A Murder of Mages (33 page)

“You two look like every saint had dragged you through the coals,” Captain Cinellan said as Minox and Rainey
returned to the inspectors’ floor. Minox wasn’t much of one for making theological comparisons, but the idiom was apt. On top of the beating they both had taken, an afternoon cloudburst hit as they returned to the stationhouse. “Blazes happened to you both?”

“The killer was still at the church,” Rainey said. “But he got past us and escaped.”

Cinellan raised his eyebrow. This was not an expression that Minox had ever been able to fully read on the captain. “How?”

Minox stepped forward. “The killer was prepared for us, specifically me. He used some form of powder that mages are susceptible to. This resulted in a loss of control on my part, giving him a window to escape.”

Inspector Rainey opened her mouth, looking for a moment like she intended to amend Minox’s statement. Then she turned away.

Cinellan nodded. “He’s got a plan, then.”

“One which I fear he is not finished with.”

“So where do we stand?”

“As far as the murders of the three mages are concerned, we still are on the hunt for the killer, as well as trying to determine his identity.”

“You don’t have that sussed out yet, Welling?”

“Unfortunately, no. I fear the situation is outside of the realm of obvious suspects. The killer is of grave concern to me, but I believe we must focus on a secondary matter.”

“Three mages dead, two Circles involved, and the second dead on the front step of one of them.” Cinellan groaned. “Another Circle Feud?”

“I do not believe that the murders were about a fight between the Circles,” Minox said. “However, they may cause one to erupt. In fact, the most logical analysis of the evidence is that the killer wished to instigate such a feud.”

“You don’t think so?” Rainey asked.

“I believe the killer has a purpose that is far more specific than that. I just cannot discern what that purpose is.”

“All right,” Cinellan said. “This isn’t really my element here, Welling. What do we do about the Circles?”

Minox paused. This was hardly his element either. He had failed more than once now in his deductions about magic or mages.

Inspector Rainey focused back onto the conversation. “Protective patrols around both chapterhouses, full details all night long.”

“They aren’t going to like that,” Cinellan said.

“The Circles, or the night shift?”

Cinellan laughed. “Either one, I’d gather.” His expression quickly sobered. “Look, this whole business is getting ugly, and we need to get it locked down.”

Minox understood. “I know Hilsom is ready to bite through leather if we don’t arrest someone.”

“I’ll keep Hilsom in check,” Cinellan said. “But you two have been knocked by enough stray carts for one day, you hear? Go home. Get some sleep. Saints, Minox, you look like you can barely stand.”

That was too close to the truth for Minox’s liking.

“As you wish, Captain,” Minox said. Cinellan went back into his office.

Inspector Rainey turned around and went straight to the stairs. Clearly she needed no further prodding. Minox followed after her. “Rainey?”

She stopped and stared at him, but said nothing.

Minox stammered a moment, unnerved by her intense eye contact. “Despite our poor results for the day, I do not believe I could have achieved better with any other partner.”

Rainey shrugged, clearly not heartened by his attempt at praise. “We certainly couldn’t have achieved much worse.” She continued down the stairs.

Minox stood still for several minutes at the top of the stairs. The elements of the case were not adding up. There was a pattern, surely, that made sense to the killer. Minox simply was unable to see it. His thoughts were cloudy and thick.

The captain was right, and Minox decided there was
no value in gainsaying his orders. He went back to his desk for his coat, where both Nyla and Corrie were waiting for him.

“Your skirt partner took some blasted hits today,” Corrie said.

“We both did,” Minox said, noting the slight blush on Nyla’s cheeks. “Inspector Rainey gave as good as she was given, however.”

“And you, you rutting little cheat.” Corrie pressed a finger into his chest. “You were supposed to stay home.”

“Slipped away and spent the whole night here,” Nyla said, clucking her tongue at him.

“There was a pressing matter of a woman in danger. I was hoping to prevent another murder.”

“And did you?” Corrie asked.

Minox sat down, head slumped. He had failed utterly.

Nyla put a hand on his shoulder. “Minox, you can’t blame yourself—”

“You blazing well know he will, Ny,” Corrie said. “Look, Mine. You’re not going to do anyone any good running your head into the rutting ground. Go the blazes home and rest.”

“I have every intention to,” Minox said.

Nyla scooped up the pile of newssheets he had piled up on the desk. “Come on. We’ll take the tickwagon together.”

“Make sure he doesn’t come back here, Ny.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nyla said, giving Corrie a mock salute.

Minox got back to his feet. “Two things, Corrie.”

“You’re asking me to favor you now?”

“They’re business,” Minox said. “The captain is going to assign some night shift to patrol duty around two Mage Circle houses. Volunteer for that.”

“Really?” She looked disgusted.

“I want to make sure there’s someone I trust involved.”

She bit at her lip. “Fine. What’s the other?”

“There’s a pub owner on Silver, who says that some night shift horsepatrol have been rattling him for crowns. Find me some names.”

She glanced about nervously and dropped her voice. “I’m not rutting well going to rat—”

“Get me names, Corrie. I’ll handle the rest.”

“You’ll owe me.” With a nod to Nyla she went off to the back stairs.

“Let’s go,” he told his cousin, taking the newssheets from her. “I’ll pay for a cab.”

“Damn right you’re paying,” she said. “You’re the one on inspector’s wages.”

The walk through High River was long and dreadful. The rains had stopped, or had never started on the north bank. Satrine’s wet coat coupled with the failures of the day had given her a completely foul mood. The sight of the fashionably dressed students at the street tables of the High River Wine Club didn’t help. They laughed, drank, argued, and generally had a wonderful time, blissfully unaware of all the misery across the river. Or even right next to them. Satrine envied them even as she loathed them. The young couple kissing at one table made her think of Rian. Soon she would be one of the girls at a place like this.

Wait.

Satrine turned back and looked again. That girl wasn’t like Rian.

It was Rian.

Rian kissing some boy. Rian sitting at a table with a glass of wine.

Anger paralyzed Satrine, thoughts racing through her head. The first thoughts were about money, irrationally raging over the idea that Rian might waste even a single tick on a glass of wine at the High River. More frenzied thoughts came: Why is this boy buying her wine? Who is this boy buying her wine? Why is the High River selling wine to a fourteen-year-old girl? Why is this boy, who is clearly seventeen if he is a day, kissing a fourteen-year-old girl? Who is he and why is Rian kissing him?

Her anger took voice, as her feet leaped over the low fence surrounding the street tables. “Rian Rainey, what
in the blasted name of all the blazing saints do you think you’re doing?”

All the people at the street tables startled, but Rian jumped away from her paramour. The boy, for his part, held his ground, barely moving in his chair.

“That’s rather rude, ma’am,” he said, his accent crisp with privilege and education.

“Rude?” Satrine’s voice cracked to a screech. “You’re shoving your tongue into the mouth of my daughter—my fourteen-year-old daughter, young man—while plying her with wine!” Satrine took a real good look at the boy, staring him hard in the face. Dark hair, piercing blue eyes, ridiculously pretty. Add in the tailored suit with silver hasps, the boy clearly had money to spend. It was easy to see why Rian was star-eyed for him. “It’s damn polite of me not to knock your teeth out!”

“Mother!”

“I should do the same to you!” Satrine snarled at her daughter. “How dare you be here when your father is . . .”

“Missus Rainey,” the young man said, holding up his hands peacefully. “I’m so sorry for our first meeting to be marred with this unpleasantness.” His voice dripped charm like an overfilled oil lamp.

“That’s
Inspector
Rainey to you—”

“Poul Tullen,” the boy said, extending his hand to her. “I’m at the Royal College of Maradaine.”

Satrine resisted the urge to slap the hand away, instead only glaring at it in disgust. “Is that where you learn to seduce schoolgirls?”

“Mother!” Rian grabbed Satrine’s shoulder and yanked.

“You start walking home right now, Rian,” Satrine said. “If you’re lucky you’ll stay far enough ahead of me to avoid getting cuffed across the head!”

Rian took a moment, looking between her mother and Poul, before letting out a scream of exasperation and stomping off.

Satrine turned back to Poul. “I don’t want to see you near her again, you hear me?”

The boy flashed a grin. “If that’s what you want, Inspector, you won’t see me.”

Satrine didn’t like that answer. She slammed her hand down on the table, knocking the wineglasses over. “I don’t want it to happen, Mister Tullen.”

“Mister Tullen is my father,” the boy said. There was an edge of a threat in his voice.

“Stay away from my daughter, boy.”

Poul stood, picked up his empty glass, and walked off, calling to the nearest server. He never lost the self-assured smirk as he left Satrine’s view.

The rest of the patrons of the High River were staring at Satrine, making her feel more than a little conspicuous. She had made enough of a scene, and she didn’t need any more time wasted. She hurried down the street toward home.

Rian was a good block ahead of her, easily spotted with her red hair and school uniform. Her pace was hard and deliberate, pushing through the crowd of buskers and hawkers with practiced ease that reminded Satrine of herself at that age.

Satrine remembered that at fourteen she was doing much worse than kissing rich boys in wine shops. Not that kissing rich boys in wine shops had ever been an opportunity afforded to her at that age.

At full walking pace, Satrine could barely keep Rian in her sight. She’d have to run to catch up. Her knee flared, her feet screamed—her body did not want to run right now. It barely wanted to walk. Rian had reached Beltner, she would be in the house shortly. Satrine pushed through the pain and sprinted after her.

“Rian!” she shouted as she closed in on her daughter. Rian didn’t turn around, just continued stalking to the stairs. Satrine caught up and grabbed Rian by the shoulder just as the girl was getting out her key. “What the blazes were you doing there?”

“What did it look like I was doing, Mother?” Rian snapped. “Now thanks to you, he’ll never call on me again. He won’t even look at me.”

“No, he won’t, if he knows what’s good for him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him to stay away from you, and since you’re the daughter of a stick, he’ll know to do just that.”

“You are such a rutting bully, Mother!” Rian fumbled with the key, trying to get it in the latch despite her hands shaking. Satrine felt her own hands shaking just as much, her anger getting the better of her.

“You do not talk that way to me!”

“Don’t you rutting well tell me how to blasted talk to you!”

Satrine’s fist raised up before she even knew what she was doing. “How
dare
you talk to me that way!”

Rian had never, to Satrine’s knowledge, been hit in her life. Satrine had never done it, nor had Loren, and if it had happened at school, Rian had never shared it with her. At Rian’s age, Satrine had been hit more times than she could count, by her own mother and plenty of others. Satrine had long known how to hit back, and would have scrapped anyone who would dare cross her.

Rian was not Satrine.

Rian burst into tears, her face shocked as she cowered behind her hands.