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.
CHAPTER 16
Lenoir 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.