Darkwalker (4 page)

“I
still don’t understand why they wouldn’t have reported it to the constable,” said Kody, his gaze drifting over the gallery of skeletal white poplars flanking the road to North Haven. The trees offered little protection from the cold gusts blowing down from the hills; icy blades of wind sliced through the ribs of the forest, whistling eerily. The horses bowed their heads against the chill, their progress watched hungrily by a murder of crows that sheltered in the branches above, flapping and cackling.
Must be carrion nearby,
Kody thought.

Lenoir still hadn’t said anything, so Kody continued. “If my son’s body was stolen, I’d want to find out who did it and why.”

“Perhaps there are circumstances surrounding the incident that the victims do not want known,” said Lenoir. “Or perhaps they did tell the constable, but he did not trust the Metropolitan Police with the information.”

I can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s because half the force is corrupt, and the other half is incompetent.
Kody sighed inwardly, pushing the bitter thought aside. It wasn’t
that
bad. But it was getting harder and harder to be optimistic about the Kennian Metropolitan Police, and working with Lenoir wasn’t exactly a morale booster.

“Whatever the reason, Sergeant, I do not want a repeat of yesterday’s incident. Unless someone can provide us a motive, or at least a solid lead, it is virtually certain that we will never find this child’s body. The crime scene is far too old, and the trail will have gone cold long since. So do not be too hopeful.”

God forbid anyone should be hopeful, Inspector.

Their horses crested a hill in the road, and the shambling outline of North Haven rose from the earth like a corpse from its grave. It slumped and careened at all angles, its crude construction slowly yielding to the ravages of the relentless Braelish winters. As they got closer, the impression of decay and neglect only grew stronger. Crumbling, desiccated mud walls propped up thatch roofs scabbed over with moss, the dwellings separated from one another by desultory little fences of woven sticks. The main road remained dry and hard-packed beneath their horses’ hooves, a sign that it rarely saw wagon traffic. That didn’t surprise Kody. North Haven was barely larger than Brackensvale, and every bit as provincial.

Maybe that explained the mistrustful stares of the townspeople they came across. As they rode down the main street, people turned to gaze up at them, their expressions dark and forbidding. Crowds stopped talking as they passed. A mangy-looking dog scampered out from a nearby yard and followed them for a while, barking loudly and nipping at the heels of the horses until Kody threw a crab apple at it, sending it slinking off into the trees. In all, it wasn’t the warmest of welcomes.

“This is why city folk never leave Kennian,” Kody said under his breath. “You’d think we were an occupying army, the way these people act. What’s their problem, anyway?”

“You have answered your own question, Sergeant. City folk almost never set foot in the villages, and when they do, it does not tend to be good news.”

“Bit of a chicken-and-egg thing, isn’t it?” Kody said, eying a blacksmith warily. The man had stopped working as they drew near, and there was something vaguely threatening in the way he held his heavy iron hammer.

Lenoir smirked. “Perhaps you should explain that to them. I’m sure they would appreciate your insight.”

The constable met them in the village green. He looked nervous.
And so he should,
Kody thought disapprovingly. A felony had gone unreported, which meant that the constable was derelict in his duty. He was supposed to report weekly to the Metropolitan Police—or immediately, if the crime was serious. Lenoir had said that a few weeks had already gone by since the local boy’s body was stolen. Either the constable hadn’t known about it, or he had failed to report it. Neither possibility reflected well on him.

“Good morning, Inspector,” Constable Brier said wanly, taking the bridle of Lenoir’s horse. “Your message was cryptic, and a bit sudden too. The messenger left not two hours ago—I haven’t had time to learn much.”

“The message contained all the relevant information, Constable,” said Lenoir. “We are here to investigate a crime that should have been reported—when? How long since the boy’s body was stolen?”

Brier’s barely restrained nervousness tumbled out of him now. “I heard nothing of it, Inspector! Your message took me completely by surprise!”

Lenoir raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? That is disturbing, Constable, since I am told the entire village talks of the matter.”

Brier turned a deep crimson. He opened his mouth, but apparently he didn’t know what to say, because he closed it again.

“Let us get started, then,” said Lenoir, and Brier nodded numbly. Fetching his own horse, he led the way back onto the main street.

There were three churches in town, and the first they visited wasn’t the right one, as its priest was quick to inform them. When they got to the second, larger church, they could tell right away they were in the right place. Where the first had been busy, with several market stalls out front and a steady stream of parishioners through the main doors, this church was all but deserted. With its crude stone construction—blocky and impersonal, overgrown with ivy—it looked like a neglected tombstone.

The priest came out into the courtyard to meet them. “I heard your hoofbeats on the flagstones. I have been expecting you, after a fashion.” He wore a weary expression, but his manner was friendly enough as he showed the officers where to tether their horses.

“What do you mean, you have been expecting us?” asked Lenoir when they had dismounted.

The priest sighed. “I knew this matter could not long escape the attention of the Metropolitan Police. It is simply too horrible.”

“Why didn’t you report it, then?” Brier snapped. “We could have raised the hue and cry!”

The priest eyed Kody and Lenoir apprehensively; he was probably wondering whether they would arrest him. “Can you imagine what it is like to have something like this happen at your church? My parishioners should think this a holy place, not a place of evil. I wanted to keep word of the incident to myself and the parents, not have it become known throughout the Five Villages.”

Brier pointed an accusing finger at the priest’s chest. “That was not your decision to make!” He would have said more, but Lenoir raised a hand, and the constable subsided.

“You must have known that would be impossible, Brother,” said Lenoir.

“Apparently so, as you see. Since news of the theft became known, not a single family has come to lay their loved ones to rest. They think this place is defiled.”

Lenoir frowned. “Defiled?” Either he didn’t know the word, or he was simply astonished at how provincial these people were.

In case it was the former, Kody explained, “The outer villages are superstitious. People out here favor supernatural explanations instead of reason.”

The priest’s expression hardened. “Ah, yes, of course. Well, I trust your reason will provide a ready explanation for what has happened here. Mr. and Mrs. Jymes will no doubt be comforted that the superior minds of Kennian are involved in locating their son’s body.” Kody felt himself flush as the priest turned away, heading for the cemetery.

“Somehow, Sergeant, I do not think you have struck a blow for intervillage relations,” said Lenoir.

The priest showed them the plot where the boy’s body had been. “It was stolen in the night, of course. Only one day after the burial.”

“How old was he?” asked Lenoir.

“Called to God at nine years,” the priest intoned gravely.

Kody felt a jolt. Could it be a coincidence? “The boy in Brackensvale was also nine, Inspector.”

Lenoir didn’t seem to hear. He gazed at the grave site, visibly annoyed. “The evidence has been destroyed.”

The priest was unapologetic. “You would not have found anything, Inspector. Footprints and the work of a spade—nothing more.”

“How did the boy die?” Lenoir asked.

“Fever.”

“And his parents, where are they?”

“Not far from here,” Brier said, eager to help. “I can take you there, if you like.”

•   •   •

They remained in North Haven until late afternoon, but they didn’t learn anything useful. So Lenoir said, anyway, but Kody thought they were overlooking an important detail.

“The two boys were the same age,” he pointed out as they rode back to Kennian. “That must be significant.”

“Why must it?” Lenoir asked indifferently.

“Well, it can’t be coincidence.”

“Of course it can, Sergeant. The corpse thief is obviously interested in fresh bodies, ones that have not yet decomposed. My guess is that we are dealing with a philosopher of some kind, someone who is using the bodies for research purposes. He looks for a dead child, and then he digs it up. Two children aged nine died recently, so he dug up two children aged nine. It is not significant.”

As a rule, Kody didn’t see much point in arguing with people who’d already made up their minds—and that went double for Lenoir. But he wasn’t willing to let this one pass, not without a fight. “With all due respect, Inspector, wasn’t it you who taught me that every detail is significant?”

“I also taught you not to allow yourself to be distracted by them. You must consider the motive, Sergeant. If you cannot explain
why
the crime has been committed, you will never solve it. You must focus on the whole of the thing, find the story behind it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Maybe there is no pattern here, but maybe there is, and we have to
want
to see it. Whether it’s a constellation or just stars depends on who’s looking.”

Lenoir sneered. “Such affection you have for that hackneyed saying of yours. You do realize it makes you sound like a romantic fool?”

They fell into a cold silence.
If I’m a romantic fool,
Kody thought bitterly,
you’re a lazy bastard
. Lenoir didn’t want to acknowledge a pattern because that would mean they had a lead, and they would be obliged to follow it. If Kody was right, they could bide their time until another nine-year-old boy died, and then watch the grave until the thief appeared. But as usual, Lenoir seemed perfectly uninterested in solving this case.

Kody didn’t know how much longer he could cope without his frustration boiling over. He’d specifically requested to serve under Nicolas Lenoir, since the man was something of a legend. Lenoir had done a lot to professionalize the city’s police force—in fact, he’d practically founded the Metropolitan Police ten years before, remodeling it after the renowned Prefecture of Police in his native city of Serles. That done, he’d gone on a brief but spectacularly successful rampage against Kennian’s complex criminal networks. He and Sergeant Crears (now
Constable
Crears) had broken up the largest thieving ring in Kennian’s history, recovering almost a million crowns’ worth of goods and arresting the city’s most notorious crime lord. Crears was promoted, and Lenoir received a commendation from the lord mayor.

But those days were long gone. Having secured his place as the top inspector on the force, Lenoir no longer felt the need to exert himself. He still hauled in the occasional big fish, but mostly he just went through the motions. He was a brilliant detective; Kody had seen flashes of his genius on plenty of occasions. But mostly he was cynical and indifferent, and Kody had a hunch that wasn’t the worst of it. Instead of propelling his career forward, working as Lenoir’s deputy had frozen his progress, ensuring that he never had the chance to break a major case. Quite simply, Lenoir was holding him back.

No more.

He broke the silence. “I understand this case probably isn’t worth your attention,” he said coolly, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to look into it a little further.”

Lenoir glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. “As you like, Sergeant, but it is a waste of your time. You will not find anything.”

Maybe not,
Kody conceded inwardly,
but at least I’m willing to look.

D
arkness already held sway over Kennian by the time Lenoir quit the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. A cold, damp fog was seeping into the streets like a slow poison through the veins of the city; Lenoir had to turn the collar of his coat up to shield his neck from the chill. He was in an ill temper as usual, rankled by Kody’s thinly veiled contempt. How sick he was of the sergeant’s judgment! As though a whelp such as he had anything to say to Lenoir, who had been catching criminals since before Kody had seen his first winter. The man’s treacly affection for the law was sickening, and his ambition would have been laughable, were it not so pathetic. Kody genuinely believed he would fix the force someday. Catch the criminals. Save the world. Lenoir snorted contemptuously, sending a plume of mist into the air. One day, the sergeant would learn what the world was really like, and Lenoir could only hope he was there to see it.

Anger drove his step as he headed for the poor district. He needed to find Zach before the boy turned in for the night. It was not difficult; Zach had a few reliable haunts, and Lenoir found him at the second tavern he checked. He did not even need to go inside; as he rounded the corner of the inn, he spied Zach tumbling into the street, the wrathful innkeeper towering above him. Lenoir was reminded forcibly of the incident at the Courtier the night before, and his mood soured still further.

“If I catch you in here again, you little mongrel, I’ll cut your throat for you!” The man’s shoulders heaved with rage, and he cocked his leg back, as though he were preparing to kick the pile of rags in the dirt.

“Will you, sir?” Lenoir said mildly, stepping into the glow of a streetlamp. “And who will run your establishment while you are in jail?”

The innkeeper squinted into the light. “Who are you?”

“I am Inspector Nicolas Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police, which you know perfectly well, since you have seen me in your tavern a dozen times or more.”

The innkeeper’s lip curled. “So I have, with this little thief in tow.” He pointed a thick finger at Zach, who had righted himself and now stood defiantly before his accuser. “You keep bad company for a policeman.”

“The company I keep is not your concern. And besides, what proof have you that the boy is a thief? Did you see him take anything?”

“One of my customers was pickpocketed, and I’ve seen that boy around enough to know what he’s about.”

Lenoir approached Zach. “Turn out your pockets.” The boy searched his face for a moment, but when he saw that Lenoir was serious, he did as he was told, reaching inside his trousers and turning out his pockets. They dangled like a pair of hound’s ears, empty.

“There. You have no evidence with which to accuse the boy. Do not let me hear of you mistreating him again.”

The innkeeper responded through a tightly clenched jaw, “He has no reason to be in my place. He’s not a paying customer. It’s my right to put him out if he can’t pay.”

“So it is.” Lenoir dropped some coins into Zach’s palm. “Go inside and buy yourself a meat pie.” To the tavern owner, he said, “Now he is a paying customer.”

The man could do no more than stand there shaking with anger as Zach walked triumphantly past, trailed by Lenoir. He did not dare challenge an inspector of the Metropolitan Police.

Zach was grinning from ear to ear when they sat. “That was brilliant! It was just like the first time we met. Do you remember?”

“Indeed I do, though I hardly think it something to be proud of.” Lenoir was never sure whether Zach fully appreciated how close he had come to his demise. Had Lenoir not happened upon the Firkin at the exact moment Zach was being hauled outside for a beating, the boy would almost certainly have met his end. To this day, Lenoir was not entirely certain why he had intervened, or at least why he had not dragged the boy off to face the magistrate. He told himself that it was simply too much effort to arrest and process a child who would only wind up at the end of a rope one day.

And in truth, Lenoir did not begrudge Zach his thieving ways—not then, and not now. Zach had been dealt a poor hand, poorer than most in this city of ill fortune, yet he never let that grind him down. He could have done as the others did, rattling aimlessly about the orphanage all day, taking whatever life and the overworked nuns saw fit to dish out. Instead he took his fate into his own hands, day after day, at not inconsiderable risk to life and limb. If he was crafty enough to make his own way, why should Lenoir interfere? On the contrary, he was impressed with the boy’s grit and adaptability. As long as Zach confined himself to petty crimes, Lenoir was content enough to let him alone, especially since he had proven himself a valuable resource.

That did not, however, mean that he would allow himself to be duped by the boy. He eyed Zach shrewdly. “Where is it?”

At first Zach’s expression was all innocence, but when it became clear that Lenoir was not going to fall for it, he grinned again. “Under my hat.”

Lenoir sighed. “You should be more careful, Zach. There are many in this neighborhood who would dash your skull to pieces without a second thought.”

“Lucky I have you to protect me.”

“What makes you think I will protect you next time?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll have to find someone else who can get you the information I do, and that won’t be easy.”

Lenoir laughed in spite of himself. The boy knew his own worth. That was good. “Earn your keep, then. I have a job for you.” He waved the barmaid over and they ordered dinner. While they waited for it to arrive, Lenoir got down to business. “Tell me, Zach, have you ever heard of Lady Zera?”

“I think so. Doesn’t she own a brothel?”

Lenoir grunted thoughtfully. Zera’s fears about her reputation seemed to be well founded. “She does not. In fact, she runs quite a reputable salon on the high street.”

“What’s a salon?”

“It’s a gathering of people, hosted by someone of renowned taste.”

“Like a party?”

“Of sorts, a party for the wealthy and the elegant, where they can show off their knowledge of literature and philosophy.”

“Sounds boring.”

Lenoir smiled. “Sometimes. But a talented host will ensure that there is enough fine liquor and other indulgences to make up for the rarified conversation. It is also a place for the fashionable to be seen.”

“Are you fashionable?” the boy asked guilelessly.

Lenoir almost choked on his wine. “Certainly not,” he said, dabbing at his shirt, “but Lady Zera is, exceedingly so. She is one of the most admired hostesses in the city. That is no small thing, because she also happens to be Adali.”

Zach’s eyes widened. “Really? Does she know magic?”

“Come, now, Zach, not this again. You know better than to believe such superstitious nonsense. Your neighborhood is full of Adali. How many of them are witches?”

The boy considered. “They’re thieves, mostly.”

Lenoir winced at the generalization, widely held though it was. “On the contrary, most Adali are ordinary, law-abiding folk. But it is true that many fall to crime. Life is hard for them here. An Adal living in the city is cut off from his clan. He is poor and despised, so he makes his way as best he can.”

“Then why do they come here?”

Lenoir paused. For one so young, the boy asked insightful questions.
Perhaps he would make a good inspector after all
. Aloud, he said, “I suppose they come to make their fortune. Perhaps some of them do not want to raise cattle for the rest of their lives.” Just as many were prostitutes and other forms of trafficked slaves, but Lenoir saw no point in troubling Zach with the darker realities of Adali life. The boy knew all too well what it meant to be poor, desperate, and preyed upon. “In any case, Lady Zera has gone to great pains to dissociate herself from her people.”

“Why?”

“Because she does not want to be stained by association. Kennians do not like the Adali, Zach.”

“Because they steal?”

“Among other complaints. Few people take time to consider what it must be like to live in the city’s slums, what it takes to survive. If they did, they would find much to admire. Instead they see only what is alien and frightening, and they judge the whole race by its worst examples. Lady Zera does not want to be judged alongside the rest. She wants to fit in here in the city, and so far she has succeeded admirably. She is elegant and refined, and it helps that she is very beautiful. People are prepared to overlook the fact that she is Adali. Otherwise, she would have no place in fashionable society. And that brings me to the point, Zach. Where did you hear that Lady Zera runs a brothel?”

Zach shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“I need you to put your ear to the ground. Someone is spreading rumors about Zera, and I want to know who is behind it.”

Zach scowled. “
Boring
. Who cares about gossip?”

“Zera does. In her business, reputation is everything. She has made a good name for herself, but she is still Adali. It would not take much of a scandal to ruin her.”

“How am I supposed to find out who started a rumor?”

“Start with the other salon hostesses,” Lenoir suggested. “Such rumors are usually invented by those who are envious or competitive. Seek these ladies out, or their servants. Failing that, see if you can find out who is actually doing the talking. Whoever is behind it may have paid someone to provide grist for the mill.”

Their food arrived. It was half cold, and the venison loin on Lenoir’s plate looked like a giant rusted nail. His nostrils flared in disapproval, but his belly could not wait for a better option. He glanced at the table for a fork and knife; seeing none, he stopped the barmaid.

“What for?” she asked, visibly bewildered.

“For eating like a civilized human being, madam.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bloody Arrènais snob,” she muttered as she flounced away.

“Bloody Braelish barbarian,” he retorted under his breath.

“So when do I get to meet Lady Zera?” Zach did not wait for cutlery, but plunged his fingers straight into his pie.

Lenoir snorted. “Why would Lady Zera want to meet you?”

“Because I’m irresistible,” the boy deadpanned.

Lenoir burst out laughing. “Zach, one day you will be a man, and a man must learn his place in the world. Take no offense, but believe me when I tell you that Lady Zera will never in her life come within ten miles of the likes of you.”

•   •   •

The noise of the alehouse was beginning to bother him. He was accustomed to the silence of the cemetery, the airy nothingness that settled like fine ash over a place of death. This place was too alive. The light seared his eyes, the laughter jangled his nerves. He felt too warm sitting here in the glow of the hearth. All around him, folk were talking and drinking and milling about. He wished they would go away, all of them. His drunkenness only heightened his irritability, and he knew that if he did not leave soon, he would find himself in a brawl.

He had been tense ever since leaving Brackensvale. Everywhere he went, people felt hostile. He knew he must be imagining it, yet he could not shake the feeling that his guilt was as obvious as the beard on his face. People stared at him accusingly, as if they knew. Children especially—they looked frightened whenever he came near, as though they expected him to do them harm. He could not long linger in a crowded place such as this before he began to sweat, sure that at any moment the Metropolitan Police would descend upon him. If they caught him, he would swing for what he had done—or worse.

The gravedigger stood up abruptly, his chair scraping along the floor loudly enough to draw looks from the other patrons. Slamming a few coins on the table, he grabbed his cloak and headed for the door. Outside, it was cool and quiet, and he took deep, grateful breaths. His head seemed to clear some. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, his gaze moving briefly over a man standing in the shadow of a doorframe. He felt a moment’s annoyance that his solitude should be interrupted again so soon, but when he looked up from fastening his cloak, the man was gone. Good.

He weaved a little as he made his way down the street, but there was no one to see. It was late, and the windows that faced the street were dark. The streetlamps struggled against a moonless night, doing little to illuminate his way. That was just as well too. He had always preferred to abide in darkness.

As he walked, he became dimly aware that the sound of his own footsteps was echoed by those of another somewhere behind. He turned, angry words on his lips, but there was no one there. Strange—he was sure he had heard something.

He turned into a narrow alley. His footing was uncertain, obliging him to keep his gaze trained on the ground as he walked. Suddenly, a shadow spilled across the stones in front of him, liquid black, flitting from right to left. He looked up at the rooftops in time to see movement.

He froze, and there was a moment of stillness. Then the air exploded in whirring and flapping as a clutch of pigeons burst forth from the eaves. The gravedigger’s cry of shock dissolved into a string of curses at the filthy creatures.

Just ahead, the end of the alley was marked by a shaft of pale light from a nearby streetlamp. But the way was not free: standing silhouetted against the glow was a man. It was the same man, the gravedigger realized, that he had seen in the doorway near the alehouse. Little of his face was distinguishable in the darkness, but his eyes were clearly visible, shining as though lit from within. They were an uncanny shade of green, vivid like those of a cat, only brighter.

There was something in those eyes, something that caused a cold sliver of fear to slide itself like a blade into the gravedigger’s ribs. He checked his stride and turned, retracing his steps up the alleyway. He moved as quietly as he could, straining to listen to the darkness behind him. Footsteps sounded, echoing closely in the narrow confines of the alley. The gravedigger quickened his step, listening carefully. Sure enough, the footsteps behind increased their pace.

A sob of terror clutched at the gravedigger’s throat, and he burst into a run.