Lenoir tapped the charcoal sketch. “Let us suppose that you are right, and this man was exiled for sorcery. What use could he make of a child? What would be his purpose?”
The apothecary lowered his voice and spoke quickly, as though he wanted the conversation to be over. “Khekra makes use of anything you can name—herbs, minerals, animal parts.”
“And human parts,” supplied Lenoir.
Kody felt his lip curl in revulsion. Savages.
“Sometimes. Usually it’s nothing sinister—fingernails, or hair, or a drop of blood. But it matters where you get the material from. Who you get it from. The younger the source, the purer it is, and pure components make for more powerful spells.”
“So they use children,” Kody said disgustedly.
The apothecary was sweating now. He lowered his voice even further, until it was barely above a whisper. “The Adali believe that children make for powerful medicine, strong enough to cure even a mortal wound. But I’ve never heard of them really hurting a child, only taking a little blood.”
“Only?” Kody snapped, barely able to suppress his outrage.
The apothecary swiped his arm across his dampened brow. “Look, I’m only . . . I’m just telling you what I know, Sergeant. I’m just trying to help.”
Lenoir’s countenance was stone. “What about dead bodies? Can they be used in medicine?”
The poor apothecary was turning green. He shook his head weakly. “No. Dead flesh is polluted; it would never be used for medicine. A curse, maybe, but I doubt any Adal would risk it. They believe that sins against the dead are punished from beyond. The Adali always treat the dead with great respect.”
Lenoir’s gaze became abstracted, his brow furrowed in thought. Then light returned to his eye, and he asked, “What kind of spell would call for a child and a corpse?”
The other man shook his head, apparently at a loss. “I don’t . . . I’ve never heard of anything like that.” He put a hand over his belly, as though he felt sick. “What’s going on, Inspector? My God, has someone—”
“Who could tell us more?” Kody interrupted.
“Any Adal could, but I doubt anyone would. You must understand, Sergeant, these things just aren’t discussed—not even among the Adali. I should never have been told about any of this. God knows I wish I hadn’t been.”
There was a long pause. Then Lenoir said, “That will be all, thank you.”
The sunlight was fierce when they stepped out of the shop, and for a moment, all Kody could do was squint. When his eyes began to adjust, he realized that a pair of Adali women was waiting for them by the horses. “Inspector,” one of them said as Lenoir approached. Kody recognized the younger of the two; she’d been gathered with the others when they had questioned the elder.
“The man you are looking for,” the older woman said in a thick accent, “he is dead?”
Kody held up the sketch and showed it to them. “Did you know him?”
The older woman scanned the parchment sadly. “Yes. He was . . . he used to be my brother.” The younger woman reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“What was his name?” Lenoir asked.
“I cannot say,” the sister said. “It is forbidden to speak the name he once had. He is not . . .” She paused, frowning, as though searching for the right words.
“He did not exist,” the younger woman supplied.
“What do you mean, didn’t exist?” Kody asked incredulously.
Lenoir understood. “He was exiled.”
Ah. The apothecary had said that when someone was banished, the clan no longer acknowledged his existence. Kody hadn’t realized he meant it quite so literally.
“Why do you ask of him?” the sister wanted to know. “When he died . . . he was doing wrong?”
Lenoir considered her with narrowed eyes. “I think you know the answer to that.”
The sister shook her head; the horn beads of her earrings clacked with the movement. “No. He has been gone a long time, living in the city. The shame he made here, when he existed . . . that would not concern you.”
“It might,” Lenoir said. “Tell me about it.”
“It is forbidden,” the sister said.
“Did he practice . . .” Kody caught himself before he used the word; he sensed it would only upset them. “Did he make medicine?”
The sister’s eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her head. “Medicine,” she whispered tremulously. “Yes. He helped many people.”
“Many people,” the younger woman said fiercely. She and the sister exchanged a look.
“Was that why the elders sent him away?” Kody asked.
The sister looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line. It was the younger woman who answered, “It was not for the medicine. The elders knew about that, though they pretended they did not. It was for the . . . for the rain.”
Lenoir frowned. “The rain?”
“Not the rain. The . . .” She hesitated, her fingers twitching as though to grasp the unfamiliar words. “When it does not rain,” she finished helplessly.
“Drought?” Kody hazarded.
“Yes, drought. For three seasons, it did not rain. The herd was dying. We were already so poor . . . the people were sick and suffering.”
“My brother tried to help,” the sister said quietly. “He made a spell. He was caught.”
“And they banished him,” Lenoir finished. “Have you seen or spoken to him since?”
The sister stiffened. “No.”
“He did not exist,” the younger woman reminded them.
“How long ago did he cease to exist?” To Kody’s surprise, there was not a trace of sarcasm in the inspector’s voice. As absurd as the conversation sounded to Braelish ears, it was all too serious for the Adali, and for once, Lenoir was being respectful.
“Four seasons,” the younger woman said. “Perhaps five.” That meant about two years, Kody knew. The Adali measured seasons by their migration patterns. A season began when they quit Kigiri to head south to Braeland, and ended when the arrival of autumn turned them home again. Except now the Asis don’t go back north. That must throw everything off for them. For the first time, it occurred to Kody that the Adali didn’t really have any experience of winter until they came to Braeland. How do they manage? They must drop like flies, he thought grimly.
“You say he was living in the city,” Lenoir said. “Do you know what he was doing there? Where he lived, who his associates were?”
The sister shook her head, her beads clacking. Her amber eyes were sad, but resigned. Kody decided he believed her.
“You must tell me his name,” Lenoir said.
“It is forbid—”
“I know,” Lenoir interrupted, “but a boy’s life is at stake, and I do not have much time.”
“A boy’s life?” The woman paled. “My brother would not hurt a child.”
“You sure about that?” Kody challenged. “He got himself exiled, didn’t he?”
She threw him a sharp look. “His shame . . . He made those spells to help people, not to hurt them. He made bad things, yes, but he was only trying to help us. If he was still making bad things when he died, it must have been for the people. For the clan.”
Kody felt his lip twist, but he managed to bite down on a sarcastic reply. As for Lenoir, he merely said, “That may be, but the fact remains that a child is missing, and your brother was involved somehow. What can you tell me about his magic? Can you think of any reason why your brother might take a child?”
“He would not hurt a child,” she insisted, her voice rising in pitch. “I have already said what I should not. Do not speak more of this. It is forbidden.” Her amber eyes were wide with fear.