Darkwalker

by E. L. Tettensor

  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.

  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 consi
dered. “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?”