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.
“We went to find news about Leshni,” Ani said. “They found him in an alley in Berryvine. You heard about that too?”
“I have. What of it?”
“That makes four,” Kern said again.
“We suspect vigilantes.”
“You suspect vigilantes,” Kern hissed.
“You are too easily distracted,” the newcomer said coolly. “Remember your purpose. If you succeed, your clan will be powerful, more so than many of the others. Keep that always in your mind, and you need not worry. The good of your clan is all that matters.”
“Meaning that each of us is expendable,” Kern said.
“Of course we are,” the man with the heavy accent said. “The clan always comes first. Where are your values? Or have you been living amongst the city folk for so long that you forget who you are?”
“I was born here,” Kern said. “What’s the clan ever done for me? They don’t even know I exist. What do I care if they’re powerful?”
“It is not about power,” the other man said. “Our people are suffering. This is a small price to pay to heal them.”
“For you, maybe.”
“You are free to leave at any time, Kern.”
“And go where? I need the money.” The floorboards above Zach’s head sounded with footsteps, as though someone had started pacing. When Kern spoke again, he sounded calmer. “It’s just . . . this is getting out of hand. You never said anything about hurting anyone. They were supposed to be dead already. And now these killings . . .”
“Enough,” said the newcomer. “How much longer do you need? This is already taking far more time than you said it would.”
“It has been more difficult than we anticipated,” the one with the heavy accent said. “We have failed twice, but we learned valuable lessons.”
“You can manage without the other witchdoctor?”
“Raiyen’s loss was a setback, but I do not think he truly had the stomach for this in any case. He served his purpose; I learned what I needed from him. We are close now. I just need to make a few adjustments.”
“Then do it! The hounds are snooping around, and it’s only a matter of time before they find us. Hurry your preparations, and inform me when you are ready to try again. I want to be there this time.”
“As you wish.”
The newcomer left, and the trio went back to arguing. Zach had stopped listening. He didn’t want to hear any more about murder and vigilantes. He didn’t want to think about what his captors were planning for him. Instead he clung to those few precious words the newcomer had spoken.
The hounds were coming. Lenoir was coming. Zach closed his eyes and waited.
• • •
Lenoir had never waited so impatiently for night to come. His leg bounced restlessly under the table, and his eyes strayed to the window every few minutes. He had not moved from the spot all day. The barmaid had gone from curious to nervous to disturbed. She had long since stopped coming over to refill his wine. It was for the best; he needed his wits about him. Finally, when he could stand it no more, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door, ignoring the look of relief on the barmaid’s face. It was not yet sunset, but it was close enough. He had just enough time to make it to the main square in the market district. He was not sure why he had chosen the spot, but it seemed as good as any.
He sat on a bench on the west side of the square. His leg resumed its bouncing as he waited. The shadows were gathering, crawling out from beneath the buildings and across the square. It would not be long now. He watched the streetlamps being lit, each one casting a small circle of light onto the cobblestones below. He watched the merchants closing up their shops for the day. He looked out for Merden, but the soothsayer did not appear. Perhaps he was taking some time to recover from the previous night’s excitement.
Darkness came, but the square did not empty right away. There were still street musicians, flower carts, and other traders whose wares were in demand in the evening. Romance was in fashion these days, and Kennian’s young noblemen could often be found in the market district in the evening, looking for any advantage in their endless quest to impress young ladies. Lenoir wished them all away with no small measure of bitterness. Where such frivolities might once have provoked idle cynicism, they seemed positively perverse to him now.
An hour passed, perhaps more. Finally, the last of the evening merchants moved along. Lenoir was alone in the square. Shivering, he drew his scarf more tightly around his neck. He was grateful for the thick wool. Winter was nearly here. He experienced a brief pang as he realized he had seen his last spring.
He was daydreaming about Serles, her boulevards garlanded with new green leaves, when the attack came.
The scourge snapped around his neck, constricting immediately. Lenoir was jerked back against the bench. He clawed at the whip, but the barbs tore his flesh, preventing him from getting his fingers underneath. There was a powerful pull from behind, and he was dragged over the
top of the bench. He hit the ground with his right shoulder, driving the air from his lungs. He could not draw breath to replace it; already, his vision was beginning to sparkle.
No! Not yet! This is not how it was supposed to be! Lenoir scrambled frantically, trying to loosen the scourge enough to allow him to speak. He had not counted upon the spirit ambushing him, not like this. It had never occurred to him that he would not have a chance to utter a single word before he died. As it was, he only remained conscious because of the scarf around his neck, for it provided a barrier between his flesh and the life-sapping touch of the scourge.
The scarf!
Lenoir yanked the knot free and pulled the scarf away from his neck, using the wool as leverage against the coils of the scourge. The barbs bit through, and for a moment he thought the scarf would tear. He pulled with a strength born of desperation, and finally the leather lost its grip on itself and the coils fell free. The air hummed as the green-eyed man drew the whip back to his side, preparing for another strike.
Lenoir gasped, filling his lungs with just enough air for a single word:
“Vincent!”
As before, the spirit hesitated, if only for a split second.
Lenoir swallowed another lungful of air. “Wait!” He held up his hand in a staying gesture, but the scourge lashed out and wrapped around his forearm. Lenoir expended his precious air in a scream. He scrabbled for his sword, but his left hand was clumsy, and the pain was so intense . . .
Forget the pain. You have only one chance.
“I can help you find them!” The words dissolved into more screaming.
And then a miracle happened. The pain stopped. The whip released him.
It was working.
“I can help you find them,” Lenoir repeated, gasping. “All of them.” The scourge remained still. The hope that flooded Lenoir’s body gave him strength, and he lurched to his knees. The green-eyed man stood before him, head cocked, scourge dangling limply at his side. His fey gaze glinted inscrutably. He was waiting.
This was it, Lenoir’s one chance. It was pure desperation. It was worse than that—it was suicide. But it was also Zach’s only hope.
“We seek the same people, you and I,” he rasped. “The corpse thieves. You have seen some of them through the eyes of the dead, and you have killed them. But there are more—those you have not seen. I am certain of it. And I can help you find them.”
The spirit did not move. He regarded Lenoir with narrowed eyes, his face otherwise expressionless. Lenoir had no idea if his words were having the desired effect. He could not even be certain that the spirit understood.
“Vincent.” He spoke the name deliberately, hoping to appeal to some vestige of this creature’s former self. “Let me help you find them.”
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the mad rhythm of Lenoir’s heartbeat.
“Why?” The word issued forth like an icy wind from the depths of a crypt. Lenoir shuddered. It had not occurred to him that the spirit could speak, and he would have preferred to go to his grave without ever hearing that voice.
Collecting himself, he said, “Because I need to find them too. They have taken a boy I know, and they mean him harm.”
“I have no care for the living,” Vincent said, the inhumanity of his words matched by the dread chill of his voice. His face remained devoid of expression.
“That may be, but if I am right, the kidnappers, the ones who took the boy, are the same people as those behind the theft of the corpses. You have taken your revenge upon the men who actually did the deed, but what about those in whose name the deed was done? Should they who are truly responsible go unpunished?” He had practiced this speech a hundred times or more during his restless hours at the Courtier. It had sounded more convincing in his head.
“They will not go unpunished. I will find them.”
“Only if you have seen them.” Lenoir prayed that Merden’s information was correct. Generation upon generation of oral tradition was not the most reliable of sources. “Those giving the orders are rarely the same as those who carry them out.” This too was a gamble. Lenoir had no way of knowing how many culprits there were, let alone how many Vincent had seen.
The spirit was silent, his marble features betraying nothing of his thoughts—if he even had thoughts at all.
Lenoir licked his lips, trying to think clearly through the blood roaring in his ears. His fear was making him light-headed, but he had had many hours to prepare for this encounter. He thanked God for that. “When you . . . saw . . . the corpse thieves, did you also see a boy? Alive?”
The spirit did not reply immediately, and for a moment Lenoir feared that the conversation—and his life—had come to an end. Then Vincent said, “I saw no child.”
Lenoir’s heart sank, but in a way it was good news. “You see? That proves that you have not seen all of the corpse thieves, for some of them still hold the boy.”
“According to you.”
“True.” Another wave of dizziness washed over him. This was the moment he dreaded most. It was time to make his offer. “But it will cost you nothing to accept my help. My life is forfeit—I know this. But if I die tonight, the boy dies too. All I ask is that you stay your hand for a brief time, long enough for me to find him. In return, I will find your corpse thieves, all of them. When I do, you can claim the vengeance that is your due—from the corpse thieves, and from me.”
The spirit’s absinthe eyes bored into Lenoir. His youthful features, so chillingly beautiful, remained fixed as though in stone. “What is your care for the boy?”
The question caught Lenoir off guard. The spirit knew him for what he was. He had seen the corruption in Lenoir’s soul; it was that corruption that had marked him for death. Why should such a man care what happened to a street urchin like Zach?
Lenoir dropped his gaze. “I don’t know.”
It was a lie.
“There is no redemption.” The statement might as well have come from God Himself.
Lenoir shivered. “I know.”
When he looked up again, something strange was happening. The uncanny light had dimmed in Vincent’s eyes, as though the immortal soul trapped within had withdrawn someplace else entirely. Lenoir did not have long to wonder, however; almost immediately, the light returned in a blaze of green, and he felt the heat of the spirit’s stare once more.
“It accepts your offer,” Vincent said matter-of-factly.
Lenoir blinked. “It?”
Vincent ignored the question. “Take me to the corpse thieves.”
Lenoir hesitated, stunned. It actually worked.
Only now could he admit to himself that he had not really expected to succeed. Yet here he was, on his knees in the market square, the green-eyed man standing expectantly before him. Vincent was letting him live. For now.
Clear your head, fool. There is work to be done. “I cannot simply take you to them. I do not yet know where they are, and I need your help.”
“What would you have of me?”
Lenoir stood, dusting himself off. He avoided looking at his arm; he did not wish to see what the scourge had done. Not that it made any difference—it was the same arm that was already scarred, and anyway, what did it matter how his flesh looked, when his life span was measured in hours?
“You need to tell me what you have seen,” Lenoir said, surprised at how level he sounded. Perhaps he really had made peace with death. “You need to tell me everything.”
CHAPTER 19
“There are two more,” Vincent said, “and then I have done.”
Lenoir nodded. They were seated on the bench where he had been waiting when Vincent attacked. There was something darkly amusing about it, sitting here conversing with an immortal spirit that had been sent from another plane to kill him. Passersby would notice little amiss unless Vincent looked directly at
them, and even then, they would probably only wonder at the strange light of his gaze. His nature was not immediately obvious to the casual onlooker.
He was not exactly chatty. He expressed himself briefly, using few words and still less emotion. He answered Lenoir’s questions, but not in much detail. Lenoir could not tell if he was being secretive, or if he had merely lost the gift of conversation. Or perhaps he had been like that even in life. Lenoir found himself wondering how long it had been since the spirit had spoken to anyone.
“How many corpses did they dig up?” Lenoir asked him.
“Two.”
“Was it the same person who dug up both corpses?”
“No.”
Lenoir’s fear was beginning to settle, allowing more mundane emotions to break through. Like frustration. The spirit seemed intent on making it as difficult as possible for Lenoir to extract the information he needed. Was Vincent toying with him? If so, there was no hint of irony about him. The spirit sat perfectly straight, and for the most part spoke without inflection. He did not fidget or shift his weight. He seemed almost incapable of emotion. Almost. Lenoir recalled the reaction when he had called the spirit by name for the first time, the unmistakable shock. Vincent might show little emotion, but he was definitely capable of feeling it.
“Who dug up the first corpse?”
“I do not know his name.”
Lenoir checked a sigh. “I was not asking for his name. What do you know of him?”
“He is dead. I killed him.”
“So I had assumed, Vincent. But before that?”
“He was a gravedigger. From Brackensvale.”
At last, he was getting something useful. “Did you see anyone else with the gravedigger?”
“Two others. Adali men. I killed them also.”
Lenoir grunted thoughtfully. “I presume the gravedigger handed the corpse over to the Adali men.” Vincent inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Taking the gesture for assent, Lenoir continued. “Did you see where they took the corpse?”
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