Darkwalker (6 page)

He will have his vengeance.

T
he day had started out badly and seemed determined to grow worse. Lenoir had awoken with a terrible headache and a bitter taste in his mouth, thanks to another long evening at Zera’s. There had been nothing edible in his apartment—the cheese had gone off and the bread was stale—so he had made his way to the station without breakfast. There he had been forced to endure an hour of Kody’s inane speculations, followed by the stomach-turning scene of a man subjected to bleeding by leech (on second thought, perhaps the lack of breakfast was a blessing.) To cap it off, the nobleman responsible for the crime assumed that Lenoir’s silence could be bought, which assumption, to his immense annoyance, was not entirely unwarranted.

By the time evening threw its dark cloth over the rooftops, Lenoir had worked himself into a veritable froth of ill humor. Feine had not even waited for him to produce real evidence before deciding that it would be easier to bribe his way out. A vindictive sort would take that as a sign the deal could be sweetened.

Lenoir was feeling awfully vindictive.

If Feine thought silence came cheaply, he would soon learn otherwise. But first, Lenoir needed leverage. The lover’s letter alone was not enough to convince the magistrate. At most, it suggested an affair between Lady Feine and Arleas, but in itself that proved nothing. He needed something concrete, something that tied Feine directly to the beating. Fortunately, he had an idea how to get it.

He found Zach at the Firkin, the same shabby inn where the two of them had first become acquainted. The boy was lounging near the hearth, a flagon of ale in hand (where in the flaming below had he gotten
that
?), scanning the room for likely prey. When he spied Lenoir, his face split into a wide grin, and he waved enthusiastically. Lenoir could not deny that it felt good to receive such a welcome, even if it came from a sorry little street mongrel. God knew there were few enough who took any joy in Lenoir’s presence.

“What are you doing here, Zach?”

The boy scowled. “Well, now, here’s a fine greeting.”

“Infringed dignity sits oddly on you,” Lenoir said wryly. “I thought you were supposed to be looking into something for me.”

“And so I am! You can’t blame a fellow for taking a break now and then. It’s cold as Durian’s grave out there.”

Lenoir could not disagree. Even this close to the hearth, the frequent comings and goings at the tavern door kept the room steeped in a perpetual chill. Not that the patrons took any notice; most were too far into their cups to heed much of anything. The Firkin was one of Kennian’s more raucous taverns, which was one of the reasons Zach could so often be found here. Drunkards took little notice of their purses being lifted.

“Anyway,” said Zach, “I don’t know why you’re acting all surprised. You came here looking for me.”

“Is that so? And how do you reckon that?”

“You never come in here unless you’re looking for me.”

Lenoir grunted. “Very well, I concede the point. The fact remains, however, that you have an unfinished task.”

“Don’t I know it. I’m not getting anywhere.” Zach looked darkly at the flagon in his hand, as though it were responsible.

“It is not an easy thing I have asked you to do,” Lenoir admitted. “But do not allow yourself to become discouraged. I have great faith in your talents.”

Zach sniffed, his petulant expression disappearing under the rim of his flagon.

Lenoir would have dearly liked to know which of these tavern rats thought it appropriate to give a full flagon of ale to a boy of nine, but he did not have time to worry about that now. “In the meantime, I have another task for you.”

“All right,” Zach said warily, licking his lips.

“I need you to put me in touch with some hired muscle.”

“Hired muscle?”

“A thug, Zach. The sort of man who hires himself out for his fists.”

“Ah.” Zach grinned. “Now, that’s more like it. I don’t know about high street gossip, but cutthroats and mercenaries are my specialty. Let’s go.”

•   •   •

Lenoir drew up short when he recognized the alley. The narrow, twisting path ended at a small courtyard hemmed in by two- and three-story buildings, their dark frames leaning haphazardly in a semicircle like a cluster of drunks huddled over a game of bones. It was a dead end, meaning Zach had only one possible destination: the Hobbled Hound.

“You come to this place?” Lenoir asked in mild amazement.

Zach turned, his features barely discernible in the shadows. The alley was dark save for the washed amber glow of the braziers in the courtyard up ahead. The wavering firelight sketched eerie shapes on the plaster and beams of the shop faces, long since closed for the night.

“Sometimes,” Zach said. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Lenoir muttered, resuming his stride.

The alley deposited them in the cramped square that formed the boundaries of the Hound’s domain. The inn itself sat nestled at the far end, flanked between two larger buildings and gazing out at the courtyard like a crime lord who knows better than to turn his back to the door. A pair of braziers burned on either side of the entrance, throwing their light over tightly closed shutters and a heavy door. A faded sign bearing a likeness of a three-legged dog hung from a post just above the doorframe, but the crest was a bitter joke. The name of the inn had nothing to do with hunting dogs. Rather, it derived from a particularly nasty incident that had taken place on the premises many years ago, involving a sergeant of the Metropolitan Police, an ax, and a very ugly crowd.

A pair of hard-bitten fellows huddled together near one of the braziers, ostensibly warming their hands. Lenoir knew them for lookouts, keeping an eye peeled for someone just like him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Zach,” he growled as he followed the boy across the courtyard and through the door, the lookouts tracking him every step of the way.

The place was not busy, at least not compared to neighborhood stalwarts like the Firkin. About a dozen tables dotted the floor, most of them occupied by rough-hewn men at assorted games of chance—bones, cards, and what looked like a variation of madman’s mirth, only with a stiletto. Lenoir’s gaze lit upon daggers and swords, pistols and crossbows. Every man in the room was armed with something, and many carried more than one, the weapons ostentatiously displayed as though they were some sort of status symbol—which, Lenoir supposed, was exactly what they were.

Zach paused, scanning the room. He flashed Lenoir a confident smile, but Lenoir did not miss the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His bluster notwithstanding, the boy was nervous. That simply proved he was not a fool.

“This is the place to come if you want to hire a cutthroat,” Zach said in a low voice. “These fellows all know each other. Some of them come from the streets. Some used to be soldiers. Be careful, though—lots of them are drunks, and they’re not much fond of hounds.”

“You don’t say.” Lenoir was acutely aware of the eyes on him, and they were not friendly.

“How long is this gonna take?” Zach’s eyes were still darting around the room. He seemed to be looking for something. Or someone.

“I don’t know,” Lenoir said. He made his way over to the bar.

The barman made no move toward him. He just stood there, wiping out a mug with a filthy rag and eying Lenoir balefully. “You shouldn’t be here, hound. Get yourself killed, you will.”

“Whatever gave you the idea I was a hound?” Lenoir asked sarcastically. He gazed down at his dark coat, his neat if modest trousers, his leather shoes. He might as well have worn a sign that read
Kennian Metropolitan Police
around his neck.

The barman seemed to appreciate that. He grinned and snorted through his nose.

“I have not come here to make trouble,” Lenoir said. “On the contrary, I am offering a business proposition.”

“That so?” The barman put his mug aside and tossed the rag over his shoulder. “Let’s have it, then.”

“I have been offered a substantial amount of money to overlook a certain instance of wrongdoing.” Lenoir was getting a little ahead of himself, but this cretin had no way of knowing that. “If I can turn up the heat, I have no doubt I will be offered an even more attractive sum. I am prepared to part with a percentage, in return for incriminating evidence.”

The barman’s laugh crackled in his throat. “You must think I’m right stupid, mate. You think you’re the first hound to come up with that one?” He shook his head, still smiling.

Lenoir was considering how to respond when Zach suddenly appeared at his elbow, tucking his body up against the bar as though shielding himself from view. The boy was pale and sweating, and his gaze had taken on a hunted look. All signs of his earlier bravado were gone. Zach was not just nervous, Lenoir realized; he was
terrified
.

Lenoir glanced around the room, trying to pin down what had spooked the boy. There were plenty of candidates: the whole tavern seemed to be staring at them, each grisly face more menacing than the last. But then one of them started across the room, and Zach whimpered like the small child he was.

The man must have weighed two hundred pounds, and though he wore only a single dagger at his hip, Lenoir had the distinct impression that was because he required nothing else. His nose had obviously been broken more than once, and a nasty scar carved a pink trench through his left cheek. He glared at Zach as he weaved between the tables, fists balled at his sides.

“Who is that man?” Lenoir hissed.

Zach swallowed hard. “My uncle. Please, we have to leave now. Right now, Inspector.”

“Your uncle? I thought—”

“Please!”
Zach squeaked, and there was such dread in his eyes that Lenoir could not deny him. He grabbed the boy’s arm and made for the door. As soon as they were outside, he broke into a jog, hustling Zach along through the alley until he judged they were far enough away. Thankfully, no one seemed to be following them.

Lenoir stopped to catch his breath. “What was
that
all about?”

Zach’s face was turned away, and he dragged his sleeve across his eyes. “Nothing,” he said sullenly.

Lenoir regarded him with a sigh. This was not the wisecracking, wily creature he was accustomed to.
Sometimes I forget you are a child, Zach.
Aloud, he said gently, “It was obviously something. You said he was your uncle?”

Zach nodded. “Not by blood, though. He was married to my mum’s sister. When they got sick—my mum and my auntie—I went to live with him for a while. It wasn’t . . . he . . .” Zach fell silent, shuddering.

“He beat you.” Lenoir could see it in the hang of the boy’s shoulders, in the twitch of his fingers. He knew the signs as well as if he were looking into a mirror.

Zach did not answer directly, but he did not have to. “When they died, he threw me out. And that was fine, really, but . . . then I got in trouble, and the hounds came around to his place. They caught him with some stuff he shouldn’t have. He was in jail for a while.”

“I see,” Lenoir said, and he did. He saw it all too clearly. “And did you know he would be in there tonight?”

Zach shrugged disconsolately. “Maybe. He’s there sometimes. I hoped he wouldn’t be.”

“But you knew it was possible. And you came anyway.”

He shrugged again. “You needed to go there.” He still avoided Lenoir’s gaze, as though he were ashamed.

Nine years old, and already afraid to show weakness.
Lenoir felt a stab of pity. “Will he try to come after you?”

“Nah. He just told me to stay away from him, is all. Said he’d sort me out right good if he caught me within a mile of him.” He scowled. “Like I’d
want
to be around the likes of him, anyway!”

Lenoir passed a hand over his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired. “It’s late, Zach. Go home.”

“What about your hired muscle?”

“Never mind that. I will see you tomorrow night, and we can work on Zera’s problem.”

“Okay,” Zach said. “See you later.”

Lenoir watched the boy slink off like a whipped dog. Guilt tugged at his belly. Zach had deliberately put himself in danger, without even asking why. He had probably assumed Lenoir was trying to solve a crime. Would he still have done it if he knew the truth? Lenoir had to admit he was touched by the boy’s loyalty.

He would have to make it up to Zach tomorrow.

•   •   •

“Here it is, Inspector,” the scribe said, laying a sheaf of parchment on Lenoir’s desk.

“At last,” Lenoir said coolly. It had taken the scribe all morning and the better part of the afternoon to find it.

“Sorry, Inspector,” the youth said, flushing. “But without a name . . . I had to go to the city clerk’s office to look through the marriage records, and—”

“That will be all,” Lenoir said. The scribe swallowed, nodded, and vanished.

Lenoir pulled the dusty pile of papers toward him. It was a healthy stack, nearly half an inch thick, bound together with twine. Zach’s uncle was obviously no stranger to the Kennian Metropolitan Police. Lenoir loosened the twine and scanned the writing at the top of the uppermost page. “Thad Eccle,” he murmured aloud. Thirty-two years of age, six foot two, approximately two hundred ten pounds. Scar on the left cheek.
Definitely our man,
Lenoir thought. The scribe had done his job well.

Second-degree theft
, the charge on the topmost page read. Approximately two hundred crowns’ worth of goods recovered from Eccle’s premises, including forty pounds of silverware, two pewter door knockers, sundry items of jewelry, and a gilt mirror.
Sentence: not less than two years to be served in Fort Hald.
A comparatively light sentence. Too light, in Lenoir’s view. The incident was dated three years ago. That meant Zach had been living on the streets since the age of six. Lenoir had more or less known that, but his mouth still took a sour twist.

He thumbed through several random places in the pile.
First-degree theft. Battery. Attempted battery.
Each one carried a prison term. Thad Eccle seemed to have spent as much of his life in prison as out, going back to . . . Lenoir pulled out the bottom page.
Battery
, the charge read. Eccle had been eight years old. A lifelong criminal, irredeemable. He was fortunate to have escaped the hangman’s noose. Perhaps he had a patron, someone who paid off the magistrate for a more lenient sentence. The more talented thieves often had such protection, provided they turned a consistent profit for the crime lord they served. The moment they became too inconvenient, they were cut loose, or worse. Judging from Eccle’s record, he was one charge away from the gallows.
He should remember that,
Lenoir thought.
And if he does not, I shall have to remind him.