A Murder of Mages (40 page)

S
ATRINE’S HEART ALMOST STOPPED. It was over.

Welling may not have known the specifics of Satrine’s fabrication, but she knew he had divined enough—he was investigator enough—to know that if the commissioner had crossed south to see the captain, and they wanted her escorted to them, then it had to be because her house of paper had crumpled. It was clear on Welling’s face that he had indeed figured it out.

“Well, then,” she said. There really was nothing more to say. She patted Welling on the shoulder as she passed.

“You deserve this position,” Welling said. “I hope they know that.”

He turned away, clearly having said his piece on the subject.

Satrine went into the stationhouse, Phillen walking right behind her. She didn’t need the escort. Where else would she go? It’s not like the commissioner didn’t know where she lived. “Go about your business, Phillen. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it, ma’am?”

“I’m getting used to bad, Phillen. Run along.” He saluted her, and walked off.

She went straight to the stairs and up to the inspectors’ floor.

Miss Pyle was standing at her desk, her eyes shifting nervously as soon as she spotted Satrine.

“Inspector Rainey, there’s . . . you need to . . .”

“It’s all right, Nyla, I already know,” Satrine said, giving her warmest smile possible. “But thank you.”

The door to Cinellan’s office was open, sweet smell of Fuergan tobacco seeping out into the work floor. Through the haze, the captain and Commissioner Enbrain sat silently, pipes in hand.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” Satrine asked lightly, on the off chance that she wasn’t five clicks away from being kicked out to the street.

Cinellan’s head came up, but his eyes were low and dark. “Missus Rainey. I’m sure you know the commissioner.”

Wendt Enbrain was a burly man, with more hair than he knew what do to with. The large gray mop of it was loosely pulled back, and his face was overrun with a shaggy beard. He kept his head down, as if he couldn’t bear to look up at Satrine.

“Morning, sir. Surprised to see you here so early.” Satrine wasn’t going to give either of them an easy time of this. If they wanted her to break down and confess, or beg forgiveness, or even acknowledge she had done anything wrong, then neither of them knew what kind of woman she was.

Enbrain spoke, a low, quiet voice that barely masked the broiling anger underneath. “My door was pounded on at eleven bells last night, Satrine.”

“Always is the risk in this job,” Satrine said. “I’ve lost track of the number of door pounds Loren got over the years. Blazes, yesterday—”

Enbrain burst open with anger, jumping out of his chair. “A city alderman, Satrine! Alderman Tullen—”

“Tullen?” That name sounded familiar.

“Alderman Tullen wanted to know why there was an inspector harassing his son. A woman inspector.”

Tullen. The boy kissing Rian last night.

Enbrain continued. “Of course, I know this is ridiculous, because there are no women who have been made inspector anywhere in the city.”

“On the north side,” Cinellan said under his breath.

Enbrain continued as if he hadn’t heard. “But he insists. His son said this crazy red-haired woman who claims to be an inspector broke him up kissing her daughter. Suddenly it all fell into place.”

“How long did you think it would last?” Cinellan asked. “Your name would have ended up in a newsprint. Sooner or later the news would have drifted up north.”

“Was hoping for later,” Satrine said.

“So late that I wouldn’t care that you tricked me? That I’d think you indispensable?”

“Something like that. One week here, and you would know I can do this job damn well.”

Enbrain growled and sat back down. “I tried to help you out, Satrine. And this is what you do.”

“Help me out?” Satrine said. “A pittance five-crown position?”

“I did what I could—”

Satrine couldn’t stand it; if the paper house had crumbled, she might as well burn it down. “What you could, Wendt? Don’t even sell me that oil. You did just enough to push your guilt aside.”

“Blazes, Satrine! I have to answer to the Council of Aldermen and the duke—”

“I’m so sorry you had someone knock on your blasted door at a late hour,” Satrine sneered. “That must have been terribly inconvenient for you. Do you want to know what I was doing at the same time?”

“Missus Rainey—”

Satrine ignored Cinellan’s futile attempt to cut her off. “I was changing my husband’s soiled clothes. Like an infant, sir! That is what he has been reduced to.”

Enbrain had the decency to look a bit ashamed. He should. Saints, Satrine and the girls had eaten in his home. “I really am trying to help you, Satrine. Loren was a—a good friend, and a great inspector. He deserves . . . you can’t say that I would have left his family to the dogs. I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t do that.”

“Five crowns a week! You think I could live on that,
with the state Loren is in? With what I need to do to take care of him? And with our daughters?”

“It’s good money, Satrine! You could—”

“You might as well take me down to the docks and introduce me to sailors!”

Cinellan’s eyes went wide, and he got up from behind his desk and walked close to the commissioner. “Sir, despite Missus Rainey’s . . . tone, as far as this stationhouse is concerned, I am open.”

“Open to what?” Satrine snapped.

Enbrain sighed deeply. “Captain Cinellan, astoundingly, is still willing to have you serve in a clerk’s capacity, with the possibility of earning your way to an inspector’s path. I’m leaving that in his hands, but—”

“The possibility?” Satrine couldn’t really believe what they were saying. “My family would starve on the street while waiting for that.” She went for the door.

“Damn it, Satrine, I’m trying to—” Enbrain reached out and grabbed her arm.

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t try, goddamn it. Help me or don’t.” This conversation wasn’t going anywhere useful. She took off her vest and belt, dropping them at her feet. Cinellan looked at the heap they made on the floor and nodded. Enbrain sat back down in his chair, clearly having nothing more to say.

Satrine left the office, feeling every eye on the floor boring into her. Kellman and Mirrell had already returned to the floor, and had placed themselves along her path to the stairs.

“Didn’t take long,” Kellman said.

“Were you expecting it to?” Satrine asked, though in the back of her mind she was cursing herself for even engaging with them.

Mirrell gave her a look something between a grin and a sneer. “I thought ‘Tricky’ would at least last a week.”

“You weren’t the only one.” She brushed past the two of them and went for the stairs.

As she passed, Kellman muttered, “Looks like the Jinx strikes again.”

Satrine turned on him, shoving the huge man in the
chest. “You want to knock me, Kellman, knock me. But leave Inspector Welling out of it. He’s the best thing this house has going for it.”

Mirrell pushed her shoulder. “You want us to knock you, Rainey? Knock you to the floor?”

“Take your best, Mirrell!”

“Stop it!” Miss Pyle marched up to them. “You two need to let Missus Rainey get off the floor.”

Both the inspectors stepped away, giving a final glare at Satrine before going back to their desks.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Satrine said.

“I most certainly did,” Miss Pyle said. “This floor is for the inspectors and support staff, or civilians here on official business. You, Missus Rainey, are not any of those things.”

There was venom in her voice. Satrine went toward the stairs, ready to leave the building completely. She was halfway down when she heard Miss Pyle hiss at her from the top.

“Missus Rainey, there will be a woman—my cousin Corrie, perhaps—who earns that vest that you tricked your way into wearing. And her life is going to be that much harder because of what you did.”

Satrine had no response to that, and Miss Pyle didn’t stay around to hear it.

From across the street Minox watched Inspector Rainey—correction, Missus Rainey, as evidenced by her lack of uniform—leave the stationhouse. If she had looked, she would have seen him sitting at the counter of Missus Wolman’s cookstand. She had left with her head hanging low, not observing anything of the world around her.

Minox’s potato-and-meat-filled roll sat in front of him, cooled and congealed. He didn’t have the appetite for it.

That was a strange development.

Minox contemplated that, focusing his attention on his stomach. He did not have an appetite.

He briefly considered the idea that this was an
emotional reaction to Missus Rainey’s dismissal. She possessed an exceptional mind, and was an incredible asset for the MC, and he could not deny that loss angered him. This theory did not hold, as a variety of emotions had never stayed his hunger in the past.

In addition, he had barely eaten all day. He hadn’t thought about it, though it was clear that something more was happening to him.

It had to be Joshea’s Poasian spice.

There was also the moment in the warehouse, when he had failed to create a magical light. He had attributed that to being unable to concentrate in the moment, but given the other evidence, that must not be the case.

Minox held his fingers out in front of his face, and tried to make flame, one of the few things he could do reliably. A pitiful fizzle of sparks spurted from his hand.

Joshea’s theory held. The Poasian spice had given him mastery over his magic, removed it from his concern.

A thought jolted across his mind. He had been focusing too much on the magic with these murders. The fact that the victims were mages was important, certainly, but the other specific elements might be just as important. More important, even. He needed to move past the loss of Missus Rainey and consider every possibility.

He went back into the stationhouse, and bounded up the stairs to the inspectors’ floor. “Nyla,” he announced as soon as he saw his cousin. “I will be in need of your deft and able assistance.”

She stood up straight, her sour expression quickly melting away. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

“Can you acquire a map of the neighborhood?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Bring it to my desk, with all possible haste.” He went back to his slateboards. It was time to work out each murder, every step, until the illuminating details became clear.

Chapter 27

S
ATRINE DIDN’T WALK BACK HOME. She didn’t even cross the river. She just shuffled through Inemar, every familiar sight burning a hole in her throat.

She didn’t have a plan. She needed to figure out how to survive. She had to work, that was clear, but her options were poor. Up on the north side, she might be able to get a clerk position of some sort, or secretary. At best something like that would pay ten crowns a week. Seven or eight was more likely.

She’d have to pull Rian from school, put her to work. Apprenticeship of some sort. That might bring enough in to pay for Caribet’s tuition. At least one of her daughters might get to university. Move out of the apartment and take a low-rent flop in Inemar, or saints help her, somewhere farther west. Maybe Rian having the Tullen boy’s attention wasn’t the worst thing.

The real truth was most of her problems could be solved by smothering her husband.

She shook that out of her head. She’d choose meeting sailors on the docks before that.

Satrine looked up. Her feet had led her over to Saint Limarre’s. That was surprising. Why had she wandered this way?

Three cloistresses swept the front steps, including
Sister Alana. She stopped her work and approached Satrine. “You here as a repentant sinner, or as a stick?”

“I don’t know about repentant.”

Alana smiled. “We all have a bit of sinner in us. So why are you here?”

“Not sure.” She sat down on the steps. “I don’t know what the blazes I’m doing.”

One of the other cloistresses gasped. Alana shooed them off and sat down next to her.

“I notice you don’t have the vest on. Have you already quit?”