“How is it fixed?”
Rainey pulled her boots on. “Several ways.”
“Earlier you had a theory you didn’t tell me.”
Rainey had her coat on, and came back out the alley, carrying Minox’s own coat. “It was nothing.”
Minox clucked his tongue. This wouldn’t do. “It is only nothing if it doesn’t fit the facts at hand. Does it?”
Inspector Rainey hesitated. “It does, but it . . .” She shook her head.
“It is highly likely I’ve already considered your possibility,” Minox said. “Nonetheless, I would be remiss in not pressing your opinion.”
“This is a ritual killing involving a mage, yes? Involving magic.” She was leading her idea, holding back. That wouldn’t do.
“That’s not all you were thinking.”
“What if the victim participated willingly?”
Minox acknowledged that was an obvious solution. “It seems unlikely, but we would be remiss to ignore it.”
“The other solution is two killers.”
“Or three, for that matter.”
“Or a small group. Perhaps a group united together in common cause.”
“Such as?”
“I was thinking a Mage Circle.”
Minox looked back to the space on the ground where the body had been. Ritualization. Dead mage. Circle tattoo desecrated in the process. “An ousting?”
Rainey handed over his things. “Or some sort of power ritual, with a willing sacrifice. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“My knowledge of magic rituals or Circle politics, either internal or external, is notably lacking.” Minox didn’t like having information gaps. He wasn’t sold on the theories, not entirely. Something didn’t fit, but he had to admit it had enough merit to keep looking into it. “We need to identify our victim to go any further along those lines.”
The patrolmen at the mouth of the alley called out to them. The bodywagon from the stationhouse had arrived.
“Come on,” he told her. “We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 4
THE BODYWAGON DRIVER was a small man, barely coming up to Satrine’s chin. Her first impression was he was compensating for this by wearing big things: his leather gloves went past the elbows, and the smock he wore over his Constabulary coat covered most of his body. The strangest part of his outfit was his headgear, a skullcap with some lensed device hooked to the front.
“Oyah, Welling,” he called out as they approached. Accent from northern Druthal, likely Archduchy of Acora. “You always pull the strange cases, don’t you?”
“This could be one of the strangest, Leppin,” Welling responded.
Leppin looked at the body, giving a low whistle. “Ain’t that a whole piece of truth?” He turned his attention to Satrine. “So you’re the new dress who got made inspector, eh?”
“You should be careful who you call a dress with that thing you’re wearing, mister.”
“Ha!” Leppin said out loud. “She’s funny. Let’s get this dead guy in the wagon.”
Leppin went over to the body, running his fingers on the spikes. He grumbled something incoherent while pulling the device on his cap down over his eyes. He leaned in closer.
“Hammered in?” Welling asked.
“Mighty big hammer at that,” Leppin said.
“Like a mining sledge?” Satrine asked.
Leppin ignored her. He flipped one of the lenses around and leaned in closer to the spikes. “I don’t know what the blazes these are made of, but look at that. Look!”
Satrine knelt down, looking closer at the head of the spike. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“Exactly!” Leppin shifted his weight so he was sitting on his haunches like a rabbit, and focused on Minox. “You take a regular iron spike and drive it into the cobblestone, it’s going to take, let’s say, at least eight to ten swings.”
“Loud swings at that,” Welling muttered. He wandered out of the alley over to the wagon.
Leppin pointed to the bright, shiny head of the spike. “Iron would be smudged, dented. A mark from each blow would show.”
“There’re no marks at all.” Satrine almost sat on the ground in thought before she realized it was still covered in blood. She should have worn pants she didn’t mind getting dirty. “So two things—either they weren’t driven in, in a conventional way, or the metal is so strong it resists marking.”
“Mystical,” Welling said abstractly from outside the alley.
“Right,” Satrine called back. Turning back to Leppin, she said, “The victim is likely a mage, and the spikes of a mystical nature.”
“Mage killing.” Leppin got to his feet, shaking his head. “End of the day, mage ain’t nothing but a man. Dies just as easy.”
Satrine got up close to Leppin. “Someone went through a whole lot of trouble killing this one!” She was already done with the sentence when she realized she was staring into his lens device, his eyes enormous. Something about this man’s disaffected manner raised up the temperature of her blood.
Leppin calmly removed the device from his head. “We all got our work cut out for us on this one, for sure.” He sidestepped away from her, took a pair of pliers out of the pocket of his apron, and started prying the spikes out of the ground.
“Value,” Welling said, still wandering back and forth in the mouth of the alley.
“What’s that?” Satrine asked, coming out to him.
“Those spikes. Let’s presume they are mystical, too strong to dent and capable of blocking a mage’s power.”
“What’s something like that worth? Is that the question?” Satrine couldn’t even imagine. “Who could even make such a thing? And why?”
“Why is easy enough,” Welling said. “They were paid for the job. The big question that strikes me is, if our killer invested, presumably, quite a lot of money or effort in acquiring such spikes—”
“Why abandon them in the alley with the dead body?” Satrine finished.
“This case is generating a large number of questions, none of which are adding up to satisfying answers. And they are all, so far, only addressing questions of method. Save speculation, motive has remained untouched.”
“We need to know who this mage is to even guess at that.”
Welling nodded. “Leppin, do you have the spikes out?”
“Ayuh,” Leppin said, emerging from the alley. “Came out damn easy. You want them?”
“Give them to Inspector Rainey. Given their nature, it is best that I have minimal contact with them.”
Leppin wrapped the spikes in a cloth and handed them to Satrine. “I’ll take him to the examinarium.”
“Excellent,” Welling said. “He has a tattoo close to the wound, which is likely a Circle Mark. The sooner you identify it, the sooner we can identify him.”
“All right,” Leppin said. “Anything else you need here?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Welling said. “Load him and go.”
Leppin and the patrolmen carried the body into the wagon. In moments Leppin was back in the driver’s seat, and spurred the horse on.
“Now?” Satrine asked.
“Now, given our lack of further options until we know more about the victim, the best course to follow is the questioning of witnesses.”
“Including whoever found the body.”
“Yes, of course,” Welling said. “Though I’ve often found those interviews to be unsatisfying.”
“Unless finding the body inserts them into the narrative.”
Welling’s eyes brightened. “A very good point, Inspector. Patrolman, who found the body?”
The patrolman screwed his face in thought. “Who did find him? Oh, right, it was one of the Hoffer kids.”
“Did you say Hoffer?” Satrine asked. A shiver we
nt up her back.
“Yeah, you know,” the patrolman said, though he clearly didn’t know how well Satrine actually knew. “Old Idre herself reported it, but it was one of her brats that found him.”
“Where do they live?” Welling asked.
“Up there in that one.” The patrolman pointed to the tenement building across the street. That building, Satrine remembered all too well. That building, a crumbling blight on the square, looked like it hadn’t changed a bit in twenty years. Not surprising that Idre Hoffer lived up there.
Idre Hoffer. There was a name Satrine had hoped to never hear again.
The last time Satrine had seen Idre Hoffer, the girl was being carted off in a Constab lockwagon, bound for a six-month stay at Quarrygate. At the time, Satrine couldn’t think of any happier moment in her life. Idre was sixteen years old. Satrine was fourteen.
When Satrine was nine, Idre had taken a piece of broken glass and cut her until she agreed to give her all the coins she had hustled. She still had a scar along the left side of her back, thick and ugly.
When she was eleven, Satrine spent a winter night locked in a backhouse. Idre had pegged it shut and threatened her wrath on any other kid who let Satrine out. In the middle of the night, barely able to feel her feet and fingers in the cold, Satrine crawled through the sewer to escape. Idre had thought that was a good laugh.
When she was thirteen, Idre’s brother Pio decided he wanted her. Idre held Satrine down for him, her face smashed against the dusty floor of an empty flop. In the same building Satrine and Welling were going into.
Several coats of paint couldn’t cover the rot in the walls, the cracks in the plaster. Money and influence may have come to Inemar, Jent and Tannen might be brighter and cleaner, but nothing could be done to heal this building short of tearing it down.
“Do we know which flop?” she asked Welling.
“Fifth floor, southwest.”
She led the way up the stairs, every step spotting some place she could tell a story about, few of those stories happy.
The fifth floor stank of piss and rot, with a sting of vinegar mixed in that failed to do anything to wash out the rest of the scents. Graffiti and knife scratchings marked the walls. The doors of the flops were all shut, save one that had no door. Satrine was sure she heard a couple goats in there.
“It gets worse two more floors up,” Welling said lightly.
“I imagine. ‘Up and west,’ as they say.”
“This is it,” Welling said, pointing to a door, carved and nicked. Satrine couldn’t tell if that was the result of years of abuse, or a single, brutal incident, or some combination of both. Satrine imagined someone smashing at Idre’s door with an ax.
She knocked twice, the first time too soft because her hand trembled more than she thought. If Welling noticed that, he gave no sign. Shouts of voices came through, mostly young ones, wild cries of excitement.
“What?” one of the more coherent voices from behind the door responded.
“Constabulary,” Welling said. “We have some questions.”
“Nobody did nothing, stick!”
Welling shrugged at Satrine, as if to say this was going as he expected. “Somebody found a dead body this morning.”
The door flew open, and a piggish woman in a threadbare nightdress came barreling out, her meaty finger targeting Welling’s face. “Ain’t none of you gonna come in here and hassle my kids!”
Twenty years older, hair more gray than brown, face marked with deep lines—but there was no mistaking Idre. The voice was the same throaty blare, scraped with a razor, and her Inemar accent had calcified into near incomprehensibility.
“Not here to hassle, Missus Hoffer,” Welling said, not giving a hair of ground to Idre. “You and your children did the right thing in reporting what you found, and we just want some more details.”
Idre’s lip curled as she turned to Satrine, barely giving her more than a glance. “You even brought the secretary?”
“This is Inspector Rainey,” Welling said. A name, Satrine knew, that would mean absolutely nothing to Idre.
“Inspector?” Idre made a noise of disbelief. “Good on you, skirt.”
“We—” Satrine started. Her voice was not there for her. She coughed and tried again. “We need to talk to whoever found the body.”
“Oy!” Idre shouted back into the flop. “Who found the corpse?”
“Banky!” someone shouted back.
“Banky did!” A few more joined the chorus.
“Banky!” Idre snapped. “Bring my pipe and get out here!” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Don’t suppose either of you carry any hass or phat?”
Hassper was illegal, and phatchamsdal might as well have been. Asking the question itself was almost a crime. Satrine was surprised by the calm stride Welling took it in.
“I’m afraid I only carry Fuergan tobacco,” he said, pulling a small pouch out of his pocket. He held it open to Idre. A child, no more than five, presumably Banky, came out of the flop, giving a pipe to his mother. She took a pinch out of Welling’s pouch and stuffed the pipe.
“There he is,” Idre said, lighting a taper off a candle in her flop. She leaned against the doorframe and took a deep pull of her pipe.
The boy was dark, like his father was Ch’omik or Imach. Satrine glanced in the flop, taking note of the other children. At least six, and to her eye each one had a different father. All of them, including Banky, were dirty and half-dressed. Still, Idre was doing better than Satrine’s mother had done. She was still here.
Satrine crouched down to get eye to eye with the boy. “My name’s—Inspector Rainey.” She stumbled, almost using her given name. “You found that body across the street in the alley.”
Banky nodded. “He was naked!” he said with manic glee.
Satrine smiled back. “Yes, he was.” The boy clearly thought that was more interesting than that the man was dead. Satrine didn’t want to think about what that said about the boy, other than she could easily imagine Idre at the same age saying the same thing. “What time was it? When you found him?”
Banky screwed his face in thought. “Musta been about eight bells or so. Ma sent me to get the milk, and I had to piss so I went in there, and there he was. Dead and naked!”
Welling crouched down next to the boy, put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with firm, hard eyes. “This is an important thing, Banky. When you found him, was he still bleeding?”
“Oy, stick!” Idre snapped. “What’re you asking that for?” Her hand lashed out toward Welling.
Satrine felt no small amount of pleasure grabbing Idre’s wrist mid-swing. “Watch your hand, Miss Hoffer.” Idre still had plenty of muscle on her meaty arm, but she wasn’t stronger than Satrine, not anymore. Idre struggled briefly, but Satrine didn’t yield, pushing the offending arm away from Welling. Idre scowled, but didn’t say or do anything else.
“Well, son?” Welling asked.
“Oh, and how!” Banky said. “Blood was creeping out from under him and down the alley. It was neat!”
“That’s very helpful, Banky.” Welling slipped a coin into the boy’s hand. “I don’t suppose you saw anyone around the body who looked suspicious?”
“Naw,” the boy said.
“That whole lot in the butcher shop is dodgy,” Idre said.
“What’s dodgy about them?” Satrine asked. As soon as she said it, she knew it sounded far more aggressive than she had intended.
“No reason a high-chin skirt like you should care,” Idre said. “They’re all hands and fingers when you try and buy anything.”
“Real shame,” Satrine said. “You’d think they’d see you as a pillar of decency.”
“The blazes you think you are, stick?” Idre’s face was flushed with anger, her beady eyes narrowed.
“T
hink I’m the new inspector on this block, Hoffer,” Satrine said. “And I’m watching you.”
Satrine stalked back to the stairs. Welling muttered a quick thanks and farewell and chased after her. He didn’t catch up until the third floor. Satrine had pounded down the stairs, heart like a stampede in her chest. She heard nothing from him until he grabbed her shoulder.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing, Welling.” She started to go back down the stairs.
“It’s not nothing if it impairs our investigations, Inspector Rainey.”
“It’s nothing, get it?” Satrine said. “Like you being Uncircled. Not up for discussion.”
Welling gave a nod of acquiescence. “The murder must have happened just before the boy found the body.”
Satrine accepted his immediate change in subject. He was right, she needed to keep her feelings about Idre from affecting her job, in any way. “Streets are usually crowded with the morning business then, right? Hard to sneak about unseen in that.”
“Or easy,” Welling said. “Crowds so huge, no one notices anything.”
“Loud, too,” Satrine said. “The pounding of a hammer might not stand out.”
Welling scratched at his chin, and started going down the stairs. “Blood was freshly flowing, but the killer had cleaned the body. So the killer might have only left the scene minutes, if not moments before.”
“You think he saw the killer? Or killers?”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t, but likely he didn’t realize the significance. That doesn’t help us find a suspect, but it may be useful. Of course, speculating on a suspect is, at best, highly challenging without identifying the victim.”
“Back to the station? Leppin might have figured it out.”
“My thoughts exactly, Inspector Rainey.”
Minox often found the inspectors’ floor to be a far too boisterous atmosphere to engage in serious thought, let alone to give proper contemplation to the cases he was expected to solve. True to form, Mirrell and Kellman were sitting atop their desks, drinking tea and laughing.
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 5