A Pocket Full of Murder (8 page)

Isaveth stared at him, disbelieving. Why would her father refuse an advocate? He wasn't stupid, by any means, but he knew no more about the law than most working
folk, and he wasn't eloquent enough to speak for himself in court. There was something strange going on here.

“Then I'll have to talk to Urias Breck directly,” she said, drawing herself up. “I'm his daughter. Please take me to him right away.”

She'd hoped boldness might succeed where Annagail's gentler pleas had failed. But the officer only frowned. “No visitors to the cells today,” he said. “Try again Mendday morning, at the Dern Valley Jail. They should have transferred him there by then.”

That was three days from now, but the flat line of the Lawkeeper's mouth warned Isaveth that protesting would make no difference. Defeated, she turned away.

*  *  *

“What was wrong with you back there?” asked Isaveth once she and Quiz were outside. “You said you wanted to help!”

Quiz caught her arm, urging her down the steps to the sidewalk. “I did help,” he said. “I told you to ask about an advocate.” He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, as though fearing the Keeper Station would pick up its stone skirts and chase after them. “Could we talk about this somewhere else?”

Isaveth's lips parted in a soft O. “So that's why. You were frightened.”

“I wasn't—”

“Had you met that officer before? Were you afraid he'd recognize you?” She shook free of his grip. “You told Mimmi you'd never been to jail!”

“I haven't!” He hunched his shoulders. “I've just . . . you know . . . come close a couple of times.”

“Only a couple?”

Quiz sighed. “All right, I know I wasn't very helpful, but you were doing fine. Anyway,” he added more cheerfully, “at least now we know when we can talk to your father.”

“Yes, but . . .” Isaveth twisted the basket in her hands. “I can't bear to do nothing while Papa's awaiting trial. Especially if he doesn't even have an advocate. Who knows what sort of evidence they're going to bring against him?”

“We sure don't. And probably neither does he.”

“Exactly.” Isaveth quickened her stride. “I'm guessing Papa was the last one to see Governor Orien alive, but that can't be the only reason the Lawkeepers arrested him. There must be something else about the murder that makes them think he did it . . . and that's what I need to find out.”

“So we're going to forget the Lawkeepers and investigate on our own?” Quiz said, catching up to her. “I like that. Where do you want to start?”

It was a good question. What would Auradia do in a case like this? Well, she was the Lady Justice, so she would have got all the information she needed simply by asking for it. But even so, she always made sure to visit the scene of the crime. . . .

“Quiz,” Isaveth said abruptly, “you've read the news-rags. Did they say where Master Orien's body was found?”

“At the college. They didn't say exactly where, but I expect it was in his office.”

“And do you know where they took him afterward?”

“Well, if it was murder, they would probably have sent him to the Healer-General for examination,” said Quiz, frowning. Then he whirled on her, his good eye wide. “That's it! If I could get into the hospital crypt and take a look . . .”

Isaveth was surprised. “Do you think you can?”

Quiz bared his teeth in a bleak smile. “Oh, I'm sure I can. One way or another.”

His usual whimsy had vanished, and it made Isaveth uneasy. She wanted to ask him what he was planning, and what would happen if he got caught . . . but judging by the gleam in his eye, it might be better not to know. Quiz was a street-boy and a fighter; he could look after himself. And while he was sneaking into the hospital, Isaveth could do some investigating of her own.

“Do you know anyone at the college?” she asked, sidestepping a legless veteran who rattled his cup as they passed. She hated to ignore anyone in need, but she had no money, and even one of her tablets would be a poor donation in this heat. “Do you think they'd let me in?”

“Hm,” said Quiz, rubbing a knuckle thoughtfully beneath his lip. “I do know someone, though it's too late to introduce you to her today. But if you give me a couple of those spell-tablets and meet me first thing tomorrow . . .” He smiled again, and this time it looked genuine. “I think I can get you in.”

“L
OOK, IT'S
Q
UIZ!”
exclaimed Mimmi as Isaveth and her sisters came out of the house the next morning. “What's he doing here, Vettie?”

“It's rude to point,” said Lilet, poking her, but Mimmi slapped her hand away and ran to meet the boy waiting in the street.

“Are you going to fight Loyal Kercher again? Can I watch?”

“No duels of honor today,” said Quiz. “My schedule's full. Are those new shoes, Mirrim?”

Mimmi turned pink and ducked behind Isaveth, who looked down at her in surprise; it wasn't like her little sister to turn shy, even if she wasn't used to people calling her by her proper name.

“Go on,” she said. “He asked you a question.”

“Yes,” blurted out Mimmi, and then, with renewed
courage, “They don't even flop when I run. Look!” And she took off up the road at a gallop.

“Very fine,” said Quiz admiringly when she came puffing back. “You'll be hard to catch in those.”

Lilet cast a dark glance at Isaveth, who pretended not to notice. True, Lilet needed a new dress as badly as Mimmi had needed shoes, so her jealousy wasn't surprising. But Isaveth had already spent all the money Eryx Lording had given her, so there was nothing she could do.

“So why do you wear that patch really?” Mimmi asked Quiz, tipping her head sideways. “Are you a lake-pirate?”

“In training,” he agreed solemnly. “If I pass my next set of exams, I get to choose between a hook and a peg leg.”

“Because Lilet says—”

“Mimmi,
enough
,” snapped both her sisters at once, but Quiz only looked intrigued.

“Do tell,” he said. “What does Lilet say?”

“She says your eye is lazy, and you have to cover up the other one to make it work better.”

Quiz shrugged. “I suppose. If you want to take all the fun out of it.”

Which was hardly a definite answer, but Mimmi's face clouded. “I knew it would be something dull,” she said, and trudged off across the street. Isaveth would have followed, but Lilet froze her with a glare.

“You don't have to walk us to Aunt Sal's every day, you know,” she said. “We aren't
babies.
” Then she whirled and stalked after Mimmi.

“I'm sorry,” said Isaveth when she had gone. “I'm trying to teach them better manners.”

“Not at all,” Quiz replied mildly. “Lilet's quite observant, isn't she? And Mirrim's not short on curiosity. Do the detective instincts come from your father's side?”

“My mother's,” Isaveth said, and her heart gave that queer sideways lurch it always did when she thought about Mama. But if Quiz was her friend, he ought to know. “She's gone now. She got sick last fallowtime, and she never got better.”

Quiz's expression sobered. “I'm sorry. I didn't—I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's all right. I miss her, but . . . I have good memories.” She took a deep breath and went on, “So, did you have any luck yesterday? Can you get me into the college?”

“I think so, but you'll have to work for it.” Quiz dug into his pocket, produced four tarnished cits, and handed two to Isaveth. “Let's catch the next tram, and I'll explain on the way.”

*  *  *

From outside, the spell-kitchen of Tarreton College looked plain—a low rectangle of gray stone half covered
in ivy, with a glass sunroom on the far end. But inside it was all modern splendor, with a gleaming U-bend of countertop, two enormous ovens, and a spotless mock tile floor; it made Isaveth ashamed of her own small and grubby kitchen at home.

“Hm,” said the spellmistress, looking Isaveth up and down. “You're younger than I expected, but with school out of session I suppose there's no reason to turn you away.”

Chayla Anandri was a tall, lean-boned woman with eyes so dark as to be almost black, brown skin only a shade lighter, and fog-colored hair cropped close to her skull. She pulled an apron from the peg rack by the door and thrust it at Isaveth. “You remember your mother's recipe? You can make it again?”

Isaveth could only hope so. “Yes, mistress.”

When the tram had stopped at the college gate, she'd hoped Quiz would introduce her to the spellmistress in person. But he needed to get to the hospital early, he said, for the best chance of sneaking into the crypt. He'd tried last night, but all the doors and windows had been locked, so he was going to have to get in by a less direct method—and as he'd grudgingly admitted when Isaveth pressed him, it might take him a while to think of one.

So he'd pointed out the spell-kitchen to Isaveth,
handed her a note to deliver to Mistress Anandri, and jumped on the tram again. Isaveth would have liked to know what was in the letter, but the envelope was glued shut. She could only hope Quiz had said the right things to impress this woman . . . and that her own skill and hard work would do the rest.

“Do you have many problems with your spell-tablets?” Isaveth asked as she tied on her apron. Peddling was forbidden on college grounds, but Quiz had dared to show the mistress Isaveth's samples anyway, and once she'd tested them, she'd been quick to ask for more.

“Nothing that common sense wouldn't solve,” said Mistress Anandri, folding Quiz's letter and tucking it inside her robe. “It's a waste to buy factory tablets when we could make our own, but I know better than to start baking for the other masters, or they'll never let me stop. The new students will make a few batches come harvest term, but . . .” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “They seldom turn out anything worth keeping.”

Isaveth could guess why. Most nobles considered cookery beneath them and would probably be offended to have to begin their learning in the kitchen.

Mistress Anandri strode to the larger of the two ovens and opened the small drawer in its front. There in a narrow chute sat two fire-tablets, all that remained of the
samples Quiz had borrowed from Isaveth last night.

“Your spells aren't as smooth or regular as the factory tablets,” the spellmistress continued. “And they break more easily, which is unfortunate. But they burn hotter and last longer.” She closed the drawer, and with a soft
whoof
the oven kindled to life.

“Make me three batches of fire-tablets,” she continued, taking a ring of keys from her belt, “and another three of light—use the sunroom for those. Here are your ingredients.” She unlocked a cupboard above the work top and flung it open, revealing a collection of jars, bottles, and tins all labeled in the same clear, decisive hand. “Flours and grains on this shelf, eggs in the rack here, milk in the chill-box . . .”

Still talking, she circled the kitchen, laying out bowls, measuring spoons, and a number of odd utensils Isaveth had never seen before. “There. Is there anything else you require?”

Isaveth hesitated, her gaze traveling over the array of tools and ingredients. It seemed impossible that the spellmistress could have forgotten something so important. “A sifter?”

“Whatever for? This is Tarreton College, young lady. We buy the finest flour available.”

Mistress Anandri drew herself up haughtily as she
spoke, and Isaveth's heart gave an anxious flutter. If she offended this woman, she'd lose her chance to investigate the college. Yet her mother's instructions had been clear.

“I'm sure you're right,” she said meekly. “But I'd like to sift it anyway. Just to be safe.”

Mistress Anandri gave her a hard look, and Isaveth quailed. But then the spellmistress took a sifter out of the cupboard and set it beside the other tools.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “even the best flour sometimes contains neevils, especially in fairweather season. Did you know that neevils have antimagical properties?”

Her posture had relaxed, and her voice held more warmth than before. Had Isaveth passed some sort of test? “No,” she said cautiously.

“Most of my students learn that lesson the hard way. Your mother taught you well.” She jerked her chin toward the work top. “Go on and get started, then. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on your progress.”

*  *  *

Even with two ovens and all the ingredients she needed, it took Isaveth most of the morning to finish the tablets Mistress Anandri had asked for. Though the heat in the sunroom was oppressive, the kitchen stayed pleasantly mild, and by the time she had finished, Isaveth hardly felt tired at all. She was gazing up at the slow rotation of the
ceiling fan, wondering if there was a cold-charm worked into its mechanism, when the spellmistress returned for the final inspection.

“Quiz told me you had a gift,” she said, lowering the charm-glass she'd been holding to her eye. “I see he was right. This should keep us until the first week of harvest term at least, and I won't have to listen to the other masters squawk about their lamps being dim. Now, then.” She drew a chair out from the table and sat down, motioning to Isaveth to join her. “I understand you have some questions about Governor Orien's death?”

Isaveth was startled. Had Quiz actually told Mistress Anandri what the two of them were up to? Even with the offer of free help in exchange for her information, she must be fond of the street-boy to grant such a bold request.

“I . . . yes,” she stammered. “I was—er, Quiz was wondering when the master's body was found, and where. The news-rags didn't say.”