Exactly as Druth Intelligence wanted.
Kellin came out on the balcony.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Satrine said in her High Waish dialect. There were many reasons why, and there was no need to articulate them. Kellin knew them, and so did she. Of course many of the ones he knew were untrue.
“People already talk,” he said. “It hardly matters.”
“I can’t be a burden on your reign.” She added the comforting lie, “There’s a quiet manor house outside of Donellum waiting for me.”
“Not forever,” he said. “I promise, once—”
“Don’t make me promises,” she said. “You shouldn’t concern yourself.”
“I—”
“Go back in. Dance with the queen.” She turned and let herself drink in his sweet eyes one more time. “It’s best that no one makes note of me tonight.”
“As you say, Alia,” he said. He stepped back, gave a slight nod of his head, and returned to the gala.
“Are you there, Lieutenant?” she asked, slipping into Druth Trade for the first time in months.
Lieutenant Dresser, the mage responsible for extracting her from Waisholm, appeared from the shadows, flesh forming out of darkness in that disturbing way of his. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Just another moment,” Satrine said, looking out at the frost-covered rooftops, the two moons high in the sky and their reflection in the calm ocean. She let herself take a deep, cold breath in, so the chill of the Waish winter stayed in her for a little bit longer.
Satrine let out the breath.
Her hand was still clutching Corrie Welling’s shoulder, but now she could breathe. Now she could get to her feet. The Tsouljan woman stepped away.
“You all right, specs?” Hace asked her.
“I’ll—I’ll be fine. I think,” Satrine said. Pra Yikenj was still lying on the ground, and someone—was that Joshea Brondar?—stood over her. The blur of the previous events came back to her. He had stopped Yikenj magically. Uncircled mage, like Minox. She remembered now.
“Let’s get a lot of irons on her,” Satrine said. She turned back to her assembled group, most of whom were in a state of panic. The Lyranans had all been subdued by the regulars and red-haired Tsouljans. Cheever stood in front of the Hieljams, Hajan, and Kenorax, as if he would guard all of them from the Lyranan onslaught.
“I apologize for this . . . unpleasantness,” she said to them. “Mister Hilsom, would you concur there is sufficient cause to arrest Miss Pra Yikenj?”
“Indeed,” Hilsom said.
“Mister Cheever, would you object to her being considered a Prisoner of Extreme Peril until her hearing?”
“No,” he said. “It’s clear that she is sufficiently dangerous that uncommon precautions must be taken. My office will not object.”
“Good.” Satrine looked back at the officers who were ironing Pra Yikenj, who was still insensate. They had put several sets on her, binding each limb to every other limb. Normally, this would be High Cruelty, but Cheever’s blessing gave them some leeway.
“Are we concluded?” Hieljam ab Tishai asked. “You have your killer?”
Before Satrine answered, Hieljam ab Orihla interjected, “But they wouldn’t have!”
“Shush!” Hieljam ab Tishai snapped.
Mister Chell stepped forward. “I believe this has drawn to a close, Inspector. Your officials here seem to be in harmony on the matter. You have your arrest.”
“No,” Satrine said, speaking from her gut. “Miss Yikenj is being arrested for leading this assault here, as well as on the Inemar Stationhouse. However, I do not believe she is responsible for the murder of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz.”
“That’s quite right.”
Satrine didn’t have to turn to know who spoke, but she did anyway. Inspector Welling came walking across the lawn, with Mirrell and a cadre of regulars at his heels. He looked surprisingly well, compared to this morning. Weary and worn, but no more so than any other day. The only truly odd aspect about him—at least, odd for Minox Welling—was the glove he wore on his left hand.
“Inspector Welling,” she said, glancing over to Mirrell. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you here.” Mirrell gave a noncommittal shrug in response. He didn’t look happy at all, but he also seemed to accept that Welling was here, working.
“Thankfully I am,” Welling said. “Not to disparage your considerable skills in investigation, but you will be needing me to solve this case.”
Satrine found a warm smile imposing itself on her face despite herself. “And why is that, Inspector Welling?”
“Because of the nature of the true murder weapon.” He walked under one of the trees and looked up at it. “Yes, that would be it.”
“What true murder weapon?” Satrine asked. “Besides the Imach knife?”
“Kadabali knife,” Hajan corrected.
“The knife killed him, no doubt,” Welling said, still examining the tree. “But that was almost incidental.” He plucked one of the purple flowers off the tree. “Inspector Mirrell?”
“What is it?” Mirrell snarled.
“Please be so kind to reorganize all these assembled parties, somewhere closer to the pond, I think.”
“What?” Mirrell asked. “Why?”
“I will make that clear in short order,” Welling said, turning to Satrine. “But first I must confer with my partner.”
Chapter 25
SATRINE FOLLOWED WELLING into one of the huts. She waited a moment, watching for a facade to drop. If Welling was faking being better, he maintained it in front of her. Not even the slightest hint of relaxation came from him.
“You’re all right now?” she asked.
“I am sufficiently improved from this morning,” he said. “But I am not ‘all right,’ and on some level I don’t think I ever will be.”
“What do you mean?”
He paused, and then removed the glove. His hand was black and shiny, like it was made of glass.
“What happened?”
“I am unable to answer that,” Welling said. “I suspect she might have an answer.”
He had looked to the door of the hut, to see the same blue-haired Tsouljan who had saved her standing in the entranceway, watching them both with hard eyes.
“Who is she?” Satrine asked.
“Sevqir Fel-Sed. She’s an—frankly, I’m not sure what she is. Mystic, priest, mage, all of the above.”
“She did something to me,” Satrine said. “Triggered a memory or touched my thoughts, but . . . I’m not sure.”
“I have a suspicion that the distinctions we make between magic and telepathy and other forms of mysticism are far blurrier to her,” Welling said.
“So what happened to his hand?” Satrine asked her.
Fel-Sed didn’t respond. She just stared.
“I am not sure what has happened,” Welling said, flexing the fingers of his altered hand. “But I can tell you the observable results. This hand is no longer part of my body proper.”
“What?”
“I am no longer feeling any sensations from it, other than the flow of magical energy. I can also no longer move it the way I move this hand or any other part of my body.” He held up his right hand, looking perfectly normal.
“So how are you moving it?”
“With magic,” he said bluntly. “Which is, quite oddly, not difficult at all for me to do. But the sensation is wholly unnatural.”
“Why do you think she knows?” Satrine asked.
He put the glove back on. “Because I believe she played a role in my hand becoming like this.” He looked at Fel-Sed. “Is that accurate?”
She made a slight gesture that Satrine interpreted as an assent.
Welling looked back at Satrine. “I am telling you this because, as my partner, you
have a right to know about potential liabilities in working with me. I will be sharing this with Captain Cinellan, and then I will defer to his judgment beyond that. But I would prefer to maintain my privacy as much as possible.”
“Of course,” Satrine said.
“You have made headway on this case in my absence,” Minox said. “While I’ve made several realizations on my own, I do not have the full picture. Please brief me as completely as possible.”
Satrine quickly ran through the key points: the Fuergan warehouse, the Imach goods, the Kieran refinery in Shaleton, and the Lyranan involvement. She also covered her first encounter with Pra Yikenj years ago.
“So the Lyranans were not involved, but involved themselves?” Welling asked. “I confess, my understanding of both geography and politics of the larger world is limited.”
Satrine refrained from detailing the history of the Tyzanian Empire, which at one point touched much of the eastern world as much as the Kieran Empire had Druthal and the other Trade Nations. “Near as I can figure, they’ve taken the role of policing the eastern seas, and they extended that role to the Little East itself.”
“They decided they were the true authority of law in the neighborhood,” Welling said, nodding. “I have to concede, it was a failing on our part that they felt the opportunity existed.”
“I don’t buy that,” Satrine said. “They’re about control. Control at home and abroad.”
“And they wanted control over this market—‘sweet tar’ is the reference I remember from one of the documents I rifled through. Inasmuch as I truly ‘remember’ all that.”
“I saw that. They all use their own word for the stuff. ‘Sugar’ is as good a word as any.”
“So, the sugar trade. And slaves.”
That came from nowhere. “What do you mean, slaves?”
“It’s purely hypothetical, but—your encounter on the Imach plantation was in 1200, yes? You were sent by Druth Intelligence for a reason.”
“Right,” Satrine said, not sure where he was going.
“In my examination of my unresolved cases, I found a strong increase in reports of people disappearing, especially in poorer neighborhoods. The last time there had been such an increase? In 1200.”
“You think they’re abducting poor Druth people to work as slaves on Imach plantations?”
He glanced over to Fel-Sed, whose expression was unreadable. “My limited understanding of both Fuergan and Imach cultures tells me that they are not morally opposed to slavery, and it would explain our interests when you went there.”
Satrine laughed—genuine laughter, not the odd, forced giddiness of the concoction of drugs coursing through her body.
“It is hardly amusing.”
“I’m not laughing because of that, Welling,” she said. “I’m just . . . thrilled that you are all right.”
“I did tell you—”
“Minox,” she said firmly. “You are entirely yourself, and for that I am grateful.”
“As you say,” he said, looking mildly uncomfortable.
“Let’s put the slave trade element to the side for the time being,” Satrine said.
He nodded. “We hardly have evidence of that, and it is more likely to tangle this case further, rather than illuminate it. I will add that element to my unresolved cases.”
“So this ‘true’ murder weapon you spoke of?”
“It’s right here,” he said, pulling out the purple flower. “I should know, as it nearly killed me as well. Isn’t that right, Miss Fel-Sed?”
Minox walked out of the hut, pushing his way past Sevqir Fel-Sed. He half expected her to try to stop him, but she took no action.
The assembled group of suspects and other interested parties were now over by the pond, away from the trees. Exactly as he needed them to be. Regulars were hauling off the Lyranans who had been apprehended, including Pra Yikenj.
“Leave her and the two other officials,” Inspector Rainey told the regulars. “We can throw them in the lockwagons once we finish this matter.”
To one side of the group, Joshea stood a few feet away from Corrie. Both of them looked deeply uncomfortable, and clearly for reasons that went beyond their injuries. In Corrie’s case, Minox was surprised and proud that she was still on her feet. He approached the two of them.
“I deeply apologize for any inconvenience I have caused,” he said quietly. “After I finish all this business, I will make amends.”
“You rutting idiot,” Corrie said. “You ain’t got amends to make to me.”
“Nonetheless, I will try,” Minox said. Back to Joshea. “I deeply owe you for everything you did for me today.”
“I did what was needed,” Joshea said. He put on a smile, but he seemed to be hiding some level of shame. “I don’t mind you owing me a favor, though.”
Minox turned his attention back to the assembled group. Inspector Rainey had come over, and behind her Fel-Sed and a full contingent of Tsouljans had come as well. All four hues of hair were represented in this group, which Minox found oddly intriguing, given his suspicions. Fel-Sed stood at the front, looking on patiently.
“I understand that you are all entangled in the harvesting, shipping, and refining of a substance called ‘sugar,’” Minox said. “That appears to be the key element behind the murder of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz. This is relevant in terms of motive; however, I know that none of you had the means to kill him.”
“If you don’t believe anyone here is my isahresa’s killer, then why are you wasting our time?” Hieljam ab Tishai asked.
“I am not,” Minox said. “However, I will ask that you indulge me a moment. I wish to discuss the crime scene itself for a moment.”
“Is that really necessary, Inspector?” This came from a well-dressed man standing with the Hieljam. Clearly their legal counsel.
“It is crucial to understand what has occurred. Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz was killed with a knife plunged into his chest, but there was no sign of fight or struggle. He was already incapacitated when he was murdered.”
“Incapacitated how?” This question came from Nalassein Hajan, who looked truly interested in the answer. “Was he poisoned?”
“That was our first suspicion, but our examinarium found no evidence of that. I wondered if it was simply a poison we had no familiarity with. But a far more elegant solution occurred to me—what if it were a poison that isn’t a poison?”
“What the blazes does that mean?” Hilsom asked.
“The tea he was served,” Minox said. “It comes from the flowers of those trees.”
“That tea isn’t poisonous.” This came from Kenorax. “I’ve had it many times.”
“I believe it is completely safe under normal circumstances,” Minox said. “But when magic is applied, it is a different matter.”
In demonstration he drew and aimed a gentle stream of raw magic at the trees, doing nothing with the energy. The flowers turned a richer shade of purple, and shook as a haze of a similar color came flying off of them.
“Is that pollen?” Inspector Mirrell asked.
“Normally benign, I imagine,” Minox said, removing the magical influence. The color faded, as did the pollen haze. He took the flower out of his pocket. “But when magicked, this flower and its pollen, I believe, become very malignant.”
“Can you prove that?” This came from Hieljam ab Tishai.
“I believe so,” Minox said. He went up to the gathered Tsouljans. “Suppose one of you eats this flower while I magick it.”
“That is not necessary.” This came from the yellow-haired Bur Rek-Uti. “I will confirm your theory on the nature of these flowers. The tea, in its natural state, is soothing and relaxing. When its properties are magically activated, it becomes a powerful intoxicant.”
“I have realized that, first hand,” Minox said. He looked to Fel-S
ed. “Every time I came here, I was affected. I was breathing in the pollen, and activating it accidentally. That was what made me sick.”
“In part,” Fel-Sed said.
“So,” Inspector Rainey said, “now we know over what he was killed, and how. There’s only the question of who.”
“There is no question!” Hieljam ab Tishai shouted. “He was murdered by these very golden-skinned hshertka who promised his safety in this place!”
“Blazes,” Inspector Mirrell said. “I said that from the very beginning.”
Minox had to acknowledge that Inspector Mirrell was correct, but he bristled at the idea of giving him credit for it. That solution was arrived at out of laziness, rather than investigation.
A young green-haired Tsouljan—the gardener boy Minox had spoken to before, stepped forward from the group of his countrymen. “My name is Nuf Rup-Sed. I was born here in Maradaine, and am a Druth citizen by birth.”
Minox was about to object, and Inspector Rainey stepped forward to do the same, but the boy spoke louder to drown them out.
“I am responsible, personally, for the death of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz.”
The entire group broke into shouts.
“Quiet, quiet!” Minox shouted over everyone. He pointed to the regulars closest to Hieljam ab Tishai, who was stalking closer to Nuf Rup-Sed. “Hold her back.”
“I have confessed openly and willingly, without duress, in front of witnesses,” Rup-Sed said. He looked at Cheever and Hilsom. “You, as representatives of your offices, can attest to it.”
“Wait a blazing click,” Inspector Mirrell said. “I ain’t buying this sewage.”
For once Minox found himself in complete agreement with Mirrell.
Inspector Rainey came over to Rup-Sed. “Your confession is incomplete. Anyone could say those words, and might to protect another. Tell us how, and tell us why.”
“Why, indeed?” shouted Hieljam ab Tishai, tears streaming down her face. “What reason could you of all people—”
“Me, of all people,” Rup-Sed said. “For I am just a gardener, a nearly unnoticed Rup, working with my hands, as is my linsol. But I have my ears, and I have my mind. I hear everything. The debts owed by the Fuergan family, the fault of this man”—he pointed to ab Orihla. “The goods in storage for that man”—he pointed to Hajan. “And your rancor for your rival, who is not with us.”
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