A Murder of Mages (26 page)

Two pages came running up to her, but her mind was racing with a need for action. Barely glancing at the pages, she shouted, “One of you, stay with the body, the other one, run for Mister Leppin!” Her gaze darted along the brick face of the building, spotting hand- and toeholds she could use to climb up to the roof. Windowsill, corner block, window lip—the path became clear to her.

It had been a long time since she had climbed up to the roof of a building in Inemar, but old instincts had never died off completely. In seconds she was halfway to the second floor.

“Sweet saints!” one of the pages shouted.

Satrine presumed they were reacting to her climb. They’d probably never seen a mother of two climb up the side of a wall before. Between this and stripping off her clothes in the alley, she was going to become a legend among the pages before too long. The only question was what kind of legend she was going to be.

She pulled herself up over the lip of the roof, and almost dropped into a huge puddle of blood. She was so surprised she nearly lost her balance, gripping the ledge before falling down to the street below.

There was more than a puddle of blood. A boot print of blood led away from the edge of the roof to the other side of the building. Fresh and wet.

Satrine drew her crossbow, quickly checking that it
was loaded. Drops of moisture glanced off her hand and arm. First bits of rain, the rest would start quickly. With it, the trail of blood would be lost.

She followed the trail of blood to where it ended, at the side overlooking a narrow alleyway. The next building over was taller, no way to jump up to the next roof without a rope or other gear. She scanned across the windows a flight down. One was open.

A red stain smeared the sill.

Satrine leaped for the open window.

She landed on the sill and scrambled in to a rough tenement apartment—dingy cracked plaster walls, scrappy bedrolls on the floor—among three kids who were staring at her.

“Stick!” one of them yelled. The kids bolted out of the room.

Satrine didn’t bother trying to explain to them. No time. She ran through the flop as fast as she could, knocking into the doorframe in her rush.

Spots of blood on the floor, down the hallway to the stairwell. Wet and smeared. Doors along the hallway slammed shut, bolts clicking. Call went out of a stick in the building, plenty of people don’t want Constabulary to see what they’re up to. Not something Satrine needed to worry about. She sprinted, knowing that she couldn’t surprise her quarry now. Her only chance to catch him was just plain outpacing him.

Fortunately, if there was one thing Druth Intelligence taught, it was how to run.

She bounded down the stairs, three at a time. The wood creaked and groaned with every landing. Someone was running on the stairs below her. It could be the killer, or just anyone running away from the stick call. No way to be sure, but she couldn’t take the chance.

“Constabulary!” she screamed. “Stand and be held!”

The runner kept going, which didn’t surprise Satrine. She was down one flight, and her runner was on the ground floor, surely about to use the next door.

Satrine jumped all the way down to the next landing, impact jarring her knees. She almost lost her balance, her
shoulder knocking into the wall, plaster crumbling from the hit. She gripped the crossbow tightly, afraid to let it drop out of her hand. If this was the killer, then he would have no compunction in taking her life.

She reached the ground floor. No sign of anyone. No blood on the floor. Had she lost the trail in her rush? The door outside was on the other side of the hall; he’d still be running if he went that way. The apartment doors closest to the stairs were closed and—

One door burst open, right next to her. A masked figure grabbed her arm—her crossbow arm—before she could react, wrenching it upward. She fired instinctively, the bolt imbedding into the ceiling, and the figure punched her in the ribs.

Satrine ignored the pain and cursed herself for getting surprised. She pulled her arm back down while driving one knee up into her attacker’s gut. She pulled the man closer—he was strong but light—about to crack her head against his nose, when his other hand slammed her in the chin, knocking her backward. Satrine lost her balance and fell to the ground, and lost her grip on the crossbow. Her attacker ripped it from her grasp. She landed on her back, wind knocked out of her.

Struggling for breath, Satrine watched helplessly as he cocked her crossbow and reloaded it, his fingers dancing over the weapon with practiced skill. He took aim at her head and stepped away, a slow walk backward down the hall.

There was no fear, staring at her own crossbow. Satrine only had a vague sense of uncertainty.

He was halfway to the doors, and Satrine couldn’t get on her feet, couldn’t force herself to draw breath. She rolled over and clawed her way along, trying to get closer to him. Despite the pain, the spinning vertigo of suffocation, Satrine pulled her failing body toward the escaping killer.

“C—C—” She couldn’t speak. He was at the door, still aiming at her, a clear kill shot. Why wasn’t he taking it?

She drew a small breath, just the tiniest amount.

“Co—” she pushed out. She breathed in again, pushing her legs under her.

The killer broke off, running out the door.

She gasped deeply, a desperate drink of sweet air.

“Come on!” she shouted. She couldn’t run, but she managed to gain her feet and stagger forward toward the door.

He hadn’t shot. He could have killed her, cleanly and quickly, but didn’t.

Why hadn’t he?

Minox found the foyer of the Circle of Light and Stone chapterhouse oppressive and intimidating. The walls were painted in bright colors, swirled and splashed in random patterns. It was unsettling. Just standing in the room was making his eyes hurt. The presence of the three Light and Stone mages didn’t help his mood either. The woman he had spoken to earlier, and two other women, all glowered at him silently.

This was the best choice, though—he had to leave investigating the body to Inspector Rainey. Handling that himself would have been inappropriate. He couldn’t even trust his own unbiased opinion. That was an unsettling feeling as well.

Everything about this particular case was unsettling.

An older gentleman, almost portly for a mage, came in to the foyer. He came bearing a warm smile, even chuckling a little. Minox was not able to read what this meant. Mages always confounded his knack for reading body language.

“So,” the old man said, “this is the Constabulary man who thinks we threw a dead, naked woman out our door.”

“Or off the roof,” Minox said. “Though you would not be the only suspects in that case.”

“Good to know,” the old man said. He extended his hand genially. “Wells Harleydale, Circle of Light and Stone. Though you knew the last part. What can I do for you?”

“I have a few questions regarding the victim,” Minox
said, taking Harleydale’s hand. “I understand she had some connections with your Circle.” Harleydale’s eyes went wide as soon as their hands touched.

“And what Circle are you from?”

“The victim was a member of the Firewings Circle, Mister Harleydale, and I understand that—”

“I didn’t ask about her Circle, sir. I asked about yours. No Circle allows its members to join Constabulary.”

“I am not the matter at hand, Mister Harleydale.”

“Check him,” Harleydale said to the three women. One waved her hand absently, and Minox suddenly found himself pinned against the wall. He struggled, but could not move his arms an inch. The other two women tore open his clothing with magic-laden gestures. He tried to summon his own magic, but when he did Harleydale countered with a blast, dissipating his power. “None of that, Inspector!”

“You are assaulting an officer of the law!”

“The law!” Harleydale scoffed. “The law has been no friend of ours, sir. I am insulted that you see fit to try and use your ability while wearing that coat and vest! Do you know what . . .”

Minox pushed hard with both magic and muscle, knocking the three women off balance for a moment. “I will see all of you dragged from here in irons!”

“Yes, there it is,” Harleydale said. “Isn’t that always how it ends when mages and constables meet?” He left the foyer. Minox was about to chase after him when the women, having quickly recovered, grabbed him bodily and threw him out the door.

Minox rolled down the steps, knocking and bruising his arms and body as he fell. He was able to get his feet under him before he fell onto the body of Jaelia Tomar.

The body was still there.

Three other mages from the Firewings were there as well, marching up to the house.

Inspector Rainey was not there.

“Stand aside, Inspector!” the leader of the Firewings shouted. Minox could feel the crackle of magic being
pulled toward the three of them. The same sensation came from behind him; Minox had a feeling of sinking, of dropping down as everything flowed away from him.

There were two pages at the bottom of the stairs, both looking frightened beyond belief. Minox understood how they felt, and had no small amount of pride in them holding their ground. He could barely stand, the sudden shift in magic energy was like the air being sucked away; he had to remember to draw breath.

He was about to be in the middle of a mage war. In his streets.

Not while he wore his vest.

“Stand down, Firewings!” he shouted, pulling out his crossbow and handstick. “Take no action or you will be bound by law!”

That stopped them, if only for a moment. Magic was still primed, like cords tied to Minox’s chest, pulled taut.

“What are you trying to do?” Harleydale’s voice boomed out behind Minox.

“Two dead!” the Firewings’ leader returned. “And your hands are all over it!”

“Our hands?” Harleydale came down the steps, his three women behind him. “Your troubles landed on our step!”

“And now we have as well.”

“Quiet!” Minox shouted, not realizing until it was too late he had poured magic into his voice. The word shook across the square, more raw magic than sound. The two groups of mages all stumbled back, while the pages were unaffected.

“Is that the best you can manage?” Harleydale hissed in Minox’s ear.

Minox spun on his heel, driving his handstick square into the old man’s jaw. He hit the man again, center of the chest, then another blow cracking against his head. He let his attack be savage, let it draw from his anger. He had to be relentless, not give Harleydale a chance to use any magic against him. With all the strength Minox could muster, he flipped the old man down onto the
cobblestones and jumped on top of him. He aimed his crossbow a few scant inches from Harleydale’s eye.

“Does anyone else want to see my best?”

Magic was being pulled behind him—the three Light and Stone women.

“Step back, ladies!” another voice called out from across the square. Minox glanced up: Mirrell, Kellman, and several of Maradaine’s finest patrolmen stood in a phalanx, crossbows aimed at the top of the steps.

Harleydale breathed laboriously, sweat beading across his head. Minox felt a wave of shame and pity; this was an old man he had just pummeled. Even considering that, Harleydale had deliberately provoked and assaulted an officer of law, and had shown intention of continuing to do so. Just action was on Minox’s side in this case, the age of the man notwithstanding.

“We demand justice!” the Firewing leader shouted.

“Justice?” Mirrell said. “You’ve got half the sticks in Inemar working here!”

“Real justice,” the Firewing said. Minox felt the magic they had built up was still not dispersed.

Kellman pivoted to train his crossbow on the Firewings; several of the footmen did as well. “Real justice would mean dragging all you lot to Quarrygate right now.”

“If not the river,” Mirrell growled.

“Always the same,” Harleydale said, still wheezing with his face pressed to the ground. “You proud of this?”

“You aren’t the victim here,” Minox said, grabbing the man by the hair and forcing him to look at the dead body of Jaelia Tomar. “There is the victim.” Minox got to his feet, wrenching the old man up with him. “You could have helped her. You chose, instead, to make things worse.”

“Jinx,” Mirrell called out. “This is your case. What’s the call?”

Minox wanted to have every one of the Firewings and Light and Stones thrown in a lockwagon. He’d be within his rights, even though Mage Circle protection rules would mean they’d be released before sunset. Except for
the Light and Stone women—he could probably make an assault charge on them hold. None of that, though, would make any blazing difference in solving his murder case. Murder cases. Minox wasn’t the victim who needed justice here. Justice needed to be served for both the Tomars.

“I saw him!” A piercing cry from Inspector Rainey. She stumbled out of the tenement apartment next door, blood on her mouth and face, clutching at her sides. “The killer . . . was on the roof.”

Minox dropped Harleydale to the ground and ran to his partner’s side. “Where?”

“He got away from me,” she said. Quieter, she added, “He got my weapon.”