A Pocket Full of Murder

  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!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE 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 t
hirty; and Master Orien had described him to Papa as shifty looking. . . .

  “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.”

  Chapter Twenty

  QUIZ 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 exactl
y 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?”