“You know them?” Kellman asked.
She didn’t, but she could guess. “Representatives of the Council of Aldermen and Justice Advocate, most likely.”
“We’ve got people taking care of Ironheart,” Cinellan said, his powerful voice drowning out the others. “Please let me focus on the other priorities here.”
“I’ve got actual miscreants I need cell space for,” one of the lieutenants said. “Regular footpatrol and horsepatrol duty in Inemar needs to continue. It’s become chaos!”
“You can’t be putting all your resources on the Little East,” one of the fancier suits said. “Ordinary citizens need to—”
“We’ll go to the Gazette,” one of the worn suits said.
“Enough!” Cinellan shouted. “Rainey, what do you have?”
“What’s going on at Ironheart?” Satrine asked.
Captain Cinellan hesitated, and one of the other lieutenants—a real straight-nose named Bretton—spoke up. “A group of Imach dissidents managed to seize control of one of the ward rooms. They have several patients and ward staff hostage. Some of which are injured Constabulary.”
“What do you need us to do?” Kellman asked.
“You two, nothing. As far as that’s concerned,” Cinellan said. “I’ve got enough folks, with Mirrell in charge, over there. Is there anything on the Hieljam case? That’s the crack we need to seal up.”
“We have a lead on a warehouse that might provide us with the key to the motive,” Satrine said. “The scribe from the Protector’s Office was supposed to find Hilsom here so we can get a Writ of Search.”
“Zebram?” He looked to the Protector.
“I’ll go find her,” Hilsom said. “Though I don’t know how much help that will be. The city is on fire and you ask for a bucket.” He stalked off.
“Once we have that, Welling and I—”
“Welling is gone,” Cinellan said. “And I’m glad, because he looked like he was about to fall into his grave. Miss Pyle made him go home.”
“All right,” Satrine said. “Then I’ll go up there—”
“Like blazes you will,” Cinellan said. “Kellman’s your partner for now.”
“But shouldn’t we be—” Kellman started.
“Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘solving this murder,’ Darreck, I don’t want to hear it!”
Kellman gave a casual salute. “Like you say, sir.”
Satrine hid her desire to sigh. Not that Kellman was bad—he was sharper than Welling gave him credit for, but he was crass and more interested in locking someone up than actually solving the crime. His little speech about sending them all to Quarrygate and let the trial sort out fit his method. She was going to need to take charge to bend him to her needs.
“All right,” Satrine said. “We’ll head up there in ten minutes. If Hilsom doesn’t have the writ ready in time, he can have one of his pages run after us. If you need to grab something to eat or hit the closet, now’s your moment.”
Kellman looked bewildered for a moment, and then shrugged. “See you in ten.”
Satrine went back to her desk, hoping Welling had left a note behind, having found something in the pile of documents he had requested.
Instead there was madness. The slateboard was a mess of scrawled notes and lines and arrows, several of the records affixed to it. She had learned, in the last two months, how to read his scratch handwriting, but figuring out this message was a puzzle that made the murder look like a child’s riddle.
“Oh, Welling,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve really gone in deep this time.”
Cinellan came over to the desks, having seemed to have lost his entourage for the moment. “Is Assan Jabiudal one of your possible suspects?”
“He’s on the list,” Satrine said. “But I think he’s more growl than teeth. All performance for his zealots.”
“I hope you’re right about that,” Cinellan said. “He’s the one who took the hostages.”
“Specs, is this a good idea?”
Minox was relatively sure it wasn’t, but fear, anger, and magic were clouding his thoughts. He had to fight his way to approaching the situation rationally. The perverse urge to resolve it with violence coursed through him. His arm was trembling, and Minox wasn’t sure if it was his emotions or the magical ailment.
One thing was clear, though—Joshea was an anchor in this moment. He shouldn’t let the man get involved, but he desperately wanted his help.
“It’s what we’re doing,” Minox said. “It may not be a good idea, but there isn’t a better one.”
A cart loaded with bread and soup had been brought up from the kitchens, ready to be wheeled into the ward room. Minox was impressed with how quickly it had been provided. Perhaps they had been preparing to serve it now, regardless.
“Ready?” Joshea asked.
Minox nodded, moving closer. “We may have to take . . . extraordinary measures. I know you’re not comfortable with the idea, but . . .”
“I understand. Let’s go,” Joshea said. He wheeled the cart into the room, Minox following behind and staying in the doorway.
“No farther, Constable,” Jabiudal said. He was still holding Beliah, who was now looking back and forth between him and Joshea. “Who is this man?”
Joshea stood tall. “Joshea Brondar. I was a patient in the ward, and volunteered to help when the Constabulary needed it.”
“You have the bearing of a soldier, Mister Brondar.”
“Former,” Joshea said. “I won’t lie to you about that, sir. But that’s why I’m bringing your food instead of ward staff. None of them should be put in danger.”
“We brought you food, Mister Jabiudal,” Minox said. Another wave of weakness pulsed through his body, starting with his hand and then running through his whole body. Minox almost collapsed, leaning on the doorframe to hide it. “Make good with your end.”
“I offered you five,” Jabiudal said. “First—you, the profane one.” He pointed at Corrie.
“What do you blazing want?” Corrie asked.
“Come here and taste the food,” Jabiudal said. “Make sure they did nothing foolish.”
Corrie walked over to the cart. “Hey, specs?” she asked Minox, feigning ignorance. “You do anything foolish?”
“Not to the food,” Minox said. It was growing harder to draw breath. Minox wasn’t sure how much longer he could maintain.
Corrie shrugged, picked up a bowl of soup, and started eating it. “Good enough?”
“Sufficient,” Jabiudal said. “Bring my people their meals first.”
“Release five, Jabiudal,” Minox said.
“I am true to my pledges,” Jabiudal said. He pointed to three patients—all Constabulary officers, all of them with relatively minor injuries. Exactly the sort who could give a good fight back. “You three will leave now with no trouble.”
“Go on,” Minox said to them. They shuffled out. “That’s three.”
“True,” Jabiudal said. “The doctor and the other nurse will also go. We will need one nurse with us, in case of emergencies, and this one is the best to keep close.” He pulled Beliah tight to him.
Corrie and Joshea both bristled.
“Come along,” Minox said to the other two released hostages. As they left, Joshea and Corrie distributed the soup to the rest of the hostages. Minox barely noticed the moment when Joshea passed a knife to Corrie—the man had quick and quiet hands.
“So what next?” Minox asked Jabiudal. His legs were numb, his left hand full of needles. “Are we at an impasse?”
“There is no such thing. There is only patience, as we await the wisdom of God.”
“What the blazes is going on?” a voice shouted from the hallway. Mirrell. “Who is in there, and who authorized this?”
Jabiudal grinned. “And t
he wisdom arrives.”
Minox was about to speak, but then all the strength in his legs left him. He collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Minox!” Beliah shouted.
“Confirmed,” Jabiudal said.
Minox tried to force himself to stand up, but he had nothing in his legs. Only in the center of his gut, a black fire burned, a great forge of churning magic.
One of the other Imachs stepped forward, and shouted something in his native tongue. He pointed at Minox.
Jabiudal snarled, and pointed his weapon at Minox. He said something, which Minox presumed was an accusation of him being a mage.
Which made perfect sense, and a blackened cloudy glow was coming from his hand.
In that moment Joshea and Corrie both struck. Joshea leaped on one of the Imachs, while Corrie wrenched Beliah from Jabiudal’s grasp. Beliah fell to the ground, screaming in panic. Corrie and Jabiudal both had knives out, grappling to overpower the other.
Joshea had his man by the skull, thumbs pressing into his eyes. The man screamed, and the other two Imachs came to his defense, slashing at Joshea with their knives.
Jabiudal’s knife was about to find Corrie’s throat.
The fire within Minox’s stomach could no longer be contained. His arm was engulfed in the black glow.
And then it filled the room completely.
Chapter 17
THE WARRANT THAT HILSOM WROTE OUT for them was extremely limited, only giving Satrine and Kellman access to the one dockside hold that Uite lek Ni named. “No latitude here, not an inch,” he had said. “If there’s nothing there, too rutting bad.”
This had to be a problem if he was resorting to profanity.
“Blazes, Trick, what do you think we’ll even find here? A signed confession?” Kellman asked as they approached the building, which was nearly indistinguishable from every other one on this strip. “This is a waste of time.”
“Evidence is a waste of time?”
“Blazes, it probably was Jabiudal or one of his zealots. Why do you think they’ve taken hostages now?”
“Humor me, Kellman,” Satrine said. “Besides, they’ve got all the hands they need at Ironheart. We might as well be useful now.”
She was starting to think that Kellman coming with her was also a waste of time, but even she admitted she needed another pair of hands, especially using the doorcracker. That was a two-person tool; even Kellman couldn’t use it alone. “This is the one.”
Kellman had the doorcracker slung over his shoulder, and he put it on the ground. “All right, but we got to do this clean down the line, or Hilsom will have our heads. And I mean yours, Trick.”
“Glad you’re looking out for me.”
If clean down the line was what they’d need, then that’s how it would go.
Satrine went up to the metal door, dingy and poorly painted. She would have thought the Hieljams would have kept their property in better state, but maybe that was another sign of their finances being in trouble.
She gave three hard pounds. “City Constabulary,” she announced. “We have a Writ of Search issued from the Office of the Protector and signed by a justice. You are required to open this door.”
She counted to ten awaiting a response. When no response came, she repeated the pounding and the speech.
“Have I satisfied the requirement of announcement?” she asked Kellman.
“Yeah, all right,” he said. “Try the door.”
She pulled at the door, but it didn’t move. “It’s latched. Is the use of the cracker warranted?”
He picked it up off the ground. “You’re a little too excited about this thing.”
“It’s my first time, Kellman,” she said, taking hold of one of the handles as he wedged the blades of the device inside the gap of the door. “Be gentle with me.”
He chuckled as he braced himself. “Do it.”
She pushed her handle toward Kellman as he held his side in place, and the blades of the device pried open, forcing the door open with a very satisfying crack.
“Did you like that?” he asked.
She realized she was grinning. “There really are few simple pleasures on this job.”
He set the doorcracker down. “Constabulary! We have a Writ of Search. Resistance will result in ironing!”
He gave her a nod, and she drew her crossbow, stepping across the threshold. The place was dim—only a row of small windows near the roof providing any illumination. “Might need a lamp,” she said.
He came in behind her, crossbow up. “I left it in the wagon.”
“We’ll go back for it once we’re secure here,” she said. “Though I think that’s not an issue.”
If anyone was in here, they were making a point of staying hidden. Satrine didn’t drop her guard, but shifted her focus to looking for whatever might be in the warehouse. The place was filled with barrels, hundreds of them, marked with both Imach and Fuergan writing. The thing that stood out was the smell. Sickly sweet, and oddly familiar.
“So what do we have in here?” Kellman asked. “You smell that, right?”
“I do,” Satrine said. “You ever smell that before?”
“No,” he said, moving closer to a barrel. “Think it might be effitte? Or some other junk we haven’t heard of?”
“Maybe,” Satrine said.
“What do the squiggles say?”
She couldn’t read the Imach or Fuergan words. She knew the letters, the symbols, and could pronounce them, but the words didn’t meant a damn thing to her.
“Sukkar in Imach, Hsugir in Fuergan,” she said.
“Shu-gar?” Kellman said. “So what is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, though her nose told her different. “I know this smell.”
“Well, you’ve got that,” he said. “From where?”
Satrine found a prybar on the wall and took it to the lid of one of the barrels. “That’s what I’m trying to remember.”
“Were you ever in Imachan?” he asked, clearly joking.
She had been. That was the smell.
“I was once,” she said. “Many years ago.” The lid popped off, revealing a thick brown liquid. “A farm with a boilhouse of some sort.”
“Boilhouse?”
Cautiously she dipped her finger in the liquid. “You ever go to Waisholm, Kellman? Or one of the northern archduchies when they tap the maples?”
“That’s not maple syrup, or honey,” he said.
“No,” she said. “This might be very stupid, so be alert.” She dared to allow a drop of it on her tongue.
A burst of sweetness.
“You all right?”
She had made a face. “I’m fine. It’s much sweeter than maple or honey.”
“Fine,” Kellman said. “So why was this so important?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Satrine said. This was the same scent from that Imach farm. From the boilhouse. Where Pra Yikenj had nearly killed her. “This barrel is, what, thirty gallons?”
“About,” he said. “And we’re looking at at least a hundred barrels. And we don’t know what it is, exactly.”
“Let’s keep looking around. There’s not an obvious office in here, but there’s probably paperwork, a manifest, something. Even if it’s in Imach or Fuergan. We need to figure out what this is and where it’s going.”
“Why do you think it’s going somewhere?”
“Besides the fact that there isn’t a market for it here?” Satrine asked. “At least, not yet, but . . .” That was the thing missing. Why was this stuff here, in Maradaine? “That’s part of what we need to figure out. If Uite is telling us the truth—”
“That’s a big if.”
“If he was, then the Hieljam are fully invested in this stuff, this sukkar. Why, unless they thought they could tur
n a profit?”
“So where’s the profit?” Kellman asked, though he was clearly on board. “Figure out the money, we figure out who benefits from Hieljam’s death. So who’s tied to this stuff? Kenorax, Hajan, Jabiudal?”
“Everyone and all?” she said.
There was a desk in the corner of the warehouse, and stacks of neatly organized papers. Some of them were in Fuergan, others were in Imach, and a few with notations in Trade, including the Kenorax name on several of them.
“What do you have?”
“Timetables, I think,” she said. “It’s in multiple languages, but it looks like this stuff is supposed to go to one of the Imach groups, but after Kenorax was supposed to take it and bring it back three weeks later.”
“Kenorax is in shipping and cargo,” Kellman said. “If his company is taking it, why are they bringing it back? Or are they bringing it somewhere that it takes three weeks there and back?”
“No clue, especially since it seems they never did any of it.” She flipped through the paperwork, which was mostly in Fuergan and Imach, but from the Trade she could read it seemed like the Kierans were supposed to pick up barrels of this stuff weeks ago, but never did.
“I’m at a loss here, Trick,” Kellman said. “Saints know I can’t make sense of this foreign nonsense. Anyone could be the person gaining from this.”
Satrine had to agree with that. She dug through the sheets, not that she could read any of it either, until she spotted a crucial piece of information—a stamp in neither Fuergan or Imach symbols.
A Lyranan stamp.
“I’ve got a hunch who that might be, Kellman. Whistle some footboys and pages over. We need to lock this whole place down.”
Just as Mirrell reached the room were those blasted machs had taken their hostages, the whole place became a thunderstorm.
That was the only way he could describe what was happening. Black clouds, flashes of lightning, a great clamor of thunder. The last thing blew out his ears, and he was knocked off his feet, as were most of the rest of the men in the hallway.
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