Darkwalker

by E. L. Tettensor

  The youth paused. “What?”

  “I need a ladder!”

  The youth gave him an incredulous look. “Does it look like I’ve got a ladder?” He walked away.

  “Durian’s balls!” Zach swore. He’d started to shiver, and water streamed from his plastered hair. He waited. A long time passed before someone else came along. This time, it was a woman, and she had a pushcart. It was full of straw. Zach flicked his eyes skyward and said a prayer of thanks.

  “Hey, miss!” The woman didn’t seem to hear him, so he tried again, waving his arms frantically over his head. “Miss!”

  The woman looked his way. She stopped. “What’re you doing up there, stupid child? Break your neck, you will!”

  Zach adopted his most pitiful voice. “I’m stuck! Please, miss, let me jump into that cart!”

  “Not bloody likely. That’ll break your neck for sure! Besides, I’ve just been mucking stalls. It’s full of horse shit!”

  “Please!” Zach’s voice cracked in desperation. “I’ll be fine, I swear! I need to get down right now!”

  The woman hesitated, and for a moment Zach feared she would refuse. But then she shrugged and wheeled her load over to the wall, positioning it as close as she could. “You’re a stupid boy,” she called, “but be it on your head.”

  Zach bit his lip. Now that he was looking straight down at it, the cart didn’t look like such a soft landing. A big pile of wet straw was certainly better than stone, but it was hardly goose down. It didn’t smell very nice either. But Zach had no choice. If he stayed where he was, his captors would find him and he would die for sure. Swallowing hard, his pulse hammering in his ears, Zach eased himself over the side of the wall and jumped.

  He landed in a painful heap, momentarily too stunned to move. His right foot had missed the straw and struck the edge of the cart, and when he shifted, pain arced up his calf and into his thigh. It was probably broken. Still, it could have been worse. Zach sat up and rubbed his head, and was pleased to find himself otherwise intact.

  He hopped off the cart, careful not to put weight on his bad foot. “Thanks,” he mumbled to the woman.

  “How’d you get up there, anyway?” She squinted at him through dirt-fringed eyes.

  “Long story.”

  The woman grunted. “Well, you got what you deserved, I suppose, ’cause now you smell like horse shit.” So saying, she wheeled her cart away, leaving Zach standing in the rain.

  He paused to orient himself before heading off in the direction of the police station. It would take him a while to get there, especially with his sore foot, but it seemed like the quickest way to find Lenoir. He hobbled down the street, tired and a little dizzy, but hopeful enough to keep his step lively and determined.

  The streets were quiet, even several blocks away from the cathedral. The weather had driven everyone indoors. Zach saw no one until he rounded a corner and walked right into someone coming the opposite way. He hit the ground hard, crying out as his bad foot was wrenched beneath him. It was raining hard now, and water streamed into his eyes. He could only vaguely see the tall man who reached down to help him stand.

  Zach was pulled to his feet, and found himself gazing up at a tall Adali man with hard eyes. He had never seen the man before, but Zach knew him all the same. A small, helpless sound escaped his throat, and he slumped as though someone had reached inside and pulled his skeleton right out of his skin.

  “Come now, boy,” the man said in a voice so familiar that it set Zach’s body to trembling. “Let us get you back where you belong.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Lenoir nestled deeper into the collar of his coat. The sky hunkered low over the buildings, shedding its watery burden in relentless sheets. Lenoir’s thinning hair was flattened against his skull, and he cursed himself for being without a hat. That’s what you get for being an uncivilized brute, he thought wryly. He needed to find someplace warm and dry, someplace he could think things through. He turned his horse toward the nearest haven he could think of.

  “My word, Nicolas!” Zera exclaimed when he appeared at the top of the stairs. “You look half-drowned!” Turning to a servant, she called, “Brandy! And towels, quickly!”

  Lenoir planted himself in front of the fireplace. Steam immediately began to curl off his overcoat. Zera hovered, her eyebrows stitched together in displeasure as she stared at the puddle accumulating at Lenoir’s feet.

  “My apologies,” he muttered. “Would you prefer I stand on a carpet?”

  “I certainly would not. I would never get it dry in this weather.” She took his coat, shook it out, and handed it to a servant. “Why in God’s name did you let yourself get this wet, anyway? Where have you been?”

  Judging the second question more important than the first, he said, “At Castle Warrick.”

  Zera could not have looked more shocked if he had suddenly sprouted horns. “Castle Warrick! Whatever for? I thought you were in fear of your life, Nicolas! What happened to all that business about a vengeful spirit? For that matter, what about the boy you were supposed to be finding?” There was something disapproving about her tone, as though she had caught him gallivanting about instead of seeing to his duty. Even as she berated him, however, she dragged a chair to the hearth so he could sit. Being a proper hostess was utterly ingrained in her.

  “Thank you,” he sighed, sinking gratefully into the chair. It was the least splendid of her furnishings, he noticed. He could hardly blame her. “It was my business with the boy that brought me to the duke,” he explained as he propped his boots near the fire.

  Zera gave him a wary look as she slipped into one of the winged chairs flanking the hearth. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Lenoir grunted. “The duke expressed a similar view.” He paused to accept his brandy from the servant. He took a long sip, rolling the sweet fire on his tongue before he continued. “It is probably too much to explain. Suffice it to say that I think the duke’s tragedy plays a role in all this. I think someone is trying to help the duke replace his lost son.”

  Zera let out a humorless laugh. “Replace his son? Don’t be absurd! We are talking about a child, not a pet. One cannot simply replace a dead boy.”

  “I know how it sounds.” He took another sip of his brandy. “Tell me, Zera, have you ever heard of necromancy?”

  She stiffened, the color fleeing her lips. Anger flashed briefly in her eyes before she mastered herself. “Would you ask me that if I were not Adali?” she asked coldly.

  “Probably not. I mean no offense by it. I thought it was the quickest way of explaining my theory.”

  “Your theory involves black magic?” she sneered. Lenoir had never seen her so waspish, but then, he had never waved her race in front of her before either. He had not realized her anxiety ran quite so deep. It was as though she considered her place in society to be nothing more than a fragile illusion, a spell that might break at any moment.

  “My theory involves people who believe in black magic. And perhaps even some who don’t. For myself, I scarcely know what to believe anymore. After all, I have spoken with a spirit from beyond.”

  If possible, Zera’s lips became even paler, parting with terrible awe. “Spoke with it? My God, Nicolas! Never mind the duke—what happened with the green-eyed man?”

  Lenoir hardly knew where to begin. “I knew I couldn’t escape him, so I decided to make a deal with him.”

  She gaped at him, aghast. “Are you mad? You would strike a bargain with a demon?”

  “A demon?” Lenoir echoed thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he is an avenging angel. It does not really matter, does it? Either way, my life is forfeit.” He was surprised at how calmly he spoke the words. “I had nothing to lose by offering myself to the green-eyed man. So that is what I did. I offered to help him hunt down those he wishes to punish, in exchange for his help in finding Zach. And he
agreed, if you can believe it.”

  Zera sprang from her chair, her eyes glazed with fear. She began to pace in front of the hearth. Lenoir was touched by her concern. There were few people in the world who cared whether he lived or died. “You offered to help him hunt down those he wishes to punish,” she repeated slowly. Her gaze turned on him, and it was accusing. “You offered to hunt down people just like you.”

  Lenoir blinked. He had not really thought of it in that light. Even if he had, however, it would not have changed his decision. “Perhaps people like me deserve their fates.”

  “How wonderfully convenient your fatalism is,” she snapped. “It excuses your actions as well as your inaction. It lets you condemn others even as you wallow in your own self-pity.” She resumed her pacing. “Why didn’t you flee, Nicolas? Why not leave this place behind, just as you did Serles?”

  “There is nowhere I could go that he would not find me.” Lenoir paused, shrugging. “I have accepted this, Zera. I am at peace with it. All I want is to find Zach before my time comes.”

  She folded her arms tightly over her chest, as though shielding herself. “And the spirit will help you do that?”

  “He has already led me to two of the kidnappers. Neither of them had the boy, but we were close.” So close, but we still left empty-handed. Lenoir stared down into the amber liquid in his glass, fighting to suppress a sudden wave of hopelessness. He had come here to think through his next move, but he was no closer to deciding what to do when darkness came.

  “Where will you go next?” Zera asked, as though reading his thoughts.

  He gave a despondent little shake of his head. “I don’t know. The spirit will return at dark, and I will have to report on my meeting with the duke. If the spirit is not satisfied that I have made any progress, our deal will expire, I think.”

  He looked up at Zera. She was standing over him, scowling. “I still don’t see what Warrick has to do with anything.”

  “If the rumors about the duke are true, he murdered his family in a fit of passion, only to bitterly regret it later on. What if someone offered him the chance to restore his son to him?”

  “Rumors. Is that what you are reduced to now?”

  “It is only a hunch,” he admitted. “But I have grown to trust my hunches. Every good inspector does. Sometimes, to connect the dots, we must make a leap of faith.”

  “A leap of faith?” Zera arched a finely sculpted eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound much like you, Nicolas.”

  “Perhaps not anymore, but it was once very like me. And it was like Kody too, which is why he drew a connection between the corpse thieves and the kidnappers before anyone else did. He was smarter than I gave him credit for. He saw the pattern, though we had no idea what to make of it at the time.” Lenoir realized belatedly that he was already referring to Kody in the past tense. How quick you are to give up hope, Lenoir.

  “And you know what to make of this so-called pattern now?”

  Lenoir downed the last of his brandy. He had scarcely swallowed before the servant appeared to whisk his empty glass away. Not for the first time, he marveled at the efficiency of Zera’s domestic staff. They were always hovering somewhere nearby, unseen, waiting for a subtle signal to appear. “As I said before, I am convinced that necromancy is involved. The kidnappers were trying to restore a dead child to life. They failed, but now they are attempting something similar. If I’m right, they are trying to channel the soul of the dead boy into a live host. That’s what they wanted with Zach and that other boy, the one who went mad.”

  Zera threw herself into her chair. She stared at Lenoir, her eyes smoldering with something unreadable. “You are listening to yourself, aren’t you? Bringing the dead back to life?”

  “I have stopped worrying about how crazy it all seems. The evidence is compelling, and in any case, I have no competing theory.”

  “What evidence?” Zera scoffed.

  She’s right, he admitted inwardly. What he had found did not really qualify as evidence. It was hearsay and speculation, and though it came from multiple sources, that did not necessarily mean it was accurate. He had no doubt that if he had been talking to the chief, instead of Zera, the reaction would have been even more skeptical. Yet for all that, he did not doubt himself. Perhaps that was because his theory had been corroborated by Vincent. Perhaps perversely, Lenoir considered the word of a supernatural creature to be beyond doubt.

  “I am convinced of my theory,” he said simply.

  Zera’s eyes narrowed. “Suppose you’re right about the necromancy. What makes you so sure it has anything to do with Warrick? His son died, what—ten years ago?”

  “That is the thinnest part of my hypothesis. But it fits with the details provided by Vincent.”

  “Who?”

  “The green-eyed man.”

  She let out a sharp, incredulous breath. “You’re on a first-name basis with a demon?”

  Lenoir smiled wryly. “I suppose I am, but I would not say that we are friends. In any case, he has explained much that I did not understand, things that I would never have figured out on my own.”

  Zera shook her head, her mouth hanging slightly open. She had been completely robbed of her customary poise. “I’m sorry, Nicolas, but I’m still having a difficult time with this. It seems like every time I see you, you bring a story more incredible than the last. How exactly is it that this . . . creature . . . helps you, anyway?”

  “He communes with the dead. You must have heard the stories of him—he occupies an important place in Adali myth, I’m told. He has provided me with quite a lot of useful information. One particularly important fact is that the boy the kidnappers are attempting to resurrect has been dead for a long time. He was murdered by his father, who was a wealthy man. In other words, it all fits.”

  Zera regarded him thoughtfully. “All right, supposing the duke really was willing to try dark magic to bring his son back to life—how would he go about finding someone to do it? It’s not as though he could just march into an Adali camp and start asking around, is it? Even if he had a servant he trusted with such an outrageous task, the Adali would throw him out on his ear the minute he so much as hinted at magic.”

  “Especially the Asis clan.”

  Zera snorted softly, her mouth curling into a smirk. “My, my, Nicolas. I am impressed. You really have learned a lot, haven’t you?”

  Under other circumstances, Lenoir might have been annoyed at her apparent surprise. Today, however, he was too preoccupied for pride. “Perhaps Warrick didn’t approach the kidnappers at all. Perhaps they approached him.”

  “And how would they do that? I doubt the Duke of Warrick would simply open his gates to a random Adal.”

  Now it was Lenoir’s turn to snort. “Indeed I think we can rule that out. Perhaps they wrote him a letter.”

  “That is no less ridiculous. Do you honestly think the duke would have responded to an unsolicited message promising to restore his dead son through dark magic?”

  She had a point. Lenoir tapped his knee in thought.

  “Then there is the question of why anyone would risk himself to help the duke,” she continued. “There’s always money, I suppose, but the proscription against dark magic is strong amongst my people. It’s hard to imagine how much money would have to be on offer to make it worthwhile. Especially since, as you’re no doubt aware, coin is only used for trading with southerners. As soon as the clan headed back north, the value of that money would plummet.”

  Lenoir had never heard Zera refer to the Adali as her people before. Perhaps it was not so surprising; she had been raised among them, after all. Their ways had once been hers, even if that was virtually impossible to imagine now.

  “The circumstances of the death do sound similar, but then again, I suppose Warrick is hardly the first highborn man to strike down his son. Why, that was a favorite politic
al tactic barely a hundred years ago.”

  “The objections you raise are perfectly reasonable,” said Lenoir.

  “But?”

  Lenoir shrugged. “But a man in my business is skeptical of coincidences. Assuming that another wealthy man in the Five Villages murdered his son many years ago, who would be in a better position than Warrick to reward those who were willing to risk everything? You said yourself that the payment would have to be extraordinary. Warrick is the most powerful man in the Five Villages. He has much more than gold to offer.” An idea began to swim up from the depths of his mind, moving slowly toward the light.

  Zera clucked her tongue impatiently. “Come, now. You know his political clout is useless to an Adal.”

  “Yes.” Lenoir was barely listening now. His gaze grew unfocused, turning within. The idea bumped gently against the frozen surface of his consciousness, its outlines tantalizingly visible. It’s so close. What am I missing?

  “Warrick has absolutely nothing to offer a bunch of half-starved nomads who are too afraid even to go home,” Zera concluded.

  The ice broke. The idea surfaced.

  “You’re wrong,” said Lenoir, his gaze snapping into focus.

  She regarded him coldly. “Is that so?”

  “Land.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  How could it have taken him so long to see it? “The duchy covers hundreds of thousands of acres. The Asis clan is struggling to survive because they don’t have access to pasture to graze their cattle. Something to do with their status amongst the other clans. If they had title over some of the duke’s lands, or at least permission to graze there, it would change everything for them.”

  Zera was shaking her head vigorously. “No, no. The Adali are nomadic, Nicolas. You know that. They don’t own land, and they never stay in one place for long.”

  “The Asis do. They are always within a few miles of Berryvine. That’s because they have no access to decent migration routes. Their whole way of life has been compromised. But having their own land would fix that forever.”