An Import of Intrigue Read online

  “Yes,” he said, brushing at his vest. “I am Gasta ab Uhren lek Ona. I cannot be bought at the price a Kaln would take.”

  Satrine leaned in. “What if we give you five ticks, and say it was fifteen?”

  “What if you give me fifteen and say it was a crown?”

  Welling sighed heavily, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a coin. He held it up in the air and called out, “Half a crown for the address of the Hieljam family home!” Satrine wondered if Welling was aware how much he had just stepped on the toes of his tobacconist. Even if he got a deal now, the cost of his favorite smoke probably just went up.

  Several Fuergans throughout the establishment stood up, but no one spoke. Instead they all started making complex hand signals—including and especially the proprietor. This lasted for only a few seconds, and then the proprietor slammed his hand on the counter.

  One man stepped forward toward Satrine and Welling. “I am your guide.”

  Welling started to hand the man the coin, but the proprietor hissed at him. “Inspector. To me.”

  The guide—who Satrine noticed was wearing a vest that was little more than woven circlets around his arms—gave a signal of agreement. Welling handed the coin over.

  “With me, then,” the guide said with a thick accent, and he led them out.

  As they walked, Welling leaned in and spoke in a low voice, “What was that you were doing?”

  “Respecting their custom,” Satrine said. “I thought you said you knew these people.”

  “I expected Gasta to be helpful. I’ve been a loyal customer for years.”

  “A customer. You pay for service. He’s not your friend.”

  “Well, no . . .”

  “And for Fuergans, every service is paid for.”

  Welling screwed his face in thought. “Do they have city constabulary, fire brigade, or such things?”

  Satrine didn’t know. “I’m not sure how things work in their cities. I’ve never been to Fuerga, I’ve only dealt with a handful of them before.”

  “In Intelligence.”

  She lowered her voice a bit more, hoping their guide wouldn’t overhear. “Speaking of, let’s not discuss what we’re investigating too openly just yet. It could create quite a problem for Intelligence and Druth diplomacy.”

  “As you wish, but those things are not my problem, Inspector Rainey. My concern is solving this crime.”

  “Fair enough, but . . . we should strive to be delicate in our dealings, especially with the Hieljams.”

  “I can handle myself fine, Inspector.”

  The guide had led them around the corner to a three-story building, almost dead in the center of the Fuergan blocks of the Little East. It was a tall whitestone, the kind that typically held several upscale apartments in the neighborhoods east of Inemar, or on the north side of the city. “This is the home of Family Hieljam.”

  “They have an apartment in this building?” Welling asked.

  “This is the home of the Family Hieljam,” the guide repeated, and he gave them a strange hand signal and walked away.

  “This is what I’m talking about, Welling,” Satrine said. “These people are, for all purposes, nobility. We have to be respectful.”

  “I am always respectful, as long as they respect our office.”

  Satrine put on her best Druth highborn accent, which would be good enough for Fuergans. Someone with a proper ear for Druth accents would spot her as a fraud, most likely. “I’m simply saying, with these people, I should take the point.”

  Welling made some grumbling noises, but nodded. They went up and knocked on the door. A beefy, squat Fuergan man answered the door.

  “This is not a time,” he said as he saw them.

  “My apologies,” Satrine said. “We have urgent business with the household.”

  The man muttered something in a Fuergan dialect.

  Satrine pointed to her vest. “Constabulary. We must speak with the household.”

  The man frowned and shut the door.

  “That didn’t go well,” Welling said. “Perhaps we’re interrupting their evening meal. ‘This is not a time.’”

  “It’s conceivable,” Satrine said. It was nearly six bells already. She should be heading home, having dinner with the girls, checking on Loren. “We should be signing out shortly.”

  “It depends on what this yields. We might need to stay on duty for the duration of investigation.”

  Missus Abernand would hate that. She groused whenever Satrine returned after sunset. So there was no time to waste. She pounded on the door again.

  The squat man opened again. “This is not a time.”

  Satrine wasn’t going to let him hold them off again. Shoving a foot into the doorway—technically a Constabulary violation—she threw some additional haughtiness into her Druth Highborn, channeling the phony princess she had pretended to be for several years. “You will run and fetch your betters, for we must have words unfit for your ears!”

  That stopped the little man short, and he stepped back, allowing them entrance into the antechamber. Shutting the door behind them, he scurried off without word.

  “That got us in the door,” Welling said.

  Rich scents hit Satrine’s nose, musky and savory. “You may have been right about the evening meal.”

  “I’m always right about meals.”

  It had been a bit since he had had those fast wraps, and those were an emergency. Welling might very well need to eat something soon. “Are you all right, as far as that goes?”

  “I’m fine for the moment. But perhaps you are right that we should sign out shortly.”

  “You live just over in Keller Cove, right? You could go straight there from here, make dinner in the Welling home.”

  “We’ll see what occurs, Inspector. But I appreciate the concern.”

  The stocky man returned and indicated for them to follow. They were led through a wide room, where the floors and walls were done entirely in tile patterns, mostly grays and reds, with designs of interlocking circles. Oil lamps—glass and bronze globes—hung from the ceiling, flickering brightly. Doorways were arches, cordoned with hanging rope curtains. They were brought through one set of ropes to another room, where two youthful Fuergans—a man and woman—were awaiting them at a low table.

  “We understand that you have insisted on our hospitality,” the woman said in heavily accented Trade. The two of them looked related, with similar dark hair and dusky olive features. They also both wore similar chained earrings in their left ear, matching the one the victim had. They both also wore long, woven vests, much like the victim, but neither as long. The woman’s went to her hips; the man’s to his waist.

  Satrine remembered her training in various etiquettes and put her hand to her chest. “Apologies for intrusion, but our business was urgent.”

  The man spoke in thicker, broken Trade. “You . . . officials of city. What business?”

  Welling stepped forward, mimicking the same action Satrine had done. “We are inspectors with the City Constabulary—Welling and Rainey.”

  The woman returned the gesture. “Hieljam ab Tishai Anaas mik Nural lek Heina dai Gessaan vil Fiela sim Vojin.” She had used the full version of her name, and while Satrine couldn’t remember exactly how to interpret the entire thing, she grabbed the crucial parts of information. “Tishai” was this woman’s given name, and heina was her rank. Essentially a minor baroness, in Druth terms.

  “Hieljam ab Orihla lek Veir,” the man said, choosing the abbreviated version. He was a veir, outranked by the woman.

  “You are the ranking members of the Hieljam household?” Satrine asked, directing it at Tishai.

  “No,” Tishai said, “Natir is my isahresa, ab Wefi Loriz. He is not present.”

  “Business wait for return,” Orihla said. “Sit.�
�� He indicated the fur-lined pillows that were placed around the tables.

  “I’m afraid that is why we are here,” Satrine said. “Your . . . isahresa . . .” She hoped she pronounced that right, even if she didn’t know what it meant. Familial terms in Fuergan didn’t always translate cleanly. “Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz lek Lavark is dead.”

  Their faces were unreadable for a moment. Finally, through tight lips, Hieljam ab Tishai spoke. “Accident? Or deliberate?”

  “Deliberate,” Welling said.

  “Then you will sit,” she said. She clapped her hands sharply four times, and a servant came through one of the rope curtain archways. She gave stern instructions in Fuergan, and the servant left.

  “Sit,” she said, taking her place on one of the fur pillows. Orihla did the same. “We must engage in the hretala, and you are under our hospitality.”

  Satrine cautiously took a place at the table, and Welling sat next to her. “Am I incorrect, Inspector,” he asked quietly, “or is this about to become some form of initial mourning display that we’ve been drafted into?”

  “No, Welling,” she said. “I think you’re spot on.”

  Servants came out with steaming bowls of something unidentifiable, and placed one in front of each of them. If nothing else, Welling wasn’t going to have to worry about eating.

  Minox took his seat on the fur pillow skeptically, but followed Inspector Rainey’s lead on dealing with these Fuergan nobles politely. They had suffered a loss and were grieving, in their way.

  A bowl of some Fuergan dish was placed in front of Minox and the rest. He didn’t recognize anything about it, but it smelled savory and tantalizing.

  Hieljam ab Tishai turned her face to the ceiling and began chanting in Fuergan. While she did so, servants continued to place things on the table: eating utensils, cups, and plates of thin bread.

  The chant went on for an uncomfortably long time, which Minox presumed was a ritual to honor the dead patriarch rather than something done for every meal. This observation was bolstered by the fact that the various servants all gathered in the room, crowding against the walls, all turning toward the ceiling.

  Hieljam ab Tishai finished, and the servants all left. She picked up her utensil and took a bite of the dish. Her male relative did the same, and Minox followed their cue. The utensil was something not entirely unlike a fork, though reminiscent of a post-holer. Minox stabbed it into the dish and took a bite. It was delicious, if odd. The substance of the dish was some form of soft dumpling, stuffed with ground spiced meat, likely chicken. It was bathed in a red cream sauce, with a flavor Minox couldn’t identify. In all, it was highly enjoyable.

  “If it’s all right, Miss Hieljam,” he said after a few bites, “we have some questions we need to ask you.”

  “That is,” Rainey said quickly, “Heina-jai Hieljam, we would like to ask you about your isahresa’s business, if you can answer it.” Minox thought Rainey was being too accommodating to these Fuergans, even if they were nobility or such. There was no need to coddle them.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re investigating his murder,” Minox said simply.

  She nodded with understanding. “Yes, I see. But, no, thank you. We will have our own people take care of that.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Minox said.

  “That makes no sense. This is our concern, and we will take care of it.”

  Rainey spoke up again. “This is not an open market. You cannot hire any investigators you choose.”

  Hieljam ab Tishai looked utterly perplexed. Hieljam ab Orihla leaned in close to her and there was a brief exchange in their native tongue. There was a moment where her face flashed with anger, but then she cooled and looked back to Minox and Rainey.

  “Of course. You are the local officers of justice, and have the exclusive mandate,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. “What are we expected to pay for your services?”

  “Nothing,” Minox said.

  “Then you are pledged to poverty?”

  Rainey held up a hand to silence Minox. “Our services are not paid for by the families of the victim. Justice is not a merchant.”

  “Fascinating,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. “As to your custom, of course. Ask your questions, I will answer if they are appropriate.”

  “Your . . .” Minox hesitated, not remembering the Fuergan name for her relation to the victim.

  “Isahresa,” Rainey provided.

  “Yes . . . could you clarify the nature of that relationship?”

  “It is . . .” She frowned. “I am sorry, but Druth terms are limiting. Something like ‘uncle,’ but also ‘husband.’”

  Minox wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that, and turned to Hieljam ab Orihla. “And your relationship to the deceased?”

  Hieljam ab Tishai spoke for him. “Ori, like me, is nokorr to this household. Also like ‘husband,’ and ab Wefi Loriz like ‘uncle’ and ‘husband’ to him.”

  Orihla made a hissing noise. “If ab Wefi Loriz died, natir is you, Tish.”

  “Are you saying that she inherits?” Minox asked. Despite the complications of the scene, there was a simple motive. “She becomes the lavark?”

  “No, no,” Hieljam ab Tishai said. “Natir is ranking member of household. The holdings of ab Wefi Loriz will be spread to entire Hieljam family, here and home. I will not rise to lavark from his wealth.”

  Inspector Rainey took the next question. “Lavark-jan Hieljam was scheduled to meet someone at the Tsouljan enclave. Do you know who he was meeting?”

  “He was killed in the enclave?” Hieljam ab Tishai asked. She put down her eating utensil. “Gacheta enaka Tsoulja!”

  Orihla spoke in calming tone, but she wasn’t placated.

  “What is it?” Minox asked.

  “The kheshoth Tsouljans promised their meeting place was safe.”

  “Who was he meeting?” Rainey asked.

  Hieljam ab Tishai took a deep breath and composed herself. “A pair of Kieran merchants. Ravi Kenorax and Estiani Iliari.”

  “Kenorax?” Minox asked. That was a name he knew. Just about anyone in Maradaine would know it. “KENORAX” was liberally branded on crates, bottles, and wagons. You couldn’t buy much of anything without seeing the name. “And he was afraid of these Kierans?”

  “Why would he be afraid of them?” she asked. Eyes darted to Orihla briefly. The way she held herself shifted.

  Rainey took the answer, “Because the Tsouljans promised the meeting place was safe. Why would they do that if he wasn’t afraid of something?”

  Hieljam ab Tishai picked up her utensil and absently ate her food. Minox took the opportunity to do the same, only to discover he had finished his dish. Rainey deftly slid her own bowl to him, which she had barely touched.

  “Heina-jai, what was it?” Rainey pressed. “Heina-jai” must be the appropriate honorific for Hieljam ab Tishai.

  After a moment, Hieljam ab Tishai took a sip from her cup and spoke again. “There is a man named Nalassein Hajan.”

  Rainey gave Minox a meaningful glance. That was an Imach name.

  “Who is he?” Rainey asked. Minox kept his eye focused on Hieljam ab Tishai and let Rainey ask the questions. The Fuergan woman was performing, it was clear. She wasn’t necessarily being dishonest, but she was tightly controlling what she was giving them now.

  “He is an importer of goods. We have been having difficulty settling accounts with him.”

  “He owes you money? Or you to him?” More motives to sort out.

  “It is more complicated than that. Do you have time for a lesson in the intricacies of our business?” Deflection to avoid clear answers.

  “Humor me.”

  “We have two primary channels of trade from Fuergan territories to western markets. One is over land, through the highways of the Kieran Em
pire, which gives us access to them, Waisholm, and northern and interior Druthal. The other is over sea, traveling south along the Imach coast and around the Ihali peninsula, which gives us access to Imach ports, Acseria, and the western coast of Druthal. Both of those paths culminate here, in Maradaine.”

  “So you have interests in both the empire and Imachan, and Kenorax and Hajan are connected to those interests. Your business is reliant on both.”

  “Reliant is not the word I would use. Enhanced, perhaps.” Now her performance had moved in the direction of deception, but Minox hadn’t quite deduced what she was attempting to deceive them about. “Has this been useful?”

  “Quite,” Rainey said. “Is there anyone else you feel we should be investigating?”

  “Not that I can think of.” Definite deception.

  “Anyone from Lyrana?”

  “Lyrana?” The facade dropped for a moment. “We never . . . I can’t think of any.” That was genuine confusion and surprise.

  Orihla tensed slightly, though. So there was a connection.

  “Very well,” Rainey said, coming to her feet. “I think that’s all we have for the moment.” She picked up her cup and took a sip. She made a tight, hissing noise. “Is this Hsiath?”

  Hieljam ab Tishai grinned widely and raised her own cup, swallowing the remaining in one gulp.

  Minox lifted his own cup and only smelled. Much stronger than anything he’d want to drink. Putting it down, he added, “One final thing before we go. As the new natir, do the debts of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz fall upon you, and how extensive are they?”

  Hieljam ab Tishai’s cup slammed onto the table. “I think you can leave now, Inspectors.”

  “We’ll go to the door,” Minox said, striding away. Rainey followed in his wake.

  “Minox!” she said once they reached the street. Her use of his given name was rare, saved mostly for moments of ire. “What the blazes was that?”

  “My apologies,” he said, turning back to look at the household. “I do, in fact, have some grasp of Fuergan culture, but it was useful to appear somewhat ignorant to gauge their reactions.”