Darkwalker

by E. L. Tettensor

  “It has been a long time since I loved my work, Zera. I think you know that.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “You do not often seem happy, it’s true.”

  “I used to be happy. Or if not happy, at least I was satisfied. At least I had purpose. I was very good at my job. I was the best.”

  “You are still the best, Nicolas,” Zera said, leaning forward to put a hand on his knee. “Everyone says so. They say you are a marvel, that you can find out anything you want to know.”

  Lenoir snorted softly and sipped his wine. “Perhaps that is so, but that is precisely the problem, you see. I do not want to find out anything—not unless it gets me something. Or gets you something.” He raised an eyebrow, reminding her silently of the many times he had used his investigative skills to pass valuable information to Zera. She was a born hostess to begin with; tipped off about the closet vices of her guests, she was a wonder. Armed with the right information, Zera could coax even the naturally cautious into revealing their sins to her. Thus the powerful and the highborn frequently found themselves beholden to Lady Zera in one way or another. She catered to their whims, indulged their desires, and guarded their secrets. In so doing, she ensured her stature among the influential of Kennian, an elite circle no Adal before her had ever infiltrated.

  “This business with Zach—it is the first time in so long that I have actually felt . . . I don’t know . . .” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

  “You are too hard on yourself.”

  “Am I? Kody does not think so. He despises me and I cannot blame him. I used to see the world through his eyes; I know only too well what I must look like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kody sees himself as a champion of justice.” Lenoir could not help smirking as he said it. “He wants to subdue the evildoers of the world.”

  “That sounds a little childish,” Zera observed coolly. Lenoir was not sure if she really meant it, but he was grateful to her for saying it.

  “Maybe it is, but I cannot fault him for his ambitions. I used to share them, more or less. There was a time when I was obsessed with my career, to the point where I virtually forgot what it was to lead a life outside the Prefecture of Police.” He paused. It seemed like another life, long dead and largely unmourned. “I too questioned my superiors when they claimed a case was unsolvable. Back then, there was no such thing—not to me, at least. But that was before.”

  “Before what?”

  Lenoir was silent for a moment. How could he explain it? Before the betrayal. Before the broken promises, the shattered hopes, the incompetence and outright treachery of those who claimed to shepherd the New Order. “Before I saw justice for what it truly is,” he said finally.

  “And what is that?”

  “An artificial construct of the powerful, venal and infinitely elastic.”

  Zera puffed out a breath. “That’s quite a dark view for a man in your profession, Inspector.”

  “It is the truth, though I had to grow up a little before I saw it. I was in love with the law, back when I was young. I was in love with the idea that the law made everyone the same, no matter where they were born or whose blood was in their veins. I wanted to believe in the revolution. I wanted to believe that there was punishment for those who did wrong, no matter how much money they had or how many titles.”

  “I think I see what you mean. Even I know that isn’t true.”

  Lenoir drank his wine. It was not true, not in Serles and not in the Five Villages. No one thanked you for arresting a man like Lord Feine. It would embarrass too many powerful people—the lord mayor, whose wife was a particular friend of Lady Feine; the speaker of Parliament, Feine’s sometime hunting companion; the myriad of titled relatives who presided over the handsomer properties of the Five Villages. It would shock the sensibilities of the foolish commoners who thought there was something inherently better in the character of a nobleman. Besides, Feine would never remain imprisoned, not when he could buy off the magistrate, the jailer, the local news pamphlets. And once he was out, if he was bloody-minded (which the nobility so often were) he would come after Lenoir, looking for the satisfaction of squashing the insignificant police inspector who dared to smear his precious name. No, justice was not blind. She was a prostitute, for sale to the highest bidder.

  “Once I realized the law could be bought,” he continued, “everything changed. I saw what a farce it was, a lot of playacting, everyone just going through the motions, especially where the rich and powerful were concerned. Gradually, I began to understand why. These ridiculous crimes of passion—it was not as though they were serial killers, after all. And you cannot bring back the dead, so what is the point of it, anyway? You will never bring such people to justice, and you cannot undo what they have done.”

  Zera nodded sympathetically. “It’s true, unfortunately. There isn’t a punishment in the world that will bring back the dead.”

  “And so . . .” Lenoir trailed off. He could not quite bring himself to say it, but he did not have to. Once again, he felt the coins in his hand, cold and heavy. The price of silence.

  “And so you let the dead rest,” Zera said firmly, “and kept their secrets to yourself, and if you stayed quiet about what you couldn’t change, and did well by it, that is only human nature. You can’t torture yourself over it, Nicolas. You just grew up and saw the world for what it really is, that’s all.”

  So Lenoir had told himself for years. When he woke in the morning and felt no sense of purpose, when he touched the dead flesh on his arm, as numb as his soul, when he drank himself into oblivion and saw the faces of the dead he had betrayed—every day of his life, Lenoir told himself that it was just the way of things, that no sensible man would have done other than he did. But he knew better.

  And so did the green-eyed man.

  CHAPTER 13

  The ravens showed them the way to the camp. They circled and wheeled in the pallid sky, rustled and cawed from the branches that lined the road. By the time Kody and Lenoir were near enough to see the wood smoke rising from the clearing, the chorus of ravens was so loud that it drowned out the sound of their hoofbeats on the road. The choir of death, as they were known in scripture. Kody wasn’t much of a religious man, but it made him shudder all the same. Ravens could often be found in large numbers near Adali camps, since there was always a bounty of food to be had. The Adali weren’t accustomed to staying in one place for long, so sanitation wasn’t their strong suit. They let their refuse pile high near the campsite, attracting all sorts of scavengers. The presence of ravens near Adali camps was so common that the two had become inextricably associated with each other in folklore. And they wonder why everyone thinks of them as heathens and witches. Kody’s nose wrinkled at the smell that wandered out from the camp to meet them. It was a pungent blend of cooking fires, cattle, and rotting vegetables. No doubt there were other perfumes mixed in there too, but he didn’t care to think about them.

  Reds and yellows began to appear through the trees off to their left, the first sign of the colorful Adali tents. Their bright hues blended into the surrounding woods surprisingly well during autumn and summer, but now that the leaves had fallen, they stood out like wildflowers after a forest fire. They were as out of place as the Adali themselves, who should long since have headed north for the winter in search of warmer climes. As the trees gave way to a clearing, the rest of the settlement came into view. It wasn’t especially large, probably home to no more than a hundred or so individuals. And they seemed to have only modest possessions, even by Adali standards. Aside from a clutch of about thirty skinny cattle grazing near a single wagon, the only livestock Kody could see was a handful of goats that competed with the ravens for the choicest pieces of garbage. The tents looked old and weather-beaten, and the children that emerged from them to watch the horsemen approach were scrawny.

  Kody scanned the trees for
signs that more cattle were about, but he couldn’t see any. No horses, no bleating of sheep. Could this really be all the livestock they had? If so, this clan would be awfully low down the food chain of Adali society. They’d be isolated, marginalized, even preyed upon. It was a depressing fact of Adali life that the weaker clans were at constant risk of attack, raided for cattle and slaves. Sometimes the raiders came from the south, from Braeland and beyond, but more often, they were Adali from rival clans. Young women and children were especially vulnerable, since they could be kept for wives and workers, or sold as prostitutes in the south. This clan should have moved back north weeks ago, but they obviously felt too exposed to roam among their own kind. Kody wondered if that would make them more likely to talk, or less.

  A pair of dogs came bounding out of the camp to meet them, their excited barking announcing the arrival of visitors. “Do you think we’ll get anything out of them?” Kody asked quietly. The Adali were a secretive lot, especially when it came to police investigations.

  “Hard to know.” Lenoir eyed the dogs warily as they loped alongside the horses. His stallion’s ears were pinned back, warning the dogs to keep their distance. “Sometimes they cooperate if they think it will avert suspicion from their kind. But in this case, since the dead man is Adali, I doubt they will be very helpful. The Adali are fiercely loyal to one another, and protective of their ways. If there is justice to be meted out, they prefer to do it themselves.”

  Kody doubted the wrongdoers shared that preference. Adali justice was uncompromising, sometimes downright brutal. It was also undeniably effective. The clan elders kept a tight rein on things; contrary to popular belief, crime rates were lower among Adali who remained with their clan than amongst the general population of Kennian. It was the city-dwellers, those who were cut off from their traditions and society, who were responsible for a disproportionate number of crimes in the Five Villages.

  They dismounted at the edge of the camp. Already, half a dozen people were staring at them, looking even less welcoming than the North Haveners had been. Understandable, maybe. There weren’t many reasons for outsiders to enter Adali camps, and none of them were good news. People came bearing accusations, threats, and demands. No one wanted an Adali community nearby. They were bandits; they trespassed on farmlands; they attracted wild animals. If a plague broke out in one of the Five Villages, the Adali were blamed for that too. They’d learned to expect hostility from anyone who came looking for them. Especially hounds.

  Kody pulled the rolled-up parchment out of his saddlebag and unfurled the sketch. It was crudely done—the nose wasn’t quite right and the charcoal had smudged in a couple of places—but considering that Lenoir had given the scribe only ten minutes to produce the drawing, the man had done a decent job of it. It certainly looked enough like the dead man that anybody who knew him should be able to recognize him.

  Lenoir headed for the center of the camp, where a group was coming together to meet him. As poor as they were, Kody couldn’t deny they were impressive. Tall, sharp-edged, with skin the color of strong tea with a jot of milk. Their amber-eyed gazes were fathomless, unfathomable. Elaborately carved jewelry of bone and horn adorned long fingers and graceful necks, and their robes, though worn and faded, were still strikingly colorful in comparison with the drab browns and grays favored by the Braelish.

  The elder, who looked to be about sixty, was a classic specimen: small mouth, high cheekbones, and keen, wide-spaced eyes. She wore a severe expression, her thick eyebrows drawn together and her mouth pursed in a thin line.

  “We are Inspector Lenoir and Sergeant Kody of the Kennian Metropolitan Police,” said Lenoir, his voice slightly raised for the benefit of the crowd. “We are here to ask a few questions regarding an incident in Berryvine.”

  A few of the onlookers sneered, as if to say, Of course you are.

  “What kind of incident, Inspector?” asked the imposing woman. Her accent was thick, but she spoke the words clearly.

  “We have found a body—an Adali man—and we would like you to identify him, if you can.”

  Kody took his cue to hold up the sketch, showing it around at the small crowd. A few more had gathered near to listen, but for the most part the community seemed to be going about its business, pointedly ignoring the presence of the outsiders. It seemed to Kody like an act of defiance, a subtle message that they wouldn’t let their lives be disrupted every time someone showed up at their camp to accuse them of something.

  As the Adali studied the drawing, Kody studied the Adali. For the most part they didn’t react, but here and there Kody picked up small cues. A young woman’s eyes flared slightly before going cold. A boy in the center of the crowd stirred before someone shifted in front of him, blocking him from view. A man with his arms folded spat on the ground. Lenoir, meanwhile, was involved in some sort of staring match with the elder. They held each other’s gaze, both of their faces impassive, taking the measure of each other. She had not even glanced at the drawing.

  “We do not know him,” the woman said.

  Lenoir arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Surprising, considering that he was found dead just outside Berryvine. No more than a fifteen-minute ride away, in fact.”

  “And why should that be surprising, Inspector? Are we meant to know every Adal in the Five Villages?”

  Lenoir looked over his shoulder at Kody and smiled. “You see, Sergeant—I am not so clever as I sometimes claim. I would not have thought that an Adal who was not a member of this clan would be welcome so nearby.”

  Kody responded with a theatrical shrug. “Me neither, sir. Only friends and family of this clan allowed, or so I thought.”

  “Obviously we still have much to learn about Adali ways, Sergeant.” Lenoir turned back to the leader, still smiling.

  She just stared at him.

  “I assume you are aware that withholding evidence is a crime,” said Lenoir.

  “I assume you are aware that we do not recognize your jurisdiction over us,” said the elder. She speaks Braelish pretty well for a foreigner, Kody thought dryly. I’ll bet she’s had occasion to use that phrase once or twice before.

  Lenoir gave a slow nod, his head bent. Kody could tell he was thinking about bringing her in, wondering if it would be worth making the threat. They couldn’t do it themselves, of course—they’d need all of Crears’s men to help. The clan would never willingly allow one of their own, especially their elder, to be taken by the police; there would be bloodshed if they tried. Lenoir must have concluded that it wasn’t worth it, because he turned and walked away from the group, saying, “Come, Sergeant,” as though Kody were a bloody dog.

  Lenoir was right, though—it wasn’t worth it. Kody knew that, but it still burned his blood. These people knew the dead man—it was as plain as the sun in the sky. But they had no intention of remanding him to the law. It would take all day to bring the elder in, and for what? She probably wouldn’t say anything anyway, not without Parliament signing a writ giving them leave to use some of the harsher interrogation techniques. By then, the boy would probably be dead.

  “What now?” Kody growled as they mounted their horses. The Adali were still clustered around their leader, staring with their inscrutable amber eyes.

  “If we cannot get information out of the Adali themselves, we must try the next best thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “There is an apothecary near the northern boundary of Berryvine. We passed it on the way here.”

  Clever, Kody thought grudgingly. The Adali were renowned for their use of potions, poultices, and the like. In bygone days, they wouldn’t have stooped to trading medicinal herbs with townsfolk, but modern Adali were less discriminating. They’d had a taste of the conveniences of civilization, and they liked it. A good apothecary, especially one located at the edge of town, would have almost as many Adali clients as villagers. Maybe the apothecary would recognize th
e dead man. At the very least, he should be able to tell them something useful about the clans that passed through the area.

  Kody drew a deep, satisfied breath as they regained the road. This was how an investigation was supposed to be run. For the first time, he could sense Lenoir’s commitment to the case, and though he had no idea what made this one special, he was grateful for it. He only hoped that they found this Zach boy alive. If they didn’t, there was no telling when—or if—Lenoir would take an investigation this seriously again.

  • • •

  The apothecary was just opening his shop when the two policemen arrived. It looked as though he’d been fetching supplies; each arm was burdened with something. Over his left shoulder was slung a small sack that gave off a spicy scent when he shifted its weight to fumble for his keys. Under his other arm, he carried a bushel of some type of herb that Kody didn’t recognize. It sure wasn’t one of the ones used for cooking, and that was about all the thinking Kody cared to do on that subject.

  “Please come in,” the apothecary said, shifting his bundles again as he pried his key free from the door. Ordinarily, Kody would have offered to help, but for some reason he was reluctant to handle whatever the man was carrying.

  The shop was small and disordered, and it was dark, even after the man lit a lantern. There were no windows, and the door faced to the west so that little sunlight entered. “It’s better for the fungus,” the apothecary explained as his guests blinked in the gloom.

  The mixture of smells was almost dizzying. Some spicy, some sweet, some earthy—and beneath it all, the unmistakable scent of decay. Kody had visited an apothecary before, but this particular shop obviously catered to a different clientele. Instead of remedies for cuts, bruises, and headaches, this apothecary stocked ingredients for less everyday purposes. Not going to think about that either, he resolved grimly.

  “What can I do for you chaps?” the man asked once he was snugly behind the counter. He was tall, and regarded them with large amber eyes. Do you maybe have some Adali blood in you, friend? If so, he might not be any more cooperative than the rest of them.