“What is your name?”
“Kern.”
Lenoir gestured behind him. “You know who this is, don’t you, Kern? You have heard stories of him since you were a child, no?”
The man began to weep. Lenoir decided to back off the bellows, lest he stoke the fires too much. “I will spare your life if you cooperate. Do you understand?”
Kern was blubbering into his chest and seemed not to have heard. Lenoir leaned down and slapped him. “Do you understand?” The man nodded, snuffling. “Good. Now tell me, where is the boy?”
Kern sobbed loudly. “None of this was supposed to happen. There wasn’t supposed to be any boy, at least not a living one! Just the bodies, they said. They never said anything about hurting anyone.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know!”
“Ridiculous. You and your friends have held him for days.”
“Yes, it’s true, but they moved him this morning. I don’t know where, I swear!”
Lenoir dropped to his haunches and leaned in threateningly. With Vincent at his back, he felt powerful. He felt like Wrath itself. He was almost giddy with it. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
Kern began to sob again. Lenoir waited patiently until the spasm subsided. “The hounds were getting close,” Kern said. “And the others were turning up dead. . . .” His gaze strayed to Vincent, and his eyelids began to flutter as though he might faint.
Lenoir swore under his breath. “Focus, Kern!”
The man nodded, obviously making an effort. “They said they were going to move him this morning. I would have gone with them, but I’m sick with fever.”
Lenoir glanced at the man’s brow. It was slick with moisture. He had noticed it before, but put it down to fear. He reached out and placed the back of his hand against Kern’s forehead; sure enough, it was hot to the touch. “And you don’t know where they took him?” he asked sternly. Kern shook his head. “Who is your leader, and where can I find him?”
“There were two, but one of them’s dead.”
“Raiyen.”
Kern nodded miserably.
“And the other? Who is he?”
“His name is Los. He lives with the rest of the clan, in a camp near Berryvine. He’s been staying in a shack not far from here, but he hasn’t been back there in weeks. He was making preparations before, and now he stays with the boy.”
Lenoir considered. It did not do him much good to learn the man’s name, nor would it help to send watchmen to find out more about him. Lenoir was not looking to build a case against Los; what he needed was to find the man—and quickly.
“Who else are you working with?” Perhaps he would have more luck with another member of Kern’s crew.
“All dead,” Kern whimpered. “Just me and Ani left.”
“Ani?”
From behind him, a chill voice spoke. “I know this woman. I have seen her.”
Lenoir stood. They had gotten all they could from Kern, at least for now. He was bitterly disappointed at his luck. Kern’s illness was the only reason he could not give them Zach’s exact location. But perhaps this Ani would give them more. They needed to hurry.
“I never wanted to hurt the boy, I swear. Nothing is the way Raiyen said it would be. They tricked me!”
Lenoir ignored his feeble excuses. “That will be all for the moment. If I were you, I would stay in this hut and not leave, not even to move your bowels. Understand?”
Kern nodded mutely, and Lenoir turned to go.
Vincent stepped forward and snapped his wrist, sending his barbed scourge around Kern’s neck.
“Wait!” Lenoir cried. “What are you doing?”
Vincent ignored him. Lenoir could only watch helplessly as the spirit choked the life out of the sickly coward called Kern.
When it was over, Lenoir turned and stalked out of the hut, only to find Vincent waiting for him outside. He whirled on the spirit, his anger flaring beyond the reaches of his fear. “Why did you do that? I gave him my word that we would spare his life!”
“You should not have.”
“We might have needed him later!”
Vincent said nothing. He just stood there implacably as the rain pelted him, bouncing off his leather jerkin and streaming down the sides of his nose.
“You murdered him, when he might have been the only one who could lead us to Zach!”
“I had no choice.”
“What do you mean, you had no choice? The fool was harmless!”
“He was marked. I had no choice.”
Merden’s words returned to Lenoir’s mind:
It is said that he has no will of his own, at least none he can exert.
“But you spared me,” Lenoir pointed out, dimly aware that he did not sound appropriately grateful for it.
“You have not been spared.”
Strictly speaking, that was true—Lenoir’s sentence had not been commuted, only deferred. “But you could have waited, at least until we found Zach.”
“Perhaps,” the spirit allowed. “But it is done now.” He turned and headed back the way they had come.
Lenoir could only follow.
A
ni was dead.
Her corpse lay in a heap in the middle of her apartment, the dark stain beneath her thick and cold. Vermin skittered along the floorboards, drawn to the smell of blood. The open gash in her throat was already moving with flies.
Some part of Lenoir had expected this, but that did nothing to dampen the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. This woman had been his only remaining lead, his best chance of finding Zach. She had also been Vincent’s final target, the last of the corpse thieves whose faces he had seen through the eyes of the dead. Lenoir’s time was nearly up, and he had nothing to show for it. He should have questioned Kern about motive when he had the chance, but he had been in such a hurry to find Zach . . .
Vincent stood in a corner of the room, carefully avoiding the thin blades of dawn that intruded through the shutters. He watched Lenoir silently, offering no comment on the scene. How long would he wait before he concluded that Lenoir had nothing to offer him after all? Lenoir caught himself wishing for daylight and a chance to escape. It was a fleeting thought, a survival instinct, but he could not suppress it. He only hoped it did not show on his face.
“Very well,” he said aloud, “we must take the difficult route. What we cannot learn from this woman, we must deduce for ourselves.” His words were as much for his own benefit as Vincent’s. He could not allow himself to be overcome with hopelessness. He had once been the cleverest inspector in the finest police department in the world. It was time he reminded himself why.
He talked himself through it. “This woman was obviously killed by her accomplices.” In spite of what Kern had said, he was convinced there were others besides Los, henchmen who were not part of the inner circle like Kern and Ani. “They killed her because they are worried about being discovered, which means someone rattled their cage. Presumably, that someone was Sergeant Kody.” He paused. It was unlikely that Kody had met anyone in the prison who had direct knowledge of these crimes. “Kody must have learned something that went to motive, and motive in turn led him close enough to the perpetrators that they felt it necessary to kill him and Sergeant Hardin. So—what was the motive?”
Lenoir considered. Vincent had said that the corpse thieves were trying to resurrect the soul of a boy long dead, a boy who had been murdered approximately ten years ago by his father. Here was a clue about motive, which Lenoir had brushed aside in favor of the more direct route of interrogation. It was time to reexamine the evidence.
He turned to the spirit, who still hovered silently in the shadows like a veiled threat. “Vincent, what can you tell me about the murdered boy? Was he Adali?”
Vincent cocked his head, remembering. “No.”
“With the exception of the gravedigger, all the corpse thieves have been Adali. Assuming the rest of them are also Adali, we must conclude that whoever is trying to resurrect the boy is not a family member. Although they could be working for a family member, I suppose.”
Lenoir recalled Merden’s words about meddling with corpses. It was foolhardy to attempt such magic, because doing so invited retribution from beyond.
“Every Adal knows this,”
the soothsayer had said.
“If the corpse thieves are risking so much to resurrect this boy, they must be demanding a heavy price in return.” An idea was forming in Lenoir’s head. “Was the father a rich man?”
Vincent frowned. “I know nothing of that.”
“Think,” Lenoir pressed, too absorbed in his own thoughts to worry about angering the spirit. “Remember what you saw. Where did the boy live? What sort of clothing did his father wear?”
Vincent reflected on this. “Yes,” he said eventually, “perhaps he was rich. His clothes were very fine, and he lived in a large estate.”
Something rammed into place, like a ball and powder being loaded into the empty chamber of Lenoir’s mind. “I know where we must go next.”
Vincent glanced toward the window, its pane glowing softly with the growing dawn. “I cannot.”
Lenoir cursed; then he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. For ten years, the spirit had been his only dread, his only terror. He had even avoided sleep, so fearful was he of encountering the spirit in his dreams. Now he was disappointed that Vincent could not accompany him. No one would admit having a hand in kidnapping a child, not without being put under considerable duress. The man Lenoir intended to see was powerful and would not be intimidated easily. Vincent’s presence gave him leverage that he did not otherwise have. But he could not afford to wait until nightfall, for that would give the kidnappers a full day to proceed with their plans.
“I must go alone, then,” Lenoir said. “We do not have the luxury of losing more time.”
• • •
Lenoir reined his horse in at the gate, glancing at the flag snapping smartly in the breeze at the far end of the drive. Theoretically, the Duke of Warrick was in residence. Whether he would acquiesce to an interview was another matter. Belatedly, it occurred to Lenoir that he knew little of Braelish law in circumstances such as these, and specifically whether he had the authority to interrogate a man of such rank without express permission from the king. What would he do if the duke refused him entry? There was no time to pursue the matter through bureaucratic channels.
A guard emerged from the gatehouse. “Can I help you?”
“I am Inspector Nicolas Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police,” he announced in what he hoped was an impressive manner. “I am here to see His Grace on a matter of official business.”
The guard frowned. He looked Lenoir up and down before retreating to the gatehouse to confer with one of his fellows. He reappeared a moment later, the second guard in tow. “Wait here,” he said. He slung himself onto a horse and cantered up the drive. Lenoir was left in the care of the second guard. He did not bother to dismount. Getting on and off a horse was simply too much work to undertake any more than was necessary.
He waited, his gaze drifting over the harsh lines of Castle Warrick. He had never seen it from so close a vantage before, and the proximity was not flattering. It was an irregular-shaped creature with a rib cage of towers, rugged flanks and tiny, suspicious eyes barely wide enough to permit the sight of an archer. It hunkered behind a stinking moat, a vestige of a bloodier age when noble residences were required to serve as fortresses against would-be invaders. The drive seemed somehow to lead
away
from the castle, rather than toward, and the iron gates bristled with spikes. Lenoir had never seen a less welcoming structure in all his life.
How fitting,
he thought dryly.
“You a friend of His Grace’s?” the second guard asked, interrupting Lenoir’s thoughts.
Lenoir shook his head, and the guard snickered to himself. Lenoir realized the question had been sarcastic. “Something is amusing?” he asked coldly.
The guard smirked. “If His Grace has any friends, I don’t know ’em. We haven’t had a caller in weeks, and the last one was a messenger from the lord mayor.” He dropped his voice. “The duke is not the most social of chaps, in case you haven’t heard.”
“I am surprised you feel at your ease to express such an opinion.” Lenoir said it approvingly, in a manner designed to coax further offerings. The more he learned about his interview subject, the better.
“Have you ever met him?” the guard asked, as though that should explain it all.
“Once, at the inauguration of the new Metropolitan Police Station. We did not converse.” The rare appearance had been quite an honor for the chief. Lenoir recalled with no small amusement the sight of his superior strutting and mincing like a parade pony, simultaneously proud and deferential. The guest of honor, meanwhile, had been perfectly indifferent to the chief’s attentions. The duke had stood impassively while the lord mayor and the chief delivered their speeches, then retreated without so much as a farewell. His rudeness would have been remarked upon, had it been in any way remarkable for him.
“In that case,” said the guard, “you probably know him as well as anyone.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“Not much. I’ve only met the man a handful of times myself. He never goes anywhere.” The guard jerked his thumb in a vaguely southerly direction. “I used to work over at Kirring Manor. You know the place?”
Lenoir nodded.
“Never a quiet moment over there. Balls, banquets, luncheons. When they wasn’t coming, they was going—ballet and opera and God knows what else.
That’s
how the highborn are supposed to live, you know?”
“Perhaps. But every man, no matter how ill-tempered, has friends, or at least business associates. You must have noticed people coming and going from here.”
Adali, perhaps?
“Like I said, not many.” Dropping his voice conspiratorially, the guard added, “The duke’s got something of a stink on him, you know. That whole business with his family and whatnot.”
Lenoir did indeed know. The whole of the Five Villages knew. The Duke of Warrick was widely believed to have murdered his own wife in the heat of a jealous rage. So inflamed were his passions that he went on to murder his son, only to mourn the boy fiercely after the deed was done. Nothing had ever been proven, but the duke had hardly given the townsfolk reason to dismiss the tale. If anything, his reclusiveness, and his cold manner, only sealed his reputation as an antisocial creature capable of most anything. It was precisely those rumors that had drawn Lenoir to the duke’s gates.
“Gossip,” he said with an affected air of disdain. “I doubt His Grace had anything to do with his family’s murder.”
The guard shrugged again. “A scandal is a scandal.”
“In my experience, a man as rich and powerful as the Duke of Warrick can get away with just about any scandal.” In this remark, at least, Lenoir was absolutely sincere. In his judgment, it was not the duke’s dark past that had earned him a permanent place in the annals of infamy. The discerning denizens of the Five Villages might be willing to overlook murder, but they could not countenance neglect.
“Yeah, he’s rich all right,” the guard said sourly. “And he certainly knows how to hold on to a copper.”
Ah. There it is.
The guard’s loose tongue suddenly made a great deal more sense.
“I take it you are not well compensated for your time?”
“You take it correctly, good sir.” He paused and adopted a thoughtful look, as though something had only just occurred to him. “Say, you’re a hound, right? You think I could get a job with you lot? What with my experience in the security business, and whatnot?”
Lenoir suppressed his smile. Did the man honestly think he was being subtle? Aloud, he simply said, “Perhaps.”
He was spared further awkwardness by the return of the first guard, who gestured for Lenoir to be admitted. Lenoir dismounted, handed his horse over, and followed the first guard up the long drive.
He was ushered into the duke’s study and told to wait. He stood at the center of the room, methodically taking in his surroundings. He could not have asked for a better location to conduct his interview. Parlors, sunrooms, and the like were designed for guests; they put forward a false face, one designed to impress. A study, however, was an intimate location, a place that revealed much about the host. This room was particularly eloquent. Though commodious, it was sparsely furnished, with only a few chairs, a desk, and a sideboard. A row of books marched in tidy ranks across a set of shelves near the fireplace. The hearth mantel was unadorned, the sort one might expect to find in a modest inn. And though the room was equipped with glass windows instead of shutters, they were small and practical, with none of the elaborate etching so often favored by the rich.
Virtually the only visible evidence of the duke’s stature was the huge portrait hanging over the mantel, of a young boy of perhaps seven or eight. Dark, doelike eyes stared down at Lenoir, seeming to watch him. The boy had round cheeks full of youthful color, but he wore a somber expression; not a hint of a smile touched his full lips. He wore a bright blue doublet with a high collar, a style that had been popular about a decade ago.
The duke’s son,
Lenoir decided. If he was right, the presence of the portrait was telling.
He misses the boy.
That much of the rumor, at least, appeared to be true. Lenoir stared at the canvas, unable to shake the eerie impression that the boy was staring back.
Watching through the eyes of the dead,
Lenoir thought,
just like Vincent.
He shuddered.
He let his gaze drop to a pair of sumptuously upholstered chairs facing the desk. Their soft velvet beckoned mockingly. He was tired—exhausted, really—but he supposed it would be impertinent to sit before being invited to do so. Not for the first time, he cursed the inane protocol of the noble classes. Impractical and hopelessly complicated, elite etiquette was a rigid cage disguised in lace, as fatuous and suffocating as a corset. Then again, he supposed that lowborn cretins such as he ought to be grateful that there was a code of conduct governing the interactions of the powerful and hyperambitious. Without it, the games of the nobility would almost certainly turn bloody.
The door opened abruptly, wrenching Lenoir back to the here and now, and the Duke of Warrick strode into the room. Lenoir was surprised at this prompt arrival; he had expected the duke to keep him waiting, as men of rank were wont to do. His bearing too was surprising, for instead of the affected, leisurely manner typical of his class, Warrick crossed the study with a purposeful gait, gesturing peremptorily at a chair before seating himself behind the desk. Lenoir paused, wondering if he should bow. Instead he settled for a brief incline of his head before taking the proffered chair.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Warrick asked without preamble.
Lenoir had never heard the man speak before, and he was struck by the cold gravel of Warrick’s voice. It was entirely suited to a countenance seemingly carved from stone—the long nose chiseled in granite, the eyes chipped from slate. His angular features were framed in dark hair that reached nearly to his shoulders, a style far more pragmatic than fashionable. He sat straight and proud, yet he seemed restless, as though sitting was not a posture to his liking. Had Lenoir passed him on the street, he would never have known Warrick as a nobleman. He carried himself more like a general.