An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Three feeks were kicking and stomping on him when she got to him. No time or blazing desire to use “appropriate force.” She cracked the handstick across the jaw of the closest one, and then spun it to knock him over his thick skull. As he went down, she stomped on the knee of the next one. His leg made a satisfying snap and he dropped. For good measure she smashed the butt of her handstick into his nose.

  The third one—a feek skirt—punched Corrie in the chest, and then a cross to her chin. Corrie stumbled a bit, but wasn’t dazed, and she wailed back on the damned skirt with her handstick, over and over again.

  “Messed with the wrong rutting sinner, you did!” she snapped at the feek, hitting her until the girl dropped in a bloody mess.

  “Welling,” Kenty muttered. He was a fright, blood gushing from his mouth and eye. Teeth were gone. The right eye was probably gone as well. One of his legs was broken in two places, bone sticking through his slacks.

  “Blazes, Kenty,” she said, bending down to scoop him up. She managed to get him over her left shoulder in a rescue carry, keeping her right arm free to beat down whoever got in her blasted way. She made for the closest alley, away from much of the chaos. Was this the one she came through earlier, with her useless nag at the other end? She couldn’t even remember. A few blows to the head had gotten her all turned around.

  “I heard them whistle the Yellowshields, Kenty,” she said. “We’re gonna get you to them, hear? You’ll be rutting fine.”

  She ran down the alley, which was blessedly clear. She was terrified that she’d be set upon by a nest of hiding machs or feeks, or that the blasted thing would be blocked off by a gate.

  Instead, she came straight out the other side to an even larger riot. This was a scrum the likes of which she had never seen. Not only feeks and machs, but a whole mess of gray-skinned tyzos truncheoning anyone they came across. She couldn’t even make out who was fighting who, and only a handful of sticks were around, vainly trying to hold something resembling a line.

  “I need some rutting help!” she screamed. No one marked her. There was no way she could get through this to the line, not with Kenty on her shoulder. But she’d be damned if she’d leave him here.

  She’d have to make a run for it.

  Two of the tyzos knocked down a big mach bruiser, giving an opening. She’d just have to dash about twenty yards, with a couple mach skirts far too interested in beating some feek to pay her much mind.

  She charged out, handstick at the ready to clobber anyone who got in her way. Five yards out, that mach bruiser slammed the tyzos, forcing her to jump around them. She almost lost her footing, almost dropped Kenty. She lurched to the left to regain her balance, maintain her momentum.

  “Help!” she shouted again, hoping someone from the line would hear her.

  She collided into one of the Imach skirts. The woman growled—she rutting well growled—and turned on Corrie. Corrie clubbed her with the handstick before she could get a shot in.

  Ten more yards to the line.

  The other mach skirt tackled Corrie, shouting in crazy gibberish. With Kenty on her shoulder, Corrie couldn’t stay up, and they all went tumbling to the ground. Corrie’s head cracked on the cobblestone as she dropped.

  Her left arm was pinned under Kenty, and before she could get her right arm up, the Imach skirt was on top of her. Two more punches to the head. Everything went fuzzy.

  As Corrie’s head swam and plunged into blackness, she felt the woman grab a swath of her hair and pull it taut. Then she heard the metallic swipe of a knife being drawn from its sheath.

  “Minox!” Joshea was at his arm, pointing into the fray. But there was too much, too many things happening. Minox couldn’t possibly see all the details. There were no options here but bad ones. They were going to have to sweep through with handsticks, clubbing and ironing every person here, aggressor and victim alike.

  The Lyranan incursion didn’t change that. It just meant more people in the wagons.

  “Get in line!” Minox called out to the regulars who were here. Nearly three dozen, and while they were still outnumbered, it would have to do. He could hear the lockwagons coming up. Waiting any longer would just cost lives. “Sweep through on my mark!” He brought up his whistle to signal them.

  Joshea grabbed his shoulder. “Corrie!”

  This time Minox saw it. Corrie, pushing through the fight, another officer on her shoulder, and then pulled down by an Imach woman.

  Instinct fired up the magic in his belly. He barely even thought about what he was doing. The power welled and then shot out with a wave of his hand. A thunderous crack echoed through the square, and Imachs, Fuergans, and Lyranans in his line of sight were bowled down like they were Eight Pins.

  They weren’t the only thing bowled over. Minox felt something snap in himself as soon as he did that, starting from his left hand. It was like he was hit with a hammer.

  He would have dropped to his knees if it wasn’t for Joshea.

  “What did you—”

  “Corrie, go,” Minox wheezed out. Joshea let him go and dashed in. Minox forced himself to stay on his feet, despite every muscle screaming. He fought to take breath and blew the signal for the sweep.

  The footpatrol charged in as two waves, the first line pounding through and tearing the rioters from each other and beating them down with their handsticks. The second line grabbed those people once they were beaten down and put them in irons. From other sides of the square, the horsepatrol, running off of Minox’s signal, pressed in.

  Minox turned to wave in the lockwagons and Yellowshields. His hands were shaking now, legs like Mother’s apple preserves.

  He looked back toward Joshea. He was over Corrie, but was embroiled in a fight with a large Imach man. Joshea was holding his own, using the Tsouljan farming tool like the Druth Pikemen of legend, despite a deep bloody gash across his head. He fought with clarity and control, doing nothing but defending Corrie’s limp form.

  Minox couldn’t tell what condition Corrie was in. He took a step toward her; maybe he could get her out while Joshea kept the Imach goliath at bay.

  His knees gave out completely, and he dropped to the ground, vomiting as he fell.

  Hands were on him. He tried in vain to bring up his handstick, knock off his attacker, but they pushed it aside with ease.

  “Hey, hey, Minox. What happened?”

  Ferah, in her Yellowshield coat.

  In his daze he said the first thing that came to mind, despite it being largely irrelevant. “You don’t work this neighborhood.”

  “I don’t ignore whistles when I hear them,” she said, cupping his face and looking in his eyes. “Were you hit in the head? I don’t see a wound but you show signs of—”

  “Not hit,” he managed to say. “Magic. Something wrong.”

  “Blazes,” Ferah said uncharacteristically. “We need to get you—”

  “No, I need to help—”

  “Your folk have things contained,” she said. “Let me do my job.”

  “Indeed,” he said, words coming like he was forcing them through cloth. “For Corrie.”

  He managed to point weakly in her direction. Ferah turned.

  “Oh sweet saints and sinners,” she muttered. On her feet she shouted, “I need wheels! I need wheels to Ironheart now!”

  Minox tried to argue further with her, but he found himself unable to use his mouth or hands anymore. His vision was a blur, and he was only vaguely aware of being lifted into a wagon before he became completely insensate.

  Chapter 14

  MINOX WASN’T ENTIRELY SURE how or when he was brought to Ironheart Ward. He was aware of the sounds of doctors, nurses, and Yellowshields tending to more patients than they were prepared for. Screams of agony, moans and cries, tears of frustration, all that also found his ears.

  He was on a cot in a far corne
r of one of the ward rooms, no one paying much mind to him. Some strength had returned, but whatever magical ailment struck him hadn’t gone away. Sitting up in the cot, he looked at his left hand, which was now turning gray and black. He could barely move his fingers.

  What was this? Did the Tsouljans do this to him?

  Or did he do it to himself, and he prevented them from stopping it?

  He managed to get onto his feet. The room he was in had several injured people, some Constabulary, as well as civilians of every stripe. Fuergans, Lyranans, and Imachs, as well as a few of Druth stock. Minox noted one resting on a cot, with his head bandaged up.

  “Joshea,” Minox said, stumbling over to the cot. “Are you all right?”

  “Let him rest,” a ward nurse said, gently drawing Minox away. “He’s one of the ones we don’t need to worry about.”

  “There are ones to worry about?” Minox asked. “Pardon me, ma’am, it’s just . . .”

  “We’ll attend to you shortly, Officer,” she said calmly. She pushed past him to rejoin the doctor. She then glanced back at him, and after a moment scurried off somewhere else.

  “Inspector?” A man with a notably young face came over, his Constabulary uniform in shambles, though his collar showed lieutenant’s marks. “Lieutenant Bretton, street commander from last night.”

  “Bretton?” Minox struggled to think if his face or name was familiar. All thought was cloudy. “Forgive me, Lieutenant, if I acted out of place during the incidents. I presumed I was ranking on scene.”

  “For all intents you were, sir,” Bretton said, though he sounded like he was trying to be political rather than complimentary. “Once I arrived, the riot had been nearly broken up. I had the injured brought here, the rest brought to the stationhouse. I’ll gather information on everyone involved and make sure proper charges are filed upon them all once they are treated.”

  “Good, good,” Minox said. “There is an ongoing investigation, and I fear that some of my suspects were embroiled in all this.”

  “I was told as much by the captain, sir. I’ll cooperate with the coordination on this end until all the suspects are cleared.”

  “Good,” Minox said. He pointed to Joshea. “Do you know about his condition?”

  “Blow to the head, some bleeding. Nurses say he should be fine, though, once he sleeps through the doph they gave him.” Strong pain medication. “He’s an odd case, sir.”

  “No charges on him,” Minox said. “He was in the neighborhood on my request, and he risked his life to save a fellow constable.”

  Bretton nodded. “I’ll make a note of that.”

  “Do we have a casualty count?” Minox asked.

  “Still too early, Inspector. Same with arrest numbers, charges. There’s a lot to sort through.”

  “Of course,” Minox said. Despite still feeling weak and woozy, he pushed himself on toward the exit. He noticed he was just in slacks and shirtsleeves. “Would you know where my vest and belt are?”

  “They’re up at my desk.” Aunt Beliah stood in the exit doorway. “Didn’t want you trying to slip off without me knowing.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant, that will be all,” Minox said. Bretton nodded and stepped away, tipping his hat to Aunt Beliah as he passed.

  Minox approached Beliah so he could speak in a low voice. “I wouldn’t slip away. I have duties to attend to.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “You think I don’t know you? Your father would likely get on a horse and ride his shift even if he were on fire.”

  “As would any other officer in our family,” Minox said.

  “Ferah told me you couldn’t even stand or speak when she found you.”

  “My point exactly,” Minox said. “Ferah ran out in the middle of the night, off shift and outside of her beat, because she felt an obligation to her duties.”

  “Minox! That isn’t even the issue. Something is wrong with you. We weren’t sure what, so we left you on the cot—”

  “I wasn’t injured in the riot, Aunt,” Minox said. “My condition was caused by other factors, but I believe I will recover.”

  “Other factors?” she asked. An understanding dawned over her face. “And it’s passed? You’re certain?”

  “I feel better,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, though it overstated his condition. He needed to change the subject before she inquired further, especially about his hand. “Is Corrie all right?”

  “She’ll survive,” Beliah said ruefully. “But we need to wait to see how bad her eye was damaged.”

  “Her eye?” Minox faltered. Perhaps if he hadn’t failed, hadn’t allowed his magic problems to distract him, he could have been there to help her.

  “It looks bad, but . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Should I see her? Does Mother know?”

  “No and yes. Corrie’s sleeping off the doph after the doctors worked on her. Everyone at home knows, but I told them all to stay put. Enough trouble in here without them all underfoot. Poor Jace has been running back and forth all night, giving them reports, though.”

  “Very well,” Minox said. “Then I should report for duty.”

  Beliah sighed and led him to her desk. His vest, belt, and weapons were lying neatly on it, next to her impeccably organized paperwork. “Two promises, Minox.”

  She always liked to extract promises from him. “Go on.”

  “If you worsen at all, I want you to seek help. Immediately.”

  “I will,” Minox said, noting that “help” was an open-ended promise. “The second?”

  “When you go home—and you better go home tonight—spend some time with Evoy. He’s not even letting anyone in to bring him food now. No one but you.”

  Evoy’s condition in the barn was deteriorating. It was clearly only a matter of time before he would have to go to the asylum with Grandfather.

  “As you wish,” Minox said. He strapped on his belt and weapons, taking care not to draw too much attention to his discolored hand. He gave her a quick embrace and left her company before she could extract any more half-truths out of him.

  Nyla stood waiting in the entrance lobby of Ironheart. “Are you waiting for me?” Minox asked her.

  “I was only going to wait another few minutes,” she said with a smile. “If whatever happened to you made you late for duty, I would know it was very serious.”

  “I will make it to duty,” Minox said, forcing himself to stand straight and strong. “Let’s be off.”

  He maintained the posture as they left the building, in case Beliah or any of the doctors was watching. Once they were outside, he nearly collapsed on Nyla.

  “Minox!”

  “Just help me,” he said, as she took his weight, cradling his bad arm.

  “What is happening to you?”

  “I don’t know . . . I’m sure if I eat something, I’ll recover.” He wasn’t sure at all, but it made some sense. He hadn’t eaten anything since early last night. Perhaps that was the source of the trouble. “Just get me to a vendor, Nyla.”

  “We need to get you back in there, they can—”

  “Do you think the doctors understand this better than me?”

  “Maybe this isn’t . . .” She lowered her voice. “Maybe this isn’t magic. Maybe it’s some plague or such. You’ve been in . . . that part of town the past two days. Who knows what you could have caught.”

  Minox briefly considered this, but quickly dismissed it. The magickness of what was happening to him was evident, and if it were plague, then Rainey or Kellman or the host of other Constabulary would be showing signs. “Impossible. Help me get some food and get to the stationhouse.”

  “You have a fever as well,” she said. “I should get you home if not back in there.”

  “Nothing of the sort, Nyla,” he said. “Pleas
e, I need . . .” He paused, unsure how to articulate what he was feeling. “I have a responsibility.”

  “So do I,” Nyla said, pulling him along to a fry-up stand. “Saints help me, Minox, if anything happens to you today, it’ll be my fault right now.”

  “I won’t hold you accountable.”

  “Good for you,” Nyla said, putting him on a stool in front of the fry-up. “I doubt our mothers—or the saints—will feel the same.”

  Satrine woke to commotion. Her hand went to the crossbow before her eyes opened, but when she saw through the bleary haze of sleepy eyes, she saw only Missus Abernand and her daughters preparing themselves for the morning.

  “What time is it?” Satrine asked as she got to her feet. Her neck and back were very unhappy with her. Her shirt was stuck to her skin with sweat; the oppressive summer heat had already fully invaded her home.

  “A breath after seven bells,” Missus Abernand said from the kitchen. “You eating?”

  “I’ve got a moment to, I suppose,” Satrine said. She went off to the water closet to prepare herself for the day.

  When she came out, Rian was right in the doorway, holding the empty wine bottle. “Really, Mother?”

  “It’s too early for this, Ri,” Satrine said.

  “But not too late for this,” she said, shaking the bottle at Satrine. “Don’t say ‘for your nerves.’”

  “I’m allowed a bit of nerves, given everything,” Satrine said. She did not want to get angry at her daughter, especially since the girl had a blasted point. She was even proud of her for being brave enough to get in her face.

  “Fine, what’s ‘everything’?” She lowered her voice, supposedly so Caribet and Missus Abernand wouldn’t hear. “That foreign woman, who was she, and what did she want?”

  “She wanted to scare me, and it worked,” Satrine said. “Though not how she wanted.”

  “What are you going to do about her?” Rian asked. There was a hint of steel and defiance in there, even though Satrine couldn’t believe that Rian could back it up with anything. All bravado.