A Pocket Full of Murder (15 page)

“Sit there,” the woman said, pointing to a chair on the near side of the window. “Don't get up until you're finished.” Then she turned to Quiz and added, “One visitor at a time. You want a turn, you wait with me. Either way you get ten minutes with the prisoner, no more. Understand?”

Quiz's jaw tightened, but he nodded. He followed the officer out, and the door swung shut behind them.

Isaveth tried to drag the chair closer to the window, but it was bolted fast. She could feel the guard watching them through the eye-slot in the door. “Papa?” she whispered.

Slowly her father raised his head, and Isaveth clapped a hand to her mouth. His cheek was purple with bruises, and one eye had swollen nearly shut.

“My Vettie.” His voice sounded hoarse, but it held all
the tenderness she remembered. “How did you get here? Don't tell me you came all this way alone.”

“No,” she replied shakily, unable to tear her eyes from his battered face. “A friend gave me a ride. Papa, what happened to you?”

“Ah, it was only a foolish accident. Nothing worth talking about.”

A lie so obvious could mean only one thing: He didn't want Isaveth to know what had really happened.

Unless it was the guard he feared, because she knew and had warned him not to tell anyone. . . .

Sickness crawled up Isaveth's throat. Did she dare ask Papa the questions that were burning inside her, or would it only make things worse for him if she did?

“How are my girls?” her father went on. “Are you getting along all right without me?”

Isaveth's eyes pricked with tears. “Oh, Papa, we miss you. But we're doing fine. You don't need to worry about us.”

“Good, good.” He scratched his beard awkwardly with his manacled hands. “Well, you needn't worry for me, either. I've had a talk with the Lawkeeper-General, so he knows where I stand. And I'm sure the Lord Justice will do the right thing, when the time comes.”

This was horrible—more like talking to a friendly
stranger than the father she knew and loved. How could Isaveth help him if all they could do was tell cheerful lies to each other and act as though nothing was wrong?

“That's wonderful,” she said, trying to sound as though she believed it, and leaned closer to the glass. Maybe if she lowered her voice and spoke quickly, the guard at the door wouldn't hear. “Papa, I'm trying to prove you didn't kill Master Orien. But there are a few things I don't understand. Please, can I ask you some questions?”

Her father stiffened, his gaze flicking to the door. Then he sat up, and the false smile vanished. “Ah, Vettie. You're a brave girl, but you shouldn't be mixing yourself up with all this. It's a bad lot of trouble I'm in, and I couldn't bear to think of you getting hurt.”

Startled, Isaveth twisted around. The eye-slot was empty, and no sound or movement came from the other side. Had the guard been called away on some errand? Or had Quiz distracted her somehow?

Either way this might be her only chance to talk freely, so she'd better make the most of it. “It's all right, Papa,” she said, turning back to him. “I'm not doing this alone.” Quickly she explained about Quiz and the things they'd discovered about Orien's murder. “Do you think the governor suspected someone was plotting to kill him? Did he act nervous or worried at all?”

“He did seem a bit distracted,” Papa mused. “Though it was late and he'd had a busy day, so I didn't make too much of that. I was a bit gruff with him at first, not being best pleased over the way he'd treated me before, so that might have had something to do with it. But once he apologized and explained himself, we got on all right.”

“Explained?” asked Isaveth. “What did he say?”

“Well, we talked about a lot of things that won't interest you, but the sum of it was that he thought I was the right man for the charmery job, Moshite or not. Seems the Sagelord had recommended some other fellow, but Orien didn't like the look of him—said there was something shifty about his eyes. So he sent a message boy to track me down instead.”

Had the shifty-eyed man guessed that the governor planned to reject him and hire Urias Breck in his place? If so, that might be a motive for him to murder the one and frame the other. “Do you know who the other man was?”

“Well, of course I asked, being curious. I thought I might know him, or at least have heard something about his work. But the governor wouldn't say.”

That was a shame, but presumably the man's name would be in the appointment book, so she and Quiz could always look him up later. “Was there anyone else
in the college when you left?” Isaveth asked. “Another workman, perhaps, or one of the masters?”

Papa chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I met a cleaning maid coming up the stairs as I was going down. And I spoke to the porter on my way out.”

“All right,” Isaveth said, trying not to sound too disappointed. She'd hoped he might confirm her suspicions about Master Buldage. “Is there anything else you can think of? Something that could help prove you didn't do it?”

“If I did, Vettie, I'd tell you.” Papa heaved a sigh. “I'd have been glad of a good advocate to help me make my case. But the fellow they sent me made no secret of how he felt about Moshites, and I feared he'd be more harm to me than help.”

So that was why he'd declined counsel. It hurt Isaveth to think of Papa having to face this man's contempt, on top of everything else.

“One more thing, then,” she said. “When the Lawkeepers came to arrest you, you didn't resist them at first. Until they said you might be truth-bound. . . .”

He winced. “Ah, sweetling, don't make me speak of that. It was a foolish thing I did, fighting them, and I fear I'll pay for it yet. But whatever you may think of me, I swear I didn't kill the governor—”

“Oh, no, Papa!” Isaveth burst out. “I didn't mean it like that! I was only trying to understand!”

His expression softened. “My Vettie,” he said, stretching his cuffed hands to the window, as though he could reach through it and touch her face. “So like your mother.”

He didn't want to tell her, that much was clear. “Please,” Isaveth urged. “It could be important. Why don't you want to be truth-bound? What are you afraid of?”

Papa was quiet, his head bent. At last he said, “Truth-binding's not a gentle thing, Vettie. Still, I'd not fear their questions if I could be sure it was only me they meant to ask about. But there's a difference between giving up your own secrets and betraying someone else's.”

“You mean . . .” Isaveth was aghast. “The Workers' Club? They're the ones you're protecting?”

A heavy rasp and click echoed through the room, and the door swung open. Surely it hadn't been ten minutes already? Isaveth turned to protest—but it was Quiz standing in the doorway, his cap clutched humbly in his hands.

“Sorry,” he said. “Time's running out, and the guard'll be back any minute. I wanted to have a word, if that's all right.”

Reluctantly Isaveth rose and backed away, still searching Papa's face. She was almost to the door when she got her answer: a single nod and a sad twitch of a smile.

Emotion welled up inside her. She wanted to run to him, bury her face in his chest, and hug him. But a wall stood between them, and she had to be brave, for both their sakes.

“Don't worry, Papa,” she said, though her lips were trembling and her throat ached with unshed tears. “I'll keep looking, and I won't give up. We'll get you out of here, you'll see.”

“W
HAT DID YOU SAY TO
Papa?” Isaveth asked as she and Quiz walked away from the gatehouse. She'd hoped to linger by the door of the visiting room and eavesdrop, but the guard had returned as soon as Isaveth came out. So Isaveth had paced the rotunda, shuddering at every muffled clang and curse from the cells above, and praying that the prisoners—or guards—who'd hurt Papa would leave him alone from now on.

“Oh, not much,” said Quiz, scrubbing a fleck of mud off the pedalcycle's seat. The rain had dissolved into mist now, and the thunderclouds were rolling eastward, grumbling as they went. “I only wanted to tell him who I was and that I'd be looking out for you.” He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

Isaveth drew a slow breath, letting the rain-washed air drive the sour prison smell away. “I'm be fine. It's Papa
I'm worried about. If the Lawkeepers think he was part of a conspiracy, I suppose it makes sense that they'd ask him for names. But if they put him under a truth-spell, why can't he just tell them he didn't kill Master Orien and have done with it?”

“Well,” said Quiz, still picking at the mud, “I don't know whether they're going to truth-bind your father or not. But I found out a bit more about how the spell works, and . . . it's not what you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the decoction they give people doesn't really make it impossible for them to lie. It only forces them to talk, and keep talking, until the Lawkeepers get tired of asking questions and give them the antidote.”

Isaveth stopped walking and stared at him. “But they could say anything, then. How do the Keepers know it's the truth?”

“They don't,” Quiz said. “But if a prisoner starts to ramble or avoids the question, they poke him with a shock-wand. And it's hard to make up a convincing lie when you're talking as fast as you can.”

A chill ran through Isaveth. Papa wasn't stupid by any means, but his thoughts worked slowly, and he seldom spoke without weighing his words first. “What happens if they stop talking? Or can't they do that?”

“Oh, they can. But if they don't talk, they don't breathe. That's how the spell really works.”

Isaveth's throat went dry. “That—that's horrible.”

“Yes, and it's also illegal in most provinces, including a good part of this one. Tarreton is one of the few cities in Upper Colonia that allows truth-binding, and it's only supposed to be used on the most dangerous dissenters—the kind of people who lead riots or threaten to blow up the council.”

Or murder the governor of Tarreton College. Did the Lawkeepers think Papa had been trying to scare the other nobles into supporting the Reps' Bill, or merely stop Orien from taking part in the final vote? Either way it seemed like a reckless scheme, more likely to harm the reps' cause than strengthen it. Papa surely didn't believe anyone in the Workers' Club would do such a wicked, foolish thing, or he wouldn't be so anxious to keep their secrets.

Yet if the Lawkeepers truth-bound him, what choice would he have? He'd either have to betray his friends or suffocate. . . .

“They can't bind him yet, though,” Quiz said, putting a reassuring hand on Isaveth's shoulder. “Even if they want to. The Lord Justice has to sign the order first, and he's in Uropia.”

The knot in Isaveth's chest eased. Uropia was clear across the Eastern Ocean, a week's journey by steamship and at least three days by floater. “How do you know all of this?” she asked. “Affinity-charms, truth-binding, the Lord Justice's schedule . . .”

“Oh, people love to tell me things,” said Quiz cheerfully. “I expect I have that sort of face.”

*  *  *

Someone had left a bundle of wet news-rags outside the tram station. Quiz blinked when Isaveth asked him to stop so she could pick them up, but he didn't hesitate to oblige. Once she got home, Isaveth tore the damp pages into tiny pieces, added some beetroot juice and puff-weed petals for color, and left the pinkish glop in the washtub to soak. She'd screen it and press it dry, and then she'd have paper to wrap her next batch of spells in.

Her heart still ached for Papa, and Isaveth feared for his safety more than ever. But worrying wouldn't help him, or her sisters, either. She'd done all she could for Papa today; now she needed to work on getting that new dress for Lilet.

It cost Isaveth a nerve-racking dash past the Kerchers' house and a shameful amount of begging to get Aunt Sal to lend the ingredients she needed. Mimmi, of course,
had forgotten to deliver Isaveth's note. But in the end her aunt gave in, and Isaveth returned to her own kitchen triumphant. She tied on her mother's apron, opened the Book of Common Magic, and set to work.

She'd sifted all the flour she needed and was about to toss the neevils outside when a thought came to her. What had Mistress Anandri said about neevils? On impulse she dumped the wriggling bugs onto the pulp soaking in the washtub, then mashed them in. If it made her wrappers even a little more resistant to magic, it would be worth it.

Isaveth spent the next two hours in a frenzy of mixing, stirring, and pouring, and she had one bad fright when the decoction she'd left on the stove burst into flame. But she slammed the lid down in an instant, and when the liquid cooled, it was exactly the color the book said it ought to be. She poured it carefully into pill bottles—they had a lot of those left over from her mother's illness—and bent to take her last batch of spell-tablets out of the oven.

“More spell-baking?” asked Annagail from behind her, and Isaveth jumped. She'd been so absorbed in her work, she hadn't even heard the front door open. Quickly she dropped the pan onto the table and wiped her hands. “Anna! How was your day?”

Annagail didn't answer. She circled the kitchen table, studying one decoction and batch of tablets after
another. “You've been awfully busy,” she said. “What's it all for?”

“Well, these ones are cleaning-tablets,” Isaveth said, pointing to the spongy-looking squares on the far end. “You can rub them on your hands or clothes, even if you don't have water. Those are dark-tablets—I thought I could sell them to people with headaches or who work at night and have trouble falling asleep during the day. And this decoction is called Mother's Helper because—”