Darkwalker (17 page)

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Lenoir thought sourly. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what happened?”

Merden regarded him impassively. “Are you much practiced at sarcasm? It is a most unbecoming habit.”

“I have many unbecoming habits, sir, but it is the habit of being stalked by a spirit that concerns me most.”

Merden’s sigh was so grave that it struck fear into Lenoir’s heart. “It is as I thought. The spirit that hunts you is familiar to me. He figures prominently in many Adali legends. He is the Darkwalker, the champion of the dead, and if he counts you among his prey, your time is short.”

Lenoir huddled closer to the hearth, pressing his back against the warm stones. “I already knew that I was marked for death. The spirit made his intent perfectly clear.”

“Most likely you also know
why
you are so marked.” There was no judgment in Merden’s tone; it was simply a statement of fact. “The spirit exacts vengeance for sins committed against the dead. That is why the Adali treat their departed with such respect, for to defile the dead is to invite the wrath of the spirit. He has been known to my people for as long as our traditions record.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Lenoir spoke mechanically, guided more by habit than conscious thought. He did not really expect to learn anything useful, but he had come here to try.

“Very little, beyond what you have already seen for yourself. He abides in shadows, and is able to move almost instantaneously between them, provided the dark is deep enough. Sunlight is his enemy, but it cannot destroy him completely. He is immortal, though he was once a man.”

That
statement pierced the haze of numbness; Lenoir blinked in surprise. “What, an ordinary man?”

“Yes, though he died young. He was called Vincent. Legend tells us little else, except that his immortality is a curse, punishment for some terrible act he committed in life. It must have been terrible indeed, for he was damned to an eternity of slavery, sent forth to visit vengeance upon those who do wrong by the dead. It is said that he has no will of his own, at least none he can exert. He is controlled by an unknown force, compelled to go where he is sent, to kill those who have been marked.”

“Perhaps it is God who compels him,” Lenoir said, turning his gaze to the fire. His thoughts writhed like the flames.

“Would your God show such wrath? What manner of sin would merit such punishment, I wonder?”

“You sound as though you pity him.”

Merden considered this. “Perhaps I do. Enslaved for all eternity, your only purpose to murder and terrorize? Is that not the foulest torture conceivable?”

Lenoir looked at him askance. “You will forgive me, sir, if I have difficulty summoning much sympathy. He has shown little enough for me.”

“Do you deserve sympathy?” Merden asked bluntly.

Lenoir had a brief but vivid memory: a rain-slick street, a body, a shabby transaction of whispers and gold. Lenoir could feel the shape of the coins in his hand, cold as death, heavy as guilt. He had weighed them gently, thinking,
So this is the price of silence
. The price of murder unanswered, of justice denied. No, he did not deserve sympathy. “Can I be rid of him?” He knew the answer already, but he had to ask.

Sensing his resignation, Merden did not trouble with false comfort. “I am amazed you have avoided him for as long as you have.”

“I was free of him,” Lenoir murmured. “I escaped.” And then the corpse thieves brought him back, led him straight to Lenoir. Fate would not be denied.

“For a time, perhaps, but he was bound to find you. The Darkwalker can see through the eyes of the dead. Their memories are his memories. Their lifeless eyes are his windows to the world. That is how he knows his victims—he
sees
them. In your line of work, Inspector, it is surprising that it took this long for you to cross his path again.”

Lenoir stood on unsteady legs. He did not want to hear any more. None of it would help him. Nothing could help him.

He paid Merden’s fee—a staggering amount—and lurched out into the street. It was just before dawn. One more day to face, one last chance to find Zach and deliver him from the dark arts that awaited him. One way or another, Zach’s fate was all but decided.

Lenoir turned his steps toward the station. He was exhausted, but he could not afford to sleep. Besides, he had no wish to face the dreams that would await him. He needed to put the green-eyed man out of his mind. He needed to focus all his energy on finding Zach. Kody was an early riser, and would be at the station soon. They would recruit others—Izar, perhaps, and any other sergeants worth their pay. There were few enough of them, but Lenoir would take all the help he could get.

The streets were quiet. In a few minutes, the lamps would be doused, and the market district would come alive for the day’s trade. Lenoir told himself that these few minutes were safe, that the green-eyed man could not possibly find him in time to do him harm.

He was wrong.

Lenoir did not see where the attack came from, but the street behind him bucked and shattered. He shielded his head against a hail of cobblestones, peering between his arms for a glimpse of the spirit. He caught a flicker of movement, and he dove instinctively in the opposite direction. The air cracked like a pistol shot as the whip missed its target. Lenoir scrambled to his feet.

The spirit was standing directly in front of him, poised for another strike.

“Damn you, Vincent!” Lenoir screamed in impotent rage. Such was his fury at being cheated out of one last day that it momentarily eclipsed even his fear.

The spirit froze, arm suspended midmotion, and for the first time, Lenoir saw genuine emotion in those uncanny green eyes. It was surprise.

The spirit was stunned for only a moment, but it was long enough for Lenoir to break away, heading back the way he had come toward a labyrinth of back alleys. He knew these streets well, and if he chose his route carefully, there was a chance he could lose his pursuer amidst the maze of twists and turns.

It soon became clear, however, that the Darkwalker knew these streets at least as well as Lenoir. How could he not, when he was older than the city itself?

Fool.

The spirit easily anticipated his path, for many of the alleys were dead ends. It took no more than a brief glance at each intersection to track his prey. All Lenoir had succeeded in doing was cornering himself in a series of shadowed canyons that would delay the touch of dawn. It was no longer dark enough for the spirit to leap ahead of him, but the height of the buildings would shelter him from the sun for a good while yet, far too long for Lenoir to keep up his frantic pace. The spirit would not tire, but Lenoir could already feel his lungs burning. It was hopeless. Still, he kept running, instinct driving him on.

Before long, he found himself back in the square where Merden’s shop was located, and he made for open ground. Though dawn had broken, however, the sun’s rays had yet to clear the tops of the buildings.

Merden was outside, closing up shop. Lenoir’s frantic footfalls drew his attention, and when he looked up, he gasped and pinned himself against the door.

“Get inside!” Lenoir cried, making for the other side of the square.

Merden hesitated, transfixed in horror. Then he spun and unlocked the door, disappearing inside. Lenoir was relieved; he did not want the soothsayer’s blood on his hands. They were stained enough already.

He was heading due east, he realized grimly. Continuing in this direction would only delay his exposure to sunlight. But what choice did he have? He could hear the spirit’s footfalls behind him, so close. He could be no more than a hand-span outside the reach of the scourge.

“Vincent!” called a cool, clear voice.

The shock of it brought Lenoir up short. He whirled around.

So did the green-eyed man. Apparently, a thousand-odd years of immortality was not enough to erase the instinct to respond to one’s own name.

Merden was standing in the middle of the square, a long wooden staff in his hand, and as Vincent turned, the soothsayer threw his arm high. The tip of the staff flared with a light so blinding that Lenoir had to shield his eyes.

He did not dare waste the opportunity. Turning his back on the square, Lenoir kept running. He was loath to leave Merden behind, but the soothsayer had seemed so calm, so in command of himself, that it was tempting to believe he was in no danger. Would the spirit kill someone not expressly marked for death? Lenoir had no way of knowing.

He ran until he could not take another step. His knees gave out, and he collapsed in the street, gasping for air. It was only then that he felt the warmth of the sunlight bathing the street. He had survived.

•   •   •

Lenoir found Merden back in his shop, sipping tea. The soothsayer looked rattled, much more so than he had in the square. He did not, however, seem surprised to see Lenoir.

“Lavender tea? Calms the nerves.”

Lenoir scarcely registered the question. “How did you do it?” he whispered in awe. “What magic do you possess that you can summon sunlight at your will?”

Merden stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Is that what you think you saw?” He rose and moved behind the counter. He drew out the staff, showing it to Lenoir. There was an angled mirror lashed to the end. This was no magic; Merden had merely used the mirror to reflect the sun’s rays down into the square.

“I use it to search for items on the top shelf,” Merden explained, demonstrating. “Hardly arcane technique.”

Lenoir fell into a chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Incredible
.
You saved my life, Merden.”

“You are endowed with an uncommon store of luck, Inspector,” Merden said soberly. “My people believe that such gifts are not random.”

Lenoir made a wry face. “And yet I do not feel so very lucky.”

“That is understandable.”

“Perhaps I will take some of that tea.”

“That too is understandable,” said Merden, and he fetched another mug.

T
he station was still relatively deserted when Lenoir arrived, for the hour was yet early. Even so, the place was charged with a strange energy. Watchmen stood huddled in close groups of twos and threes, speaking in low tones. There were at least half a dozen sergeants in the kennel, unusual at this early hour, and they were all donning weapons and coats as though intending to hit the streets en masse. One of the scribes, a pretty young woman whose name Lenoir did not know, leaned against a nearby desk, weeping. Something was wrong.

He spotted the chief across the room, shaking his head and scowling as he listened to a report from Sergeant Innes. The chief was almost never seen down in the kennel, preferring the private space of his office. And he was certainly never at the station before breakfast.

Something was very wrong.

“Chief,” Lenoir called.

The chief glanced up, his mouth tightening when he saw Lenoir. He shook his head again and dismissed Innes. “Where have you been?” he asked gruffly as Lenoir approached.

“I worked through the night,” Lenoir replied, an uneasy feeling creeping over him. “What has happened?”

Chief Lendon Reck paused, regarding Lenoir with tired eyes. His skin sagged around the deep lines of his face, and his thick eyebrows, drawn together in a characteristically severe line, were almost completely gray. He should have retired long ago, probably, but the chief seemed to think there was no one in Kennian capable of taking his place. In principle, Lenoir agreed, but he did not think he had ever seen the chief looking quite so worn as he did at this moment.

“What is it?” Lenoir repeated quietly.

“Sergeant Hardin is dead, and Kody is in a coma. They don’t think he’ll make it.”

Lenoir stared.

“One of the watchmen found them about two hours ago. Innes has already been to the scene. Sword through the gut, both of them.”

“They tried to make it look like a robbery,” Innes put in, rejoining them. “Didn’t do a very good job, though, Inspector.”

“No blood in the alley,” the chief said. “The bodies had obviously been moved. Plus, Kody took a nasty blow to the skull. Lucky, in a way—getting knocked out probably saved his life. The killer obviously didn’t realize the sword hadn’t done the job.” He paused again. “I’m sorry, Lenoir. I know he’s one of your best.”

Lenoir swallowed, finally able to speak. “Not just one of them, Chief. He is the best we have.”
And a better man than any of us,
he added silently.

Innes nodded; none of the sergeants would disagree. “When we find the bastard who did this, we’re going to hang him with his own guts.” The big man left to join the others, grabbing a brace of pistols off a desk as he passed.

The chief sighed, watching the sergeants quit the building with purposeful strides. “I think they might do just that. I’m going to have a serious discipline problem on my hands.” He looked back at Lenoir. “Any idea who might have done this?”

Lenoir sat heavily on a desk. “No. When I left him yesterday, we were riding back from Berryvine. We planned to question some of the local Adali community. If I were Kody, I would have started with Fort Hald.”

“Not very helpful,” the chief said, scratching the stubble on his chin. He had obviously been roused from sleep to attend matters at the station. “If they’d met with foul play at the prison, we would have heard about it from the guards. Besides, I saw Kody myself yesterday evening, coming out of your office. If you’re right about the prison, he must already have been there and back.”

“But if he found a lead . . .”

The chief nodded. “Sergeant Cale says he saw Kody talking to a couple of the other sergeants. Then he and Hardin left together. I’d wager he found something all right, and he decided to take Hardin with him to investigate. We’re looking for Izar now. Hopefully he’ll have some information.”

Lenoir would not have picked Hardin, but he kept the thought to himself, for there was no need to speak ill of the dead.

The chief pointed at one of the watchmen. “You there! Round up the inspectors! Probably still asleep, the lazy bastards. Send one of them to the scene, the other two to the prison. In the meantime, I want to speak personally to every single one of you who saw Kody yesterday. I want to know every move he made. I want to know what he had for lunch and when he went to the privy, understood?”

Lenoir passed a hand over his eyes, feeling more exhausted than he had in months. “And me, Chief?”

Reck regarded him gravely. “If I could, Lenoir, I’d send you home. You look bloody awful, and you smell worse. God only knows how you spend your nights. But I can’t spare you, even if you look like it’s your last day in this world.”

Lenoir snorted.
If you only knew, Chief.
“I will be fine. As much as I would like to find out what happened to Kody and Hardin, however, there are other lives at stake.”

“Oh?”

“The case Kody was working on involves kidnapped children. I have reason to fear that the life of at least one child is at imminent risk. I must continue my work. If I find those responsible, I believe we will have Hardin’s murderer.”

“We’d better. Nobody kills one of my hounds and lives to gloat about it.” He stalked away, raising his voice for the benefit of everyone in the kennel. “You hear me, people? I want this bastard dead by this time tomorrow, but it’ll be at the end of a rope and not on the point of a sword. Got that? Now let’s get moving!”

•   •   •

Lenoir headed up to his office. If Kody had been there, perhaps he had left a report of his findings that afternoon. It seemed unlikely that the sergeant could have found anything concrete from questioning random Adali, but the fact that he and Hardin had been attacked strongly suggested that he had found
something
, enough to set him on the path that ended in Hardin’s murder.

Sure enough, Lenoir found a note on his desk, scrawled with Kody’s crooked handwriting. He had not used a scribe, and he had not filed a full report. Kody was the most conscientious officer Lenoir had ever worked with, a fact Lenoir generally found irritating. If the sergeant had not filed a report, it meant that he had been in a hurry. Perhaps his lead had been time-sensitive. Or he might simply have been excited. As meticulous as the sergeant was, he was also overeager, another quality that annoyed Lenoir. Kody might have allowed his enthusiasm to get the better of his diligence.

The note did not shed much light. It confirmed that Kody had indeed visited the prison, and that he had found a lead he deemed worthy of follow-up. Beyond that, however, there were no details.
I will brief you as soon as I get back,
the note said, but it did not say where he was going, or what he had learned that had piqued his interest. Lenoir read it over twice. He crumpled it into a tight ball and threw it away.

He sat for a moment, twitching with fury. Then he leapt to his feet and swept his arm across the desk, knocking an inkpot and quill to the floor. His rage still unsatisfied, he grabbed his chair and threw it against the wall. That done, he leaned against the desk, feeling foolish and spent.

He cursed the sergeant for his impatience. The one time it really mattered, when his bureaucratic instincts might actually have been useful, Kody had gone off half-cocked. Instead of waiting for Lenoir, he had rounded up a bungling drunk of a sergeant who was utterly incapable of looking out for him if things went sour. His sloppiness had resulted in Hardin’s death, and quite possibly his own.

And now there was no one to help find Zach. For the first time, Lenoir needed Kody, and the sergeant was not there. Nor was anyone else; the entire Metropolitan Police force was out looking for Hardin’s murderer. Lenoir had no leads, and no support. He would never be able to convince the chief to spare any resources to help him, for there was nothing in this world more determined than a hound looking for a hound-killer. Nothing, perhaps, except the green-eyed man.

Lenoir paused.

The idea struck him with such force that he could not believe it had not occurred to him before. Perhaps some part of his mind, the part that looked to survival above all else, had blocked it out. Whatever the reason, Lenoir saw his path clearly now. It was not an easy one; it could only end in his death, even if he succeeded. But he had been staring death in the face for days now. Perhaps he was finally growing used to it. Kody might already have paid the ultimate price for trying to save Zach, and he had never even met the boy. Could Lenoir do any less?

He righted his chair and replaced the inkpot and quill on his desk, taking care not to step in the spatter of fresh ink on the floor. He closed the door to his office and headed down the stairs. The kennel was filling with watchmen and scribes, their faces angry or sorrowful. Some called to Lenoir, offering the condolences and expressions of hope they imagined he wanted to hear. He ignored them and made for the street.

He was famished. No longer pressed for time, he decided to head to the Courtier. He hoped they stocked the kitchen early; he was in the mood for a steak. There was a good chance this would be his last meal, and he wanted to enjoy it.

•   •   •

Zach shivered against the cold. It was damp in this room, and smothered in constant darkness. The musty smell of rotting vegetables clung to the air, an odor that reminded him of the kitchen at the orphanage. The association wasn’t comforting. His movements sounded muted against the earthen floor, suggesting a tightly enclosed space. He was in a cellar of some sort. He’d been here for more than a day, he guessed, though it was impossible to measure the passage of time in the dark.

He’d been alone for a very long time. He could hear his captors coming and going, their footfalls sounding above his head, loosing cascades of dirt that fell into his eyes. He couldn’t even wipe away the grit, since his hands were still bound. At least they had removed the gag. Apparently, they didn’t mind if he screamed, so Zach didn’t bother trying. He was braver than that, anyway.

He had mapped out the room as best he could. It was about five leg spans by ten, with a set of stairs leading up to a door. He’d counted fifteen stairs, for all the good it did him. There were a couple of crooked shelves on one wall, which Zach had explored in detail, searching for a nail or anything else he could use to cut through his bonds. No such luck; the shelves were bare, and whatever hardware affixed them to the wall, he couldn’t find it.

He slept a lot. There wasn’t much else to do. When he wasn’t sleeping, he spent a lot of time thinking about Lenoir. He was sure the inspector was looking for him. Lenoir had always said that Zach was valuable, and Zach took him at his word. Lenoir wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. Still, Zach wondered what was taking so long. Lenoir was the best inspector in the Five Villages—everyone said so. He could find anything and anyone. So why wasn’t he here yet? How was it that Zach’s captors were still free? The only explanation he could think of was that it had taken Lenoir a while to realize he was missing. That would make sense; it wasn’t as though they saw each other every day.

He decided to try sending Lenoir a message with his mind. Maybe if he thought hard enough, Lenoir would hear him somehow, or if he couldn’t
hear
, exactly, he would somehow just
know
, like an instinct. Zach closed his eyes and thought so hard his face hurt.

A noise sounded above his head, and his heart leapt. But it was only his captors returning. He recognized their voices now. There were three of them, two men and a woman, all Adali. There had been more at first, but some of the voices had gone away and never come back. Sometimes they spoke Braelish, and sometimes they didn’t. Even when they did, Zach didn’t learn much. They argued a lot, the woman especially, and sometimes it became heated. They were arguing now.

“That’s four, Ani.
Four.
Or have you not been keeping track?”

“I can count perfectly well,” a woman’s voice said angrily. “You’re not the only one who can think.”

“Oh, really? Then why am I the only one who sees what’s happening here? Everyone who handled one of the corpses is dead. Do you think it’s coincidence, Ani?”

“It may be,” said the one called Ani. “We don’t even know for sure what happened to the gravedigger. He may have fled the area. He was a coward, after all.”

“Bah! You’re a fool!”

“You are both fools,” said a third voice. His accent was different from the others, much more pronounced. “Even if you are right, Kern, it is too late to turn back now. If we do not succeed, the whole clan is at risk. I would rather take my chances with vigilantes than lose everything.”

“Vigilantes?” the other man echoed incredulously. “Is that what you think is going on? They found Raiyen with his throat stabbed in a hundred places and the life strangled out of him. We’re no strangers to lynch mob justice. Have you ever seen such brutality?”

“You exaggerate,” said Ani scornfully.

Zach’s mind whirred as he listened. His captors were obviously scared, especially the man called Kern. It sounded as though one of them was dead, and maybe more. Zach didn’t know what a “vigilante” was, but he knew plenty about lynch mobs. Every street urchin knew about those. They could just sort of
happen
, a group of passersby intervening to stop a thief or a vandal. The scarier kind was organized, brought together to catch a rapist or a murderer and make sure he got sorted. Mob justice wasn’t uncommon in the Five Villages, especially in Kennian, and as far as Zach could tell, the hounds didn’t worry about it too much. But he’d never heard of anything quite as ugly as what had happened to Raiyen.

The voices hushed abruptly as a new set of footsteps joined them. There were murmured greetings, and then an unfamiliar voice said, “Here you are. I came by earlier, but the house was empty. Where have you been?” Like Ani’s and Kern’s, this accent was softer, more like a normal Kennian accent. Zach decided that most of his captors were local, but one of them wasn’t. Lenoir would have been proud of him for figuring that out.