Darkwalker

CHAPTER 2

Nicolas Lenoir strolled the main thoroughfare of Kennian, hands in the pockets of his long coat, moving at the leisurely pace of a man without purpose. This was not the same as not having a destination, for he had one: the Courtier, a rather grandly titled eating house that he frequented at least five times a week. It was not an overly convenient location; Lenoir lived more than two dozen blocks to the east, in a cramped and disordered apartment that he avoided as often as possible. But the portly cook who presided over the Courtier’s bustling kitchen was the only man in all of the Five Villages who could do a passable impression of steak serlois. Asking for still-bloody beef anywhere else was as good as putting oneself at the mercy of the superstitious butchers that passed for physicians in this city. And though characterizing the Courtier’s meat as filet was perhaps stretching the limits of credulity, at least one did not require a handsaw to cut through it.

Though Lenoir’s step bent to the Courtier, he was in no hurry to arrive there. In truth, he seldom moved with much urgency—had not for years—but especially not in the evening. Though he knew it was irrational, Lenoir could not help feeling that the sooner he arrived at the eating house and took his supper, the sooner his evening would be over, whereupon he would be required to sleep. And sleep was something Nicolas Lenoir avoided for as long as possible.

For one thing, there was nothing more depressing than the morning, and one was never more conscious of the morning than when one woke to it. At least when he did not sleep, Lenoir could imagine that one day bled seamlessly into another, an endless monotony he could plod through without really marking the passage of time. But when he slept, the day ended and thus began anew. And to wake without purpose, without desire or direction, was almost enough to drive a man mad.

On top of this, Lenoir had recently developed an even more pressing reason to avoid sleep. His dreams had become strange and vivid, and though he could rarely recall them in much detail, the quickening of his heartbeat and the moistness of his brow upon waking were evidence enough of their darkness.

When he could remember, Lenoir knew he dreamed of Serles. He would wake to lingering images of her elegant galleries and cobbled plazas, of stylish ladies with billowing silken sleeves and wide bonnets trimmed with lace. Sometimes he would recall a moment in time: his steps haunting the halls of the Prefecture of Police, or passing the grim facade of Fort Sennin. Once he even woke with the tantalizing scent of glazed strawberry tarts in his nose.

Those were the hardest mornings, when Lenoir was confronted rudely by his past. Usually it invaded subtly: the smell of lavender, perhaps, or a sauce that reminded him of caroule. These intrusions he could cope with, for they were fleeting and faded quickly. But when he dreamed, the past barged roughly into his mind and usurped his thoughts, and he would spend weeks in agony, struggling to cast out memories of the city of his birth. It pained him to remember Serles. He shrank from it almost as much as he shrank from remembering the man he had been when he lived there. Her beauty and his youth were lost to him both, and he had no desire to think on either of them.

Nor was Lenoir greatly more enthusiastic about contemplating the present. Kennian was an amiable sort of city, large enough to contain varied society and ample diversions, yet not so large as to overwhelm. But the surrounding hamlets that made up the remainder of the Five Villages were so backwater, so provincial, as to evoke the darkest days of the Cassiterian Empire. Lenoir thought it unaccountably bizarre that the villagers of Brackensvale, Denouth, North Haven, and Berryvine should exist so near the cosmopolitan capital, yet still retain the insular ways of small communities in the middle of nowhere. So when Lenoir grew weary of Kennian, as anyone must, he had nowhere to fly to for a change of scenery. There was simply no other city in Braeland worthy of the journey. He longed to leave this country behind, with its harsh accents and crude tastes, and return to his homeland. But he dared not.

“A copper for your thoughts, mister?” said a voice, breaking into Lenoir’s musings. He turned at the sound, but could not immediately locate its source. Then he saw a shadow moving in a doorway, barely discernible in the failing light of evening. He glanced at the sign hanging crookedly above the doorframe and was surprised to see that he had already reached the orphanage. He must have been walking faster than he realized.

He addressed his reply to the gloom of the doorway. “If you have a copper, Zach, I shall have to arrest you for theft.”

“Fair enough,” said the boy brightly, stepping out into the thoroughfare. “How ’bout you give me a copper, and I’ll pretend to be interested in your thoughts?”

Lenoir eyed the scruffy creature before him. Skinny, unkempt, and unwashed, Zach probably appeared pathetic to those who did not look closely enough. The careful observer, though, noting the keenness of his gaze and the impish curl of his mouth, would know him at once for the quick-witted, street-savvy survivor that he was.

“I suppose you are looking for dinner,” Lenoir said.

Zach grinned. “Always.”

“All right, but if you steal any purses, you are on your own. I cannot have trouble with the Courtier or I will starve.” He crooked his neck sharply. “Come.”

The boy fell in step beside him, tugging his faded hat over the tips of his ears. He had outgrown the hat by at least one winter, Lenoir judged, and it no longer covered him as it should. As he fussed with it, Lenoir was struck once again by the boy’s height—or rather its lack. Though nearly ten, Zach barely came past Lenoir’s elbow. A lifetime of poor diet had stunted the boy’s growth such that he was the size of a healthy child of six or seven.

“Anything exciting today?” the boy asked.

Lenoir shrugged. “No. A small crime, no motive. A waste of a day.”

“You always say that,” Zach said, disappointed.

It was true, Lenoir supposed—he could not recall the last time he had found a case interesting. “All right, I will humor you. It was a theft, but nothing valuable. Someone stole a body.”

“You mean a dead body?” Zach’s eyes rounded; then his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Why?”

“You tell me.”

Zach looked up at him. “This game again? I’m not very good at it.”

“You are better than you think. Proceed.”

He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip in thought. “Whose body was it?”

“A boy, about your age, in fact. He lived in Brackensvale.”

“How did he die?”

The question brought Lenoir up short. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I should have asked, perhaps. That’s good, Zach—you are doing well. Now, for the purposes of our game, let us assume the cause of death is not important.”

“Was he rich?”

“Rich?”

“Well, maybe they buried him with some jewels or something.” Zach’s eyes lit up in childish delight at the idea.

Lenoir chuckled. “You have heard too many tales of the ancient Cassiterians, I think. The parents were poor. They would not have buried the boy with anything valuable.”

Zach’s brow puckered as he thought. He fell silent, and neither of them spoke again until they reached the Courtier. Lenoir hauled on the door, golden warmth spilling forth into the flat light of evening. Rough laughter and the clink of crockery tumbled after, and finally the smell of sawdust and roasting meat. Zach passed under Lenoir’s arm as he held the door open, and soon the boy’s small form disappeared within a sea of patrons, only to bob to the surface a moment later behind an empty table. By the time Lenoir sat down, Zach was ready with his next question.

“Do they have witches in Brackensvale?”

Lenoir blinked. “What does it mean, ‘witches’?” It still happened occasionally that someone would use a word Lenoir had not heard before.

“You know,” the boy said impatiently, “like Adali doctors who use magic to cure the sick. I’ve heard they sometimes use dead bodies in their spells.”

Lenoir laughed. Sometimes he allowed himself to forget that Zach was, after all, only a child. “Perhaps you are young enough yet to believe in magic.”

The boy scowled at this. “Adali doctors can heal mortal wounds with berries and spit and ground-up bones. Everybody knows that.”

Lenoir twisted in his chair and waved for the barmaid. Over his shoulder, he said, “The Adali have a special gift for healing, it is true. But they are an ancient race, and they wander all over the land. It is only natural that they have learned a few tricks.”

Zach was unconvinced. “They can talk with their animals.”

“They are a herding people, Zach. It is instinct, such as you may find even among beasts. It is mysterious, yes, but hardly magic.”

He ordered wine. He knew Zach preferred ale, but the boy would have to settle for what his host was offering. Beer was simply not something Lenoir could ever seriously consider consuming.

Zach let the matter drop and they waited in silence for the barmaid to return with the wine. When she did, Lenoir said, “Stew for the boy.” Zach pulled a face, and Lenoir smiled. “You will thank me when you grow tall.” There was no need to tell the barmaid what he wanted for himself; it had been years since he had ordered anything else.

When the food arrived, Zach plunged into his bowl as though expecting to find treasure at the bottom. He ate with alarming speed, his spoon scarcely escaping his mouth before it was captured again. It seemed impossible that he could chew in the brief intervals between mouthfuls; it was a marvel the boy did not choke himself. Lenoir watched with grim fascination, his own meat barely touched by the time Zach was through.

“Since you have finished your supper,” said Lenoir, eying Zach’s empty bowl in mild disbelief, “and I have scarcely begun mine, we shall have to find something to occupy you while I eat. Suppose you tell me about the people in this room?”

“What about them?” Zach’s gaze was fixed on Lenoir’s steak. “I don’t know anybody here, if that’s what you mean.”

Lenoir took a bite of his meat. It was overdone, but still edible. “That is the point, Zach. You do not know them, so you must look closely in order to decide what they are like. You must form an idea of who they are based on their clothes, their expressions, what they are saying and doing.”

“You mean I should make up stories about them?”

“In a manner of speaking. You want to be an inspector someday, yes? Solve puzzles and defeat evildoers?” When he was met with silence, Lenoir looked up from his meal to find Zach sulking.

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make fun of me about wanting to be a hound. You make it sound like I’m a stupid kid who wants to go out and save princesses or something.”

Lenoir paused, his fork and knife hovering on either side of his plate. What the boy said was true, he supposed; he routinely teased Zach about his desire to become an inspector. Lenoir knew he should be flattered that the boy looked up to him. Instead he found himself irritated by Zach’s naive notion of police work, mostly because it reminded him of his own illusions so long ago, illusions that had been cruelly and painfully shattered. Still, he did the boy an ill turn by constantly throwing cold water on his ambitions. It was only natural Zach would aspire to something greater than his station in life. Do not begrudge the boy his dreams, Lenoir. They will be taken from him soon enough.

“You are right, Zach,” he said, diving back into his meat. “I apologize. Now, back to our task. A good inspector must be aware of his surroundings, down to the last detail. He must be able to tell certain things about a person just by looking—what he does for a living, for example, or something else about his life that may be important.”

Zach cocked his head. “How?”

Pausing again, Lenoir scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on a couple huddled together in a back corner. They were almost shielded from sight by a beam supporting the ceiling, but even so they stood out, at least to him.

“Do you see the man and woman near the back of the room?”

Zach followed his gaze and nodded. “I see them.”

“She is his mistress. They are having an affair.”

The boy looked at him skeptically. “Says who?”

Lenoir skewered a piece of meat and dragged it through the juices pooled on his plate. “See where they have chosen to sit? It is the worst table in the room. It is too dark, and far enough from the hearth that it is no doubt cold as well. It is difficult to see them behind the beam, so they will probably have trouble getting the barmaid’s attention. And see also how they are dressed?”

“They look rich,” Zach said thoughtfully. This observation, at least, fell squarely within his area of expertise. A street urchin such as he could spot wealth as easily as a hawk finds a snake in short grass. “Too rich to be in a place like this,” he added.

“Exactly,” Lenoir smiled. “They are here because there is little chance of being seen by anyone they know. They are obviously hiding, and from the way they sit so closely together, they are obviously lovers. Yet they are not equals. She looks rich, yes, but that is only because of her gloves and the fur she wears around her neck. Her dress is not up to the same standard. The fur and the gloves are most likely gifts from her lover. A man of his station would never marry so far beneath him, and he is too old to be a bachelor. So . . . an affair.” He popped the forkful of meat into his mouth and waggled his eyebrows at Zach.

The boy laughed, delighted. “Do it again!”

“I think not. It is your turn now.”

Zach looked doubtful, but he sat up, peering over Lenoir’s shoulder at the Courtier’s patrons. His gaze skipped from person to person like a stone skimming the surface of a lake, unable to find anyone he was confident enough to describe. At last, his eyes came to rest on a young man hunched over a bowl of stew. “Him,” Zach said firmly.

When Lenoir merely raised his eyebrows expectantly, Zach said, “He’s got no money, you can tell by his clothes. He’s hungry too—see how fast he eats?” Here he hesitated, waiting for the inspector to pass judgment on his performance so far.

“Go on,” said Lenoir.

Zach was quiet for a moment, watching. Lenoir watched too. The youth was indeed a pathetic sight. He had no cloak, but only a threadbare shirt, surely unequal to the cold outside. His hair was greasy and matted, and every so often he paused from shoveling stew into his mouth to scratch, betraying the lice in his scalp. More than anything, however, it was the look in his eye that gave him away: hunted, darting around the room as though searching for threat or opportunity. Zach had chosen well. He might not know his subject personally, but all the same, the youth was all too familiar.

“He’s going to make a dash for it,” Zach said confidently.

“A dash?”

“He can’t pay, I’d bet a copper on it. When he’s finished eating, he’s going to run.”

As though sensing someone’s eyes on him, the youth looked up from his bowl. It was empty, Lenoir saw. The youth’s gaze flitted around, then locked with Lenoir’s. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and in that moment, Lenoir knew Zach was right. An instant later, just as Zach had predicted, the youth shoved his chair back and bolted.

He had not chosen his table well. The room was too crowded and he was too far from the door. He never made it. By the time he reached the entrance to the Courtier, the barman had vaulted over the bar and was blocking the doorway, meaty fists raised. The youth hesitated, panic etched onto his thin face. He backed away between the tables, but found no comfort there: one of the patrons planted a boot in his backside and propelled him forward, straight into the arms of the barman.

The barman grinned, his great paws seizing the youth by his upper arms. “You picked the wrong place to steal a meal, lad,” he growled. Then, his face contorting with malice, he hurled his captive headfirst into the door. There was a sickening crunch, and the youth collapsed in a heap of rags. But the barman was not finished with him: he grabbed the youth by the top of his britches, hefting him easily, and used his body like a battering ram to open the front door. They disappeared out into the street.

Some of the patrons followed, eager to see the excitement outside. Most continued about their business, as though nothing had happened that they had not seen many times before. Lenoir, for his part, returned to his steak. When he had finished, however, and the barman still had not returned, Lenoir sighed and rose.

“Stay here,” he told Zach, and headed out the front door.

The scene was gruesome. The youth was on his hands and knees, a long, sticky string of blood dangling from his lip to the dirt. His face was split open in several places, and one eye was swelling shut. His drooping eyelids showed him to be moments away from losing consciousness. The barman stood over him, sleeves rolled up, shouting.

“Get up, you piece of filth! We’re not done here!” The small crowd of onlookers jeered their approval.

“All right,” called Lenoir, “that’s enough. You have made your point, Barclay.”

The barman looked up, scowling at the interruption. When he saw Lenoir, the scowl turned from anger to disappointment. “Come on, Inspector—he’s getting his due!”

“You don’t need to kill him. He will not be back.”

“He’s a bloody thief,” Barclay said indignantly, “and if I don’t make an example of him, there’ll be more where he came from! Can’t you at least arrest him or something?”

Lenoir shrugged. “I could, but what would be the point? The man is obviously starving. I can throw him in jail every other day, but he will still steal to survive. So why waste the time and money? It will do no good. The best you can hope for is that he steals from someone else.”

“Then let me finish, Inspector. I’ll see to it you eat for free for the rest of the month.”

Lenoir sighed again, tilting his head to survey the pathetic form hunched in the dirt. The youth might lose consciousness, but he did not appear to be close to death. “All right. Five minutes. But be careful, Barclay—if you kill him, I will have to arrest you.”

The barman grinned. He grabbed the youth’s clothes two-fisted, hauling him up. Lenoir did not wait to see the rest; he turned and went back inside the Courtier. He had no desire to see what had been purchased for a month’s worth of steak.

Stars drift overhead like a slow cascade of sparks. He watches, transfixed. Long has it been since he has seen such beauty. He remembers little of beauty from his life, but he remembers the stars. Like him, they are eternal. They have been with him since the beginning.

The wagon plods along. He is not sure how long the journey has been—he no longer measures time as mortals do—but he knows they have gone far. Wherever the gravedigger is taking his burden, it is a long way from the place the boy was buried. The soil clinging to the body, once black and moist, has dried out; specks of it cling to the left eye. It is like looking through a dirty window. The right eye is still closed, but one is enough. He cannot feel, cannot hear or taste or smell, but he can see. He has seen the gravedigger, through that dirty left eye, and condemned the man to death. He might have struck already, but he knows instinctively there are others involved, and he would see them too.

The wagon shudders to a halt. After a pause, the sky above jerks and shifts as the body is pulled roughly from the wagon. It falls and lands in a tumble. For a moment, all he can see is the ground; then the body is rolled over, and he is looking into a new face. The newcomer scans the corpse with obvious concern, as though looking for injury, even though the child is long dead. Over his shoulder, a third man is talking to the gravedigger, gesturing angrily at the body. The gravedigger looks confused and afraid.

He takes in all three faces—the gravedigger and the two newcomers—memorizing every feature so he will know them when the time comes. For now, he waits. There may be others still.

The third man hands the gravedigger a purse and sends him on his way. The man kneeling over the body brushes loose soil from the boy’s hair. Slowly, gently, he closes the left eye.

It does not matter. He has already seen them. They are already marked.