“And, unfortunately, nor could I afford to pass up a paying customer. Seven ticks, I think, is a fine balance of generosity and necessity.”
Seven ticks was only a hair above outright theft, but Satrine wasn’t in a position to insist on paying more. Even the seven ticks were more than she should be spending.
“Deal, Mister Plum.” She held the book close to her chest, while taking the coins out of her pocket. “Thank you.”
“I hope you get as much out of it as I did,” he said.
Satrine gave him a final nod of her head and left the store, the bell jingling as she opened the door. She started walking with purpose, toward the bridge and back to home, all the while thumbing through the worn pages, catching snippets of the familiar verses.
Minox ran at full tilt to the Brondars’ butcher shop. It was crowded this morning, customers shouting out their orders while all four Brondars shouted back, chopping and cutting meat.
“Joshea!” Minox called, trying to push through the crowd. Joshea was focused on his work, as were his brothers.
Minox didn’t want to waste further time. He pulled out his whistle and gave it a shrill blast.
Everyone stopped.
“Blazes, Inspector!” the elder Brondar shouted. “What you trying to do?”
“I really do apol—”
Joshea’s father’s face turned deep red, and he shook his knife in Minox’s direction. “You think you can come into a man’s business and just disrupt—”
“Pop,” Joshea said, stepping forward. “I’m sure—”
“I’m blazing well sure that the sticks aren’t leaving us alone!”
The customers all cheered, far too heartily for Minox’s taste.
“I didn’t mean to cause—”
“It don’t matter what you meant to do!”
“Get out, stick!” one of the customers shouted.
“Leave them be!” another followed.
Minox’s hand went reflexively to his belt.
“I just have some questions.”
“More questions,” Brondar said. “For Joshea. Still hassling him?”
“No, it’s not—”
“Pop, it’s fine—”
“Get out!” a customer screamed, grabbing Minox by the vest.
Minox drew out his handstick, ready to club down the citizen, but Joshea had leaped over the counter and tackled the man to the ground.
The crowd lunged at Joshea and Minox, hands clawing and pawing at both of them. Minox couldn’t understand how the situation had turned so ugly so quickly.
He brought down his handstick on one arm that had gotten a grip on him, a resounding crack that dropped its owner. Another person got in a blow at Minox’s head, soft punch glancing. Minox struck back across his jaw.
Two more people grabbed hold of his shoulders, tried to push him at the door. A fist came rushing past Minox’s head, knocking one of his attackers clean down: Joshea at his back. A smile naturally came to Minox’s mouth as he grabbed his other attacker and spun him out of the shop.
“Oy!” Brondar senior shouted. “Stop brawling in my shop!”
Joshea’s brothers had jumped into the fray, grabbing the patrons and casually tossing them out the door. They both had expressions of solid glee on their faces, as if they could hardly care about why they were fighting, as long as they got to fight. In moments, Minox and the Brondars had cleared the shop floor.
“Now we got no customers!” the father shouted.
“Oy, Pop,” Jonner said. “Serves you right for raising a smell over the inspector coming in here.”
Joshea brushed off Minox’s vest. “You all right?”
“Fine,” Minox said. “I really had no intention of causing such disruption.”
“Folks are in a state,” Joshea said.
“And they don’t like sticks,” the father said. “For good cause.”
“I assure you, I only am looking for information that I hope Joshea can help me with.”
Joshea’s father scowled, and put down his cleaver. “Go ahead, then.”
Joshea’s face froze. Minox understood his fear, especially since his friend had no idea what Minox would ask. Minox also understood that he had to phrase things delicately, as Joshea’s family might have no idea that they met the night before.
“I believe that the murders I’ve been investigating were committed by someone with military training. A former soldier.”
“Come on, now, stick!” Gunther said. “You’re not really not going to keep at us—”
“Please let me finish,” Minox said, holding up his hands. “I am making no accusations to any member of your family.”
“Go on,” the father said.
“Joshea, when you were discharged, was anyone else discharged at the same time? Anyone who came back to this neighborhood?”
The other Brondars looked to Joshea. Joshea nodded. “Yes, there are a few others.”
“Then I’ll need their names.”
Satrine didn’t reach her home until after the noon bells. The door was unlatched, which Satrine was grateful for, as she still wasn’t carrying her key.
“Missus Abernand?” Satrine called out. “Are you here?”
Missus Abernand came out of the kitchen. “What are you doing here this early?”
Satrine shrugged. “Things didn’t work out today.”
Missus Abernand scowled. “That’s not too good.”
“No, it’s not. How is he?”
“He just ate some broth. Half the bowl got down his throat, at least.”
Satrine nodded. “Good.” She managed to put on a smile. “I know I owe you some money, Missus Abernand.”
Missus Abernand walked over to her stairwell. “I’ll be up on the roof hanging the laundry. Go sit with him.”
“But—”
“Sit with your husband, Satrine.”
Missus Abernand left Satrine alone.
Loren lay awake in the bed, propped up with pillows. He looked comfortable, even as his dead eyes hung toward the corner of the room. She placed the poetry book on the bedside table and kissed his forehead.
“So I’m back,” she said. “I thought it would . . . it doesn’t matter. I rolled it up. I wanted . . . would you believe, it was Rian and that stupid rich boy? I got up in his face, and he went to his father. And his father called on Wendt. So my whole web fell to pieces.”
Her stomach churned. The memory of the morning drummed again and again in her skull.
“And they thought they were doing me a favor, can you believe it? Sitting there in the captain’s office, smoking and laughing. Offering me a clerkship. Five rutting crowns a week. I told the captain and Wendt to go roll themselves.”
Loren made a gurgling noise. She wanted to believe it was laughter.
“So that’s it, then,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed. Loren’s head turned toward her, most likely just from her weight shifting the bed. She smiled at him, as if that meant anything to him. “But the day over in Inemar wasn’t a complete failure. I did get a book. I know I shouldn’t have, but . . . I needed something for me. You couldn’t blame me for that. Tomorrow we’ll . . . I’ll figure out tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”
She picked up the book. “Would you like me to read one to you? When I was a girl I must have read all of these a hundred times.” She opened the book, it naturally falling on a page where the spine had cracked slightly. One of the love poems, possibly a favorite of Plum’s. He had even written a note on the margin.
Our love, our passion,
Lasts beyond this lifetime
Life everlasting, love everliving
Paired hearts lifted up on wings of fire
You hold me, hands as strong as stone
You gaze deep into me with eyes of light
No ring keeps us apart,
Body and blood forever joined
Reborn in the blaze of a setting sun.
Satrine stopped reading. The words, ancient and familiar, suddenly clicked into new patterns.
Paired hearts. Wings of fire.
Hands and eyes. Light and Stone.
Plum had crossed out the word ring and written in circle.
No circle.
Uncircled.
Welling.
The bell above the shop door jangled as Minox came in. The third and final person Joshea had given him—the first two Minox had easily dismissed as being unlikely suspects as soon as he met them—worked in a convenient enough location to all three murder sites. That alone wasn’t damning, as Minox could say the same thing about Joshea, or anyone else in this block of the neighborhood.
“Can I help you?” a voice called out from the back of the shop.
“City Constabulary, sir,” Minox responded. “I have a few questions for you, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, Inspector.” Nerrish Plum emerged from behind a shelf of books. “In fact your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”
Chapter 28
“MISSUS ABERNAND!” SATRINE POUNDED up the stairs to the roof. “Missus Abernand!”
“What is it?” The woman was already in the doorframe, wet shirts in her hand. “Is Loren all right?”
“He’s fine,” Satrine said. Of course, that would be what Missus Abernand would think would be wrong. “I’m going to have to go back out.”
“Something happen? Another job?”
“No, it’s . . . I think my partner is in danger.”
“Partner?” Missus Abernand clearly didn’t understand what Satrine was talking about.
“Inspector Welling.”
“I thought you weren’t an inspector anymore.”
“No, but—”
“You need to worry about your own right now.” Missus Abernand went back out to the roof. Satrine followed after her.
“Look, I figured it out, the murders, the poem . . .”
“I just don’t see why it concerns you. They got rid of you.”
“It’s not about the job, it’s about—”
“Remember you do still owe me, Satrine.”
“Why am I arguing this with you?” Satrine said. “You’ll get your money, don’t worry. Please just keep an eye on Loren. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Satrine didn’t wait for a response. Missus Abernand had enough of guilt-driven sense of responsibility that she would do the job, regardless. She’d be resentful as all blazes later, but she would do it. Satrine raced down the steps and out the front door.
“You just recently finished a stint in the army?” Minox asked. Plum nodded, only giving Minox a portion of his attention.
“If three years could be considered a ‘stint,’ Inspector,” Plum said. “I’m not entirely sure of the semantics.”
“And on your return, you opened up the bookstore again?”
“My mother had, technically, kept the store operational, though she had been rather negligent in its care. It has taken quite a lot of work on my part to get things back to where they are now.” He slumped around the shadowed stacks, his body hunched slightly. Probably spent inordinate time reading at a desk.
“A family business, then?”
Plum nodded. “Indeed, Inspector.”
“A family passion, even?”
“For books?” Plum shrugged. “For knowledge, definitely. You know, Inspector, we met briefly the other day, if you don’t recall.”
Minox’s memory did not fail him. “Your grandfather was instrumental in Missus Rainey starting an education.”
“Exactly. He threw a book at her. Did she tell you about that book?” He giggled slightly and went to another bookshelf. The man’s spindly fingers danced along the shelf, even as his feet shuffled idly along the row.
“I’m afraid not, Mister Plum.” Minox was shocked that this slight, scholarly man had ever lasted in the army. “What drove you to—”
“It’s a very interesting book, you see. Most people don’t realize, the poet didn’t actually write the poems.”
“Very interesting, I’m sure. You were in the army for three years?”
“Yes,” Plum said. He came out from the shelves, a thick metal-spined book in his hands. “I enlisted shortly after the death of my wife.”
“My cond—”
“Did you know how she died, Inspector Welling?”
Minox wasn’t sure how this was relevant. “I am afraid I didn’t even know . . .”
“Of course you didn’t. That’s not your fault. You had no reason to know.”
“If I may continue my questions—”
“No more questions,” Plum said. He threw the book at Minox, with surprising speed.
Minox raised his hand and instinctively drew on magic to deflect the book flying at his head.
There was no magic to draw on. Nothing happened.
The book cracked across his head. He dropped to his knees, dazed and spinning.
Plum was already on him, any sign of stoop or hunch now gone. He slammed a hard boot into Minox’s face.
Blackness encroached Minox’s mind; he couldn’t force himself back up. He couldn’t make his body react.
He was vaguely aware of Plum flipping his inert form over, quick hands binding him with a rope. “You are not at fault, Inspector. But you are exactly what I need.”
Then it all went dark.
Satrine didn’t walk or trudge back to Inemar; she ran. She ran like Intelligence had trained her, years ago. Slow breathing, steady pace. Scanning ten steps ahead, dodging or leaping anything in her way. Get as far as she can, as fast as she can, without wearing herself out.
If she was reading the poem right, if she wasn’t crazy, the killer—Plum, Nerrish Plum, damn it all—would kill an Uncircled mage by sunset. And Plum knew Welling was one. The pieces lined up.
The usual hawkers and buskers at the Inemar bank of the bridge must have seen her coming; no one got in her face or tried to sell her any blasted thing. She leaped down the stairs and hit the cobblestone running.
Her knees were really going to hate her for this later.
She raced, weaving through people and horses and pedalcarts and stacked crates. She didn’t slow down one bit as she approached the stationhouse. Her eyes moved past the outer gate, focused on the door, so she didn’t notice until it was too late that the patrolmen at the gate had grabbed her by the crooks of her arms.
“What do you think you’re doing, Missus?” one of them asked.
“Let go!” Satrine yanked her arms free. They didn’t give her any fight, but moved in front of her. She stepped toward the door, but they blocked her, hands resting on their sticks. “I need to get in there.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do, Missus.”
“I do, I’m—”
“We know who you are, Missus Rainey,” the blond one on the left said. Iorrett, by his badge. “We know what you’ve done.”
Satrine didn’t have time for their petty junk. “You don’t understand.”
His partner, a doughy, meat-faced stick with Leckly on his badge, gave an ugly smile. “She prob’ly thinks, what with us being just footpatrol, we don’t understand much.”
“We understand plenty, we do,” Iorrett said. “Lieutenant Haimen is one of ours, you know.”
Leckly nodded. “He’s a good man, wife and family. Not that you’d care.”
“He was dirty—”
“We understand dirty, Missus Rainey. You’re a cheat and a fake,” Iorrett said. “Thinks she’s too good to work as a clerk.”
“My sister clerks the front at the Gelmoor house,” Leckly said. He shoved Satrin
e’s shoulder. “You think you better than my sister?”
Satrine beat down the urge to smash her fist into Leckly’s face. “No, I—”
“Course she does.” Iorrett stepped in close, nose almost touching Satrine’s. She made a point of not cringing away from his hot onion breath. “Fake thinks she should skip the street and get specked right away.”
“I didn’t skip the street,” Satrine muttered.
“Right, Tricky. Being a rat gang’s doxy don’t really count.”
Satrine let her old accent flow through. “I ain’t never doxied. But you’ll want to get your nose out of my face.”
“Make me,” Iorrett said in a hot whisper. “And we’ll have an excuse to iron you for the night.”
Satrine took a step back. “I just need to talk to Inspector Welling. Then I’ll go.”
“You don’t get nothing you need,” Leckly said.
“What about Inspector Welling?” she asked. “He needs to know what I’ve got to tell him.”
Leckly laughed. “Whatever you got to say, Jinx has probably figured out already. He’s a stick who’s earned his specks.”
“Look, I just . . .”
“Really simple, Trick,” Iorrett said. “You’re only getting in one way. Ironed and heading in the box.”
Briefly Satrine considered the merits. She could make enough of a ruckus that Welling would hear that she’d been put into holding. Or Captain Cinellan. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but at least she’d be able to get them to hear her out. And it would be very satisfying to give these two street sticks a real reason to throw irons on her.
That was assuming it wasn’t already too late. She couldn’t risk it. She took two more steps back. “Iorrett. Leckly. I’ll remember that.”
“Remember well,” Iorrett said.
She turned back to the street. Blazes.
Missus Wolman was in her fast wrap stand across the street. The woman glanced over at Satrine, and with a flick of her cooking tool, waved her over. Skeptical, Satrine took a step closer. Missus Wolman gestured more stridently. Satrine approached the cooking shack.
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 31