A Murder of Mages (12 page)

Minox stepped back. He had gotten excited, and was standing closer than most people preferred for comfort. “My apologies, Mister Brondar. I’ve just had something of an epiphany, thanks to you.”

“A what?”

“A moment of clarity, Mister Brondar. However, I will table that for the moment. Would you look over there?” Minox pointed into the alley, to the lingering bloodstains still clearly visible on the cobblestones.

“That’s where the body was?” Brondar asked.

“Indeed,” Minox said. “As you can imagine, given the visibility of the spot just from our vantage point a few feet inside, the body hadn’t been here very long when it was discovered, nor could the act of killing have taken very long.”

“I suppose not,” Brondar said, his eyes still on the stain of blood. “Not that it takes that long.”

“You are familiar with how long it takes to kill a man?”

Brondar glanced back up at Minox. “You did
understand my father’s whole show back there? Three years in the army?”

“When were those three years?”

“The past three, really. I . . . I came back home just last month.”

“I wasn’t aware of a war in the past three years.”

“Neither was I,” Brondar said. “They still found places to send us.” His voice was empty, hollow.

“So you chose to leave after three years?”

“Time to come back home,” Brondar said quietly. He turned away, taking a few idle steps down the alley. “Figure out what I was doing with myself.”

“So you weren’t kicked out of the army?”

Brondar’s eyes flashed hot as he looked back. “Of course not! Why would I be?”

“For being a mage, of course.”

Minox immediately regretted saying that. It was a calculated risk, he had thought, to throw Joshea off balance so he could then get at questions about the murder. Joshea Brondar, instead, reacted with a quick and fell rage. He closed the distance between the two of them in a flash, and his hand was around Minox’s throat. Brondar picked him up off the ground and slammed him into the brick wall.

“How do you know that?” he hissed.

Minox reacted without thinking, blasting out with magic and knocking Brondar away. He put too much into it, throwing Brondar into the opposite wall. Brondar cried out; the plaster cracked. He landed on his feet, a fighting crouch, ready to strike.

“Wait, wait!” Minox said, drawing out his handstick. He didn’t want a fight, but he had to be ready to defend himself. The energy around him crackled—magic energy, now he could feel it, he knew what it was—and the energy fell into Brondar. No, more like it was pulled out of Minox, forced from him. Minox tore at the energy, yanking it like it was a tether. Brondar’s reaction was purely physical, a wild punch at Minox’s face. Minox blocked with the handstick, sweetening it with more magic.

“Stop!” Minox said again. He grabbed Brondar’s arm
and twisted it behind the man’s back. The man was strong, almost impossible to hold. Magic crackled around them both, Brondar lashing out, Minox having to respond in kind to hold him fast.

“Please!” Minox said. He pushed Brondar to the ground, pinning him with his knee. Brondar still fought, bucking like an unbroken horse. Minox hissed in the man’s ear, “I’m the same as you are.”

Brondar stopped. His face on the ground, he turned his head and looked up at Minox. “Mage?”

“Yes.”

The next word was a hoarse whisper, so low Minox barely heard it. “Uncircled?”

“Yes.”

Minox let go, stepping away from Brondar and letting him get up. Brondar kept his head down as he stood, not looking at Minox at all. “Am I going to be arrested now?”

Minox considered his options. He knew he was at fault here, or at least had some culpability. He could have handled things better. “Assaulting an inspector is a crime, but I don’t see any witnesses here.” He tried to smile, to put Brondar at ease. It didn’t seem to work.

“So now what?” Brondar asked.

Minox wasn’t sure. He had lost the sense of what he was supposed to be accomplishing: questioning Brondar about the dead mage. “We don’t have to discuss it right now.”

“So I can go back in?” Brondar said.

“No, not yet,” Minox said. “Did you see the dead man earlier?”

“No,” Brondar said. “There was a commotion outside the shop, but we stayed in and kept working.”

“Did you know he was a mage?”

Brondar looked up, finally making eye contact. There was fear in his eyes. He stammered and looked around. “Uncircled?”

“No,” Minox said. “He was a Firewing, named Tomar. Had you ever met him?”

“A mage named Tomar?” Brondar asked. “No, not that I’m aware of. Mages don’t usually come into our shop. Or, at least, they don’t announce themselves.”

“And no one ever mentioned the name that you know?”

“No.”

“And you saw nothing suspicious? Nothing at all?”

“Not that I can think of, Inspector.” Brondar paced back and forth in the alley.

“All right. Now, where were you at seven bells this morning?”

“Seven bells? Making sausages with my brothers.”

“They can corroborate?”

“Of course!” Joshea’s voice cracked as he dropped it low midway, giving a glance back to the door. “Is this all?”

Minox bit his tongue. He needed to think some more about this case. His thoughts were far too disorganized right now. He needed to calm down, sit at his desk, and contemplate in silence. But he felt there was something here, something he had to explore.

Something that had nothing to do with the case.

Minox rarely had trouble finding the words for what he wanted to say, never lacked clarity of thought. But this was something he could not seem to put into words. Finally he managed to say, “Do they know?”

“Who?”

Minox gave a nod over to the butcher shop. “Your family.”

Joshea shook his head, his face going dark.

“You’ve never wanted to tell them?”

Joshea’s face dropped, his angry expression melting away. “Every blasted day.”

“And you know you can’t.”

Joshea looked out of the alley, and then sat in the front of the butcher shop door, shaking his head. “There’s rarely a word out of that man’s mouth that isn’t about meat or serving in the army. But if the subject of magic ever comes up, he’ll spit on the floor, and say something about how we should string up all the damned mages.”

Minox took that in. “My father was the same way.” Fenner as well, and most of Minox’s uncles and cousins.

“Stick?”

“Horsepatrol in Keller Cove. Wellings have been in
Constabulary for eight generations,” Minox said. “Going back to the city first establishing the organization.”

Joshea gave a small, mirthless laugh. “My father could name six generations of Brondars in the Druth Army, and for most of them, tell you the battle they died at.”

“Legacy,” Minox said.

“And mages aren’t part of that legacy.”

“Not at all.” Minox knew he needed to get back on track of his case. But Joshea Brondar was the first person he had ever met who might understand the choices he had made. “I’m afraid I must continue my investigation. But I would—”

“Like to talk again later?” Joshea nodded. “But not around here.”

“Of course,” Minox said. “I live on Escaraine, in Keller Cove. And there’s a Fuergan tobacco shop I frequent right near. We can talk there later. But for now I need to attend to this case.”

“I’ll look you up.”

“Very good,” Minox said. He extended his hand to Joshea, who cautiously took it and shook it.

“I can go, then?”

“Yes, of course.”

Brondar went to the alley door, and then turned back. “Could we . . . could you, that is, not mention to your partner what happened?”

“It’s a private matter,” Minox said. “As of right now, I don’t see a need for it to be anything else.”

Chapter 7

S
ATRINE COULD TELL Welling had been out of sorts since the butcher shop. More correctly, he had been showing different mannerisms than he had before. When they went to the Firewings, he had been nervous, apprehensive. What he was showing now wasn’t nerves. This was a burden, weight on his shoulders.

He had barely spoken when they went into the barbershop. The barbers, though, were pleasant and helpful and gave Satrine no indication that they had anything to do with the murder.

Welling had been surly when he insisted on going to Ushman’s Hot Pot for potatoes and pork. Satrine joined him, now actually hungry. Hunger—daily, pervasive hunger—had been a constant companion during her childhood, and Ushman’s was the easiest alleviation. Three ticks a bowl, it had often been the only hot meal she had just about every day. Boring, but it had kept her alive. They sat at the street counter to eat, Welling silently shoveling the potatoes into his mouth.

The quiet unnerved Satrine. “Good?”

“Hmm?”

“Your lunch, or whatever you call this meal.”

“Fine,” he said.

Satrine realized he wasn’t going to discuss the case, or
the recent events, any further without provocation. “What happened in the alley?”

“Nothing.” Jaw set, eyes down and to the left. Clear sign.

“That’s a lie.”

Welling considered this, and then gave Satrine a hard glare. “Nothing that holds relevance to our case.”

Satrine wasn’t convinced of the honesty of that statement. “You’re certain of that, Inspector?”

He put his fork and bowl down. “It’s not . . . a Constabulary matter, Inspector Rainey.”

That was a hook. Something had happened, something important. “Are you being objective about that?”

“Here’s what I’m being objective about, Inspector Rainey. I know that you are being untruthful to Captain Cinellan, and by extension the whole of the Constabulary Inspectors Unit. Despite not knowing the nature of these untruths, I have your assurances, which I have taken as honest, that they will not affect your job performance.”

Satrine wasn’t sure what to say to that, and kept her face clear of reaction.

“So my objective perspective is, based on my observation, you have the skills, drive, and imagination to do this job in a way that is not only effective, but compatible with my own style. I find this quite agreeable, and therefore have not delved into your secrets.”

“Point made,” Satrine said. Let it lie, change the subject. “So explain to me your twenty-odd ‘unresolved’ cases.”

“They are cases which I haven’t resolved to my satisfaction.”

“Then why doesn’t Cinellan care about their resolution?”

“My satisfaction, Inspector Rainey. That is a very different thing from how the captain sees it.”

“Ah. You mean he thinks the case is closed, but you think there’s more to it.”

Welling shrugged. “Apt enough.”

“Like with the two horsepatrolmen this morning.” Satrine put down her bowl. “But that’s not your case.”

“Many of my unresolved cases were not, strictly, my case.” Welling ate the last few bites of his meal. “Are we done?”

“Eating or something else?”

“Eating.” Welling got to his feet. “I think we need to return to the stationhouse.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because that page is standing across the street, his eyes on us, with an apprehensive look on his face that typically indicates a mild internal struggle. Likely he has been sent to fetch us, but doesn’t wish to interrupt our meal.”

Satrine looked over her shoulder. He looked familiar: flat, blond hair and wide nose. “Isn’t that the same page who counted time for us this morning?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And told the stationhouse about our experiment?”

“Are you suggesting that his presence and apprehension are not work-related?”

“I’m saying it’s worth considering.”

“True enough. However, further speculation is not necessary.” He pushed his empty bowl across the counter back at the cook—not an Ushman, Satrine had noted, but someone with a familiar face—and walked over to the page. Satrine ate a final bite and followed after him.

“What’s the word, Page?” Welling asked.

The page glanced about the street nervously, his eyes only briefly landing on Satrine before he’d look away again. He finally settled his gaze on Welling. “Yes, Inspector, I was supposed to tell you—you both, of course—to return to the inspectors’ floor once you have the opportunity.”

Welling gave a sidelong glance at Satrine. “My theory was correct.”

“Doesn’t mean mine wasn’t,” Satrine muttered back.

Welling seemed to think on this for a moment, his focus switching between her and the page. The page, under Welling’s scrutiny, paled visibly. Finally Welling gave a small nod. “A valid observation.” He walked off toward the stationhouse.

Satrine noticed every eye on her when they entered
the stationhouse. The main floor, filled with clerks and patrolmen, had a sudden lull in activity and chatter as she and Welling came through to the stairs. Definite disapproval from many of the patrolmen, some of them showing outright hostility. She did notice, though, two or three of the clerks—the women—giving her the slightest of smiles.

At the top of the stairs, Miss Pyle was also giving Satrine a warm look. Satrine knew this was about how things were going to go, though she thought she would get a few days of grace—out of respect for Loren, if nothing else.