The Imposters of Aventil

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “That prediction is not unlikely,” Minox said. “I fear that—”

  “I fear that you’re trying to ‘solve’ Aventil, and that’s not going to happen.”

  “Understand, not solve,” Minox said. “I had wondered if Aventil was plagued with the same deep corruption that the Dentonhill house has. Its afflictions—as far as the Constabulary are concerned—are quite different.”

  “They slam back and forth between apathy and overreaction?”

  Minox nodded. “Though most of the house leans toward the apathy, with Benvin’s squad, including my brother, on the overreaction side.”

  “But you like the squad.”

  “I like that they care about what they are doing. But I wonder if that translates to doing good work.”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “I’m thinking specifically with regard to the Thorn.”

  “Your encounter with him last night has enlightened you?”

  “I want to know more about the woman last night, and Emilia Quope—”

  “There’s a connection between them?”

  “My instinct says yes. Two women, killed near the Thorn by a Thorn imposter in similar ways? And the one last night was armed with atypical weapons—”

  “A dektha. It’s Kellirac.”

  Minox felt like he should have known that. “I must verse myself better in foreign arms. The point is she was armed. And Miss Quope was hardly dressed like a collegiate student when she died. I have a theory—”

  “Please do not keep it to yourself.”

  “It’s ill-formed.”

  “Yes, but when you share your ill-formed theories, I know where your thoughts are going. This prevents me from feeling foolish later.”

  “There is a group of notorious assassins referred to as the Deadly Birds. One of them was arrested a few months ago, here in Aventil, after an encounter with the Thorn.”

  “So Quope and the other victim might have been part of these Birds, and were after the Thorn now? But someone else killed them?”

  “Evidence and instinct points to two Thorn pretenders active right now. One flamboyant—who I think attacked the Rose Street Princes and Benvin—and the other purposeful—who attacked our presumed Deadly Birds.”

  “This is pure supposition, Welling,” she said. “I mean, we know the Thorn is a mage, yes?”

  “Of that we’re certain.”

  “And a powerful one, you’ve experienced.”

  “Granted.”

  “So how sure are we that this series of pretenders isn’t some elaborate ruse on his part? Magical illusions? Compatriots?”

  “I spoke to him, though, and I felt he was being honest—”

  “You have been fooled before,” she said. She stopped in the road, looking hard at him. “You are excellent at detecting dishonesty, like no one I’ve ever met. But you are not infallible. And he seems to be a trickster.”

  Thoughts fired all across Minox’s skull.

  Minox’s mother, being Racquin—of Kellirac descent—sometimes preferred to go outside the city limits to a specific church. Minox would occasionally accompany her. It was a Church of Druthal church, named after a saint, but it appealed to Minox’s mother because it catered to Racquin sensibilities. Which made sense, because Saint Veran was appropriated from old Kellirac myths of a trickster figure.

  Named Veranix.

  That was all largely circumstantial, as were many other elements surrounding the Thorn. But the points clicked. A magical young man with a Racquin name. Many Racquin were in traveling circuses, and the Thorn had acrobatic skills. He was friends with Delmin Sarren, the witness who knew for certain that the man who attacked Lieutenant Benvin was not the Thorn.

  “Now what are you thinking?”

  “Nothing actionable,” he said. The ideas in his head made perfect sense, but it was also a construction as solid as his pipe smoke.

  They arrived at the apartment over the Broken Spindle. “You’re certain you want to conduct ourselves out of here instead of the stationhouse?” Rainey asked.

  “I have little trust for the infrastructure there,” Minox said.

  “Granted. But this is—unusually off regulation for you.”

  He glanced at her. “I wouldn’t think you would mind.”

  She chuckled. “I don’t at all. I’m just surprised that you don’t.”

  They entered the flop, to find Sergeant Tripper already there, with a young woman who was certainly not Constabulary.

  “Oh, hey, what the blazes is this?” the girl snarled as soon as she saw Minox and Rainey. She was in threadbare clothes, and notably had sizable scars on her cheeks. Minox’s research into the neighborhood specifics told him this marked her as a Waterpath Orphan.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Tripper said, grabbing her wrist as she went for a knife. “These are special inspectors.”

  “How the blazes is that fine?”

  “They aren’t from our house, Yessa,” he said. “They’re here because of what happened to the Left.”

  “Oh,” Yessa said. She smiled. “So you all are some special sticks brought in to hunt the Thorn.”

  “Something like that,” Rainey said, switching to her childhood accent from growing up on the Inemar streets. Minox knew exactly why—she was trying to form a quick connection with this young woman. It was the sort of ruse Rainey did effortlessly. “So who the blazes are you?”

  “Oh, Red, I’m your Terrentin present come early.”

  “What’s that mean?” Rainey asked.

  “Apparently the Thorn came to Yessa this morning,” Tripper said. “He wanted her help with something.”

  “So if you want to catch him, sticks,” Yessa said. “I know exactly where he’s going to be at midnight tonight.”

  Minox was curiously surprised at how conflicted he felt about this development.

  Chapter 19

  VERANIX RETURNED TO campus with little issue. The night before, despite his encounters, had not caused additional alarm on campus. There was plenty of activity, as the games remained in full swing. As Veranix made his way back to Almers, he overheard plenty of discussion of the results of yesterday’s events, the anticipation of today’s, and which colleges were ahead in the total rankings. There was a lot of chatter about the tetchball match scheduled today—Pirrell against Cape Institute. People definitely talked about that as the event to see.

  Veranix wished he was interested in that.

  He got to Almers, stashed his gear in the closet, and headed to the water closet to clean off. He was tempted to go to the bathhouses, but given how many fresh bruises and scars he had right now, it would bring up too many questions. A handcloth washing would have to do.

  He returned to the room to find Delmin there.

  “You’re back,” Delmin said quietly.

  “Sorry, last night—went wrong.” That was the easiest way to explain it.

  “I gathered that when you didn’t come back. Look, you can’t take advantage of the fact that I’m the prefect on this floor—”

  That had never occurred to Veranix, and he said so. “Besides, we don’t have strict curfew right now.”

  “I’m talking about precedent. I don’t want you getting into the habit of staying out at all hours once the proper semester starts up again.”

  “I won’t,” Veranix said. “And I’m sure Professor Alimen will put enough on my plate that I won’t be able to.”

  “Good.”

  “But as for right now—”

  “No, don’t even,” Delmin said. “Kaiana said to drag your skinny butt to the carriage house when I found you. So let’s go.”

  “Don’t you want to—”

  “Save the full story for when we get there.” He sighed. “Did you eat anything?”

  “Yeah, I’m a
ll right,” Veranix said. He gathered up his gear and put it in a pack. “I’m not going to have the carriage house as a place to hide my gear much longer.”

  “I’m not keen on regularly sharing a room with that cloak and rope,” Delmin said.

  “We’ll work something out,” Veranix said. He could keep the gear in the apartment above the laundry shop, but he didn’t feel like that was particularly secure. He couldn’t dismiss the idea that a group like the Blue Hand Circle was out there, people who could track and find them, with the only protection being a door that even Delmin could kick open. The heightened magical activity on campus at least masked the items from casual notice. “There is something that happened last night—”

  “Again, just wait.”

  The carriage house was a surprising sight. Phadre and Jiarna had set up a full workshop and laboratory. On one table they had unpacked equipment, as well as maps of the campus, Dentonhill, and Aventil. Jiarna had lined up the empty vials that Kaiana had collected throughout campus, each one tagged. She was examining them with her eyepiece. The scattered teacups and crumb-filled plates made him wonder how long they had been working here. Kaiana, for her part, was pacing around the room restlessly.

  “You found him,” she said to Delmin when they came in.

  “He was in the dorm,” Delmin said.

  She looked over at Veranix, her face hard to read. “You didn’t spend the night there.” It was stated as simple fact, making it sound colder and harsher than any of the times when she had been angry.

  “Things happened last night. I thought it wise not to come back to campus where I could have been tracked. So I went to the church.”

  “Fine,” Kaiana said, taking his pack from him. She started to empty it. “Tell us what happened.”

  He quickly went into the story—sticking with the tetchball squad to see if that led anywhere, Bluejay coming at him, the imposter and the fight with Inspector Welling.

  Kaiana focused on the fact that Veranix had broken his bow. “You’ve gone through three bows in as many months,” she said. “It’s very irresponsible, given what they cost.”

  “But he’s got the Hunter’s bow, instead,” Delmin said. “So that’s something.”

  “It’s not a great bow for me, actually,” Veranix said. The pull was stronger, and it felt wrong. The Hunter must have incredible arm strength.

  “This is excellent, actually,” Phadre said, taking the bow from Kaiana. “I mean, I don’t know anything about bows, but surely we can determine something useful from it. Style, composition.”

  “Leave it on the table,” Jiarna said, still focused on examining the vials.

  “What are you doing, exactly?” Veranix asked her.

  “I’m trying to determine what magiochemical properties this substance has. Perhaps by knowing that, there’s a way to numinically excite them in a way that Phadre’s device can track.”

  “Or Delmin himself,” Phadre added.

  “Yes, but I’m more comfortable with the device,” Jiarna said. “No offense, Delmin.”

  “None taken,” Delmin said. “I’m more comfortable with nothing being my responsibility here.”

  “Unfortunately I don’t have a significant sample size to work with.” Jiarna sighed, looking up from her work at Veranix. “Tell me more about this Inspector Welling and his hand.”

  “Yes,” Phadre said. “I’m quite curious about it.”

  “How does this help us with the effitte?” Kaiana asked. “I’m sorry, but the amount of discarded vials on campus has reached absurd levels.” She looked pointedly at Veranix. “We need to do something about that.”

  “And I want to—” Veranix said.

  “Sorry,” Phadre said, talking over Veranix. “But this is fascinating. It’s his hand, an actual part of him, but it’s not flesh.”

  “And you can control it in the same way you control the rope.”

  “And he could control the rope,” Veranix said. “I think he actually uses his hand the same way.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Delmin said. “That hand is probably the result of uncontrolled, untaught magic.”

  This brightened Phadre up. “Maybe he came into contact with napranium—”

  “Or some other substance,” Jiarna said excitedly. “And he absorbed it into his body. Phadre, have you ever worked with quicksilver?”

  “I’ve read a bit, but I don’t recall it being magiochemically—”

  “Of course it is, anything might be, that’s not the point. Perhaps there is—”

  “Jiarna!” Kaiana snapped. “I’m sure what happened to Veranix and the inspector’s hand might be fascinating, but we need to do something about the effitte on campus. We need to find out where it is, where it’s coming from, and stop it. That’s what you need to be doing.”

  That last part was quite pointedly aimed at Veranix.

  “I am. I’ve been trying, but—”

  “But it’s getting worse! Every night there’s more!”

  His head was swirling. “Look, all of you, there are so many problems right now, and I need to focus. Between this imposter—”

  “Imposters,” Delmin said.

  “Right,” Veranix said. He had yet to even see the Jester. He couldn’t get himself to worry about what that one was doing. Not with everything else happening. “Regardless, between them and the Deadly Birds, I’ve got a lot of fire to cool. Until I settle those things, I can’t be thinking—”

  “Of effitte on campus?” Kaiana asked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Ease off, Kai!” Veranix said. “Don’t you dare question my resolve in this! I was almost killed the other night by Fenmere’s men. Me, fighting against the effitte. I’m in this, all of this. But everyone is after me out there. Tell me what I can do, because I am out of ideas.”

  “We might have heard something,” Jiarna broke in. “It’s a strange thing, but it might lead somewhere.”

  “Lead where?” Veranix asked, eager to hear anything that would change the conversation. “How could it help?”

  “All right,” she said cautiously, looking back and forth between him and Kai. “We hit the social parties again last night, and we heard there’s a secret midnight match of crownball being put together tonight.”

  “Crownball is banned!” Delmin said.

  “Yes, I know,” Jiarna said. “Thus the secret midnight match.”

  “And secret gatherings bring other illicit things out in the open,” Veranix said. “I’ll admit, that’s not terrible.”

  “Folks putting it together want it kept hush. So if we want to get in, we need a player.”

  “Tonight at midnight?” Veranix asked. “I mean, I can’t. Like I said, the church meeting with the Birds.”

  Jiarna shook her head. “We can’t get in there to check it out without a player. You’re the obvious choice.”

  “No, he needs to deal with the assassins,” Kaiana said. Her voice was quiet, conciliatory. “That’s going to get worse unless you fix it.”

  “Del?” Veranix asked.

  “Me? Play crownball?” He asked. “I can’t swim.”

  “You can’t?” Kaiana asked.

  “I could give it a go,” Phadre said. “I mean, I won’t do well or anything in the match, but we don’t need to win, do we? We just need to get in.”

  “You know people have died playing crownball, right?” Delmin asked.

  “Yes, we know,” Jiarna said. “Thus it was banned. But you know how folks are.”

  “All right,” Veranix said. “Can all four of you go? More eyes out there, the better.”

  “We’ll do that, and you do what you need to,” Kaiana said. “But get that other business squared away. We need to stop what’s happening here, before some student ends up in trance or worse.”

  “In the meantime,” Jiar
na said, putting down her eyepiece, “we should all go out and behave as normal as possible. Be seen enjoying matches, eating meals—”

  “Doing our jobs,” Kaiana added.

  “Exactly. Put up the appearances.”

  Phadre smirked at her. “You’re just saying that because you want to see the matches today.”

  “Yes, of course I am. Pirrell versus Central Academy? That’s going to be cracking.”

  Colin had put a good show on at the Rose & Bush, followed by one at the Old Canal, and another at the Walking Eye—a run-down hole of a pub on the Dentonhill side of Waterpath. Each place, he put up the pretense of having quite a few ciders, talking a bit too loudly to his neighbor, complaining about how he was going to have to keep eye on Sotch to sneak her over to the church tonight. He griped about the bosses, and the way they were treating him, putting this on his shoulders. He felt he did a pretty good job of it. He’d never be a player in Cantarell Square, but he thought he played it well enough.

  Of course that wasn’t all performance. But he didn’t drink anywhere near as much cider as he pretended to.

  Hopefully, all that would trickle over to the Jester and he’d come running for them.

  Colin made his way over to the safehouse, and once there availed himself of Bassa’s selection of blades. The woman had quite a lot of knives, and they were damn fine ones as well. Better than anything Colin was carrying. She groused—or more grunted—but didn’t stop him from taking what he wanted.

  He was in the process of putting the blades in his belt and boots when Deena arrived. Late. Not that he had expected anything different. She didn’t say much, but took the pile of Sotch’s clothes—someone had laundered them, Colin had no idea who—and went into the water closet.

  About a half hour later she came out dressed in Sotch’s stuff, hair wet, but now that same purple-black that Sotch had dyed hers. Colin had to admit, with the hair and the clothes, she was a pretty damn good likeness for Sotch. In the dark of night, no one would be able to tell the difference.