A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “What message?”

  “You had put a hold on Ret Hoffer, that his mother couldn’t spring him until you talked to her.”

  “I had?” The events of the early morning seemed like a lifetime ago. “I only said—”

  “That you wanted her called in and to keep her until you talked to her.”

  “Blazes.”

  “Who is this?” Welling asked.

  “The mother of the rat I dragged in this morning. She . . .”

  “Is the same mother of our eyewitness from yesterday. The one with whom you have a past history you said would not interfere with your duties.” This was said in his usual dry, flat tone, though there was the barest hint of humor in his voice.

  “That’s the one,” Satrine said. “Is she here now?”

  “She’s been here for two hours, actually. She’s down in the holding area screaming a fit.”

  That amused Satrine. “Good.”

  “The lieutenant down there is getting blazed up, though,” Phillen said. “He doesn’t want to deal with her, but he can’t do anything until you go down and sign off on her leaving. Unless a captain or protector gets involved.”

  That wouldn’t do. Protector Hilsom already seemed to have it in for her. And as Welling had already said, it wouldn’t take much for her probationary status to be wrecked.

  “I’ll be right back, Welling.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said. He was fully focused on his slateboards. That was a good sign he had moved past his crisis and was back on task.

  The holding area was on the ground floor, a series of small cells—some of them occupied—surrounding a central waiting room, where a red-faced Idre Hoffer was screaming at two desk officers.

  “Are there any blazing charges? If he isn’t being charged then you let us both go or I will knock you so blazing hard—”

  “I didn’t file charges yet, Missus Hoffer,” Satrine said. “Though I certainly could.”

  “For what?” Idre spat out, turning on Satrine with beady, squinting eyes. The desk officers both released noticeable sighs of relief.

  “Assault on a Constabulary page, for one. Assault on a Constabulary officer, namely myself, for another.”

  “You’re the skirt inspector who hassled me yesterday,” Idre said. “What’s your problem?”

  “My problem?” Satrine asked. In the back of her brain, Satrine suddenly felt like a twelve-year-old girl again, cornered in an abandoned flat, about to get her face beat in again. Like a mouse, she was ready to run for the door.

  “I ain’t done anything to you, skirt. Why are you hassling me and mine?”

  Satrine bit her lip to not laugh in Idre’s face. “Ain’t done anything” indeed. If this woman only knew.

  “I didn’t know I was hassling yours, Missus Hoffer. Your son there was leading a gang of boys beating on a page, which I broke up.”

  “She means she shot me!” the boy yelled from inside his cell. His wound had been patched up, and he was flailing both arms around with enough energy that he didn’t seem seriously impaired.

  “You’re fine,” Satrine said. “You’re lucky I’m a good shot.”

  “Fine, then,” Idre said. “Charge the little rat. Let me get home.” She made for the door.

  “Missus Hoffer!” Satrine said. “If I charge your son, he’s sure to be convicted and send to Quarrygate for . . . how long?” She addressed the question to the two desk officers.

  They looked at each other briefly. “Three years at least,” one of them offered.

  “Three years, Missus Hoffer.”

  Idre stood at the door. “That’s what he gets, I suppose.”

  “Don’t you care what happens to him?”

  “A little time in the ’gate, it might do him some good.”

  “Did it do you any?”

  Satrine bit her tongue, regretting saying that.

  “You look me up or something?” Idre said, squinting hard, beady eyes at Satrine. “I’ve got enough to worry about, skirt. You going to charge him or not?”

  Up until this point, Satrine hadn’t actually been in any doubt about charging the boy. Now she felt a surge of pity for him, having grown up with this monster of a woman for a mother.

  “This is how you treat your son, Hoffer? This is how you raise him?”

  “What business is it of yours, skirt? Charge him or don’t.”

  “Let him go,” Satrine told the desk officer.

  “Ma’am?” he asked.

  “The boy, send him out in his mother’s custody.”

  “Pff,” Idre said. “No stomach.”

  “Let me tell you something, Hoffer,” Satrine said, getting close into Idre’s face, so close she could smell the rotten cider on her breath. “I’ve got my eye on you and yours now. Any one of them gets out of line, steps up a bit too strong, I’m going to know about it. And you’ll be the one sitting in there.” Despite the hard edge to her words, the stone sneer on her face, Satrine’s heart was pounding faster than ever in her life. She bit the inside of her cheek, using the pain to hold back the fear, hold back the contents of her stomach threatening to leap out all over Idre.

  Idre’s eye twitched, but she didn’t get a chance to respond before Phillen came bursting through the door, knocking into the woman. “Inspector! They just found another body! It’s your killer again!”

  Satrine nodded. “If you’ll all excuse me, I have investigating to do. Good day, Missus Hoffer.” She stormed out of the room before anyone could say anything else to her. Still, she felt Idre Hoffer’s hot gaze on the back of her neck, even as she was long out of the room.

  Welling was waiting for her at the entrance hall, furiously smoking his pipe.

  “Not good,” he muttered.

  “We’ve got another one?” she asked him. “We’re sure about this?”

  “The report is it’s another mage. But I’d bet my next meal it’s Harleydale.” He drew a large toke of his pipe, his hands trembling. “Three in two days.”

  Satrine moved in close to him and whispered, “This is getting to you.”

  Welling jerked back slightly, but didn’t pull away from her. “More than usual,” he whispered back.

  “Is it that it’s mages, or that we haven’t caught the killer?”

  “Both,” Welling said. He stepped away toward the door. “Though more the former.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Saint Limarre’s.”

  Chapter 19

  SAINT LIMARRE’S WAS NOT Minox’s church. His attendance at services at Saint Benton’s in Keller Cove was haphazard, usually out of familial obligation, though he did enjoy joining his mother on her monthly pilgrimages to Saint Veran’s in the outskirts of the city. He was familiar with Saint Limarre’s, of course, as it was the dominant public timepiece in Inemar. It did not escape his notice that it was also just a block from where the lockwagon had been attacked and Jaelia Tomar abducted.

  The place had a humble simplicity, age without ostentation—plain stone walls, no color to the windows. Even the clock tower didn’t go very high, barely clearing above the surrounding buildings.

  Two patrolmen stood outside the main doors, flanking a cloistress in a dark blue habit. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, not making any effort to hide the annoyance on her face. As Minox and Inspector Rainey came up the stone steps, she bounded forward.

  “Inspectors.” She spoke boldly and straightly, extending her hand to them both. “Thank you for coming so directly.”

  “Of course,” Minox said. “Inspector Welling and Inspector Rainey.”

  The cloistress gave a curious glance at Rainey, something approaching recognition. “Sister Alana of the Holy Order of Saint Limarre.” She took Inspector Rainey’s hand confidently, which Rainey returned. Rainey did not return the look
of recognition, however.

  “Are the patrolmen barring you from entering the crime scene, Sister?” Rainey asked.

  “Exactly,” Sister Alana said. “I assure you I can handle seeing everything in there. I found it in the first place.”

  “The purpose of closing it off is more to maintain the integrity of the scene, as best we can,” Minox said. “Though I think most patrolmen misunderstand that. Come in with us; your insight would be most appreciated.”

  “I will serve as best I can,” Sister Alana said.

  She led them into the church, where they were first confronted with the statue of Saint Limarre. As opposed to the detailed bronzework image Minox was used to at Saint Benton’s, the statue of Limarre was a humble woodcarving. This fit the image of the saint himself: hooded head hanging down, palms outward. The usual collection of prayer offerings, coins, trinkets, and scrips of verse lay at the base of the statue.

  The statue was not isolated in an entrance alcove, which was what Minox was used to. Instead, the entire assembly was a large, open hall. The rest of the church matched the humility: muted colors, paint cracking, unstained wooden pews and altar podium.

  The body was laid out on the altar, naked like the others, with two patrolmen standing guard over it. A mage, like the others. It was unquestionably Wells Harleydale from Light and Stone.

  There were key factors that stood out as different from the other two murders. His heart was not cut out. Instead, his hands were severed and his eyes removed. Massive pools of blood spread out from the stumps of his arms.

  “This is different,” Rainey muttered.

  “Indeed,” Minox said. “Why the change?”

  “Change?” Sister Alana asked.

  “The other two victims had their hearts cut out,” Minox said.

  “Two Firewings, hearts cut out,” Rainey said. “Here we have Light and Stone, hands off and eyes out. We sure this is the same killer? Maybe this was a retaliation from the Firewings.”

  “Indeed we are, Inspector Rainey, though I had considered that as well.” Minox pointed to the damning evidence: two spikes, driven into the shoulders of Harleydale. “Different placement clearly due to taking the hands off this time.”

  “Sister,” Rainey said, turning the cloistress away from the scene. “You were the one who found the body?”

  “Indeed I was, Madam Inspector,” Sister Alana said.

  “And you found it like this? No one else around?”

  “I saw no one. I did hear, from my quarters upstairs, a curious clanging sound, which is why I came down here to see what was going on.”

  “But no one else was here in the nave or the aisles? Even with no services, there’s always a few—”

  “Not anymore,” Sister Alana said. “Most unfortunately—and uncharitably, I’m afraid—in the past months we’ve been forced to flush out parishioners between services and bolt the main doors. It is not something I am proud of, but we’ve had several thefts and bodily assaults upon the faithful in residence. The safety of the cloister must take precedence.”

  “You weren’t afraid to come up when you heard the noise,” Rainey noted.

  “I consider that my duty, Inspector. I’ve had my share of experience in theft and bodily assaults.”

  Rainey gave the sister a quizzical look. She shook it off, and then continued her questions. “So you heard the hammering of the spikes?”

  “I presume,” Sister Alana said.

  “And he was like this when you came in? No one else here?”

  “As I already said, Inspector.”

  “Our killer moves like a spirit,” Minox said. He glanced at the room for all possible exits. The main door in the front. One behind the altar. Two others on the side. “When you came from upstairs, where did you enter from?” The sister indicated the door on the left side. Minox went over to the doorway. From that vantage, the front door was visible; the other two could not be seen. The body, however, could be seen quite clearly. “Did you enter cautiously, or quickly?”

  “Cautiously, of course.”

  “Taking several moments to step in, take in the whole room.” He took similar cautious steps, noting at each point how his field of vision would change. Four steps, he could see the other door on the side. Five more before he could see the exit behind the altar. “You could have been in here with him for several moments without spotting him.”

  “That did occur to me, Inspector.”

  “And the victim?” Rainey asked. “When you saw him, was he dead? Or dying?”

  The sister moved next to Minox and closed her eyes. “Blood poured out of the stumps of his arms. But he didn’t move, didn’t scream. I don’t know if he was breathing.”

  “And how long ago was this?”

  “Almost an hour.”

  “And then what did you do?” Minox asked.

  “I went to the front door and unlatched it, and called out for a constable. It took only a few moments for a brace of them to come. They saw the body, glanced about for a bit, and then called for pages to deliver you here.”

  “These two?” Minox pointed to the patrolmen.

  “That one,” she said, pointing to the one closest to the body. “The other one kept me outside until another pair arrived.”

  “You two aren’t partners?” Rainey asked them.

  “No, ma’am,” one of them said. “I arrived first with Mickey. Then Dutes and Ossam showed up later.” He indicated the other patrolman as Ossam. Both these men looked familiar enough to Minox; he had seen them around the station.

  Rainey moved close to Minox. “We know that Harleydale was grabbed by someone in uniform.”

  Minox nodded. “Have the two of you been in here with the body the whole time? And have there been any other patrolmen here?”

  “A few more showed up, I think,” Ossam said. “We stayed here while they circled the grounds, checked out the rest of the church.”

  “All men you recognized? Any of them without partners or brass?”

  “Blazes, specs, I don’t know every man on foot,” Ossam said. His cheeks blushed. “Sorry, Sister.”

  “I’ve heard far worse, Constable,” Sister Alana said.

  Minox continued. “Sister, you were kept outside. Did you see or speak to any of these other patrolmen?”

  “Indeed. One circled the grounds and checked the kitchen door, which was still latched.”

  Minox glanced around the chapel again. “That door leads up to the cloister’s cells, and the one behind the altar?”

  “To the priests’ chambers.”

  “And that one over there?”

  “The kitchens, the back door, the cellars.”

  “Cellars? Do those lead anywhere?”

  “Lead anywhere?” Sister Alana did not seem to understand the question. “It’s a cellar.”

  “No access to the sewers or such down there?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Sister Alana said.

  Minox turned to the patrolmen. “Have we searched the entire church?”

  “Not yet,” Ossam said. “That would violate sanctity.”

  Rainey glanced over at the naked corpse. “Sanctity is out the door at this point.”

  “I have not had a chance to talk to the priests at all,” Sister Alana said. “I’m sure our head pastor would approve a reasonable search of the grounds, given the situation.”

  “Where are the priests?”

  “One came to speak with us briefly,” Ossam said. “He indicated that they would be staying in their cells until we had removed the victim.”

  Rainey raised an eyebrow. “Sister Alana didn’t see him, right? You can’t be certain he was a priest.”

  “He wore the robe and sash.”

  “Our killer has already murdered a man in the church,” Rainey said. “I’m sur
e he wouldn’t hesitate to dress in the vestments. Sister, let’s go talk to the priests. All of them.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” Sister Alana said, leading Rainey out the back.

  “Welling,” Rainey said as she left, pointing to the floor behind the altar. “Our guy is definitely taunting us.”

  Minox went around the altar. Lying on the ground was Inspector Rainey’s crossbow.

  The hallway to the priests’ cell was dim, lit only by candles in niches. Sister Alana led Satrine along. She kept glancing back to Satrine, something in her eye annoyingly familiar. “How many priests are in residence here?” Satrine asked.

  “Only three,” Sister Alana answered. “You’re the first female inspector I’ve seen.”

  “The only one currently, I think,” Satrine said. “It’s just my second day.”

  “Daunting,” Sister Alana said. “You must have a few tricks up your sleeve.”

  Satrine stopped. “Pardon?”

  The sister turned back, her gaze narrowing. She spoke with slow deliberation. “A woman would have to be very tricky to reach your position.”

  The woman’s face, the shape of her jaw, the slight scar above her eye, it was all familiar, but Satrine couldn’t find it in her memory. “You were a Tannen and Jent girl, weren’t you?”

  The cloistress shrugged. “Born and raised. I heard you died.”

  “I guess that was the story out there,” Satrine said. “I’m surprised you recognized me.”

  “I wasn’t sure until just now,” the sister said. “Plus when I was ten you beat four Bridge Rats off of me in the Puller Flop.”

  Satrine’s memory raced. She had scrapped with Bridge Rats plenty of times; all of those were blurs. Who would she have saved in the Puller Flop? “Lannie Coar?”

  “The same.” Sister Alana smiled widely. “What happened to you?”

  “Too long a story to tell right now,” Satrine said. “We should go see the priests.”

  “Of course,” Sister Alana said. “I’m sorry we had to find each other this way.”

  “Part of the job,” Satrine said.