A Pocket Full of Murder (20 page)

“Excuse me, miss,” said a gravelly voice, and Isaveth dropped to her heels as a handsome, broad-shouldered man with deep brown skin thrust past her, striding to the front of the crowd. He stepped up onto the makeshift platform, which creaked beneath his weight, and raised his hands for silence.

“Brothers and sisters,” he began, so quietly that everyone had to lean forward to hear. “We are here tonight in defiance of the Lawkeepers, against the will of the Sagelord and his council, and at the risk of our own safety and freedom. We are here because we care too much about the future of our city to be put off by unjust laws or slanderous rumors aimed at destroying us. We are here not to promote anarchy and bloodshed, as our enemies claim, but to declare the truth and fight for the justice Tarreton's citizens deserve!”

His last words cracked through the air, and the crowd jumped. But then heads began to nod all over, and approving murmurs rose around Isaveth as the speaker continued.

“The Sagelord and his noble friends call us dissenters. They say we are dangerous, because we are not content with their rule. They tell us we are not wise enough to know what is best for us and our children, especially in these hard times; they ask us to trust in their experience and have faith that their guidance will see us through. But I ask you, my friends”—he stretched out his hands to them, appealing—“what kind of wisdom have they shown us? Our children go hungry, our young men are jobless, our women toil in factories for a beggar's wage—while the nobles of Tarreton live in luxury, guzzling wine and gorging themselves on sweets!”

“That's right!” shouted a woman from the back of the room, and the crowd stirred restlessly as others took up the cry. The speaker let the clamor build a moment, then lifted a hand to quiet them again.

“And now they accuse us of conspiring to kill Governor Orien—of sending Urias Breck, one of our own members, to murder him. Why? Because they want to discredit the Workers' Club, defeat the Reps' Bill that would give us power, and turn our fellow citizens against our cause.
But we are neither murderers nor fools, and we had no reason to wish Master Orien harm. In fact, I have it on the very highest authority that before the governor died . . .” He paused, his dark eyes sweeping the room. “He was planning to join Eryx Lording and our other allies on the council and give the Reps' Bill his full support.”

Isaveth's heart thumped against her ribs. She grabbed Quiz's arm. “Did you hear that?”

“I heard,” said Quiz in a thick-sounding voice, as though he were trying not to sneeze. His eye looked red too; he must be sensitive to the dust. “That changes a few things, doesn't it?”

“It changes everything.” Dazed, Isaveth backed away and sank down on a pile of grain bags. The speaker kept talking, but she was too distracted to listen. “If Orien planned to vote with the reps instead of against them, and the weaker nobles were likely to follow his lead . . .”

“Then that would give anyone who wanted to defeat the bill a motive for killing him.” Quiz sat down beside her, his hands on his knees. “Which means we have a few more suspects than we thought.”

Isaveth gave a shaky nod. It seemed almost certain now that Rennick had sold the exploding-tablets to some noble buyer, but which one?

“Although,” Quiz continued slowly, “that's assuming
all the other nobles on the council knew about Orien's intentions. Are we sure they did? Because if I'd been handpicked for an important position by Lord Arvis, and I was planning to turn around and vote against him, I don't know that I'd want to go blabbing about it. At least not to anyone I wasn't absolutely sure was on the same side.”

Isaveth looked sharply at him. “Are you saying . . . ?”

“I don't know,” said Quiz, his expression as blank as his patch. “What do you think I'm saying?”

“That he was betrayed by someone he trusted. So either that person murdered him . . .”

“Or that person told someone else who did. Exactly.”

Sickness burned Isaveth's throat. She'd thought Master Buldage had the best motive for killing the governor, but now it was clear she'd been overlooking the prime suspect all along. Someone powerful, wealthy, and used to getting his own way; someone who'd been counting on Orien to help him vote down the Reps' Bill, and who'd had every reason to feel offended—even threatened—by the governor's change of heart.

“The Sagelord,” she whispered. “Lord Arvis killed him.”

Q
UIZ GAPED AT HER.
“The Sagelord? That's not who I . . . where did you get that idea?”

Isaveth hugged her elbows, too overwhelmed and miserable to reply. If the Sagelord had murdered Master Orien—or hired someone else to kill him, which was more likely—what hope did they have of saving Papa? Lord Arvis might be unpopular with the common folk, but he was still the ruler of Tarreton, and both the Lord Justice and the Lawkeepers were under his command. No matter how much evidence she and Quiz found against him, it would take a lot more than one Moshite girl and a street-boy to bring him down.

A cold, bitter fury rose inside Isaveth. Now she understood why Papa had joined the Workers' Club, and why Morra wanted to join too. The Sagelord wasn't just incompetent, he was evil—and he'd abused his power too long.

“Isaveth?” Quiz asked urgently, but she ignored him. As the speaker climbed off the platform to the sounds of clapping and cheers, she got up and marched across the floor to join the others.

One of the older men broke out into a loud, defiant anthem, something about the workers' pride being unbroken and justice marching on. Other voices rose around him, and soon the whole crowd was swaying with their arms about one another's shoulders, singing.

Isaveth had taken her place at the back of the crowd and was humming along with the third verse when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A youngish man with a pinched face and a shock of red-brown hair was creeping through the shadows at the edge of the room, shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. No one else seemed to have noticed him, not even Quiz, but he was heading for the door.

He wasn't as muscular as Isaveth had expected, but she didn't dare waste time second-guessing. She darted after the stranger, and tugged his sleeve. “Tomias Rennick?”

The man whirled, his small eyes darting over her. His face looked gray in the half-light, and sweat glittered on his brow. “What do you want?”

“I need to ask you some questions,” Isaveth said. “Do you think—”

She got no further, because at that moment Rennick's eyes focused on something behind her, and his face contorted into a mask of horror. He let out a yell, shoved Isaveth aside, and plunged out the door into the night.

“Come on!” shouted Quiz, sprinting past her. Isaveth reeled, dizzy with surprise, then picked herself up and raced after him.

The sky was black now, the wharf lit only by the dock lamps' sallow, wavering light. Isaveth's legs shook from the violent push Rennick had given her, but she did her best to keep up as Quiz pelted along the harbor front, dodging crates, nets, and coils of ship's rope as he went.

Ahead of them Rennick staggered through the darkness, moaning like a man in pain. For some reason the sight of Quiz had frightened him practically witless. But what could be so terrifying about a grubby-faced boy with an eyepatch?

Uncertainty flickered inside Isaveth. How much did she know about Quiz really? She'd accepted him into her life without much question because she was lonely and needed all the help she could get. When he'd disappeared, she'd been worried, but she hadn't pressed him to explain. Had she been too trusting? Might the life he'd lived before her, the things he'd done when they were apart, have been more sinister than she ever guessed?

After all, there
was
something suspicious about how readily Quiz had volunteered to help her investigate Master Orien's murder—not to mention how often he'd managed to come up with exactly the right contacts, tools, and information they needed to do it. And it was hard not to wonder at the reckless way he threw himself into danger, or his refusal to admit what had really happened to his eye.

Yet he'd fought Loyal Kercher for Isaveth's sake, and he loved
Auradia Champion, Lady Justice of Listerbroke
as much as she did, and she'd never have found the Workers' Club—or Tomias Rennick—without him. Quiz might not exactly be a messenger from the All-One, but he surely wasn't her enemy, either. Isaveth gritted her teeth, shoved her doubts to the back of her mind, and kept running.

They chased the fleeing stonemason past a row of warehouses, then up a narrow lane—which stopped, to Rennick's obvious alarm, at a dead end. He twisted about, glancing wildly in all directions, then snatched something from his pocket and brandished it.

“Don't come any closer!” he shouted. “Or I'll break it!”

Quiz skidded to a halt, flinging out an arm to stop Isaveth from running past him. “Rennick,” he panted, “don't be a fool.”

Isaveth stared at the small white object on the stonemason's palm. The sputtering wharf lights made it hard to see clearly, but it looked factory made, with a round shape and the fading mark of a stamp. Still, it could have been a fire-tablet or even a sleeping-spell, for all she knew. Would Rennick really have come to a crowded gathering with explosives in his pocket?

“We only want to talk to you,” Isaveth said in her most soothing voice. “About what happened to Master Orien. We don't mean any harm.”

Rennick backed against the fence, trembling so hard the wood rattled. “I didn't know,” he groaned. “I swear I didn't.”

“You didn't realize that Orien was planning to vote with the reps instead of against them?” Isaveth asked. “You thought it would help the Workers' Club if he was out of the way?”

The young man nodded, his features sagging with misery.

“And you needed the money,” said Quiz softly. “Because you'd already spent everything you had and more, trying to save your wife.”

Rennick made no answer, but the tears dripping down his face said everything. He closed his hand around the tablet and bowed his head.

So that was why he'd crept out of the meeting tonight. He'd learned the truth about Master Orien's plans, and he'd been stricken with guilt and shame. But what part had he actually played in the murder?

“Tell us who hired you,” Isaveth said, stepping closer. “Maybe we can help.”

Rennick rubbed his eyes, as though seeing her clearly for the first time. His gaze dropped to the prayer scarf at her throat. “Moshite,” he rasped. “You're Breck's daughter.”

Until that moment, Isaveth had felt sorry for him. But when he spoke her father's name, there was no mistaking the loathing in his tone. “And you're the spy who betrayed him to the Lawkeepers,” she said coldly. “Aren't you?”

A keening noise broke from Rennick, like the scream of a wounded rabbit. He flung the tablet—

“Isaveth!” Quiz shouted, and tackled her out of the way. They crashed into a stack of fishy-smelling pallets, which cascaded around them, burying them both.

For several seconds Isaveth lay gasping, crushed beneath Quiz's protective weight. Then she started to wriggle and push, but the street-boy didn't move. Was he unconscious? Please the All-One, let him not be dead!

Desperately she squirmed until she could turn over and shove the fallen pallets aside. Rennick had vanished: Either he'd bolted back down the alley, or he'd climbed
the fence. The spell he'd thrown at her had disappeared among the shadows, but Isaveth was fairly sure it hadn't been an exploding-tablet anyway. She pulled her legs out from under Quiz and rolled him over, feeling his neck for a pulse.

He was alive. Isaveth let out the breath she'd been holding, then opened her satchel and rummaged for a light-tablet. She was unwrapping it when Quiz stirred and gave a feeble groan.

“Stay still,” she ordered, laying a hand on his chest. “You might be hurt.” She stuffed the neevil paper back into her satchel, then crushed the tablet in her hand.

Sunlight burst between her fingers, banishing the shadows and leaping up the walls on both sides. Quiz sprawled beside her, an ugly bump on his forehead. The fall had knocked off his cap and twisted his patch askew, and for the first time Isaveth could see his other eye. The closed lid showed little damage, but a red, puckered scar slanted across the socket, slashing from cheek to eyebrow like a cut from a whip—or a knife.

Gingerly Isaveth began to probe his skull for damage, but Quiz pushed her hand aside. He sat up and said thickly, “Where's Rennick?”

“Gone,” said Isaveth. She hesitated, hand hovering over the open mouth of her satchel, then palmed another
tablet and shut it again. Moving like an old woman, all stiff muscles and aching bones, she retrieved Quiz's cap from beneath the pile of fish boxes, tugged it into shape, and handed it back to him. “But we know where he lives, and that's probably where he's going, don't you think?”

“Maybe, but we can't be sure. And it's too dark to chase him all over the city.” Quiz adjusted his patch, then carefully pulled the cap over his bruised forehead. “Ow.”

“Does it hurt very much?” Isaveth asked. “I have a decoction that might soothe it.” She paused, then added quietly, “Thank you. That was very brave.”

“It was nothing,” said Quiz gruffly. “I'm fine. Let's go.”

*  *  *

“So,” Isaveth began as the two of them walked back toward Goodram's Wharf. A breeze was gusting off the lake now, cool enough to make her shiver. “Do you have any idea why Rennick was so frightened of you?”

“Me?” Quiz said. “I haven't the slightest.” But his shoulders hunched and his eyes slid away from hers as he spoke. Isaveth caught his arm.