Free Darkwalker by E. L. Tettensor

occupied by rough-hewn men at assorted games of chance—bones, cards, and what looked like a variation of madman’s mirth, only with a stiletto. Lenoir’s gaze lit upon daggers and swords, pistols and crossbows. Every man in the room was armed with something, and many carried more than one, the weapons ostentatiously displayed as though they were some sort of status symbol—which, Lenoir supposed, was exactly what they were.
    Zach paused, scanning the room. He flashed Lenoir a confident smile, but Lenoir did not miss the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His bluster notwithstanding, the boy was nervous. That simply proved he was not a fool.
    “This is the place to come if you want to hire a cutthroat,” Zach said in a low voice. “These fellows all know each other. Some of them come from the streets. Some used to be soldiers. Be careful, though—lots of them are drunks, and they’re not much fond of hounds.”
    “You don’t say.” Lenoir was acutely aware of the eyes on him, and they were not friendly.
    “How long is this gonna take?” Zach’s eyes were still darting around the room. He seemed to be looking for something. Or someone.
    “I don’t know,” Lenoir said. He made his way over to the bar.
    The barman made no move toward him. He just stood there, wiping out a mug with a filthy rag and eying Lenoir balefully. “You shouldn’t be here, hound. Get yourself killed, you will.”
    “Whatever gave you the idea I was a hound?” Lenoir asked sarcastically. He gazed down at his dark coat, his neat if modest trousers, his leather shoes. He might as well have worn a sign that read
Kennian Metropolitan Police
around his neck.
    The barman seemed to appreciate that. He grinned and snorted through his nose.
    “I have not come here to make trouble,” Lenoir said. “On the contrary, I am offering a business proposition.”
    “That so?” The barman put his mug aside and tossed the rag over his shoulder. “Let’s have it, then.”
    “I have been offered a substantial amount of money to overlook a certain instance of wrongdoing.” Lenoir was getting a little ahead of himself, but this cretin had no way of knowing that. “If I can turn up the heat, I have no doubt I will be offered an even more attractive sum. I am prepared to part with a percentage, in return for incriminating evidence.”
    The barman’s laugh crackled in his throat. “You must think I’m right stupid, mate. You think you’re the first hound to come up with that one?” He shook his head, still smiling.
    Lenoir was considering how to respond when Zach suddenly appeared at his elbow, tucking his body up against the bar as though shielding himself from view. The boy was pale and sweating, and his gaze had taken on a hunted look. All signs of his earlier bravado were gone. Zach was not just nervous, Lenoir realized; he was
terrified
.
    Lenoir glanced around the room, trying to pin down what had spooked the boy. There were plenty of candidates: the whole tavern seemed to be staring at them, each grisly face more menacing than the last. But then one of them started across the room, and Zach whimpered like the small child he was.
    The man must have weighed two hundred pounds, and though he wore only a single dagger at his hip, Lenoir had the distinct impression that was because he required nothing else. His nose had obviously been broken more than once, and a nasty scar carved a pink trench through his left cheek. He glared at Zach as he weaved between the tables, fists balled at his sides.
    “Who is that man?” Lenoir hissed.
    Zach swallowed hard. “My uncle. Please, we have to leave now. Right now, Inspector.”
    “Your uncle? I thought—”
    “Please!”
Zach squeaked, and there was such dread in his eyes that Lenoir could not deny him. He grabbed the boy’s arm and made for the door. As soon as they were outside, he broke into a jog, hustling Zach along through the alley until he judged they were far enough away.