An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

“Presuming they even live in the Little East. There’re Imach coffeehouses on the north side, a few smaller groups of them way out on the west side of town.”

  Minox was surprised to hear that. He was under the impression that there were very few people of foreign birth or descent living outside of the Little East, except in the far western slums of the city. He imagined that all the north side neighborhoods would have kept the Imachs out. “We will invite madness if we contemplate all possible places where suspects might be. Though I imagine that we will find fruit in the Little East. The Fuergans and Imachs there were already getting into altercations last night.”

  “Fallout over Hieljam?”

  “Possibly. Or it gave spark to brawls that were imminent anyway.”

  Rainey reached out for the report, which Minox handed to her. Thumbing through it, she added, “No bruising or other signs of struggle or binding.”

  “Quite peculiar,” Minox said. The evidence so far made little sense, unless Hieljam was a willing participant in his own death.

  She gave him a raised eyebrow. “You’re not sure the Imachs are really involved.”

  She had read him well, that had been his very thought. “It feels more like our killer wants us to pay attention to the Imachs.”

  “Throw suspicion at them?”

  “Perhaps not exactly.” He had spent half the night thinking about the scene of the murder. “The murder was committed with meticulous precision. Which makes me think no element is there by accident. The tea, the knife, the inscription.”

  “Someone’s sending a message,” Rainey said.

  “Which means the true key to solving this is determining what that is, and who the message is for.”

  Rainey looked back at the report. “Maybe the Lyranans. Leppin confirms the symbols are Lyranan writing.”

  Minox had noticed that, also noting that there wasn’t a translation. “We’ll have to determine their meaning.”

  “This might help.” Nyla approached their desks, carrying a letter.

  “What’s that?” Minox asked, knowing it was pointless for Rainey to directly address her.

  “It arrived for you both, by courier—bald, gray-skinned kid—right at sunrise.” Nyla dropped the letter—a heavy stock of paper, sealed with three wax seals—onto the desk. “Maybe it’s a confession.” She gave him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder and went back to her desk.

  Across the top of the letter was written, “To be opened by and only by Inspector Third Class Minox Welling and Inspector Third Class Satrine Carthas Rainey, in conjunction and mutual presence.”

  “Carthas?” Minox asked.

  “It’s my unmarried name,” Rainey said. “Who even knows that?”

  The three seals—as well as Nyla’s description of the courier—yielded the answer. Each one was marked with a symbol, similar to the ones found near and on the body.

  “We’re in conjunction and mutual presence,” Minox said. “Shall we? Unless you suspect this is some sort of trap or ruse to hurt us.”

  “Not Lyranan style.” Rainey took the letter and cracked the seals open.

  The script of the letter was done by hand, but it was so perfectly executed it could have been printed. It was written in alternating lines, first in Druth Trade, followed by that same foreign script. The letter itself confirmed the identity of the language.

  A Missive From Heizhan Taiz, Third Tier Supervisor in Service to the Lyranan Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Bureau of Lyranan Expatriates and Descendants Thereof, Druthalian Division.

  To be delivered to, and read by, Inspector Third Class Minox Welling and Inspector Third Class Satrine Carthas Rainey.

  Additional Permissions of Reading Granted To: All relevant superiors in the Maradaine Constabulary Chains of Command, including and especially Captain Brace Cinellan, as well as authorized experts in document authenticity under employ of the Maradaine Constabulary.

  With Regards To: The Investigation into the Untimely and Deliberate Death of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz lek Lavark, etc.

  “I’m amazed they didn’t write out his full Fuergan name,” Rainey said.

  “Perhaps they didn’t feel the need.”

  Rainey shook her head. “Given the manner they write everything, I’d say it’s some form of intentional slight.”

  “You may be right,” Welling said, reading on.

  Point the First: It has come to our attention that you are the officers assigned to the investigation of the untimely and deliberate death of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz lek Lavark, etc. (Hereafter Lavark Hieljam or “The Lavark”) and would seek the hopeful arrest of the interloper responsible for said untimely and deliberate death.

  Point the Second: It has also come to our attention that notations written in Lyranan script were found at the scene of the untimely and deliberate death, in a manner that strongly implies they were made by the assailant in question.

  Point the Third: Furthermore, we have come to understand that you are interested in interviewing persons with contact or knowledge of the deceased Lavark Hieljam, who could illuminate your investigation concerning his business and acquaintances within the confines of the City of Maradaine, the neighborhood of Inemar, and the collective subdistricts referred to with unofficial colloquialisms as “The Little East.”

  Rainey stepped away, leaving Minox to read the rest for himself. She sat down at her desk, muttering, “Lyranans.”

  Proposal: As the above points make it clear that you would wish to interview an expert in the Lyranan language, as well as those who have had contact with Lavark Hieljam, the optimal solution would be for this meeting to occur today, under proper supervision. It would be ideal if the two of you were to meet with me and Trade Notary First Class Fao Nengtaj, who has had interactions with Lavark Hieljam, as well as my personal adjutant, Specialist First Class Pra Yikenj. If you require the services of your own scribe, analyst, or assistant, they are also welcome to this meeting.

  Minox imagined they felt they were being magnanimous in offering such an invitation.

  We will meet you at the noon bells (measured by the ringing of Saint Interson’s Church), at the Second Auxiliary Public House at 812 Peston Avenue. If you are unable to attend this meeting, please send word for cancellation or rescheduling by means of your dedicated messengers, to my offices at Bureau of Lyranan Expatriates at 830 Dockview Avenue.

  With regards,

  Heizhan Taiz

  Third Tier Supervisor in Service to the Lyranan Ministry of Foreign Affairs

  Bureau of Lyranan Expatriates and Descendants Thereof, Druthalian Division

  “Fascinating reading,” Rainey said.

  “Did you finish?”

  “I read enough,” she said. “Captain!”

  Cinellan was passing by the desks and approached. “Something you two need?”

  “Not much, we’re about to go out to meet with the Kieran merchants, and try to make contact with Nalassein Hajan, if we’re lucky.”

  “All right,” Cinellan said. “Good luck with that, and get to it.”

  “But,” she said, getting back up and taking the letter from Minox, “we’ve also been invited to meet with Lyranan interested parties. And they’ve been so gracious as to grant you permission to read the letter.”

  She pointed out the part of the letter that mentioned that.

  “Carthas?” Cinellan asked as he read.

  “Really?” Rainey asked. “This is what you two latch on to?”

  “It’s just odd that they know that.” Cinellan shrugged and handed it back. “All right, get on it.”

  “Captain,” Rainey said, drawing him back as he stepped away. “I had a visit from Commissioner Enbrain last night.”

  “In your home?” The captain was clearly shocked.

  “He stopped by to talk about this case. It has them buzzing on the nor
th side.”

  “Blazes,” Cinellan whispered. “Their eye is on us.”

  “We’ll serve him and the central office right,” Minox said.

  “No, it’s—I shouldn’t talk about this, but . . . did he mention the election?” From the corner of his eye, Minox saw Nyla take note and step forward, and then turn back to her work. She had become passionate about the Suffragist movement in the past month or so. Minox imagined it was only her distaste for engaging with Inspector Rainey that prevented her from starting an argument with Captain Cinellan on the subject.

  “Yeah,” Rainey said. “Reminded me that I could vote as Loren’s proxy.”

  “He’s really looking at us,” Cinellan said absently. This time he wasn’t annoyed, but somehow intrigued. Even hopeful. After a moment of contemplation, he tapped his fingers on the desk. “Let’s get this one put away, quick as you can.”

  “Will do, Captain,” Rainey said. “No matter who we have to deal with today.” There her voice soured.

  The captain went off to his office.

  “Something vexes you about this,” Minox said.

  “Lyranan Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” she said acidly. She took up her belt. “Just another way to say Lyranan Intelligence. These are their spies.”

  That was definitely of note. “Do you have direct experience with them?”

  “Very little,” Rainey said. Fixing her belt on, Minox heard her mutter, “But it was enough.”

  “Then let’s be off,” Minox said. “We’ve got a full day.”

  Chapter 7

  SOMETHING ABOUT THE LYRANAN LETTER had made Satrine’s meager breakfast of cheese, bread, and tea sit poorly in her stomach. It wasn’t just the formal language, or even the fact that it was a Lyranan who—

  No, she wasn’t even going to think about that. Some of those memories were locked away for a reason.

  It was her unmarried name that troubled her. That name was a thing she had hardly ever used. On the streets as a child, she was just Trini or Tricky. The name Satrine was reserved for the most formal occasions—mostly her mother slapping some sense into her the few times she made any attempt at discipline or caring. Even in her time in Intelligence, no one called her Miss Carthas or Agent Carthas or anything of the sort. Rare was the time she’d even been called Satrine in her first years—she got used to the name Quia Alia Rhythyn.

  When she had returned to “normal” life, she had even considered going by Satrine Rathan, honoring the name she had lived by. But she had become Satrine Rainey almost right away, so it hardly mattered.

  Satrine Carthas wasn’t a person who ever really existed.

  The Constabulary carriage trundled along, with Satrine riding in the cabin with Welling, Mirrell, and Kellman. Welling and Mirrell were both smoking their pipes, which meant that Satrine and Kellman essentially were as well.

  “I never understood that,” Kellman said to her jovially. “Lighting something on fire and breathing it in. Where’s the joy in that?”

  Satrine had to give Kellman some credit—he had been one of the few kind people at the stationhouse after her deceptions were outed. He was the only one besides Welling who truly supported the idea that she should stay on as an inspector.

  “It’s an acquired taste, I admit,” Welling said. “It calms my nerves.”

  “Same,” Mirrell said. “And I’m gonna need that.”

  “So what are we supposed to do if we find Jaibaba or Hassalla?” Kellman asked. Satrine wondered if he legitimately didn’t remember the Imach names, or if he was intentionally mangling them. He didn’t throw around words like feek or tyzo with quite the same abandon that Mirrell did, but he didn’t seem to mind them much, either.

  “Keep eyes on them, send one of the pages for us,” Welling said. Four pages, including Phillen Hace, the young man who had been especially loyal to Satrine and Welling over the past months, were riding along on the back rails of the carriage. One of Hilsom’s boys was hanging back there as well, looking conspicuously out of place in his gray wool vest and short pants.

  “And where are you going to be?”

  “There,” Welling said, pointing to a series of townhouses that they were approaching. These were all behind a low wall that had taken over the walkways on Peston, like it was no longer a public street. The houses were painted white; not the dirty white of the Maradaine Quarry that the whitestones throughout Inemar were, but a dazzling bright white that almost hurt to look at, with all the roofs and eaves painted a rich purple.

  Pirie City—Dexilari—was definitely Kieran Imperial territory, at least in spirit.

  “This is where Kenorax lives?” Satrine asked.

  “Indeed,” he said, knocking on the roof to the driver. He jumped out to the street before it reached a full stop. “Take the carriage over to the Tsouljan compound in Tek Andor. That’s going to be our operational center for the time being. One of the pages, stick by Inspector Rainey and me as we’re here.”

  “I’ll take that, sir,” Phillen said, to no one’s surprise.

  “Another stay close to Mirrell and Kellman, as they canvas Hesissal.” Not only did Welling use the proper names for the enclaves, his pronunciation was excellent. “The rest of you, stick with the carriage, keep your ears out for whistles.”

  “Should I stay on hand with you, Inspector?” Hilsom’s page asked.

  “Stick with Phillen for now, kid,” Satrine said. She certainly didn’t want this one up in their business, but she had to admit he’d be handy if they needed a quick writ of some sort from Hilsom. But she knew damn well he was really here to spy on them, make sure they kept their investigation clean. Hilsom really should know that Welling would be one of the last ones to worry about that with.

  “All right,” Mirrell said. “Come on, Darreck. Let’s go talk to some machs.”

  They left with one of the pages in tow, and the carriage trundled off.

  “So this is where Kenorax lives?”

  “According to my sources,” Welling said. “And from what I understand of Kieran tradition . . .”

  “It’s impolite to not take visitors during breakfast,” Satrine finished. “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “How are you aware?”

  “Why, Inspector,” Satrine said, approaching the low wall. “My stint in Intelligence left me very well educated.”

  She stepped through the gilded gate—a formality of style, nothing that could actually bar entrance, as one could step over the wall if they wanted to. Welling chose to do just that, possibly out of spite, and went up to the door, pounding it roughly.

  A servant—an old Kieran man—opened the door, though he seemed almost too feeble to manage that. “What is about?” he wheezed out.

  “Inspectors Welling and Rainey wish an audience with Mister Kenorax.”

  “Of course,” the old man rasped. His voice sounded like a knife had been scraped over his throat. “If you would follow.”

  He led them through the hallways—polished marble floors and walls, gleaming white. The only color came from the plants that lined the walls, dirt patches built into the floor to hold them.

  They were then brought to an open courtyard, where the sun shone brightly over a grand bathing pool, where several people—men and women both—were lounging in the water. The people were all Kierans, by their olive skin and dark, damp-looking hair, and most of them wore flimsy robes that did nothing to cover them. Flower wreathes and petals floated in the water, and several servants stood near each bather, holding trays with food. Surrounding the sun-dappled space were several cages with songbirds.

  “We have visitors,” the old man rasped. “Two inspectors, by the names Welling and Rainey.”

  “What a delight!” the man in the center of the bath said. His accent was thick, with an almost musical quality to it. “We never get a visit from the true locals. Please, Inspectors
, sit, sit. Tinari, attend to both of them, with all haste.”

  “It isn’t necessary—” Welling managed to get out.

  “But of course it is, do not be absurd.”

  Four servants came over, and they paired off on both Satrine and Welling. They all attempted to undress the two of them, which Welling was having none of.

  “Truly, no, take your hands off our persons!” he snapped.

  Satrine pushed one of her servants away gently. “We aren’t here for the baths, thank you.”

  Their host sighed. “Your loss, fellows. But you must take something we offer. We have a paucity of decent fruit, as I’m sure you can imagine, given the season. And the fact that, well, we are in Maradaine. That said, I do have some glorious berries, as well as a few unique treasures from the Napolic Islands. And with those, I must insist—” He raised his voice for the whole room to hear. “Really, friends, the Napolic fruits must be eaten today, or they’ll be past their prime.”

  “We’re not here—”

  “Tosh, tosh,” the Kieran man said. “It’s bad enough you refuse to join us properly. Do not come into this household at this hour and tell me you aren’t here to eat, because I won’t hear of it.” He snapped his fingers and a servant held out two plates of diced fruit in front of them—orange in color, with a sticky wetness to it. “Now, most of my guests are afraid to even touch this one, and I confess it has an odor that is reminiscent of vomit . . .”

  Satrine had to concur with that.

  “But the flavor is truly a unique experience that I’m certain two brave and stalwart members of the City Constabulary would never hide from.”

  “Mister Kenorax—” Satrine started.

  “Ah, no,” the man said. “Iliari. Estiani Iliari.”

  Iliari. The other Kieran man that Hieljam ab Tishai had mentioned.

  He snapped his fingers and one of the servants approached him with a sponge and began to scrub his bare chest. Other Kierans were having their bodies massaged, washed, and oiled, all while more servants fed them.

  “But this is the Kenorax home, yes?” Welling asked.