“You’re not taking her away!” the old man said.
“She’s under arrest,” Satrine said. She took Jaelia by the elbow, who made no attempt to resist. “And you better not try and stop us, sir, or we’ll have to take you in as well.”
“But if you take her from here, she . . .” The old man trailed off.
“She’ll what?” Welling asked. He came up the steps. “If you have something to tell us about all this, now is the time!”
“We have nothing to say to you,” the young man said. “But you will regret it if you take her from here.”
“Damn it!” Welling snapped. “One dead, one arrested, and you won’t help us?”
“This is our own matter,” the young man said.
“Tell us something! We’re trying to help you,” Satrine said. These mages seemed addicted to their secrets.
The young mage looked at Jaelia, and then at the two of them and sneered. “Some help.” He stormed back into the house.
The old man still stared at Satrine, shaking his head. “Please do not do this.”
“We’ve no choice,” Satrine said.
“If you find you have something to share,” Welling said, producing a small printed card from his pocket, “we can be reached at the stationhouse.”
The old man growled, and the card turned into ash in Welling’s hand. He then turned to Missus Tomar, “Jaelia, go along and give them no further reason to harry you. We’ll contact counsel and have you home in short order.” He went into the house, slamming the door behind him.
“This actually went better than I had hoped,” Welling said. He walked down to the street, calmly smoking his pipe again.
“You’ll have to explain to me how you thought this would have gone.”
“We have a name for our victim. We’re bringing in a clean arrest, even if not for our case. And neither of us is dead.”
“A clean arrest?” Satrine asked. “This is anything but—I’m really very sorry, Missus Tomar. I wish this wasn’t necessary, but you did force our hands here.”
“It’s all fair,” Jaelia whispered. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”
Welling gave Satrine a quizzical look. “How did she not—” He stopped, realization dawning on his face. He nodded, not saying another word.
Satrine sat Jaelia on the stoop. “Welling, go see if the lockwagon is coming.”
He glanced down the street. “I think I can see it.”
“Go meet up with it, would you?”
Welling hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He gave Satrine a crisp nod and jogged off.
“My husband is also Constabulary,” Satrine told Jaelia.
“How wonderful for you,” Jaelia said, her voice dull and empty.
“Two weeks ago he was ambushed on the job,” Satrine said. “Beaten within an inch of his life, and thrown in the river. By the grace of whatever saints were looking over him that night, he managed to survive, but . . .” Her voice caught. Jaelia Tomar was now focused fully on her. “He’s not the man he was. I don’t think he ever will be again.”
“But he’s not dead.”
“No,” Satrine said. “Though to be honest with you, had he just died, that would have been cleaner, you know? I’d know he was dead, and that was it. The man that my husband was is dead, but his body is still alive.”
“I’d rather have my husband alive than this, Inspector.”
“I know, Missus Tomar,” Satrine said. “I keep telling myself I should be grateful. But every day, I have to tell myself.”
Jaelia Tomar scoffed, but said nothing more.
“Anything you could tell us, Missus Tomar, about enemies your husband may have had. People he was dealing with. Anything that could lead us to his killers.”
“Killers?” Tomar asked. “More than one?”
“It’s possible. Do you know anything?”
“There had been some heated letters exchanged with a member of another Circle. I don’t know who or from where, but—”
“Oy!” A shout pierced across the street. The lockwagon was pulling up, and a few members of the earlier crowd were gathering back around. Satrine figured they wanted to make sure they were getting their full measure of justice. Or that they enjoyed seeing someone get hauled away.
“We’re ready,” Welling said, walking back over.
The wagon driver came down off the wagon, shackles in hand. “This the one?” he asked, looking at Tomar.
“That’s right,” Welling said. “Take her down to the station. We’ll meet up with you there.”
“No ride along, Jinx?” the driver asked. He shook his head. “Bad procedure, mate.” He stepped over and lowered his voice. “I’m not carrying mage shackles, just so you know.”
“Can’t be helped,” Welling said, not looking at the driver. “We’ve got further business. Isn’t that right, Inspector?”
“Right,” Satrine said. The driver came over and shackled Tomar. “We’ll be back by later to follow up on this one.”
“You’re going to have to tell me the charges at least,” the driver said.
“Assault on a Constabulary officer,” Welling said. “And disruption of the peace.”
“Disruption?” the driver asked, glancing over to the Firewing chapterhouse. “You really gonna go with that, Jinx?”
Minox gave a nod of his head over to the annoyed crowd. “It’s actually quite apt.”
“Take her out of here!” someone in the street yelled.
“Take the whole lot!”
“That’s enough!” Welling snapped back at the crowd. “She’s arrested, shackles on. Go about your business.”
The shackles were on, and the driver was taking her up into the wagon. The woman looked defeated, broken, staring at the street while shuffling to take her seat. Satrine felt she should say something, that this was her fault. Jaelia Tomar didn’t seem to be too interested in any comfort or connection Satrine had to offer, though.
“Best be quick about your business, Jinx,” the driver said as he locked Tomar inside the wagon. “You know the boys in the pens don’t like to wait around.”
“That’s their problem,” Welling said. “Ride off.”
“Hmph,” was all the driver offered in response. He got back up on the wagon. A few people in the crowd cheered, but for the most part they had lost interest.
“Do you still think the Circle killed their own man?” Welling asked.
“I’m not sure what to think,” Satrine said. “There’s more going on than they’re admitting.”
“That is quite obvious.”
Satrine scowled at him. “I don’t suppose you observed anything more useful you’d like to share?”
Welling screwed his face. “They were not directly responsible for Tomar’s death, they were all surprised by the news. The old man had already suspected something had happened to Tomar. They’re all afraid of something, and were before we arrived.”
“Not hard to imagine what,” Satrine said. “All their neighbors probably want to burn them out.”
“No,” Welling said. “They showed no concern over the crowd at all.” He closed his eyes. “I think they’re afraid for Missus Tomar’s safety.”
“Do they think we’ll torture her or something?”
“No,” Welling said. “If I were to hazard a guess . . .”
“Hazard, by all means.”
“They’re afraid of something we can’t protect her from.”
A thought crossed Satrine’s mind. “Mage shackles?”
“They keep a mage from using their magic. Uncommon, but the station has a couple pairs.”
“Like the spikes?”
Welling’s eyebrow went up. “No. I’ve . . . I don’t think they are the same.” His face screwed in thought, but then he shoo
k his head, like he was dismissing the idea. “Come on, the butcher shop awaits.”
Chapter 6
MINOX FELT NO SMALL annoyance at his earlier dismissal of the butcher shop as a source of information. It was even a strong source for a suspect. He realized he had based that decision entirely on its overt obviousness. He had already made the presumption that the alley had been chosen out of significance to the killer that was either magical or ritualistic, and had chosen to ignore the more mundane reason of proximity.
He contemplated this amateurish error on the walk over to the butcher shop, chewing on roasted nuts he had bought from a pedalcart vendor. Inspector Rainey had made an idle comment about how much of his weekly salary he must spend on food. He ignored it—he knew full well sustenance was his single greatest expense.
“It does seem too convenient, doesn’t it?” Inspector Rainey asked.
“The butcher shop?” he replied.
“Exactly.”
“I think so, but the points match a bit too well to ignore.” He didn’t say this with conviction. He wasn’t very convinced at all this was worth pursuing. The truth was there was nowhere near enough information to make anything more than educated stabs in the dark. That was not the kind of investigation he liked to run.
“Our victim seemed to have rivals in another circle. I think that’s what we need to look at.”
That was interesting. “She told you that when I stepped away?”
“She said there were letters, but she didn’t know from whom, though.”
“Unlikely.” He could explain to her how, since both Tomars were in the Firewing Circle together, the likelihood of Jaelia Tomar knowing of an enmity between her husband and another Circle, but not knowing which Circle, was so low it was not worth considering. But he had grasped enough of how Inspector Rainey thought to know she had already made the same assessment. She nodded in agreement, solidifying his deduction.
It did all line up with the theory he was formulating: this was not just a murder, but an opening volley to a larger action. Possibly not as large as a full Circle Feud, but he couldn’t dismiss it. Another amateurish error on his part. Inspector Rainey was correct. He was deliberately avoiding such obvious points of investigation, especially involving Circles. He couldn’t let that happen anymore.
The butcher shop, Minox noted upon this approach, was Brondar & Sons Meats and Chops. “Meats and Chops,” Minox thought, was a redundant statement. Not that it was surprising. Most signage in this part of town barely used words at all, let alone correctly.
“Hey, hey!” an older man called out as soon as they walked in the door. He stood, a huge, muscular figure at the main chopping block counter. His gray hair and long mustache drew Minox’s eye, overshadowing any other feature of the man’s face. “We got some sticks coming in here!” His tone was jovial, but it held an undercurrent of hostility Minox could easily read.
Inspector Rainey stepped forward, her arms wide, giving the man a broad smile with bared teeth. “You never get any sticks in here before or something?”
“Doesn’t happen very often,” the old man—presumably the Brondar of the signage—said with a scowl.
“Sure it doesn’t,” Rainey said. “But it’s not every day you get a dead body right next door to you.”
“Boys!” Brondar called to a back room. “Which one of you is bringing out that pork?”
“Gunther is!” a voice yelled from the back.
“Joshea is!” another yelled.
“Joshea!” the old Brondar yelled back. “Bring the blasted pork!”
“Sir,” Minox said, stepping closer to the counter. “We do have a few things to ask you.”
Mister Brondar picked up a large cleaver. “I’m sure you do. You ever serve?”
“Excuse me?”
Mister Brondar held up one of his muscled arms for the two of them to see. He had a crossed sword tattoo on his bicep, with nine hash marks underneath it. “Nine years I wore the Gray.” Druth Army colors. “Served in the war in the Islands. You look too young to have made that.”
“I was,” Minox said. “I’ve served in the streets, though.”
“Constabulary.” Mister Brondar snorted. “That’s not service.” He gave a scornful look at Rainey. “You did nothing either.”
“Four years in Gray and Green,” Rainey said. “They don’t ink us for that.” She used the uniform colors—even though she likely never actually wore an Intelligence uniform—since he would probably respect it more. Army men tended to think “service” meant to country, to Druthal. Serving the city of Maradaine didn’t mean much to them. A mindset Minox couldn’t understand, especially since it was everything to his family, serving in Constabulary, Fire Brigade, Yellowshields, River Patrol, and Hospital Wards.
The man released a huge laugh. “That’s very good, stick woman.” He slammed the cleaver onto his cutting board. “I do my time for Druthal. My boys, all of them, they do their time in the Gray. Joshea!” So it was one of those families. In some ways, just like Minox’s.
A young man—only a few years younger than Minox himself—came out from the back carrying a large side of meat. “Got the meat here, Pop. Don’t have to yell.” Dark hair, cropped short in military style. He didn’t mimic his father’s style in facial hair, so in comparison his face was narrow and drawn.
“Always have to yell, Joshea,” the old man said. “Show these sticks your arm.”
“Constabulary?” Joshea asked, looking at the two of them for the first time. His voice cracked slightly, Minox noted, likely out of fear. The only question was, was Joshea Brondar afraid for a real reason? Minox found that a Constabulary uniform solicited far too much unfounded fear.
The old man took the meat from his son and tossed it on his block. “Yes, yes, the sticks are here to give us trouble over the dead whoever in the alley. Show them your arm.”
“Pop, I don’t think . . .”
“Sir, it isn’t necessary for him to—” Inspector Rainey started.
“Damn and blazes, boy!” the old man shouted, cutting her off. “Pull up your blasted sleeve and show the sticks you served!”
“That doesn’t matter,” Minox said, even though Joshea was rolling up his sleeve. His muscular, scarred arm had the same tattoo as his father, though only three hash marks underneath it.
“Doesn’t matter?” the old Brondar asked, picking up the cleaver and slamming it down on the cutting block again. He glowered at Minox as he positioned the meat on the block. “You stand on a blasted beach with Poasians charging at you, and then tell me it doesn’t matter.”
“Pop!” Joshea shouted. Minox felt a wave of anger come off the young man, hot and passionate.
“Don’t you snap at me, Joshea.” The old man cut a hunk of meat off—a clean, perfect cut, despite his attention being entirely on his son. Minox noted the man’s mastery with the cleaver. Another cut, and then the cleaver was being pointed at Minox and Inspector Rainey. “We Brondars have given, sticks. Given plenty. I had five sons, and three stand here with me now.”
“That’s a very pretty speech, Mister Brondar,” Inspector Rainey said. She moved in closer while he pounded out perfect chop after perfect chop. “We still have a dead body next to your shop to ask you about.”
“I’ve got nothing to say,” the old man said.
Inspector Rainey’s hand shot out, under the old man’s falling cleaver. It was already coming down hard and fast, a clean cut through her fingers. The blade stopped, though, just a breath above Rainey’s knuckles.
The old man looked at Rainey, horror in his eyes. The muscles in his arm were stiff and still, sweat dripping from his face. Minox sensed something else, though. He wasn’t sure what. “Why the blazes you do that, stick woman?”
“Get your attention,” Rainey said calmly. “Now I have it. You will answer our questions.”
“You’re crazy!” His arm was still held in the exact position, blade hovering right over her hand.
“There’s a door that goes out here into the alley, isn’t there?”
The old man moved away, his arm yanked away from its position. Minox definitely felt something. A snap, like a whip cracking. It was . . . coming from something. Someone.
“Of course there is,” the old man told Satrine. Minox wasn’t paying attention. He was looking right at the source of the feeling. The energy.
Joshea Brondar was a mage. And if he served in the army, then he was also Uncircled.
“We should question all the Brondars, Inspector Rainey,” he told Satrine. “I’ll start with young Joshea here.”
“All right,” Inspector Rainey said cautiously. “That leaves me with the old man.”
“Joshea,” Minox said as calmly as he could manage, “Why don’t we go out to the alley to talk?”
Out in the sunlight, out in the alley, Minox got a good look at Joshea Brondar. Now it was obvious, his magical affinity. Not only in his physique, though the signs were all there. Despite his muscular build, he was very lean, especially in his face. His cheeks were sunken, his face drawn, gray circles under his eyes.
But beyond the pure visual evidence, Minox could sense it. It was a sensation that Minox couldn’t quite describe—more taste than touch. Energy bent toward Joshea Brondar. Minox realized he had felt the same sensation around Jaelia Tomar and the other Firewings, but at the time he had dismissed those feelings as irrational emotion, his own nerves playing tricks with him due to his discomfort. Now he understood what he had sensed, it was a revelation. It was not unlike when water drains out of one’s ears, and clear hearing is suddenly restored.
“What are you looking at, Inspector?” Joshea Brondar asked,
“What do you mean, Mister Brondar?”
“No offense, sir,” Brondar said with the courtesy Minox had always connected with military discipline. “But you’re looking at me like most of the customers look at the meat.”
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 8