Feine had mastered himself once again, and he smiled as he handed the letter back. “And you do not strike me as the sort of man whose lifestyle can be supported on the salary of an inspector. Men of such modest means do not often find themselves frequenting Lady Zera’s salon.”
There it was. Lenoir had seen it coming; Feine’s demeanor had told him to expect it.
A long silence followed, filled only with the wordless exchange of two men staring at each other. At length, Lenoir said, “Lady Zera’s is indeed a place of extravagance. One struggles to fit in.”
“I can imagine,” said Lord Feine with mock sympathy. “But one needn’t.”
Another stretch of silence. Finally, Lenoir turned and headed for the door. “I will consider the matter, Lord Feine. Until then, keep your men away from Arleas. I daresay even you would be hard-pressed to afford a murder charge.”
The shutters of the boy’s eyelids fly open, letting sunlight stream in. The abruptness of the change would have been blinding, if such a thing were possible. But the boy is dead, and as for him, he cannot be blinded, because he does not truly see, not in the sense of the living. Instead of blinding him, the light reveals a bounty of new clues, and he studies them meticulously. He sees the same two men who came to collect the body. There are new faces too. They are speaking, all of them at the same time, their lips moving as one. Singing? Chanting? Without sound to guide him, it is impossible to tell. He knows every language of mortal men, but he cannot read lips.
Some of the room’s occupants are just outside his field of vision. He can see their hands moving. If they shifted only a little—
Wait. Something is wrong. Only now does it occur to him to wonder how the corpse’s eyelids come to be open.
He senses another presence. Not out there, but in here, where there should be nothing but an empty husk. He reaches out into the void, and he feels it brush against him. He is not alone.
It lasts only a moment. The presence lingers just long enough to recognize the death here, the wrongness. It departs, but not before he senses its confusion and sadness. It did not come of its own volition. It was summoned.
It has been centuries since he felt rage, but he feels it now, thick and hot and writhing. This should not be. This is a sin far greater than that which called him here. He longs to loose his wrath upon them now, but there is too much light; he is powerless. No matter, he tells himself. They cannot escape him.
He will have his vengeance.
CHAPTER 7
The day had started out badly and seemed determined to grow worse. Lenoir had awoken with a terrible headache and a bitter taste in his mouth, thanks to another long evening at Zera’s. There had been nothing edible in his apartment—the cheese had gone off and the bread was stale—so he had made his way to the station without breakfast. There he had been forced to endure an hour of Kody’s inane speculations, followed by the stomach-turning scene of a man subjected to bleeding by leech (on second thought, perhaps the lack of breakfast was a blessing.) To cap it off, the nobleman responsible for the crime assumed that Lenoir’s silence could be bought, which assumption, to his immense annoyance, was not entirely unwarranted.
By the time evening threw its dark cloth over the rooftops, Lenoir had worked himself into a veritable froth of ill humor. Feine had not even waited for him to produce real evidence before deciding that it would be easier to bribe his way out. A vindictive sort would take that as a sign the deal could be sweetened.
Lenoir was feeling awfully vindictive.
If Feine thought silence came cheaply, he would soon learn otherwise. But first, Lenoir needed leverage. The lover’s letter alone was not enough to convince the magistrate. At most, it suggested an affair between Lady Feine and Arleas, but in itself that proved nothing. He needed something concrete, something that tied Feine directly to the beating. Fortunately, he had an idea how to get it.
He found Zach at the Firkin, the same shabby inn where the two of them had first become acquainted. The boy was lounging near the hearth, a flagon of ale in hand (where in the flaming below had he gotten that?), scanning the room for likely prey. When he spied Lenoir, his face split into a wide grin, and he waved enthusiastically. Lenoir could not deny that it felt good to receive such a welcome, even if it came from a sorry little street mongrel. God knew there were few enough who took any joy in Lenoir’s presence.
“What are you doing here, Zach?”
The boy scowled. “Well, now, here’s a fine greeting.”
“Infringed dignity sits oddly on you,” Lenoir said wryly. “I thought you were supposed to be looking into something for me.”
“And so I am! You can’t blame a fellow for taking a break now and then. It’s cold as Durian’s grave out there.”
Lenoir could not disagree. Even this close to the hearth, the frequent comings and goings at the tavern door kept the room steeped in a perpetual chill. Not that the patrons took any notice; most were too far into their cups to heed much of anything. The Firkin was one of Kennian’s more raucous taverns, which was one of the reasons Zach could so often be found here. Drunkards took little notice of their purses being lifted.
“Anyway,” said Zach, “I don’t know why you’re acting all surprised. You came here looking for me.”
“Is that so? And how do you reckon that?”
“You never come in here unless you’re looking for me.”
Lenoir grunted. “Very well, I concede the point. The fact remains, however, that you have an unfinished task.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m not getting anywhere.” Zach looked darkly at the flagon in his hand, as though it were responsible.
“It is not an easy thing I have asked you to do,” Lenoir admitted. “But do not allow yourself to become discouraged. I have great faith in your talents.”
Zach sniffed, his petulant expression disappearing under the rim of his flagon.
Lenoir would have dearly liked to know which of these tavern rats thought it appropriate to give a full flagon of ale to a boy of nine, but he did not have time to worry about that now. “In the meantime, I have another task for you.”
“All right,” Zach said warily, licking his lips.
“I need you to put me in touch with some hired muscle.”
“Hired muscle?”
“A thug, Zach. The sort of man who hires himself out for his fists.”
“Ah.” Zach grinned. “Now, that’s more like it. I don’t know about high street gossip, but cutthroats and mercenaries are my specialty. Let’s go.”
Lenoir drew up short when he recognized the alley. The narrow, twisting path ended at a small courtyard hemmed in by two- and three-story buildings, their dark frames leaning haphazardly in a semicircle like a cluster of drunks huddled over a game of bones. It was a dead end, meaning Zach had only one possible destination: the Hobbled Hound.
“You come to this place?” Lenoir asked in mild amazement.
Zach turned, his features barely discernible in the shadows. The alley was dark save for the washed amber glow of the braziers in the courtyard up ahead. The wavering firelight sketched eerie shapes on the plaster and beams of the shop faces, long since closed for the night.
“Sometimes,” Zach said. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Lenoir muttered, resuming his stride.