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Authors: E. L. Tettensor
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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
T he 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
• • •
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
T he 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
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