A Pocket Full of Murder (7 page)

Isaveth was still mulling over the problem as she set off for the city again, with a sturdier basket to hold her tablets and a couple of tea towels to cushion them. Yet by the time she arrived, she'd come no closer to a solution.

After the commotion she'd caused yesterday it seemed unwise to stand on the same corner, so she crossed the street and walked north to the junction of Grand and College instead. But though Isaveth did her best to
catch people's attention and show off her wares, they appeared more annoyed than interested. Some stepped off the pavement or even crossed the street to avoid her; others pushed past with a curt refusal or dismissive wave of the hand. Finally a man leaned out of a window and shouted at her to quit bleating or he'd send for the Lawkeepers.

Maybe she didn't sound professional enough. Maybe her spell-tablets needed a name like the ones from the factories—like Glow-Mor or Fuller's Firelights or Power-Up! Isaveth considered a few possibilities, then decided to stick with a name that was both honest and easy to remember, one that would make people think of home.

“Spell-tablets for sale!” she shouted, holding her basket high as she walked along. “Only the best from Mother Breck's!”

That got a reaction, though not the one Isaveth had hoped for. Several people slowed to stare at her, while others frowned before hurrying on. She repeated her cry a few more times, then trailed off into frustrated silence. What was she doing wrong?

“Latest news!” A rag-boy turned the corner, holding the front page high. “Builder arrested for governor's murder! Breck to stand trial before Lord Justice!”

The words drove like a fist into Isaveth's stomach. How
could she have forgotten that Papa's name would be in all the papers and that by now half the city would know it? And all the while she'd been calling “Breck, Breck” like some silly chicken and wondering why people wouldn't buy her wares!

Even worse, she now knew the Lawkeepers believed her father guilty—so much so that they'd already decided to put him on trial. How could that be? How could they even think of taking him to court, unless they'd found strong evidence against him?

Struggling against tears, Isaveth turned away from the pavement and caught sight of her reflection in a shop window: eyes like coal smudges under thick, straight brows, dark hair frizzing in the heat, her mouth bent into an unhappy shape that looked more sullen than tragic. Even her tawny-brown skin, which normally resisted the sun, was starting to redden and peel in a most unattractive way. No wonder nobody wanted to approach her, especially once they heard her shouting her father's name. . . .

She was still staring miserably at herself when Quiz's face popped up behind her shoulder, and she gave a little shriek.

“Did I frighten you? Sorry.” He peered through the glass, his good eye bright with curiosity. “Are garden
spades really that fascinating, or was it the washtub you were looking at?”

Last night his silly chatter had made her smile, but Isaveth had no heart for it now. She shook her head and turned away.

“Oh,” said Quiz in a softer tone. “It's bad, is it?”

His sympathy was more than Isaveth could bear. She pulled out the Lording's handkerchief and buried her face in it.

“Er . . . well, then,” said Quiz, sounding as lost as Isaveth felt. “Maybe . . . yes, right. We should sit down.” And with that he steered her over to the steps in front of the Merchants' Union and helped her to a seat.

“I'm sorry,” said Isaveth thickly, surfacing from the handkerchief. “It's just been such a horrible day.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing. It's awfully hot out here, isn't it? Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaped up, dashed into a nearby café, and returned a few minutes later with two small bottles of bubblewater.

Isaveth felt a twinge of guilt: If he'd found money, he surely couldn't afford to spend it on her. But her thirst was too strong to ignore. She thumbed off the stopper and drank the whole bottle at a gulp.

“I run errands for the shopkeepers sometimes,” Quiz
told her, leaning back on his elbows and crossing one bony ankle over the other. “So they don't mind doing me the odd favor. You can have mine, too, if you want. Save it for later.”

Isaveth tucked the second bottle into her basket and folded her hands in her lap, feeling suddenly shy. “That's very kind of you.”

“Oh, I am positively brimming with kindness,” said Quiz. “I keep the cork under my eyepatch. But you also ought to know that I'm terribly nosy. Shall we play questions until I figure out why you're upset? Or would you rather tell me to go and boil my head for a turnip?”

Isaveth gave a faint smile. “You don't look like a turnip.”

“Well, a parsnip, then,” said Quiz, rubbing his long nose. “Whatever you like. But if you tell me what's wrong, I might be able to help.”

“Not this time,” said Isaveth. “Not unless you can convince the Lawkeepers that my father isn't a . . . a murderer.”

Quiz sat up sharply, the humor vanishing from his face. “You're not serious. That builder they arrested—Breck?
He's
your father?”

So he'd heard the news too. And like all the others, he was horrified. Isaveth closed her eyes and nodded miserably.

“But . . . he can't have done it,” said Quiz in a blank tone. “It has to be someone else.”

Her eyes popped open. “What?”

“It's not possible, that's all. A man with a family like yours couldn't be a murderer.”

Was he teasing her? Surely no one could be that cruel. “Are you—do you really mean it?”

“Sure I do. Besides, you think he's innocent, don't you?”

“Of course!”

“Well, then,” he said, as though that settled the matter.

So he really was on her side. She wasn't friendless after all. The ice in Isaveth's chest thawed, and she almost hugged him for gratitude. But he had to be a year older than she was at least, and she didn't want him to think her childish.

“Yes,” she said, “but the problem is I can't prove it. I don't even know why the Keepers arrested Papa in the first place. My sister went to the station yesterday, but they wouldn't tell her anything. . . .”

A thought struck her and she stopped, staring into the traffic. Yes, Annagail had talked to the Lawkeepers—her meek, soft-spoken sister, who believed it was her Moshite duty to obey the authorities and not cause any trouble. No wonder she hadn't been able to visit Papa,
or find out anything about his case; she'd accepted the first answer the man at the desk gave her, and never dared ask for more. But Isaveth wasn't about to give up so easily.

She was on her feet in an instant, and Quiz looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“To the Keeper Station,” Isaveth said. “I'm going to talk to the officers who arrested Papa and find out everything they know.”

“Y
OU'RE GOING TO THE
L
AWKEEPERS?”
Quiz looked startled. “I was about to offer to do the same thing. Why don't you let me?”

“He's my father,” said Isaveth. A minute ago she'd been close to despair, but now she felt filled with purpose. Like Auradia Champion, setting out on a new quest for truth and justice.

“But I could help.” Quiz followed her down the steps. “I'm good at getting people to talk. I might even be able to find out who discovered the . . . body.” His voice wavered, but it took him only a second to recover. “Anyway, I want to.”

“Why?” asked Isaveth, turning back to him. “You don't know my father—you barely even know me. And if you're trying to make up for yesterday, you've already done that several times over. Don't you have other things to do?”

Quiz reddened and tugged at his eyepatch. “Well, I did say I'm terribly nosy. And I can't resist a mystery. You must have guessed that ‘Quiz' is short for ‘inquisitive'?”

Isaveth shook her head.

“It's my curse. You might call me an investigative reporter, only I've nobody to report to. Except you. If you'll let me.”

He was practically pleading now. Maybe with no work, no school, and no real family, this was how he kept busy—and out of worse kinds of trouble. “But I can't pay you anything,” said Isaveth.

“That's all right. I don't mind doing a favor for a friend.” He cocked a brow at her. “We are friends, aren't we?”

After all he'd done to help her, it would be rude to deny it. But would he still want to be her friend if he knew everything? After the way Morra had abandoned her, she couldn't bear to put her trust in someone only to be hurt again. Isaveth steeled herself, then blurted out, “I'm Moshite.”

“I thought you might be,” said Quiz.

“That doesn't bother you?”

“No. Should it?”

Isaveth relaxed. “All right. Friends.” She started walking again, and Quiz fell into step beside her.

“Shall we make a list of questions we want to ask? Or
should we start by going over what we already know?”

He really was taking this seriously. “I don't know much yet,” Isaveth said reluctantly. “Only what the Keepers said when they came to arrest Papa and . . . a few other things.”

“Well, tell me everything you know,” said Quiz, pulling a battered notebook and a stub of lead-point out of his pocket. “I can write it down on the way.”

*  *  *

The Keeper Station stood at the top of College Street, three square and unyielding stories of gray stone with a central block that looked sturdy enough to survive fire, flood, a siege with battering rams, and possibly a mage-bomb dropped from above. The windows were grilled with iron, and even the doors were barred, which made the building appear impenetrable—though it obviously wasn't, because as Isaveth and Quiz mounted the steps, the left-hand door swung open and a young woman in a sleek gray suit emerged. She tucked a notebook into her purse, then paused to freshen her lip-tint and tidy the black bell of her hair.

For an instant Isaveth wondered why she looked familiar, until she recognized the reporter who'd been shadowing Eryx Lording yesterday. She turned to Quiz, but he wasn't there—he'd dropped to one knee at
the far edge of the steps and was retying his bootlace.

“Should we talk to that woman over there?” she asked in a low voice. “I think she works for one of the news-rags. She might know something.”

“There's a thought,” said Quiz, not looking up. “Wait a second and I'll come with you.”

Except his lace must have knotted, because it took him a long time to untangle it. By the time he straightened up, the woman was gone.

“It might be for the best,” Quiz said, shrugging off Isaveth's look of reproach. “She'd probably just have squeezed you for information anyway. Besides, don't you think we'll get farther with our investigation if the news-rags don't know who you are?”

Which was a fair argument, but Isaveth was still disappointed. It would have been more pleasant to talk to the woman than to go inside that cold fortress and confront the Lawkeepers. Still, she had no choice now, so she sent up a silent prayer for courage and climbed the steps to the door.

Quiz hurried to open it for her—his way of apologizing, no doubt. She gave him a smile, which brought a tinge of color to his thin cheeks, and the two of them went in.

Inside it was cooler, and their footsteps echoed as
they crossed the polished floor. Smooth granite pillars loomed over them, and the bronze-and-iron crest of the Lawkeepers gleamed high on the opposite wall. Halfway across the chamber stood an imposing wooden barrier, and behind it sat two officers, a man and a woman, stamping papers and stacking them in piles.

“Excuse me,” said Isaveth to the female Lawkeeper, but the woman didn't even glance up. She gestured impatiently at her partner, who rose to greet them.

“Well, kids,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Something about his gaze made Isaveth feel as though he were staring straight through her and counting all her bones. “I—I need to see the officers who arrested Urias Breck,” she said. “I have . . . information for them.”

She'd meant to say “questions” but changed her mind at the last instant. Surely the Lawkeepers would be more likely to talk to her if they thought she had something to offer in return.

“I'm afraid that's not possible,” said the officer. “You can fill out a report, and we'll contact you if we have any questions.” He took some papers from a pile beside him and slid them toward her. “Name and address here, date and time of the incident here . . .”

“But it's urgent,” said Isaveth in desperation. The form was covered with lines and boxes, and looked to be at
least three pages long. “Isn't there anyone I can talk to right now?”

The Lawkeeper shook his head. “No public interviews on Trustdays except by order of the Lawkeeper-General. Duesdays and Fastdays by appointment only.” He opened his ledger. “You might be able to get in next Duesday, if I put you on the waiting list.”

Isaveth hesitated. She could see several names on the list already, and she hated the thought of waiting four more days for an interview that would be brief at best—if she got in at all. What could she do?

Quiz slouched beside her, rubbing his nose and gazing dully about as though he'd never had an original thought in his life. She was about to poke him to get his attention when he muttered, “Advocate.”

Of course! Like anyone accused of a serious crime, her father was entitled to a legal adviser. Isaveth turned back to the desk. “We'd like to speak to Mister Breck's advocate. Could you tell us where to find him?”

The officer retrieved a second ledger, opened it, and ran his fingers down the column of names. “There's no advocate listed,” he said shortly. “He must have refused counsel.”