“Why were you not seated with the others?” Lenoir asked after the ceremony had ended and they were heading for the courtyard.
Kody glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “No reason.”
Lenoir snorted. “It would have been difficult for you to stand for so long, in your condition. You would not have put yourself through that without a reason.”
“What do you want me to say?” Kody growled. “That I feel guilty? Well, I do. Satisfied?”
Lenoir stopped. “Not remotely, Sergeant, for that is a foolish sentiment. You are not responsible for what happened to Hardin.”
“Of course I am,” Kody said in a heated whisper. “I’m the one who dragged him out there without proper backup.”
“He was supposed to be your backup.”
But Kody was not really listening. “I led him straight into the wolf’s den. He didn’t even know what he was getting involved in.”
“Sergeant, if anyone is responsible for Hardin’s death, it is I.” Unlike Kody, Lenoir did not trouble to lower his voice. What did he care if someone overheard? It was the truth, spelled out in indelible ink on a sheaf of parchment in Reck’s office. “The apothecary told us everything we needed to know. I should have put it together. I would have put it together, had I really bothered trying. So if you want to be angry with someone, be angry with me.”
Kody’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Lenoir could read his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken. He was angry. Bitterly so. But as always, his discipline won out, and he said nothing.
Lenoir nodded. “Good. And while we are clearing the air, Kody, let me say this: the next time you charge off without informing your inspector where you are going, it will be your last day on the force.” He paused, adding more gently, “I should not like to have to listen to that priest drone on about you.”
Kody blinked, taken aback. He opened his mouth as if he would say something, but then closed it again. Rather than stand there while the sergeant cast about for some soppy reply, Lenoir moved off in search of the chief.
People were scattered throughout the courtyard in groups of twos and threes, swapping stories about the deceased, or, if they had not known him well, making generic conversation about the state of criminality in the city. The hounds seemed particularly disposed to this line of thinking, the general consensus being that Kennian was going to the dogs. Just as well, Lenoir thought dryly. Otherwise, you slobs would have to find real work.
He spied Izar brooding alone near the outer wall, and made his way over. “Why do you not mix with the others?” Lenoir asked.
“You know why, Inspector,” Izar said, and Lenoir supposed that was true.
“They will not hold it against you.”
Izar shrugged. “Some of them will, but I don’t give a damn about that.” He looked down at Lenoir, his gaze smoldering with resentment. “It’s not them I blame.”
Lenoir understood. “Not everyone involved was Adali.”
“Most of them were.”
“Every race has its bad apples.”
“Not every race is judged by them.”
There was a stretch of silence. Then Lenoir said, “For what it is worth, Sergeant, I don’t think this case proved anything, except that desperate people will do anything to survive. Their methods might have been unusual, but we have seen far worse, and there was certainly nothing uniquely Adali about their motivations. The basic human formula is the same.”
Izar made no reply. Lenoir left the sergeant alone.
“Inspector,” someone called. Lenoir turned, and it was a struggle to keep the dismay from his face. Kody’s father was making his way over.
They had never met, but there was no mistaking him. Jess Kody was every bit as physically imposing as his son, with the same purposeful stride and quietly stubborn set to his jaw. His eyes lacked the fire of the sergeant’s gaze, but that might just have been age.
“Sir,” Lenoir said awkwardly, holding out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you.”
Kody shook his hand and nodded. For a moment, he did not say anything else; he just stood there, staring. Lenoir shifted uncomfortably. After what seemed like an eternity, Jess Kody cleared his throat and said, “I just wanted to thank you.”
Lenoir’s eyebrows flew up. “Thank me?”
“For everything you’re doing for my son.”
Instinctively, Lenoir glanced over to where Bran Kody was standing with Hardin’s family. The sergeant was looking over at his father, an expression of mild panic on his face, but he obviously did not dare to extract himself from the bereaved parents.
Lenoir had no idea what to say. He could not think of a single thing he had ever done for Bran Kody. His confusion must have shown, for Jess added, “I know he’s young to have made sergeant, and he has you to thank for that.”
“He has himself to thank. He is young, yes, but he is competent. He earned his place. I merely recommended him for promotion.”
Kody nodded. “Bran says you taught him everything he knows. He says you were the best.” Lenoir noted the past tense, and was surprised to discover that it bothered him. “He was so excited when he got assigned to you,” Kody’s father continued relentlessly. “A few years with you, he said, and he’d make inspector. Anyway, with everything that’s happened with Sergeant Hardin and all . . .” He glanced back over his shoulder at Hardin’s family. “Just makes me realize how proud we are of Bran.”
“And so you should be,” said a new voice, and Lendon Reck appeared at Lenoir’s side. He gripped Jess Kody’s hand in a firm handshake. “A fine hound, your son. Wish I had a hundred like him.”
Lenoir could have kissed the chief. He wanted nothing more than to end this conversation, to slink away unseen and not have to listen to sugary fantasies about how he was a mentor. He had never been a mentor, to Kody or anyone else.
“Kody is tough as nails,” Reck said. “Look at him, up and about after everything that’s happened. Gotta admire a hound like that. He’ll have my job someday.”
Jess Kody was trying not to look pleased. “Anyways,” he said gruffly, “I just wanted to say how grateful his mother and I are that he’s working with such good people.”
“And we’re grateful to you,” said Reck, “for raising the kind of man who makes such a fine contribution to this city.”
And I would be grateful to you both if you ceased this inane prattle before I vomit. Lenoir kept his expression carefully blank, lest it betray his thoughts. He could not help wondering how many times the chief had made this speech, to how many proud fathers. But it was new to Jess Kody, and he appreciated it. He gave Lenoir and the chief a final handshake before returning to his family and the Hardins.
Lenoir let out a long breath. “I’m glad you came when you did.”
“I could tell you were about ten seconds away from saying something stupid.” Reck fixed him with a stern expression. “By the sword, you look awful. It’s been almost a week. Have you even slept?”
“Not much,” Lenoir admitted. He would have thought his body would be accustomed to going without sleep by now, but without the distraction of Lady Zera’s salon, the hours felt longer, heavier. It was not that he avoided sleep, not anymore. He was no longer plagued by nightmares. But in their place was a vague anxiety that he could not identify, a constant buzz in his brain that kept him awake through the night. He felt restless. Adrift. For years, he had coasted through life without bothering to make choices, for he knew them to be meaningless. It was like window-shopping, looking through thick panes of glass at things he could never have. Now the glass was gone. Row upon row of possibilities was laid out before him, and it was subtly terrifying.
He had made one choice, however, and it felt like a first step. If he could take a second step, and another after that, he would find his way eventually. And this time, he knew where he wanted to go. It wa
s a path he had abandoned a long time ago, thinking it an illusion. But he had been wrong. It had been there all this time, waiting for him.
“I have the warrant,” he told Reck, holding up the sheet of parchment.
Reck grunted and took it from him. He scanned the page with a frown. “This is damn stupid. You know that.”
“Feine had a man beaten nearly to death.”
“A lovers’ squabble. Hardly a menace to society. Anyway, you already made it clear that we’re onto him. He’ll think twice next time. That should be enough.”
“Are you ordering me to drop it?”
“I should. You’re going to cause yourself a world of shit, and me too. What exactly are you trying to prove, anyway?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. And while we’re on the subject of fool’s errands, I read your report. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, Lenoir. You practically accused the Duke of Warrick outright.”
“Indeed? I seem to recall saying there was no evidence against him. Not yet, at any rate.”
Reck stepped forward until his nose was an inch from Lenoir’s, and he dropped his voice to a low growl. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’ve got enough crusaders in my kennel, Inspector. If I hear you’ve been harassing Warrick, it’ll be your job.”
Lenoir met his gaze unflinchingly. “Are you afraid of him, Chief?”
“Damn right, and so should you be. He could shut down the entire force. I’ve got a whole city to worry about. If that means I have to leave the high and mighty to their business, then that’s how it’s got to be.”
“For the greater good?” Lenoir asked wryly.
“Something like that, smart-ass.”
“And if I were to turn up irrefutable evidence against Warrick?”
Reck shook his head and swore under his breath. “Maybe that blow to your head was worse than you thought. Do I have to spell it out for you? Even if I let you bring him in, no magistrate in this country would prosecute him.”
“Perhaps.” Lenoir paused, shrugging. “But we are arguing over nothing, Chief. I have no evidence against Warrick in this case, and I doubt I ever will.”
Reck was no fool. He narrowed his eyes. “In this case?”
Lenoir only smiled. “As for this”—he held up the warrant—“I will deal with it first thing tomorrow.”
Reck sighed resignedly. “Take Innes, and maybe Izar too. In case His Lordship resists.”
“He will not. It would be unseemly. He will be haughty and disdainful all the way to his cell, I think.”
“Still, make sure you have enough backup. I’ve had enough of burying hounds for a while.”
Lenoir nodded. He looked back down at the warrant, unable to suppress a smirk. Lord Alvin Feine, it read. Attempted murder. It would never stick, of course, but Lenoir was confident he had enough for severe battery. The attempted murder charge was a bluff, designed to rattle His Lordship’s cage. And if it sent a message to the rest of the nobility, well—that was a nice bonus.
The crowd began to move out of the courtyard, heading for the cemetery around back. Lenoir followed, but his mind was already elsewhere. He hoped the burial would not take too long, for there was one more thing he needed to do.
• • •
Lenoir drew his horse up outside the forbidding gate of Castle Warrick. He glanced up at the sky. A dark belly of clouds was gathering, threatening snow. He hoped his errand would be through before the storm broke, for he had no desire to ride all the way across town in the wet. Of course, his errand might be through before it began; there was a good chance he would not be admitted to the duke’s sight at all. Perhaps that would not even be such a bad thing. He risked the chief’s wrath by being here. If he were turned away, through no fault of his own—surely the mere attempt would be enough to satisfy his conscience? Then again, perhaps not. Lenoir scarcely knew what to expect of his own conscience anymore. They had been strangers for so long.
A single guard manned the gatehouse—the same man Lenoir had met on his previous visit. The would-be hound, he recalled. It gave him an idea.
“Afternoon, Inspector,” the guard called as he stepped out onto the drive. “Is His Grace expecting you?”
“I sincerely doubt it. And I would appreciate it if you could show me in without announcing me.”
The guard’s eyebrows flew up, and he gave a nervous little titter. “It, uh, doesn’t quite work like that, Inspector. His Grace always insists on his visitors being announced.”
“I’m sure. But these are exceptional circumstances.” He leaned down over his horse’s neck. Taking the cue, the guard approached warily, on the pretext of taking Lenoir’s bridle. “Make this happen, and I can promise you a position at the Metropolitan Police.” As a clerk, most likely, but Lenoir did not feel compelled to go into details.
The guard eyed him skeptically. “Yeah? How do I know you’ll follow through? Because if I do what you ask, I’ll be needing a new job, right enough.”
“I can only offer you my word. Whether that is enough for you depends on how badly you want to be a hound.”
The guard hesitated. He glanced back at the manor. “All right,” he said in a low voice, “but if this doesn’t work, I’ll still hold you to that promise.”
“Fair enough.” Lenoir dismounted.
The guard showed him to the same study as before, murmuring into the ear of the butler as they walked. The servant frowned, but before he could object, the guard beat a hasty retreat. The butler muttered to himself and left.
Lenoir waited. A few minutes later, he heard a familiar voice on the other side of the door.
“What do you mean, you don’t know who he is? This is absurd!”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. He wouldn’t give his name.”
“Then why in the flaming below did you let him in?”
“It wasn’t . . . that is, I didn’t . . . Let me just fetch the guard. . . .”
“Durian’s blood! I don’t have time for this!”
The door burst open, and the Duke of Warrick charged in. He drew up short when he saw Lenoir, his eyes narrowing in fury. “You.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I am terribly sorry for the subterfuge, but I thought it unlikely that you would admit me.”
“You were clever enough to realize that, but not clever enough to realize that I’d just have you thrown out?”
Lenoir glanced at the butler, who hovered uncertainly behind Warrick. At a word, he would fetch the guards. Lenoir had to be quick. “I will spare you the trouble, Your Grace. What I have to say will only take a moment. You need not even respond, if you do not wish.”
Warrick snorted incredulously. “Why, thank you.” He made a peremptory gesture with his hand, and the butler disappeared. “You have nerve, Inspector, I will give you that.”
I have faced far worse than you, Your Grace. Aloud, Lenoir said, “Lady Zera is dead.”
“Indeed?” Warrick replied blandly. Either he already knew or he genuinely did not care. Perhaps both.
“So are her followers. Her designs are undone.”
Warrick flicked an impatient glance at the ceiling. “Your moment is almost up, Inspector. What has this to do with me?”
“We both know the answer to that. You agreed to provide Los’s clan with a significant parcel of land, in exchange for his efforts to resurrect your dead son. Zera was the go-between. Whether she came to you first, or the other way around, it does not matter.”
Warrick folded his arms, regarding Lenoir with a bored look. “You came here merely to repeat your absurd allegations? You waste my time and your own.”
“I came here to tell you that I know.” Lenoir paused, wrestling with the anger that threatened to spill over into his voice. “I know you conspired with Zera, and I strongly suspect you have other designs that are every bit
as shadowy. The signs are everywhere, for anyone who cares to see them. Your business dealings are highly profitable, yet invisible. No friends, no business associates, yet you protest how busy you are. Anyone who has met you can see you are not a man of leisure, but no one can say how you occupy your time. It is all highly suspicious, Your Grace.”
“And yet you are the only one to remark upon it.”
“I doubt that. Perhaps I am just the only one who is making an issue of it.”
“And where does that leave you, I wonder?” Warrick asked, his eyes glittering dangerously.
Lenoir shrugged. “I cannot prove anything, as you well know, but the moment I can . . .”
Warrick laughed. It was a harsh, gravelly sound, as though his throat were unaccustomed to it. “Is that meant to be a threat?”
“Certainly not. I am in no position to threaten you. But you are not as untouchable as you believe, and one day, I intend to prove it.”
Warrick’s smile did not waver. “How very heroic. It reminds me of the time my young son informed me that he wanted to be a dragon slayer when he grew up. Let me tell you what I told him, Inspector: be very careful you don’t get burned.”
Lenoir inclined his head gravely. “That sounds like good advice, Your Grace.”
Warrick picked up a small bell and rang for the butler. The servant appeared almost immediately; Lenoir hoped for his sake he had not overheard anything. “I bid you good afternoon, Inspector,” Warrick said, “and the very best of luck in your quest.”
Lenoir followed the butler out of the manor and down the drive, ignoring the sharp looks the man directed his way. It had begun to snow. Thin, hard beads of ice pelted Lenoir from above, freezing the thinly covered crown of his head. A dark sky hunkered just above the rooftops, settling in for a siege. It would be a long, cold ride.
Lenoir turned up his collar and thanked God he had a good coat.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
E. L. Tettensor likes her stories the way she likes her chocolate: dark, exotic, and with a hint of bitterness. She has visited fifty countries on five continents, and brought a little something back from each of them to press inside the pages of her books. She lives with her husband in Brooklyn, New York.
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