A Pocket Full of Murder (19 page)

“Wait.” Quiz took off his cap and hung it on the steering bar, his expression serious. “I wasn't sure how to tell you,” he said. “But you ought to know. The Lord Justice is back from Uropia.”

Isaveth felt as though the air had turned to stone. She stood motionless, staring at nothing, until Quiz stepped forward and took her hands in his own.

“I know it's a shock,” he said softly. “It rattled me when I found out too. We don't know he'll sign the truth-binding order, though. He may decide there's not enough evidence that Master Orien's murder was political. Or he might leave it up to your father to decide if he's willing to be truth-bound or not.”

“But . . . why would Papa do that? If it's so—”

“As a sign of good faith. Besides, they're not allowed to shock him if he volunteers.”

Would Papa take such a risk? Obviously he'd been unwilling at first, but now Isaveth feared he might. He must be as anxious about his daughters as they were
about him, and the jail was a brutal place. Perhaps by now he was ready to take any bargain the Lawkeepers offered, just for the chance of convincing them they'd arrested the wrong man. . . .

Quiz was still holding her hands, lightly enough that Isaveth could pull free if she chose, but not so carelessly that she could mistake it for an oversight. His fingers were callused but surprisingly smooth, like a polished instrument or one of her father's finer chisels, and it was hard not to wonder what he did when he wasn't helping her. Was he a pickpocket, like the Devaneys? Was that how he'd got the cits he gave to Rennick's daughter and the other children?

Quickly Isaveth discarded the thought. If Quiz was a thief, he was surely the kind who only robbed people with plenty to spare. Never mind what trouble he'd got himself into the day he bolted off; all that mattered was that he'd come back.

“It's all right,” Isaveth said gently, drawing her hands away. “I'm not going to faint, or cry, either. Thank you for telling me.”

*  *  *

“I'm taking Lilet and Mimmi to the Relief Shop,” Annagail called from the front door. “We'll be back in an hour or so.”

Isaveth nodded, so absorbed in her writing that she forgot her sister couldn't see the gesture. Not until Anna repeated herself did she look around. “Oh—yes, that's fine. Have a good time.”

“Bet she's writing a love story,” said Lilet, and Mimmi giggled. The door shut, and the house was quiet once more.

Lilet's guess was more right than she knew, but Isaveth hadn't planned it that way. She'd spent the morning with her younger sisters, catching up on all the household chores she could bully or coax them into doing until Anna returned. Then, since Quiz hadn't turned up yet and she was restless to pass the time, Isaveth had started making a list of the clues they'd discovered so far, and all the people who might have been involved in Master Orien's murder.

It was possible, for instance, that Tomias Rennick had killed the governor for some reason she didn't understand yet, and questions about the cleaning maid Ellice's disappearance and her husband's untimely death still niggled at Isaveth's mind. Nonetheless, her thoughts kept going back to the first and most obvious suspect: Master Buldage.

Buldage had a clear motive, plenty of opportunity, and—if he was the same little man who'd accosted Isaveth
in the masters' lounge—a fiery enough temperament for murder. He'd been enraged to find her poking around the wardrobe, which hinted at a guilty conscience. What if his scheme to kill Orien with an affinity-charm and make it look like Common Magic had led him to Rennick, a builder desperate for money so he could care for his dying wife?

Perhaps Rennick had sold the exploding-tablets to Buldage without knowing why the master wanted them. Or perhaps Rennick
had
known but chose to go through with it anyway because he belonged to the Workers' Club and saw Master Orien as a threat to their cause. . . .

Yet Rennick had come to Governor Orien with the Sagelord's approval. And Meggery had hinted that Lord Arvis and Master Buldage had weren't on friendly terms, so the Sagelord would hardly have recommended Rennick because Buldage had asked him to. Was there a connection between Rennick and the Sagelord that Isaveth didn't know about? Or had Lord Arvis simply taken one of his “strange tempers,” as Meggery had called them, and decided that any builder who wasn't Moshite would do?

Isaveth mulled over the question until her head ached, but it brought her no closer to an answer. So at last she'd given up and started working on her latest Auradia story instead.

Otsik took Auradia's hands in his own strong brown ones, lamplight gleaming in the black pools of his eyes. To a stranger his face might have appeared impassive, but Auradia knew the peacemaker too well not to see that he was deeply moved.

“I am not a man of many words,” he said in his deep, rich voice, “for often the greatest wisdom is found in silence. But now that I know the answer you gave Wil Avenham yesterday, I cannot be silent any longer.” He lowered himself to one knee. “Auradia Champion, I have loved you since I met you. If you will not have him, will you have me?”

Auradia's face lit up with joy. She moved forward . . .

“Please tell me she's not going to kiss him,” said Quiz, and Isaveth shoved back her chair so fast it nearly tipped over.

“What—how could—who let you in?” she gasped, clutching the page to her chest.

“Well, I knocked, but you didn't answer, and the door was unlocked, so . . .”

Isaveth's hands shook and her cheeks felt like she'd rubbed a fire-tablet on each one, but she kept her chin up as she tucked the story away in her writing box. “It's rude to look over people's shoulders,” she said coldly.

“Sorry.” Quiz had the grace to look sheepish. “I was only curious at first, but when I saw you were writing about Auradia, I couldn't help reading a bit. You write very well, you know.”

If he'd been Su Amaraq, that sentence would have ended with “for your age.” But there was no superiority in Quiz's tone, only admiration. The heat ebbed out of Isaveth's face, and she managed a smile. “Even if you think Auradia ought to marry Wil Avenham instead?”

“Oh, I don't mind that so much,” Quiz said. “The real Auradia never married anyone, did she? So we're equally right. Or wrong.” He leaned back on his heels and added wistfully, “I don't suppose you'll let me read it when you're done?”

Flattering as it was to be asked, Isaveth couldn't imagine trying to finish that particular story now. Every word she wrote, she'd imagine Quiz looking over her shoulder.

“What about the Workers' Club?” she asked, to change the subject. “Did you find out anything?”

“Cruel lady,” said Quiz. “I shall go to my grave unsatisfied. But yes, I did. They're meeting tonight.”

*  *  *

Though it was only one of many docks jutting out into Lake Colonia, Goodram's Wharf was instantly recognizable by its size and the enormous grain elevator behind it. Its great doors were shut now, the last shipload packed away and the workers sent home for the weekend, and at first the wharf appeared empty. But as Isaveth and Quiz crouched in the shadow of a packing crate, furtive shapes emerged from the side streets and alleys around them. One by one the members of the Workers' Club crept toward the side door of the elevator, murmured a few indistinct words, and slipped inside.

“How are we supposed to get in?” whispered Isaveth. “It sounds like there's a pass-phrase, and I don't know what it is. Do you?”

“No, curse it,” muttered Quiz. “If the Devaneys knew, they didn't tell me. No wonder I didn't have to thump them to find out where the club was meeting—they're probably still sniggering about it.”

Isaveth knelt down, tugging her satchel into her lap. If she crushed one of her dark-tablets, it would hide them, and perhaps then they could sneak up close enough to overhear. But would they still be able to see? There
wasn't much point shrouding themselves in darkness if they ended up tripping over a pile of fish boxes or falling into the lake. . . .

Better not to risk it. There had to be something else. She was rummaging through the other tablets and decoctions she'd brought, wincing at every clink and rustle, when Quiz nudged her arm. “That girl looks familiar,” he said, jerking his chin at the newest arrival stealing along the dockside. “But I can't think why. Do you know her?”

Isaveth peered into the half darkness. The flickering dock lights made everything uncertain, but even so, it took only a glance to be sure. Those wide shoulders and strong bones, the plait of yellow hair escaping from her kerchief . . .

Bitterness soured Isaveth's stomach, and she clenched her hands. She'd been rejected once already; did she really want to put herself through a second humiliation? But this might be their only chance to get into the grain elevator, and she couldn't let it pass. Isaveth set her satchel aside and climbed to her feet.

“Morra!” she whispered. “Over here!”

T
HE GIRL ON THE DOCKSIDE
spun around. “Who's that?” she hissed.

Isaveth stepped out from behind the crate, hands spread to show she meant no harm. “It's me, Isaveth. I know you don't want to be friends anymore, but . . .”

Morra's jaw dropped. “Vettie! Thank the Sages!” And to Isaveth's astonishment, she rushed over and hugged her.

“I'm ever so sorry,” she said in a rush. “I wanted to talk to you when the Lawkeepers took your da, but Mam wouldn't hear of it—she was that sure they'd be coming for us next. I knew it was no use fighting her, so I had to play along. I thought I'd catch you later and apologize, but you know how stubborn Mam is; she stuck to me like tree sap wherever I went. It was days before I got a chance to sneak over and rap on your door, and then nobody was at home.”

Isaveth's resentment melted. It was true that since Papa's arrest she'd been out of the house more often than not. And with Morra's letter-blindness there was no way she could have left a note. Despite Isaveth's fears that the other girl had abandoned her, she really had done her best.

“It's all right,” Isaveth said, hugging her back. “I'm just glad to know you tried. But what are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same,” said Morra, cocking a hip and planting her fist on it. “Hanging about the harbor front at this late hour? I'm not afraid of a tussle, and I've got Seward watching for me, but who's looking out for a little slip like you?”

“I came with a friend.” Isaveth nodded at Quiz, who rose and stepped out to join them. He doffed his cap to Morra.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, and Morra gave the little snort that meant she was amused.

“I heard the Workers' Club was meeting here,” Isaveth told her quickly, “but we don't know the pass-phrase to get in. Can you help?”

Morra frowned. “I don't know if that's a good idea, Vettie. It's bad enough for me, with Mam crying fit to drown because I wouldn't stay home once I found out Seward was going. But with the stew your pa's in over
that dead noble, and everyone saying the Workers' Club put him up to it—”

“I know,” said Isaveth, “that's why I'm here. I'm looking for someone who can help prove Papa didn't do it. Do you know a builder named Tomias Rennick? Lives down on Gentian Lane with a sick wife and a little girl?”

Morra considered this. “Don't think so. Though I'm new to the club myself, so that doesn't say much. I'll ask Seward after the meeting, if you like.”

She started to move away, but Isaveth caught her arm. “Please, Morra. We won't cause trouble, I promise. Just give us the pass-phrase.”

The older girl glanced back at the shadowy bulk of the grain elevator. “All right, but if anyone asks, it wasn't me who told you.” She lowered her voice. “Once I've gone in, wait a few minutes and let a couple more folk go past. Then knock twice at the door and say, ‘Mister Syme sends his regards.' That'll do it.”

“Thank you, Morra,” said Isaveth, squeezing her hand. “You're a true friend.”

Morra's cheeks darkened in a blush. “Not as true as I ought to be. It's taken me this long to stand up to Mam, and no doubt she'll make me sorry for it. But I'm glad I could help. Good luck, Vettie.”

*  *  *

Inside the grain elevator it was dim and dusty, with sacks of hop-grain and red maize piled up high on every side and a throng of rough-dressed workers packed into the center of the floor. Here and there someone had placed jars with flickering candles in them, cheaper than light-tablets and easier to snuff out; but instead of brightening the room, they only made its shadows darker and people's faces harder to see.

“It would help if we had any idea what Rennick looked like,” Quiz whispered to Isaveth as they slipped into the back row of the crowd. “We should have asked his wife to describe him.”

All around them groups of men and women were talking. They kept their voices low, but the tone of their murmurs and the gestures that went with them were anything but sedate. Isaveth's skin prickled with apprehension. She'd never been to any kind of political meeting before, especially not an illegal one.

What would happen if she introduced herself? Would the workers sympathize with her for Papa's sake and lend her the help she needed? Or would they notice her Moshite scarf, the dark hair and thick, straight brows that were so like his, and cast her out of their meeting in disgrace? They'd surely heard the rumor that the Workers' Club was behind Master Orien's murder. What if they,
like Missus Caverly, decided that turning their backs on the Breck family was the only way to protect themselves?

Perhaps she'd better search for Rennick on her own. Isaveth stretched up on tiptoe and scanned the audience. Rennick was a stonemason, so his arms and shoulders must be well built; his sickly wife was young and their only child was small, so he probably wasn't much older than thirty; and Master Orien had described him to Papa as shifty looking. . . .