Darkwalker (14 page)

The spirit was on hands and knees in the street, a curtain of shining black hair covering his face. A woman on the opposite side of the street was pointing at him and shrieking, drawing looks from other passersby. Hands flew to mouths; people cursed and shouted. The woman was the first to flee, and others soon followed.

At first Lenoir thought he was imagining it: smoke appeared to be rising from the spirit’s body, from his hands and from the face Lenoir could not see. Then he realized that it was not his imagination. The spirit’s flesh was burning. The skin on the pale hands withered like thin paper put to flame, great holes opening up to reveal the tendon and bone beneath. The spirit staggered to his feet and turned to face Lenoir.

When he raised his head, Lenoir saw the most gruesome sight he would ever behold. The beautiful, marble-chiseled face was melting. The flesh of one cheek had dissolved entirely, leaving corded muscle the color of raw meat. The lips were gone; teeth shone through in a grisly mockery of a grin. The eyelids on one side were oozing away, uncovering a single white orb with an absinthe pupil. That pupil was fixed on Lenoir, and it carried a simple, unmistakable message:

This is not over.

The spirit stared at Lenoir for a long moment, seemingly oblivious to the screaming and crying that surrounded him. Then he turned dispassionately away and strode back into the alley.

Lenoir could not help himself. He got shakily to his feet and moved toward the alley. The street was virtually empty now, and Lenoir stood in the center of it, keeping well out of reach of the shadows. When the alley came into view, Lenoir was somehow not surprised by what he saw there.

The green-eyed man stood in the gloom near the entrance to the street. His face was virtually whole again, save for a patch of his cheek that was closing up even as Lenoir watched. His searing gaze bored into Lenoir, but he did not venture back into the light.

Any doubts Lenoir had harbored about this creature’s immortality vanished in that moment, along with any remaining hope that he could survive for long. He had manufactured no fewer than three escapes from the green-eyed man, miraculous escapes that he scarcely understood. No man deserved that kind of providence. Certainly Lenoir did not.

He turned away from the alley and headed back up the street to find Crears and the others. His limbs were shaking terribly, and his pant leg was shredded at the hem. His clothing was streaked with dirt from the street. He would need to think of an excuse to explain his disheveled appearance to Crears, but he had plenty of time to come up with something plausible. After all, he would be taking the long way round.

I
t had been a long time since Kody last visited Fort Hald, Kennian’s main prison, and now he remembered why. It was the sort of thing that could make a man seriously question his career choice. No sooner had he plunged into the echoing gloom than he felt his whole body tense, as though every fiber of his being were counting off the seconds until he could leave. Despair saturated the place, assaulting his senses. The sounds of it clamored in his ears: the cold rattle of chains against stone, the low mutterings of the insane, the skittering of vermin in the shadows. His nostrils flared at the smell of it, a fetid cocktail of iron, mold, stale urine, and pestilence. Its chill, clammy touch issued forth like a phantom breath from the bowels of the dungeons. Its taste was the bile rising in his throat. But nothing was worse than what met the eye.

The hollow, cadaverous faces that peered between the bars held no emotion. Few showed any interest in Kody; many didn’t even seem to register his presence. Some sat motionless, mouths open, staring at nothing. Others paced their cells as much as their shackles would allow, shambling noisily back and forth in mindless monotony. Sickness was everywhere—open sores, rattling breath, clouded eyes. Kody had the unsettling impression of being surrounded by an army of animated corpses.

He’d always considered it ironic that those found guilty of capital crimes were put to death, while those convicted of more minor offenses were incarcerated here. Given the choice, Kody would rather be hanged twice over than spend even a month in this cage of the damned. He couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about his own role in condemning people to rot away in this place.

He shook off such thoughts and tried to focus on the task at hand. He had reason to hope this visit would be fruitful, at least. Instead of flashing Raiyen’s sketch around the Camp in the faint hope that someone would recognize him, Kody had decided to follow Lenoir’s logic and start with known members of the Asis clan. He’d been told that the woman he’d come here to see, Marani, was an exile, just as Raiyen had been. She almost certainly knew the dead man, and he might have contacted her when he moved to the city. Kody also hoped to learn more about
khekra
. If the Asis clan had once been renowned for its witchdoctors, as the apothecary had said, Marani might know something of their arts.

He found her with some difficulty, since the majority of the female prisoners were Adali (as were a disproportionate number of the men), and none of them were eager to own their identities. Eventually, a middle-aged woman separated herself from the others and moved toward the bars, albeit reluctantly. She regarded Kody suspiciously through occluded eyes. She would be blind soon, he guessed, opaque masses overtaking her amber pupils like ice thickening over a lake.

She stopped a few paces back from the bars, as though she feared Kody might reach through and try to grab her. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice croaking from disuse.

“I need to ask you a few questions.” Kody held up his sketch. “Do you know this man?”

She gave it a cursory glance. “Nope.”

“Come on,” Kody scoffed. “He’s a member of your clan.”

Marani shrugged. “So? I don’t know him.”

“Let me help you. His name is Raiyen.”

She frowned, peering more closely at the sketch. “Ha! So it is. Didn’t recognize him. He was just a boy last time I saw him.”

“A boy?” Kody was taken aback. “How long has it been since you lived with the clan?”

“Going on fifteen years now.” She said it as though it were something to be proud of.

“And how long have you been in here?”

“Five years, or thereabouts. Got you hounds to thank for that, don’t I?”

Damn.
So much for that line of questioning.
Marani had been in prison the entire time Raiyen had been in the city. She couldn’t possibly help Kody track down his last known associates.
I should have thought of that
. It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask about her sentence.
All right, time for plan B.
“In that case, maybe you can help me with a little research I’m doing.”

“Research?” She scowled suspiciously.

“That’s right. About the Adali. About some of your . . . cultural practices.”

She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Our ‘cultural practices,’ is it? And what in the Dark Flame is that supposed to mean? What are you bothering me for, hound? Who sent you?”

“I’m sure you remember Sergeant Izar?” She should—he was the officer who put her here.

“That traitor?” Marani spat emphatically on the ground. “To the below with him! No true Adal, that one—turning his back on his own kind!”

Kody had expected this reaction, but it still brought heat to his cheeks. “You’ll speak with respect! Izar is a fine officer.”

“Bah! Zaid clan—liars and bullies, the lot.” She looked meaningfully over her shoulder at her fellow prisoners, as though daring anyone to disagree.

“Maybe,” said Kody coolly, “but they’re a lot more respected than the Asis clan, aren’t they?”

A cold smile stole over Marani’s face, but she made no reply.

“I hear your clan has had a bad bit of luck.”

“What would you know of it? Not a hound in the Metropolitan Police knows a thing about the Adali. None but that mutt Izar.”

“Maybe so, but I’m a quick learner. You’d be surprised how much a determined hound can pick up. For example, I know that the Asis clan used to be known for its witchdoctors.”

Marani’s expression darkened. “I don’t belong with them anymore.” She backed away from the bars a little. “Whatever they did, it’s nothing to do with me.”

“I know that. They banished you, didn’t they? Izar didn’t tell me what for. Come to think of it, he didn’t tell me what you’re doing in here.”

“Murder,” someone called from the back of the cell. Marani shot a scathing look behind her, but with her poor eyesight she couldn’t tell who had made the remark. She settled for another volley of spittle.

To Kody, she said mockingly, “I’m innocent.”

He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Then what do you want?” she shrieked, lunging suddenly at the bars. “Why are you
here
, hound?”

Kody was momentarily taken aback by the outburst, his hand straying reflexively to the sword at his hip. Marani stared at him, wild-eyed, her shoulders heaving. The woman was half-mad, he realized. If he wanted to get anywhere with her, he’d have to be more direct. “I want to know what kind of
khekra
your kin are meddling with, and why.”

Marani backed away again, her fear unmistakable. A strange silence descended on the cell. The mention of
khekra
was like a pistol shot in the air, stunning everyone.

“What do you know about
khekra
?” Marani whispered.

“I know it exists. I know it uses human blood and suchlike to make medicine.”

Marani barked out a tense laugh. “That ought to be the least of your worries, hound.”

Finally, we’re getting somewhere!
Kody was careful to keep his voice neutral. “What else should I be worried about?”

“Marani,” one of the women called warningly, “this is Adali business.”

Marani ignored her. “Whatever bits they take for medicine, it’s only a small amount. A few drops of blood, or a bit of hair. No one gets hurt, not for medicine. But
khekra
can do other things besides healing.”

“Like curses.” Kody tried to keep the disbelief out of his voice, but he obviously failed, because Marani sneered at him.

“Don’t believe in curses, hound? Why get me to tell you about
khekra
, then?”

“Because it doesn’t matter what I believe. Whoever is kidnapping children obviously believes, and that’s what counts.”

“Kidnapping, is it?” Marani grunted thoughtfully. “And what makes you think it’s got something to do with
khekra
?”

Kody left that alone. “Are there curses that involve using children?”

She made a rude hand gesture. “Bah! How should I know? I’m no witchdoctor.”

“What about other kinds of magic?” Kody asked, trying a different angle. “Are there spells that can do the opposite of curses?”

Marani’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Looking for a favor, are we? Make you better looking, maybe, or smarter?” She cackled, pleased with herself.

Kody didn’t take the bait. “Let’s say I was looking for a favor. Could a witchdoctor help me?”

“If you made it worthwhile, maybe. But you wouldn’t get no favors from the Asis, not after everything they’ve been through on account of
khekra.
Not unless you had something real, real good to trade for it.”

“Money is always popular,” Kody said dryly.

Marani snorted. “For little favors, sure. Kidnapping is a pretty big favor. Even if you found someone willing, he’d be a fool to risk it. Get himself banished, or hanged, or worse. Like to bring down the whole clan while he was at it.”

She had a point. If an Adal were caught kidnapping Braelish children, Adali all over the Five Villages would pay the price. Lynch mobs would sprout up from Kennian to Brackensvale, and the Asis clan would be their first target. Their camp would be burned to the ground, the people driven off. And the Asis had nowhere else to go. If there was one thing Kody admired about the Adali, it was their loyalty to their kin; even if Raiyen wasn’t the benevolent soul his sister claimed, he wasn’t likely to risk those consequences lightly. Besides, the sister and her friend had said that Raiyen got himself exiled trying to help his people. He must have known that the elders were onto him, turning a blind eye to his medicine, but he drew their wrath anyway, trying to do something about the drought. For him to turn around and knowingly put his clan in danger . . . it didn’t fit, not without a major incentive.

There has to be something big on the table,
Kody thought,
something worth the risk
. “What would it take to get you to do something like that, Marani?”

She gave a sneering smile. “Oh, that’s easy, hound. Get me out of here, and I’m all yours.”

Kody didn’t get anything useful out of her after that, and none of the other prisoners would talk to him, not about
khekra
. The word itself was like a spell, a hex of silence. The interview had been fruitful, though. Kody felt sure he was narrowing in on a possible motive, and Lenoir always said that understanding the motive was the most important part of solving a crime.
“Do not let yourself be distracted by the details,”
Lenoir had told him, time and again
. “They are important, but you must understand how they fit together, how they tell a story. Understand
why
the crime has been committed, and the rest is simply a question of
how
.”

Kody chewed on that as he made his way back to the kennel.
Suppose the sister was right, and whatever Raiyen was up to was supposed to be for the benefit of the clan. Maybe he was even trying to earn himself a pardon, a way back into the elders’ good graces. So what could the clan possibly get out of all this? What is it they
need
?

An idea was forming in his head, but he needed to knock it around with someone. Fortunately, he knew just the right sparring partner.

“Izar!” he called as he stalked purposefully across the kennel.

Sergeant Izar was hunched over his desk, scribbling something on a sheet of parchment. He looked awkward, his bowed posture and splayed knees making the desk seem like children’s furniture. Not for the first time, Kody marveled at the man’s height. Being well over six foot himself, Kody figured Izar had to be just under seven.

The Adal glanced up as Kody approached. “What is it? I have a lot to get done by the end of the day.”

Kody was not deterred by Izar’s abruptness; it was simply his way. “This won’t take long. I just have a couple of questions.”

With a reluctant grunt, Izar gestured for Kody to grab a chair. “Five minutes.”

Kody didn’t waste a single second. “Is it true that the Adali don’t use currency?”

Izar’s expression darkened immediately. Like most Adali, he was suspicious of any line of questioning linked to his race. “What’s this about, Kody?”

Kody spread his hands in a mollifying gesture. “Izar, you know I respect you. Just humor me, all right?”

Izar considered him for a moment, his amber eyes scanning Kody’s face for—what? Hostility? Disdain? Kody was a little hurt that Izar wasn’t prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Granted, his question was sensitive, but they’d known each other for years.

“The Adali use currency,” Izar said eventually. “Every culture uses currency, Kody. It’s what sets us apart from beasts.” Kody did not miss the subtle irony in Izar’s tone. There were plenty in the Five Villages who wouldn’t set the Adali apart from beasts.

“What I mean is, they don’t use gold or paper money, or anything like that,” Kody said.

“Not traditionally, no, although that is changing. In Adali culture, wealth is measured in cattle. To a lesser extent, in goats or sheep.”

“That’s what I thought. So the Asis clan—that group camped near Berryvine—they’re about as poor as it gets.”

Izar didn’t respond. He was waiting for Kody to explain where he was going with this.

“Here’s what I don’t understand. Wealth is power, right? Influence. But it seems to me that if a clan’s wealth is measured in cattle, there’s a certain degree of luck involved. If you have a bad year—boom! You’re at the bottom of the heap. And the reverse is also true, presumably.”

Izar smiled faintly. “And what would be wrong with that? Do you think that a society where status is based on an accident of birth makes more sense than a system where those who are most skilled at husbandry—or agriculture, or industry, or whatever—earn a privileged place?”

“I had no idea you were such a philosopher,” Kody said dryly.

“You brought it up.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what it takes for a clan that’s going through a bad patch—the Asis clan, say—to get out of it. Sounds like it could be pretty easy, in principle. Couldn’t someone just buy them a bunch of cows?”