seemed to go every day for its own sake. The two blokes who read the newssheet each day and argued about it far too loudly.

  “We need more bridges!”

  “And who’s gonna pay for those bridges, huh? Where they gonna go?”

  “You ever try and cross the river? The city is choked up, divided between the two sides.”

 
“Cross the river, certainly. As if I had any cause to go northside.”

  “Some people . . .”

  “And there’s the ferryboats. They make a couple ticks for the fare, and everything works. You build another bridge, and the duke’s taxes will go up, and no one needs that.”

  “So then who’re you voting for?”

  These two had been up and down about elections for the past few days. Mirrell wasn’t even sure who was running for Alderman in his district.

  Of course, the only man in power who mattered to Mirrell already had his vote, and that was Commissioner Enbrain. Mirrell got his salary, and the peace was kept as best as possible in the city. Those were the things that mattered.

  “Hey, specs,” one of the blokes called to him, holding up the paper. “Says here there was some business with Constabulary killing a bear. There bears loose in the city?”

  “A rutting bear?” Mirrell said. “You know those folks print whatever sewage will sell.”

  “So you didn’t hear about a bear?”

  “Ain’t no damn bears in the city.”

  “So you say, spec,” the bloke said. “You going to tell me more kids aren’t vanishing from the streets either?”

  Mirrell had heard enough of this garbage. The kids thing was true—probably another fighting ring had formed after the one he had busted up a few months back—but he didn’t need to hear it from this bloke. The tickwagon was close enough to the stationhouse, and he hopped off with a nod to the driver. It kept trundling along as Mirrell walked to the stationhouse.

  “Morning, Inspector,” Miss Pyle said as he came up the steps. She was her usual bright self. Hard to believe she was blood kin to Jinx. That man could draw the life out of any room he stepped into.

  “Any word?” he asked her. “Did Jinx and Tricky solve the feek’s death in the middle of the night?”

  “Not hardly,” she said. “But nothing new on your board yet. Captain wants you to lay out your elements to Minox and . . . her.”

  His elements consisted of him and Darreck trying to talk to every blue- and green- and red-haired tyzo in that place. Lucky they didn’t mind it that they were kept in for the night. Blazes, when the sun set, they all went in their little huts.

  “Ain’t much to lay out, to be honest. Ain’t none copped to it, those that we could talk to.”

  Miss Pyle shrugged. “Then you and Kellman will be the dancers. Minox will play the beat.”

  Mirrell grumbled. Captain was clearly putting him and Darreck on second, taking orders from Jinx and Tricky. That was nothing even close to right.

  “There tea on my desk at least?”

  “As always.”

  Kellman was thumbing through his notebook as Mirrell approached. “Morning, Hennie. How’s the family?”

  “Good as can be expected,” Mirrell said, picking up the teacup. “You hear we’re going to be the dancers?”

  “I heard.” He gave one of his usual expressions of lack of concern. “Ain’t like Jinx and Trick won’t need the help. There was a bit of knockaround in the Little East last night. Handful of feeks and machs and I don’t know what in the pens below us.”

  “What, street fights over this stuff?”

  “I don’t know. Boys on the dark just said knockaround. Nothing big. I think they’re restless.”

  Suddenly Mister Zebram Hilsom, the weasel from the Protector’s Office, came striding over to them. “Was it you two? This has your stink all over it.”

  “Us two stink of what?” Mirrell asked. Hilsom didn’t even deserve that much answer, but he didn’t even know what to be angry about.

  “Apparently the docks over in the Little East had a bit of a Hot Quarantine last night. The River Patrol said it was all in the service of good health, but it sounds exactly like the kind of sewage you two would pull to get a shutdown without a writ.”

  “We didn’t do nothing of the sort,” Mirrell said. “Don’t you throw that on my desk.”

  “Throw it on mine,” the captain said. “I’ve told you, Zebram . . .”

  “If your inspectors get out of line . . .”

  “Did River Patrol say it was my inspectors?”

  “Your men are investigating a high-profile murder in the Little East, and then all the Foreign Docks get a quarantine for the night. You’re telling me that isn’t you?”

  “Did the River Patrol say it was my inspectors?”

  “There are procedures we follow, through me to the magistration so that—”

  “Did the River Patrol say—”

  “No,” Hilsom finally said. “They said they were legitimately worried. But it stinks—”

  “Don’t drop this stuff here, Zebram,” the captain said. “My inspectors walk outside of the road, then we talk. Besides that, do your job.”

  “Help me out, Brace.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Tricky had walked up.

  Hilsom stared her down. “Seems the River Patrol shut down the Little East docks last night, and quite a few people complained. You know something about that, Inspector Rainey?”

  “Me?” she scoffed. “I can barely get a cup of tea here. I’m lucky if my reports get filed.”

  Hilsom grumbled, and turned back to the cap. “I’ve got folks down my neck from nine different directions. Let’s keep everything on the line, shall we?”

  “Always,” the captain said.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll send over a couple pages from my office. You need writs—especially over in the East—you get them to run. Hear?”

  “We’ve got pages, Zebram.”

  “Somehow I’d like my own there.” He went off to the stairs.

  “Tell me you all have something,” the captain asked Tricky.

  “We’ve got a couple names who might have a fire to stoke with the Fuergan. Kieran named Ravi Kenorax, for one.”

  Kenorax. That was a name Mirrell had heard. “We, uh, grilled some of the tyzos. None of them knew who the Fuergan was supposed to meet with, but one of yellow-hairs spilled that he had taken a few meetings there over past few days.”

  “So Hieljam was a regular user of the Tsouljan enclave?” Tricky asked. “Who was he meeting?”

  “He had met Kenorax before, according to this yellow-hair.”

  “Did the person who told you this have a name?” This came from Jinx, who had wandered over to the desks. “You did get that, yes?”

  “Do you think me stupid, Jinx?” Mirrell asked. He looked to Kellman. “What was his name?”

  Kellman consulted his notebook. “Naljil Rek-Yun.”

  “Right, him. Only one of the tyzos, save that green-haired kid who translated, who told us anything worth a damn.”

  Kellman laughed. “Right. Most of them talked about cake and the ocean, or something like that. Except the lady who said that we were clarity.”

  Mirrell remembered that. That blue-haired lady gave him the creeps. Staring at them both with those deep, dark eyes for saints knew how long before she even spoke.

  “You were what?” Tricky asked.

  “Clarity. That’s what the kid said. Didn’t make much sense to me.”

  “Obviously,” Jinx said. Mirrell had half a mind to smack him and ask what the blazes that was supposed to mean. “Anyone else?”

  “Anyone else what, Jinx?”

  “Did Naljil Rek-Yun name anyone else that Hieljam had met with in the past few days?”

  “Yeah,” Kellman said. “An Imach . . . named . . .” He flipped through his notebook.

  “Hajan?” Tricky asked.

  “No. Jabiudal. Assan Jabiudal.”

  Jinx and Tricky both frowned.

  “What, you got a problem?” Mirrell asked.

  “No, no, just a different Imach name than we were expecting to hear,” Jinx said. “Well done.�
��

  “Stay on it, all of you,” the captain said. “Minox, Rainey, you’re playing the drums on this one. Mirrell and Kellman, dance as they need you to.” He went to his office and shut the door.

  So that was clearly that.

  Jinx rubbed his chin. “We should all head up to the Little East shortly. Inspector Rainey and I will attempt to interview Kenorax. In the meantime, the two of you will endeavor to locate Assan Jabiudal and Nalassein Hajan.”

  Mirrell had to admit he didn’t know how Jinx could keep all these crazy names straight. It was all so many nonsense sounds.

  “Sure, sure,” Mirrell said. “Is that all you need, since we’re the ones dancing to your drums?”

  “Yes, actually,” Jinx said. “Since we’re all going to that part of town, arrange for one of our wagons to take us up, as well as two or three pages to join us. Twenty minutes?”

  Jinx didn’t wait for Mirrell to respond, walking off to his desk, Tricky right with him.

  Mirrell sighed and looked to Kellman. “Well, let’s get down to the stables. Bring your dancing shoes.”

  Rainey chuckled as they went over to their own desks. “Those two are going to hate you before the day is out.”

  “They already do,” Minox said. “This will hardly change their opinion.”

  A file sat on his chair, Leppin’s report on Hieljam. Minox picked it up and flipped through, noting the particulars.

  “Anything that changes things?” Rainey asked.

  “Nothing much,” Minox said. “His analysis of the liquid—which he confirms Hieljam drank—says that it was innocuous, at least on its own. But he finds no evidence of a secondary catalyst being used on Hieljam. It’s just a floral tea, common in Tsouljan cuisine.”

  Rainey sat down at her desk and sipped at the tea that was waiting there for her. Nyla’s handiwork, serving impeccably despite her dislike of Inspector Rainey. “So that’s nothing.”

  “He confirms the blade is Imach—a talveca—so we definitely will want a word with Hajan.”

  “And Jabiudal.”

  “Indeed. Presuming they are to be found. Hopefully we won’t have to scour the Imach blocks.”