Darkwalker

CHAPTER 5

Darkness 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.

He made for the river, taking random turns in an effort to break his pursuer’s line of sight. But he did not know the city well, and soon the street disgorged him onto a bridge. It was horribly exposed, but he had no choice: he pounded on, his head bent low as he sprinted. Only when he reached the far edge of the bridge did he look up, and what he saw stopped his heart. There, waiting for him at the other end, was the man with the flashing green eyes.

It was impossible, unnatural. The gravedigger’s knees buckled, and he sank slowly to the ground. “Please,” he sobbed quietly as the green-eyed man approached. “Please.”

The man stood over him now, expressionless. The gravedigger’s last thought was that he looked like an avenging angel.

So beautiful.