“That might work. The Kennian Ladies’ Society of Benefactors, maybe.”
Kody rolled his eyes. “Very funny. Seriously, would that be enough to change their fortunes for a while?”
“I doubt it. Cows are a currency, so their value comes when they’re traded—as tribute to the more powerful clans, or as a bride price, that sort of thing. A clan that had its cows given to them for a single season might be able to move a little ways up the social ladder, but without a way of sustaining the herd size, it would not last.”
It made sense; a one-off gift could never replace a steady income. “So how does one sustain the herd size?”
“Skill, but mostly access to water and plentiful grazing. And that is bitterly contested.”
“The clans fight over it?”
“Sometimes, though not as much as they used to. A couple of hundred years ago, just about every conflict the Adali fought was over grazing land. Fortunately, the elders eventually came up with a more civilized way of carving up the beast.”
“And that is?”
“Every spring, there is a conference of all the major clans in Kigiri. It’s called the
Orom.
The migration routes for the season are decided there.”
“The
Orom
,” Kody repeated thoughtfully. The apothecary had mentioned something about an annual meeting of the clans. “How does it work?”
“It’s sort of like an auction. Clans buy the right to pass through the prime grazing lands. They pay in cattle, of course.”
“Who do they buy the rights from?”
“Each other.”
Kody frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s a different concept of land ownership than we have in Braeland. Land is a collective good, owned by the people. So it isn’t bought and sold, exactly. It’s more like leasing, with the rights going to the highest bidder. In theory, title is only held for a single season. But the richest and most powerful clans always buy the rights to the best migration routes, those with fertile land and plentiful water. The same clans tend to buy the same routes year after year, because no one can outbid them. Every so often, though, a lower-ranking clan has a really good year, and a route changes hands. It’s an investment, because access to good grazing land strengthens the herd.”
“But if everybody owns the land, then who gets paid? I mean, say I give a thousand cows for a tract of land. Who gets the cows?”
“The people,” Izar said, as though it were obvious. “The payment is put into a pool, and at the end of the auction, the pool is divided amongst the poorest clans. That’s how we make sure that no one is completely destitute. It doesn’t end up being much once it’s split between a handful of clans, but it is enough to prevent the people from starving.”
“So . . . the cows that are paid for access to grazing routes go to
charity
?”
Izar shrugged. “That’s one way of thinking about it.”
“Huh.”
Not a bad system,
Kody thought. “Imagine if the rich folks of Kennian had to pay into a pot for the poor every year. Life would sure be different.”
“The Adali take care of their own, Kody. The people are a herd, and a herd must stay together to survive.”
“Then what happened to the Asis clan?”
Izar winced. “Like I said, the payment they get from the
Orom
isn’t much, and sometimes it is not enough. Things are hard for Adali everywhere, especially with the droughts these last couple of years. Even the richer clans are losing animals, which means they have less to pay into the pot, so there is less to go around. I guess the Asis have decided that staying put, even where they are not welcome, is better than taking their chances heading north.”
“But if somebody were to give the Asis enough cattle, they could trade for a good route next season.”
“Maybe, but what then? If they had to trade away most of their herd to get access to the land, what good would the land be? They would just be in the same place all over again the next season. It takes years to build up a herd.”
“Maybe the system isn’t so great after all,” Kody said sourly. “Seems to me that it all but guarantees that the powerful clans stay powerful, and the poor stay poor.”
Izar shrugged again. “I didn’t say it was fair. Besides, change does happen. There is always the chance that a clan has an especially good year. Plus, the poor clans sometimes broker alliances with the more powerful ones, through tribute and marriages. That earns them a measure of protection.”
Kody pondered that. It seemed to him that while some limited mobility might be possible, by and large the clans occupied the same rung in the social ladder year after year. Especially a clan like the Asis, who obviously had no means to buy the support of a more powerful clan. It was a vicious cycle: fewer cattle meant limited access to grazing lands, and that in turn meant weaker herds. A poor clan without alliances was easy prey, subject to cattle rustling, slave raids, and worse. In spite of what Izar had said about the people being a herd, the Adali were not immune to the baser instincts of human nature. “A clan like the Asis is past the point of no return,” he said, more to himself than to Izar.
“Definitely. I doubt they will ever go home. However tough it is for an Adal to make his way down here, it’s a lot better than putting your children and your herds at risk back home. Over time, the clan will probably just dissolve into the Five Villages. They would not be the first.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Kody tried to think of another question, but he couldn’t. He rapped the desk in frustration. He was so close, but there was something he just wasn’t seeing. “I guess my five minutes are up. Thanks, Izar.”
Izar’s amber gaze held him. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“I think a couple of Asis are up to some bad business.” Kody didn’t elaborate; he had no desire to test Izar’s patience with talk of
khekra
. “But I’m convinced they’re just foot soldiers. I need to find their paymaster, but to do that, I need to figure out how they’re being paid. . . .”
He paused. His heart beat faster. “Wait.”
Izar smirked. “I know that look. Take a deep breath, Kody.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“You don’t say.”
Kody stood abruptly. “I’ve got to go. Thanks again.” He weaved between the desks toward the back of the kennel. “Hey, Hardin,” he called.
A portly officer with a ruddy complexion looked up from his desk. “Hiya, Kody.”
“How’d you like to come with me on an interview?” Hardin was not exactly a pedigree hound, but he was at least trustworthy, and Kody knew better than to charge off without backup. That kind of amateur mistake could get you killed. He would have preferred to bring Izar—the Adal was the better hound by far—but it wouldn’t be fair to drag him into a case like this. Izar had been forced to put enough of his people behind bars.
“Where’s Lenoir?” Hardin asked.
“Busy.”
“I don’t know. . . .” Hardin gazed at the pile of parchment on his desk. “I got all these reports to deal with. . . .”
Kody suppressed an impatient growl. “Look, you’re always complaining about being stuck behind that desk. Here’s your chance to get out there and get your hands dirty. Now, do you want to come or not?”
“All right,” Hardin said unenthusiastically.
Ingrate,
Kody thought. But even that was not enough to dampen his excitement. “Wait here a second.” He charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He scrawled out a hasty note and left it on Lenoir’s desk. Then he rounded up Hardin, grabbed a meat pie from the vendor across the street, and headed out to chase his lead.
L
enoir drifted down the high street of Kennian in a daze, his eyes fixed upon the darkening sky. The haze from thousands of cooking fires smothered the setting sun, staining it bloodred. The streetlamps were already being lit, flame-eyed sentries that stood guard against the intrusion of the gloom. Where their glowing gaze could not reach, shadows crept slowly out into the street with the unobtrusive stealth of a predator stalking its prey. Lenoir could feel the crawling darkness like a physical presence closing in around him. Every foot the shadows gained was another bit of territory conquered for the green-eyed man. The invasion would not cease until Lenoir was surrounded, besieged by the darkness with no hope of escape.
He could have tried to explain his predicament to Crears, but what would be the point? Even if Crears believed such an outlandish tale, it was no use putting him in danger. The Berryvine Watch could do nothing to help. There would be no place to hide once night had fallen. Lenoir did not know whether the light of a streetlamp would be enough to keep the spirit at bay, but it did not matter—the scourge would be able to reach inside a protective circle of light. Walls would not shield him, not if the cursed whip could shatter stone. And there was no use in running, for there was nowhere the darkness did not rule. Daylight would not come for many hours.
The street was all but deserted at the dinner hour. The shops had closed, leaving the faces of the buildings blank. To Lenoir they seemed almost as alive as the shadows, pitiless observers of his plight, spectators of some gruesome rite of sacrifice. He was alone and exposed at the center of a great arena, waiting for his death to issue forth from one of the many tunnels that flanked him.
He heard footsteps to his right. They were coming from a side street, a thin canal of gloom that concealed the source of the sound. The glow of a nearby streetlamp crowded his vision, blinding him to all but his immediate surroundings. The shadows had reached the far side of the high street.
He could sense the presence now as it drew near, and he hurried under the umbrella of the streetlamp, knowing as he did so that it could not possibly protect him. His pulse stuttered, his breath came in shallow gasps. He felt strangely light-headed, almost giddy, and suddenly he knew he did not want to run. This time he would not fight back. This time he would let the green-eyed man take him.
“Why, Nicolas—how lovely to see you!”
Lenoir did not recognize the voice through the roaring in his ears, and when Zera drew into the light, he felt the air leave his body. For a moment the dizziness intensified, and he feared he might faint. Then a great weariness settled over him. Was it relief or disappointment?
“Nicolas, are you well?” She came closer, her features etched with concern. She did not wait for Lenoir to reply. “You look awful! How pale you are . . . there isn’t a drop of blood in your lips! Come with me and we’ll make you some tea.”
Lenoir felt numb. It was a struggle to form words. “I would not want to trouble you. I’m fine.”
“Don’t be silly,” Zera said dismissively, taking his arm, “it’s just up the road. And I’m not having a salon tonight. It will just be the two of us.”
Lenoir allowed himself to be drawn forward, but he felt no desire to go with her. He felt nothing at all. “You are not safe with me,” he told her. “You should let me be.”
She seemed to think he was teasing her. “Oh my, how dramatic! Police work must be picking up these days!”
“I am not joking, Zera,” he said dully.
She stopped and gave him a long, hard look. “Are you trying to frighten me or impress me?” Before he could answer, she continued. “If you really are in trouble, then you should come inside with me at once. You’re safer there than standing in the street.”
Lenoir made no further attempt to dissuade her, but followed mechanically as she led him up the street to her apartments. He allowed her to take his coat, ignored her question about the dust and the ragged tear in the right armpit. Her expression grew increasingly worried as she fussed about him, giving brusque orders to a servant to brew a pot of tea.
“And fetch some brandy,” she called. “I fear the inspector may need it.” To Lenoir, she said, “Sit here.”
He did as he was told. They were in the winged chairs near the hearth again. Lenoir found himself wondering idly whether firelight could banish the green-eyed man.
“Is it Feine?” Zera asked him.
“What?” Lenoir gazed at her stupidly. The name meant nothing to him.
“Lord Feine. Surely you don’t think you’re the only one who worked out what happened to Arleas? His affair with Lady Feine was hardly a secret, at least not within these walls.”
Lenoir almost laughed. The idea of Lord Feine being dangerous to him seemed ridiculous. What could he have to fear from Feine, or any other mortal, when he was being hunted by something supernatural, something that could sap his life with a single touch? To Zera, he merely said, “No. It is not Lord Feine.”
A strange look came over her. “This doesn’t have something to do with that missing boy, does it?” She sounded tense, as though she feared the answer.
Lenoir massaged his temples. Nothing could be gained by telling her the truth. She would think him mad. Perhaps he
was
mad. Then again, she was Adali, and even though she had left the ways of her kin behind, she would have grown up surrounded by tales of the strange and the supernatural. Perhaps she did not share the rest of society’s skepticism toward the existence of ghosts and demons. Perhaps she would think it only natural that judgment could be sent from another plane.
He did not decide to tell her, precisely. He simply spoke. “I am hunted, Zera.”
She nodded slowly and stared into the hearth, the flames reflecting in her golden eyes. “Who is it?”
“It is not a
who
. It is a
what
.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“A spirit, Zera. A vengeful spirit from beyond. He has followed me here from Serles. I thought I had escaped him, but I haven’t. He is here, and he wants me dead.” Lenoir was surprised by the calm in his own voice. Yet he knew that it was not courage that steadied him; it was resignation.
Zera’s reaction was surprisingly measured. She had drawn back slightly in her chair, as though she suddenly found herself too close to him. Her brow was creased over hard eyes and tight lips. She seemed to hover between fear and anger, still unsure whether he teased. “A vengeful spirit from beyond.” Her tone was not mocking, but matter-of-fact—she was making sure she understood.
“I am sure you will think me mad.” Lenoir smiled ruefully. “I have no doubt I would think so in your place. But I promise you that what I say is the truth. I have been touched by the hand of death. Twice.” He reached down and pulled up his torn pant leg.
Her cry was muffled by the hand that flew to her mouth. She looked away sharply, but a moment later, her eyes were drawn irresistibly back to the mottled gray of Lenoir’s shin. It was punctured and scored by the barbs, but there was no sign of blood.
Lenoir’s own gaze lingered on this new scar, so very like the one he bore on his arm. The spirit was killing his body piece by piece. “It is cold to the touch,” he observed blandly, his fingers gliding down into his boot. “The flesh has died.” Zera had turned away again, her face in her hands, so Lenoir let his pant leg drop. She had seen enough. She could not disbelieve him now.
“What happened?” she whispered, and now her voice shook.
“I don’t know. I have not seen him for ten years. I thought I had escaped. But then I saw the signs of his work, and I knew he had returned.”
Zera shook her head mutely. She did not understand. How to explain it to her?
“There is an ancient myth in Arrènes, about avenging angels called
carnairs
. When mortals sinned gravely, the
carnairs
were sent forth by God to punish them. There was no escaping their wrath. They were immortal, inescapable. They tortured their victims and drove them mad.”
“The Adali have such tales. But as you say, they are myths.”
“Just so. But the spirit that hunts me is no myth. He is real. And like the
carnairs
, he has been sent to punish me.”
“But how do you—”
“I just know. The first time I saw him, I knew. I looked into his eyes and I knew he wanted me dead. And I knew I deserved it.”
He told her about that night in Serles, when dawn had broken and lanced through the green-eyed man like a spear from Heaven. He told her about his flight from the city of his birth, a permanent exile that he regretted more bitterly than anything before or since. And he told her about his afternoon in Berryvine, when the spirit’s flesh had melted from his bones only to regenerate moments later. Lenoir was relentless in his telling of it, sparing no detail. By the time he finished, Zera was shaking so badly that she spilled brandy on herself when she tried to take a sip.
Lenoir, for his part, felt somehow calmer for having related the tale, as though speaking it aloud made it somehow more fathomable, more prosaic. He could approach the problem now, try to think it through.
“The ironic part is, I do not think the spirit came here for me,” Lenoir said reflectively. “He is somehow connected to Zach’s kidnapping.”
Zera choked on her brandy for the second time.
“What?”
“I know, it is an incredible coincidence. Or perhaps it is fate—I no longer know the difference. But when we found that boy in the farmhouse, we also found a body—an Adali man.”
“You never told me that.”
“No. I did not even want to think about it. When I saw him, I knew immediately how he died. I knew the spirit had killed him. And he killed another Adal today in Berryvine. He must have come here for them.” He smiled bitterly. “Finding me was just serendipity.”
There was a long silence. Zera stared into the flames. Lenoir could see that she was shaken to the core, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He should not have burdened her with this horror. It had nothing to do with her.
“What are you going to do?” she asked him eventually.
“I don’t know.”
“You should go to a soothsayer.”
The suggestion surprised him. Zera was the last person he would expect to refer him to a fortune-teller. “What for?”
Zera’s expression was severe. “You know how I feel about these things, Nicolas, but there are times when such considerations must be put aside. Your life is in terrible danger. This . . .
thing
, this green-eyed man, is not of this world. If you have any chance of escaping him, you need advice from someone who can see beyond this world.”
“And if I have no chance of escaping him?”
“Then think of the boy!” she snapped. “I won’t allow you to sit here feeling sorry for yourself and waiting to die, not when there’s a chance you might learn something that could save you, and the boy too! Perhaps the spirit has a weakness other than sunlight. Or perhaps there’s a way you can appease him.”
“A soothsayer could tell me these things?” Lenoir asked skeptically.
Zera gave a frustrated sigh and slumped back in her chair. “Not just any street charlatan, obviously, but a real one might. Such practices are common amongst the Adali, and even I have seen things I cannot explain. You have nothing to lose by trying.”
Lenoir supposed she was right. His life was forfeit; there was nothing left to lose. “I will do as you say. There is a sergeant I know who visits soothsayers now and again. Perhaps he can guide me. I will speak to him in the morning.”
“Do it now. Tonight. If this thing is as dangerous as you say, you have no time to spare.”
On that, at least, they agreed.
• • •
“A soothsayer?” Sergeant Cale leaned against the doorframe of his apartment, regarding Lenoir with a wary expression. “At this time of night?” It was a not so subtle dig. The sergeant had been startled to find Lenoir at his door, and gave no sign of making him welcome. Over Cale’s shoulder, Lenoir spied a poorly lit space even more cramped and disorderly than his own. “Begging your pardon, Inspector, but I never took you for the type to believe in such things.”
“I do not,” Lenoir said flatly. “But my investigation requires that I speak to a soothsayer. An Adal.”
“There’s dozens of them in town, and they’re almost all Adali. Surely you don’t need my help to find one?” It was borderline insubordinate, but Cale obviously suspected he was being made fun of. It would not be the first time; his occasional patronage of soothsayers had earned him much ridicule at the hands of his fellow hounds.
“That is true, Sergeant,” Lenoir said, putting just enough frost in his voice to warn the junior officer against further evasion, “but my requirements are more specific. I need a soothsayer with a strong reputation, and what is more, I need someone who is also practiced in black magic.”
Cale looked startled. “Black magic? But, sir—”
“I am investigating a series of kidnappings, and I have reason to believe that Adali magic is involved. I need to speak with someone who is renowned for such things. You are known to frequent Adali soothsayers. You must have some idea by now of who they are and what they do. Now tell me what I want to know, Sergeant, or I’ll have you written up.” His impatience was only half-feigned. He gave little credit to the idea of psychic powers, still less to magic and spells, but he was at a dead end, both for himself and for Zach. He was not going to stumble blindly through the streets and settle for the first soothsayer he came across. If he was going to speak to a charlatan, he wanted to speak to the best.
“Merden,” said Cale sullenly. “I’d go to Merden.”
“Where is he?”
“The market district.”
Lenoir frowned. It seemed unlikely that he would find what he was looking for in that part of town. The market district was a high-traffic area, and from what the apothecary had said, Lenoir would have assumed that anyone practicing
khekra
would wish to remain out of sight.
Seeing his expression, Cale gave a knowing smirk. “You wouldn’t think a soothsayer could afford the rents in the market district, would you? But he has a steady clientele. He’s the best, they say. He’d better be, for what he charges.”