A Pocket Full of Murder (14 page)

“Can you blame them?” asked the girl with the haircut. “Someone's got to protect us from the radicals! Why, if they could murder the most powerful Sage in the city, they might be capable of anything!”

“Really, Priss, you make it sound as though Master Orien had a whole arsenal of charms at his fingertips. Why would he? He was a scholar, not a soldier.” Delicia shook her head. “Poor man. I know what everyone said when he took the post, but it does seem unfair.”

“What did they say?” the short girl asked. “I always wondered why there was such a fuss.”

“Only what you'd expect when the Sagelord promotes his children's old magical tutor to governor of Tarreton College . . . oh!” The severity vanished from Delicia's face. “It's Eryx! He's made it after all!”

Isaveth's heart skipped. She leaned sideways, straining to see past the edge of the pavilion to the spell-carriage pulling up outside.

The door opened and Eryx stepped out onto the lawn, every bit as handsome as she remembered. He doffed his hat to the matron bustling up to greet him, and his teeth flashed in a welcoming smile.

“Such lovely manners,” Priss sighed. “You'd think Lady Marcham was his favorite aunt, instead of the nasty old harridan she is. Well, it's true,” she added defensively as the other girls stared at her. “Just because she puts on a nice garden party doesn't make her any less horrible the rest of the year.”

Delicia frowned and walked out of the tent. “Well!” said Priss, glaring after her. “
Someone
thinks very well of herself, I must say. But if she thinks she's going to impress Eryx with her nose-up airs, she's going to be sorry when she finds out he's going to the Willtons' dance with
me
.”

“Is he really?” exclaimed the small girl, clutching Priss's arm, and the two of them strolled off together. The music continued, but no one was listening anymore—not even Lilet, who had managed to steal yet another platter and was fending off Mimmi with one hand while she crammed tarts into her mouth with the other.

Isaveth snatched the tray out of Lilet's reach. “What are you doing?” she whispered fiercely.

“She took
all
the tarts.” Mimmi sniffed. “And she wouldn't let me have a single one.”

“That's because you're a spoiled brat,” Lilet shot back, and Mimmi turned crimson. Before Isaveth could catch her, she wriggled backward and jumped to her feet.

“Thief!” cried a woman at the edge of the crowd, and Mimmi bolted. But her shoe buckle snagged the trailing lace of the tablecloth, and as she lunged forward, the whole table's worth of sandwich platters and dessert stands came crashing after her.

The music stopped and a gasp rose from the crowd. Lilet shamelessly scooped up one last tart, yanked the tablecloth off the wildly kicking Mimmi, and shoved her through the hedge into the neighboring garden. For a second Isaveth crouched beneath the table, too shocked to move—but as the guests surged forward, fear spurred her into motion. She stumbled over the ruins of the buffet, leaped through the shrubbery, and ran.

*  *  *

“Ooooh,” groaned Lilet as she crouched over the basin, her face flushed and shiny with sweat. “I'm going to die.”

Isaveth sat beside her sister in their bedroom, rubbing her back as she doubled up and retched again. In the other bed Mimmi slept peacefully, her raw heels wrapped with rags and healing salve. But Lilet had started to feel sick soon after they escaped from Lady Marcham's garden party, and she'd been increasingly miserable ever since.

“You're not going to die,” said Isaveth. “You just ate too much, that's all.”

“But it was so good,” Lilet moaned. “You would have
done it too, if you hadn't been busy making goop-eyes at Eryx Lording.” She wiped her mouth on her hand and slumped against the pillows. “Ugh.”

Isaveth made a face at her. “Goop-eyes?”

“Anyway, I think that Priss girl lied about him taking her to the dance,” Lilet mumbled. “I don't think he cares a cit for her, and she was only trying to impress her friend.”

So Lilet had been listening too. No wonder she and Mimmi had kept so quiet, even while they were fighting. “You're probably right,” said Isaveth. “But I liked Delicia. I hope . . .”

She stopped, heat creeping into her cheeks. She'd almost said she hoped Delicia would make a good impression on Eryx Lording, but that wasn't really what she wanted. The truth was that even as Isaveth had pelted across the grass after her sisters and scrambled over a stone wall to safety, even as they'd crept through back streets and coal-lanes all the way home, she'd been imagining herself grown up and elegant in a wine-colored gown, being introduced to the Lording as the famous author Isavera Brecon. Eryx would ask her, “Are you sure we haven't met before?” and she would toss her head and laugh merrily because he'd never guess she was the poor little girl he'd met selling spell-tablets on the street only a few years ago. . . .

“I'm sorry I was so greedy,” Lilet whispered, her voice slurred with weariness. “But Mimmi got shoes, and . . . I wanted something too.”

Guilt twisted inside Isaveth. Even if Lilet had behaved badly, she had reason to feel slighted. She'd waited months for a dress that would fit her, and it wasn't fair—or even decent, given how fast she was growing—to make her wait any longer. Yet it would be at least another week before Annagail got her first pay from the college. Somehow Isaveth had to earn enough money to buy Lilet that dress.

Lilet had fallen asleep, her wan face turned to the window and one hand hanging limp over the edge of the bed. Isaveth got up gently, so as not to disturb her, and carried the basin downstairs to the kitchen to empty it out.

“Is she any better?” asked Annagail, glancing up anxiously from her mending. “We don't need to call for a healer, do we?”

“No,” said Isaveth. “She's resting now. I'm sure she'll be fine.” She rinsed the basin and set it aside, then took down the Book of Common Magic from the shelf and began leafing through it. Fire- and light-tablets might be easy to make, but there wasn't enough demand for them in this weather. She had to be bolder, think bigger—and find the courage to try selling her magic again.

“T
AKE THIS NOTE WITH YOU
to Aunt Sal's,” said Isaveth, folding it up and tucking it into Mimmi's pocket. “Tell her I need to borrow some magical ingredients, but I'll pay her back as soon as I can.”

Mendday morning had come at last, and Annagail had already left for her first day at the college. The sky outside the kitchen window was woolly with cloud, and a light drizzle pattered the glass—the first rain Tarreton had seen in nearly three weeks.

“Where are you going?” Mimmi asked, wrinkling her nose at Isaveth. “Nobody's going to buy spell-tablets in this weather.”

Isaveth sighed. She'd hoped her sisters wouldn't figure that out. “To see Papa.”

“What?” exclaimed Lilet. “That's not fair! Why can't we come too?”

“Because I need to talk to him in private.” The conversation she'd overheard at Lady Marcham's garden party had left her with more questions than ever, but Papa would never speak about politics, let alone Master Orien's murder, with her little sisters listening in. “Besides, Quiz is driving me, and there isn't enough room on the cycle for all of us. Anna will take you some other day. Now go.”

Her sisters trudged out the door, grumbling. Isaveth waited until they had passed the Kerchers' house, then reached for her hat and cardigan. Quiz had promised to meet her in the coal-lane, and she didn't want to keep him waiting.

*  *  *

“Lovely weather for it,” Quiz called cheerfully to Isaveth as a spell-carriage whizzed past, spattering them with muddy water for the tenth time that morning. The rain was falling harder now, soaking through the thin knit of Isaveth's sweater. “Wishing you'd taken the tram?”

“I've never been in this part of the city before,” she shouted back. “Are you sure this is the way to Dern Valley?”

“Course I am!” He stood up, leaning his weight on the pedals as the road slanted upward. “This is the shortcut.”

Doubt pricked Isaveth, but a street-boy would probably know better than she did, so she held her peace. Yet
the road grew narrower and steeper every minute. Soon Quiz was puffing, his wiry muscles knotted beneath the wet fabric of his shirt. Isaveth was about to poke him and tell him to slow down when a last grunting effort brought them over the crest, and the cycle slowed to a halt.

“Well,” Quiz said breathlessly. “There's a view.”

Dern Valley sprawled below them, all tight-clustered cottages and smoke-belching factories with an emerald ribbon of parkland winding through it. Quiz had been right about the shortcut—except that the path into the valley was dauntingly steep and as full of sharp bends as Isaveth had ever seen.

“We can't cycle that,” she said in dismay. “We'll have to go by the tram route.”

“Oh, that's too slow.” Quiz's face was flushed, his good eye glittering with excitement. “We'll get to the jail much quicker this way. Hang on tight . . .” And before Isaveth could stop him, he kicked off, crouched forward, and shot straight down the hill.

Isaveth's muscles locked with terror. A scream bubbled into her mouth, but she gulped it back and flung her arms around Quiz's waist, pressing her face desperately against his spine. If only she didn't look, it might not be so bad . . .

Or so she hoped until they hit the first bend. The
cycle skidded sideways, spray hissing from the tires, and Isaveth nearly fell off her seat. She wanted to yell at Quiz to slow down, but the wind was rushing past at terrific speed, and she knew he'd never hear. All she could do was hold tighter, squeeze her eyes shut, and pray they made it to the bottom in one piece.

The cycle jerked, Quiz whooped, and for one horrible instant the wheels lifted clear off the road before landing with a sickening thump back down again. Isaveth dug her fingers into his stomach, hoping he'd take the hint—and mercifully, the cycle slowed a little as he leaned into the next turn. Still, she'd barely caught her breath before they hurtled down the slope again.

“Stop!” she screeched, pounding Quiz's shoulder. “Stop, stop,
stop
!”

“Can't!” yelled Quiz. “Don't worry, we're nearly there.”

Isaveth cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. Yet the same glimpse showed her the grin on Quiz's mud-streaked face, and she thought numbly:
He's going to kill us both. And it doesn't frighten him at all.

They veered around two more corners, and Isaveth felt sure her heart would explode at any moment, before they shot out of the trees and whizzed onto level ground. Quiz stomped on the brake, and Isaveth wilted as the pedalcycle ground to a halt.

“That was horrible,” she gasped, tumbling off and collapsing by the side of the road. “Never ever do that again!”

Quiz twisted to look at her, his good eye wide. “Really? You didn't like it? Isaveth, that's the best hill in the city!”

Isaveth put her hands over her face, calling on all the patience she possessed. Clearly, Quiz was insane, so there was no point shouting at him. But she wouldn't soon forget what he'd put her through. Or how happy he'd looked while doing it.

“I think,” she said, “I'd prefer to walk the rest of the way.”

*  *  *

“Got a girl here says she's Urias Breck's daughter.” The officer at the gatehouse spoke brusquely to the charm-band on his wrist. “And her boyfriend. I've searched them, and they're clean. All right to let them in?”

After a long, wet walk past several factories, a brick works, and a gravel pit, they stood at the entrance of the Dern Valley Jail, with its iron gates and towering wall crowned with thorn wire. Isaveth was uncomfortably conscious of being soaked through and muddy from knee to ankle, but it wasn't until Quiz took her hand that she realized she was trembling. Still, she didn't want to seem babyish, so she withdrew her fingers and gave him a thin smile instead.

“Go on, then.” The officer jerked his head toward the
gates. “Up the steps, through the front door, and show yourself at the visitors' station. Leave the cycle here.”

The Dern Valley Jail had the same unassailable appearance as the Keeper Station, its stone facade inset with twisting pillars, and rising four floors to the peaked, templelike roof above. Yet the prison block behind it was plain by contrast, more like a livestock barn than a place for human beings. And when Isaveth saw the stern, bearded face of Sage Armus carved above the entrance, and the fierce-looking serpents that formed the arch of the door, part of her wished she'd hung on to Quiz's hand after all.

The receiving area inside was more gloomy still, floored in black granite and lit by globe-lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling. Once Isaveth and Quiz had presented themselves to the woman at the desk, she unlocked a heavily barred door behind her and led them through.

Stark gray walls surrounded them, the plaster cracked in places to show the concrete beneath. The corridor opened into a rotunda ringed with metal catwalks, where more guards paced and swung their red-banded batons. A gallows beam jutted out from the wall, its frayed noose dangling over emptiness. Isaveth shuddered.

“In here,” the officer said, opening a second door.
Hesitant, Isaveth stepped through into a dim, stale-smelling room, a little wider than her outstretched fingertips and perhaps four times as long, with a double-paned window across the center. And behind that wall of glass, his shaggy head bowed and his cuffed hands in his lap, sat her father.

The sight of him, so familiar and so dear, choked Isaveth speechless. She started forward, but the officer stopped her.