“A copper for your thoughts, mister?” said a voice, breaking into Lenoir’s musings. He turned at the sound, but could not immediately locate its source. Then he saw a shadow moving in a doorway, barely discernible in the failing light of evening. He glanced at the sign hanging crookedly above the doorframe and was surprised to see that he had already reached the orphanage. He must have been walking faster than he realized.
He addressed his reply to the gloom of the doorway. “If you have a copper, Zach, I shall have to arrest you for theft.”
“Fair enough,” said the boy brightly, stepping out into the thoroughfare. “How ’bout you give me a copper, and I’ll pretend to be interested in your thoughts?”
Lenoir eyed the scruffy creature before him. Skinny, unkempt, and unwashed, Zach probably appeared pathetic to those who did not look closely enough. The careful observer, though, noting the keenness of his gaze and the impish curl of his mouth, would know him at once for the quick-witted, street-savvy survivor that he was.
“I suppose you are looking for dinner,” Lenoir said.
Zach grinned. “Always.”
“All right, but if you steal any purses, you are on your own. I cannot have trouble with the Courtier or I will starve.” He crooked his neck sharply. “Come.”
The boy fell in step beside him, tugging his faded hat over the tips of his ears. He had outgrown the hat by at least one winter, Lenoir judged, and it no longer covered him as it should. As he fussed with it, Lenoir was struck once again by the boy’s height—or rather its lack. Though nearly ten, Zach barely came past Lenoir’s elbow. A lifetime of poor diet had stunted the boy’s growth such that he was the size of a healthy child of six or seven.
“Anything exciting today?” the boy asked.
Lenoir shrugged. “No. A small crime, no motive. A waste of a day.”
“You always say that,” Zach said, disappointed.
It was true, Lenoir supposed—he could not recall the last time he had found a case interesting. “All right, I will humor you. It was a theft, but nothing valuable. Someone stole a body.”
“You mean a dead body?” Zach’s eyes rounded; then his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Why?”
“You tell me.”
Zach looked up at him. “This game again? I’m not very good at it.”
“You are better than you think. Proceed.”
He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip in thought. “Whose body was it?”
“A boy, about your age, in fact. He lived in Brackensvale.”
“How did he die?”
The question brought Lenoir up short. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I should have asked, perhaps. That’s good, Zach—you are doing well. Now, for the purposes of our game, let us assume the cause of death is not important.”
“Was he rich?”
“Rich?”
“Well, maybe they buried him with some jewels or something.” Zach’s eyes lit up in childish delight at the idea.
Lenoir chuckled. “You have heard too many tales of the ancient Cassiterians, I think. The parents were poor. They would not have buried the boy with anything valuable.”
Zach’s brow puckered as he thought. He fell silent, and neither of them spoke again until they reached the Courtier. Lenoir hauled on the door, golden warmth spilling forth into the flat light of evening. Rough laughter and the clink of crockery tumbled after, and finally the smell of sawdust and roasting meat. Zach passed under Lenoir’s arm as he held the door open, and soon the boy’s small form disappeared within a sea of patrons, only to bob to the surface a moment later behind an empty table. By the time Lenoir sat down, Zach was ready with his next question.
“Do they have witches in Brackensvale?”
Lenoir blinked. “What does it mean, ‘witches’?” It still happened occasionally that someone would use a word Lenoir had not heard before.
“You know,” the boy said impatiently, “like Adali doctors who use magic to cure the sick. I’ve heard they sometimes use dead bodies in their spells.”
Lenoir laughed. Sometimes he allowed himself to forget that Zach was, after all, only a child. “Perhaps you are young enough yet to believe in magic.”
The boy scowled at this. “Adali doctors can heal mortal wounds with berries and spit and ground-up bones. Everybody knows that.”
Lenoir twisted in his chair and waved for the barmaid. Over his shoulder, he said, “The Adali have a special gift for healing, it is true. But they are an ancient race, and they wander all over the land. It is only natural that they have learned a few tricks.”
Zach was unconvinced. “They can talk with their animals.”
“They are a herding people, Zach. It is instinct, such as you may find even among beasts. It is mysterious, yes, but hardly magic.”
He ordered wine. He knew Zach preferred ale, but the boy would have to settle for what his host was offering. Beer was simply not something Lenoir could ever seriously consider consuming.
Zach let the matter drop and they waited in silence for the barmaid to return with the wine. When she did, Lenoir said, “Stew for the boy.” Zach pulled a face, and Lenoir smiled. “You will thank me when you grow tall.” There was no need to tell the barmaid what he wanted for himself; it had been years since he had ordered anything else.
When the food arrived, Zach plunged into his bowl as though expecting to find treasure at the bottom. He ate with alarming speed, his spoon scarcely escaping his mouth before it was captured again. It seemed impossible that he could chew in the brief intervals between mouthfuls; it was a marvel the boy did not choke himself. Lenoir watched with grim fascination, his own meat barely touched by the time Zach was through.
“Since you have finished your supper,” said Lenoir, eying Zach’s empty bowl in mild disbelief, “and I have scarcely begun mine, we shall have to find something to occupy you while I eat. Suppose you tell me about the people in this room?”
“What about them?” Zach’s gaze was fixed on Lenoir’s steak. “I don’t know anybody here, if that’s what you mean.”
Lenoir took a bite of his meat. It was overdone, but still edible. “That is the point, Zach. You do not know them, so you must look closely in order to decide what they are like. You must form an idea of who they are based on their clothes, their expressions, what they are saying and doing.”
“You mean I should make up stories about them?”
“In a manner of speaking. You want to be an inspector someday, yes? Solve puzzles and defeat evildoers?” When he was met with silence, Lenoir looked up from his meal to find Zach sulking.
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make fun of me about wanting to be a hound. You make it sound like I’m a stupid kid who wants to go out and save princesses or something.”
Lenoir paused, his fork and knife hovering on either side of his plate. What the boy said was true, he supposed; he routinely teased Zach about his desire to become an inspector. Lenoir knew he should be flattered that the boy looked up to him. Instead he found himself irritated by Zach’s naive notion of police work, mostly because it reminded him of his own illusions so long ago, illusions that had been cruelly and painfully shattered. Still, he did the boy an ill turn by constantly throwing cold water on his ambitions. It was only natural Zach would aspire to something greater than his station in life. Do not begrudge the boy his dreams, Lenoir. They will be taken from him soon enough.