An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Satrine, begrudgingly, had to admire Hilsom here. He had done the work.

  “Nonetheless, I cannot tell you where to find her,” Taiz said. He glanced at the list of names. “Or any of these individuals.”

  “You’re rather quick to determine that,” Satrine said.

  “Grant me some credit, Inspector. I know that the people listed are the ones of Lyranan nationality and descent who were arrested last night and freed by Specialist Yikenj. I know that they are not functionaries in my employ, and they are not people I am responsible for. I cannot be held to account for individuals who are outside of my domain.”

  “Then let’s talk about your domain,” Satrine said.

  He held up a condescending finger to silence her. “I understand that you have Writs of Compulsion for myself and Trade Notary Nengtaj. Forgive me if I am unversed in the minutiae of your crude laws. What does this mean?”

  “It means you are both compelled to come with us for questioning,” Satrine said.

  “You are free to ask me whatever question you wish,” he said.

  “A formal questioning is a different matter,” Hilsom said. “The questioning is a matter of record, and you are obliged to answer.”

  “Under threat of incarceration?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” Hilsom said.

  “Interesting. Now I believe—if I understand your custom—this is where I am granted challenge of said writ. What is the phrase I must say, Trade Notary Nengtaj?”

  Nengtaj stepped forward. “Demonstrate your burden!”

  “Yes. Demonstrate your burden.”

  This, Satrine was expecting. She had been composing her own speech in the back of her mind, really since leaving the Hieljam warehouse. “I have, at the moment, a warehouse of seized goods, just a few blocks from here. Said goods are material evidence in the investigation of the murder of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz. Said goods have been inspected and stamped with a seal from Trade Notary Nengtaj. A seal issued by this office. Therefore both of you are persons of interest, determined to have information of critical value to the investigation.”

  “I’m satisfied that burden has been demonstrated,” Hilsom said dryly.

  “I am not surprised by that,” Taiz said. He stood up, straightening out his coat as he got to his feet. “Very well. I presume that we are spared the indignity of being shackled as we are escorted to this questioning?”

  Chapter 21

  SATRINE HAD SEPARATED from Hilsom and Cheever, as well as one of the wagons, as they went off to the Tsouljan compound. Hilsom didn’t give her too much guff over using that place for the questioning. Luckily he didn’t actually question her reason for wanting it. She had given one that suited him—it was easier than hauling everyone all the way back to the stationhouse—but her real reason was far less logical.

  The truth was, while she had visualized the various pieces of this puzzle, she didn’t quite know how to make it fit. She couldn’t think in spirals like Welling did. Her gut told her that if she could see the whole picture at once—the people in the place—it would all fall together.

  Her lockwagon train—now three wagons—moved on to the Imach streets. She noticed that Hace, clutching onto the wagon runner, was sweating profusely. Far more than he should just because of the heat.

  “Don’t care for Machie, Hace?” she asked. The wagons barely had space to push through, as carts and vendors clogged up every part of the causeway. The drivers had to make liberal use of their whistles to push along.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. He moved a bit closer on the runner. “I feel like they’re glaring at us.”

  She looked about at the Imachs in the street. It was true, they were the center of attention, and unlike the Lyranan quarter, there was no shortage of people here. “Well, we are not popular here. We’re going to be a whole lot less so in a few moments.”

  “Why is that?” Hace asked.

  “Because we’ve already locked up one of the community leaders for these people, and we’re about to grab another.” She signaled to the driver. “Over there’s our place.”

  She hopped down off the runner and walked the rest of the way while the wagon made its way through. Looking back to Hace, she found he was ever so slightly hesitant in his shadow duties. If he was scared of the Imachs, then the Alahs Innata—the coffee den—must have looked terrifying. A few swarthy, shirtless, thick-bearded Imachs milled about the front door to the dark-looking place.

  “We’re going in there?” he asked.

  “We are,” she said, walking up to the door. The Imachs moved slightly—not enough to truly block her, but enough to force her to brush past them to get in.

  One of them said something in an Imach dialect.

  “Afraid I didn’t get that.” Satrine looked up at the three of them—all of them a good half a head taller than her.

  “He said,” another offered, his accent thicker than tar, “that you have no business here.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, and I have writs backing up that point. So either you let me pass or I’ll have you ironed for interference.”

  The first one said something again in Imach, and then added in Trade, “Unclean.” Now she understood their tactics—trying to shame her on their terms. For her to touch them on their bare skin and not be family or in one of the official stages of courtship would be the equivalent of declaring herself a prostitute.

  She didn’t have time for this, and pushed her way through. Hace was right on her heels.

  Nalassein Hajan sat at the same table he was at the other day, discussing something with a larger group of his people. He didn’t even look up as she came over.

  “I have a Writ of Compulsion for you, Mister Hajan,” she said, “regarding the death of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz.”

  He glanced up, and muttered something to the rest of his people.

  She dropped the writ on the table. “I am within my legal right to take you in irons if you do not comply, as well as anyone who interferes.”

  One of the men at the table shouted to the men by the door, who had followed her in, and they responded back. Then he looked up at her. “Are all women in the constables wanton, or just you?”

  Satrine was about to respond with a backhanded slap, when Hace got over whatever fear of the Imachs he might have. The man found himself facedown on the floor, with Hace on his back, putting his hands in irons.

  “That’s interference, by the saints,” Hace said. “I believe you were warned.”

  The other men started out of their chairs, but Hajan waved them down. “I have been congenial and helpful, Inspector. Why are you here to harass me?”

  “Because you’re involved, Mister Hajan,” Satrine said. “And I need everyone involved to cooperate.”

  “But I have cooperated. I told you the murder weapon was Kadabali. I pointed you in the direction of Assan Jabiudal. Hasn’t he proven to be the very man you seek in this crime?”

  “He has not, not to my satisfaction.”

  “Hmm,” Hajan said. “And yet I am told he and his followers are, how do you say, ‘ironed,’ and likely destined to spend a fair amount of time in your charming prison by the old quarry hole.”

  “That would be a convenient way to close this all up,” Satrine said, taking the seat vacated by the man Hace had bound up. “Jabiudal locked away, as well as his followers, and with him, any competition or complications you have importing—what do you called it? Sukkar? Those disappear.”

  “I do not understand what you are insinuating.”

  “Hieljam is dead, and if Jabiudal is blamed and jailed, then who benefits the most? I think it’s you, Mister Hajan, in that you can bring in the sukkar and sell it directly to the Kierans.”

  “The Kierans?” Hajan looked genuinely confused. Either he was a great performer, or Satrine had just opened a new vein of information.r />
  “You see, there’s so much for us—all the involved parties—to go over together, Mister Hajan. Thus I need you to come with me.”

  Hajan waved at her dismissively. “You will go alone. I am not interested.” The men at the table all shifted their bodies toward Satrine, as if they were now ready to enforce his will.

  “I was certain your interest alone wouldn’t hook you, Mister Hajan. That’s why this is best done with a legal writ.” She held up the paperwork. “You are compelled.”

  “I confess, I am not sure how I can be compelled, Inspector. Unlike many of the men in this part of Maradaine, I make no claim to being a Druth citizen, or even aspire to reside. I came here to conduct business, but I am a Ghaladi, and a kezah at that.” Kezah—a sort of holy noble rank in southern Imachan. “Arresting me would create a challenging incident, especially without good cause.”

  “Writs of Compulsion are funny things, Mister Hajan,” Satrine said. “I’ll confess, I am not a lawyer, but I understand their authority is not limited to the city. For example, one couldn’t just run to Monim or Scaloi or any other archduchy in Druthal and avoid its consequences.”

  “I would return to Ghalad—”

  “And one consequence is forfeit and seizure of assets,” Satrine continued. “So were you to attempt to avoid this Writ of Compulsion by returning to Ghalad, every ship registered to you, Mister Hajan, would be seized at any Druth port.”

  “You couldn’t—”

  “I, personally, could not, but—” She tapped on the papers. “But there’re the offices of the City Protector, the sheriffs of the Archduchies, and the King’s Marshals. They do not take avoidance of writs lightly. Not at all. Without respect to the law here, Mister Hajan, the entire structure of authority breaks down.”

  “You would threaten—”

  “I’m simply saying, Mister Hajan, that it’s worth the hour or so of your time it would take to accede to the authority of this writ.”

  Hajan scowled and drank his coffee. “Release my friend there and I will come without further difficulties.”

  “Hace?” she asked.

  “He was very rude to you, Inspector.”

  “We’ll let it pass,” she said. “This time. After all, we’re very grateful for Mister Hajan’s willing cooperation.” She let that drop sweeter than the sukkar this whole trouble seemed to be over. She only hoped it was worth the trouble.

  Mirrell didn’t have much of a plan to find Jinx, but he didn’t want to admit that to any of these regulars. He had given instructions to call for backup if Welling was spotted, and then approach with caution. He phrased it delicately enough: “Inspector Welling is unwell and in need of medical attention to avoid further harm to himself.” That was true, but it tamped down the fact that Jinx was a rutting mage who was out of his skull.

  And that terrified Mirrell beyond his ability to think straight.

  The three blocks surrounding Ironheart hadn’t yielded a damn thing, either.

  “Really?” he asked the handful of regulars he had about him. “We’ve got a chance for people to turn in a crazy stick, and no one has seen anything?”

  “Oh, a few people said they saw something,” said Iorrett, one of the more experienced sergeants on the hunt, “but most of it was bunk.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” Iorrett said. “Believe me, if someone had something real . . .”

  “Fine, fine,” Mirrell said. He didn’t like this business they had to do, going after Jinx, but it was necessary. It was already becoming clear some of the regulars relished it. “We ain’t got the manpower to spread beyond three blocks. Anyone got a plan?”

  “Northwest,” someone said—a sergeant he didn’t recognize, walking over to his group of regulars. The man came over and extended his hand. “Cole Pyle, Horsepatrol in Keller Cove.”

  “You come off your beat to bail us?” Mirrell asked.

  “Something like that,” Pyle said. He pointed to a handful of sticks standing a bit away—from officers to cadets—as well as a couple River Patrol, Fire Brigade, and even a Bodyman. “You’re looking for Minox Welling, we got a few people to help you out.”

  “Right,” Mirrell said. “Pyle? We’ve got a—”

  “That’s my daughter, Inspector.”

  “Right.” So Jinx’s family came out for the hunt. Made sense. Deep roots in the Green and Red meant something, even for Jinx. “Don’t see your niece about. How’s her eye?”

  “She’s on her own hunt for Minox. In the meantime—”

  “You said northwest.”

  “Two things in that direction. The house—”

  “I presume you’ve checked there.”

  “He hadn’t come home, but he might head that way.”

  “And we—”

  “We’ve got that handled, Inspector.”

  Wellings and their kin were going to put up a wall. Fair enough. But he was also remembering who this Pyle fellow was, besides Miss Nyla’s pop. He was a tough old stick, who ran horse in Keller Cove, Seleth, and parts of town farther west that most Inemar regulars wouldn’t go near.

  He partnered with Jinx’s pop back then, from what Mirrell had heard, until they got jumped by a Seleth gang. That had been Jinx’s pop’s last ride.

  “What else is northwest of here?” Mirrell asked.

  “The Little East,” Pyle said. “And with it, Minox’s case.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Look”—Pyle shifted his tone a bit—“I know that something with—you know—has driven Minox off the saddle right now. But you can count on one thing about that boy. If he’s got a case to solve, no matter what else is going on in his head, he’s going to solve it.”

  Mirrell had to admit, that sounded like Jinx.

  “All right,” he said, calling out to the regulars he had. “Whistle out and regroup. Push in teams of eight, from here through the Little East, up to Keller Cove. Scour and sweep each damn street.” Glancing at the collection of Wellings, he added, “Don’t forget, we got one of ours that needs our help.”

  That was the truth. Because the saints only knew what sort of state Jinx was in right now.

  “How are you feeling, Inspector?” Phillen was looking at her a little too deeply for Satrine’s comfort as they rode on to the Kenorax household.

  “How’m I looking, Hace?” she shot back.

  “Like you could use a week on the Yinaran coast,” he said.

  She turned to him, raising her eyebrow. That was a strange response. “What do you know of the Yinaran coast?”

  “Nothing,” he said sheepishly. “It’s just a thing people say.”

  That was probably true. It was a thing her mother used to say when she was deep in her jug. As far as Satrine knew, her mother had never been to the Yinaran coast. Maybe that was where she had run off to.

  “Well, it’s a nice idea. I’ll settle for a day off once this is solved.”

  He nodded, smiling. “If you can untie all this mess, that’ll be earned.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Phillen.”

  He actually gave that some thought. “Did you know the Firewings abandoned their chapterhouse in town a few weeks ago?”

  “I did not know that, no.” It was surprising, but maybe with two members ritually murdered and narrowly avoiding a war with one of their rival Circles, they figured a change of scene was for the best. Of course, the killer was caught, the case was closed, but that was one of the ones Welling considered “unresolved,” in that strange way of his. Did he know they had moved out? Did that give the case a sense of resolution he had lacked, or did that only add to it being “unresolved”?

  At some point, Satrine knew, she and Welling should have a long talk about the “unresolved” pile. If they ever got the chance.

  As they approached the
Kieran household, Satrine found herself sending a prayer up to Saint Jesslyn for Minox’s health and safety.

  She only had a small group of regulars with her now, and most of them looked like it was their first month on the job. She had them follow behind her as she crossed the gate and pounded on the bright white door.

  The old servant opened up. “May I help you?” he croaked out.

  Satrine held up her writ. “We’ll be seeing Misters Kenorax and Iliari now.”

  The old man didn’t argue, he simply opened up and led them to an antechamber filled with exotic flowers and far more caged birds than Satrine had ever seen at once. The regulars and Hace all stood around uncomfortably amid the tweeting and cooing.

  “Is this normal?” Hace asked.

  “The waiting or the birds?”

  “I thought it was the Acserians who worshipped birds,” one of the regulars said.

  “No, they just won’t eat them. Kierans will. Maybe this is for dinner.”

  “And maybe we simply appreciate beauty in all its forms.” Two men came into the room—Iliari was standing in the back, while the man Satrine presumed to be Ravi Kenorax stood sternly in the entranceway. Wearing little more than a sheer robe, he stared hard at Satrine, trying to look imposing, despite being a few inches shorter.

  “Mister Kenorax, I presume.”

  “I thought I had you people dealt with.”

  “We aren’t so easily dismissed, Mister Kenorax,” Satrine said. “You might have filed a complaint, but I’ve got Writs of Compulsion for you and your man back there.”

  “Compulsion? You think you can come in here and compel me—”

  “I can and I will, sir. I have the authority—”

  “Do you know who I am?” Kenorax sneered. “I’m one of the richest men in Maradaine. One of the richest Druth men, period—I was born in this city, just as the two of you were. But I’m just another greasy pirie to you, aren’t I?”

  That was unexpected. “I never said—” Satrine started. Kenorax already had a full sail in his speech, though. He got closer to her as he railed, his breath heavy with wine.