Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “We had best head to the station,” he said. “We can find out what happened, and see whether it will be possible to go back to the Camp today. Hopefully, Oded is still expecting us.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And Merden . . . thank you.”

  The soothsayer’s golden eyes looked up from the page. “I have remarked on it before, Inspector, but you are vested with an uncanny store of luck.”

  “So it would seem. Now, shall we go press it some more?”

  Merden smiled and grabbed his cloak.

  * * *

  “Izar’s alive,” Kody said, “but he won’t be on his feet anytime soon.”

  Lenoir nodded, looking relieved. The inspector had never said so, but Kody figured he liked Izar pretty well. The Adal was quiet, reliable, and clever, all traits Lenoir admired—in that order.

  “Who else was hurt?” the inspector asked.

  Kody ran through the list—those he could remember, anyway. More than a dozen watchmen and two sergeants had been seriously injured in the riot, and many more had bumps, bruises, and broken bones. As for the civilians . . . “Eight dead and countless injured,” he said, concluding the briefing, “but at least they didn’t get through the barricade.”

  Lenoir sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It will take years for the reputation of the Metropolitan Police to recover from this, especially in the Camp.”

  “Not like we were exactly popular before,” Kody said with a rueful grin.

  Lenoir didn’t see the humor. “Do not be naive, Sergeant. Effective police work depends in no small measure upon the trust and goodwill of the population. If that trust is broken . . .”

  “Very true,” Merden put in from over Kody’s shoulder. The soothsayer was drifting around Lenoir’s office, inspecting its meager contents with detached curiosity. Kody had almost forgotten he was there. “My people are an eloquent example. How often do you find the Adali helpful in your investigations?”

  “Seldom,” said Lenoir. “At best they are uncooperative; at worst, actively obstructionist.”

  “Because they do not trust the police,” Merden said.

  With good reason, maybe, but as for what happened yesterday . . . “The hounds didn’t start that riot,” Kody said.

  “Debatable,” Merden said, “and irrelevant.”

  Kody opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. There was no point in arguing with the soothsayer. Like Lenoir, Merden seemed to think he was the smartest person in the room most of the time. And like Lenoir, he was probably right most of the time. Good thing the two of them agree on just about everything. I’d hate to see those egos clash.

  “We had best hope things have calmed a little overnight,” Lenoir said, rising and reaching for his coat. “If we cannot pass through the barricade, all our progress will be undone. I doubt very much Oded will present himself to Horst Lideman of his own accord.”

  “And if he did, no one would listen,” Merden said.

  “They still may not, but perhaps we will get lucky.” Lenoir flashed Merden an enigmatic smile and shouldered his way out the door.

  They grabbed the last three horses in the livery and headed out at a brisk trot, taking advantage of the light traffic at this early hour. The ride was uneventful until they reached the old Stag’s Gate. Then things started to feel a little . . . off.

  Small things, at first—the streets a bit quieter than they should be, the people a bit more careworn. Gradually, though, the signs became more obvious. Morning was well under way, but a lot of shops were still closed. Others had signs on their doors warning the sick not to enter, or advertising miraculous healing products. They passed a kid hawking newspapers with cries of, “Riots in the Camp! Can the hounds hold the line?” A few people even had scarves tied around their faces. The only thing that spreads faster than an epidemic is word of it, Lideman had said. The disease might still be confined to the Camp, but fear of it had infected half the city.

  And there was something else.

  “Not a hound in sight,” Lenoir said, slowing his horse to a walk as he scanned the empty street corners. He shook his head and swore quietly.

  Kody shared the sentiment. “I wonder if it’s started yet.”

  Merden glanced back and forth between them, his brow stitched. He wasn’t a hound; the progression of their thoughts wasn’t obvious to him. “If what has started?” he asked.

  Lenoir put it into terms any Adal would understand. “We hounds sometimes refer to ordinary citizens as chickens. Did you know that? Scattered about, scratching a living. Vulnerable. With no hounds to keep watch . . .”

  “They are easy prey for the foxes.” Merden nodded. “I see.”

  “This neighborhood has more than its share of foxes,” Kody said, “and chances are, they’re on the prowl already. We’re not going to be very popular here, either, Inspector.”

  “No.” Lenoir kicked his horse back into a trot. “Come. We are nearly there.”

  A few minutes later, Addleman’s Bridge came into view—or it would have, had it not been completely obscured by the crowd of hounds manning the barricade. Two dozen at least, Kody reckoned, looking grim and ready for action. He wondered how many more they would find on the far side of the bridge.

  “You sure you want to go in there, Inspector?” Sergeant Kelliman, the ranking officer, asked as he took Lenoir’s bridle.

  “What I want is immaterial, Sergeant. If I have ridden all the way out here, you can be certain it is important.”

  “Wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask,” Kelliman said, unfazed by Lenoir’s brusqueness. The sergeant was older than God, and had been a hound since before Kody was born. He’d seen dozens of inspectors come and go, some of them even ruder than Lenoir. Presumably.

  They left their horses in the care of some watchmen, and Kelliman led them to the makeshift gate at the foot of one of the towers, letting them through with a look that said, On your heads be it.

  A surprise greeted them on the other side. A second barrier had been erected at midspan, a bristling palisade of man-size thorns that stretched from one guardrail to the other. It must have gone up overnight.

  Kody whistled. “They really are worried, aren’t they?”

  “With good cause,” Lenoir said. “The barricade was nearly breached last night.”

  “If the crowd does break through, a bunch of sharpened logs won’t stop them.”

  “No, but it will slow them down long enough to make easier targets for the rifles.”

  Kody grimaced. “Do you really think they’d do it? Open fire on a bunch of unarmed civilians?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Kody was silent for a moment. Then, tentatively, he asked, “Would you give the order?”

  Lenoir flicked him a glance. “I’m not sure.”

  Another surprise awaited them at the foot of Addleman’s Bridge. Just inside the makeshift gate, a small man with flaming red hair stood at the center of a cluster of sergeants, giving orders. Kody’s mouth dropped open. “Crears! What’s he doing here?”

  Following his gaze, Merden said, “By the looks of it, he is in charge of this operation. Is that unusual?”

  “Crears is constable of Berryvine,” Kody said. “He left Kennian years ago.”

  “The chief must have called him in,” Lenoir said, sounding more than a little pleased. He headed over.

  “Morning, Inspector. Kody.” Crears shook hands. “Figured you’d be back. How’s the head?”

  “Painful, but not serious, apparently. When did you get here?”

  “Couple of hours ago. Chief called up reinforcements from the outer villages last night. Me, plus two-thirds of my volunteers.” Crears made a face. “Left my town pretty wide open, to tell the truth. Hope it doesn’t come back to bite us.”

  “I daresay they will do
more good here, Constable,” Lenoir said. “It was a wise decision. Particularly putting you in charge.”

  If Kody had been on the receiving end of a compliment like that from Nicolas Lenoir, he’d probably have blushed. Crears, though, just nodded, like he’d heard it before. Which he probably had. Before he was Constable Crears of Berryvine, he’d been Sergeant Crears of the Kennian Metropolitan Police. He’d also been Lenoir’s deputy, and the inspector made no secret of the fact that he considered Crears to be the best officer he’d ever worked with. In fact, he’d rubbed Kody’s nose in it more than once. Kody might have resented Crears for it, were it not for the fact that the constable deserved every bit of that praise, and was a stand-up bloke besides.

  “Got a line on who’s behind this, Inspector?” Crears asked.

  “Unfortunately not, but we may have found someone who can help treat it.”

  Crears glanced at Merden. “Even better.”

  If it works, Kody thought, but there was no point in saying it aloud.

  “The crowd is smaller this morning,” Lenoir said.

  “It’s early,” said Crears.

  Kody scanned the mob. Sullen faces stared back at him, but nobody looked openly challenging. “Maybe last night knocked some sense into them.”

  It sounded naive, even to him, and of course Lenoir just snorted. Kody gritted his teeth. Another tick in the minus column. Lenoir was forever evaluating him, forever finding him wanting. So quit making it so easy for him to judge you a fool.

  Crears was more charitable. He just shrugged and said, “Can’t hurt to hope.”

  “We will leave you to it, Constable,” said Lenoir, taking out his scarf and tying it around his face. “You have more than enough on your hands without us distracting you.”

  Crears didn’t disagree. He left them with a brief nod and the typical farewell of a hound: “Good hunting, Inspector.”

  They headed up the main road, giving the mob as wide a berth as possible. Kody couldn’t help brushing his hand over his coat, feeling the reassuring shape of the gun at his hip. He preferred his crossbow—more accurate, and less likely to blow up in his face—but it hadn’t done him much good last night. It was too slow to reload, and anyway, even a flintlock was hard-pressed to miss at point-blank range. Still, he didn’t much fancy putting a lead ball into a civilian’s shoulder just because the guy was dead scared. He hoped he wouldn’t find himself in that position again anytime soon.

  Kody felt himself tense up as soon as the witchdoctor’s tent came into view. It was just as well he hadn’t gone to bed last night, or he’d have had nightmares about what they’d seen in that tent yesterday. He wasn’t quite ready to admit it was magic, but he didn’t have a competing theory. All he knew for sure was that something had happened in there, something that made every hair on his body stand on end. Some of it was probably in his head, but that tugging in his guts—that had been real. He’d nearly puked. And when the candles had been lit and he looked at Lenoir’s face, he knew the inspector had felt it too. If there had been anything less than thousands of lives at stake, Kody wouldn’t have gone back into that place for love or money.

  They threaded their way through the crowd and slipped between the stakes marking the perimeter of the tent. Kody’s shoulder brushed one of the dangling bits of leather as he passed, setting the beads clacking and the bones tinkling. He shivered.

  Inside, a single figure stood silhouetted against the washed amber glow of the candles. “Good morning,” the witchdoctor said in his lilting accent.

  “Oded.” Lenoir inclined his head in greeting. “I trust you are feeling stronger?”

  “As strong as it is possible for me to feel.”

  “Are you ready to accompany us?”

  A soft sigh preceded Oded’s answer. “I am.”

  Something stirred in the darkness. Kody went rigid, his hand straying to his gun as a long, thin sinew of gloom moved near the table at the far end of the tent. A voice sounded from the depths of the shadows. “Interesting.”

  Kody cursed under his breath and let his hand drop. How in the Holy Host had Merden crossed the tent without him noticing? The Adal had been standing at Kody’s elbow only moments before. Witchdoctors, he thought irritably.

  Merden shifted, and now Kody could see him clearly, hunched over the table, scrutinizing it closely. He pointed at something and asked a question in Adali, and Oded responded. Merden held up a bottle and asked another question, and so on. Sharing trade secrets, Kody supposed. He was grateful not to be able to understand a word of it.

  “And your patient?” Merden asked, switching back to Braelish.

  “Resting with her family.” Oded gave a tired smile. “She will recover.”

  “How can you be sure?” Kody asked.

  “Experience.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but Kody let it go; the witchdoctor would have to endure more than enough skepticism today.

  “If we are through here,” Lenoir said, “let us be on our way. Time is not on our side.”

  “No, it is not,” said Oded, “and we are about to waste more. Your physicians will not take my help.”

  “They will,” Lenoir said, “if they know what is good for them.”

  Merden gave him a wry look. “And if they do not? What will you do, Inspector? Throw them in prison? Threaten to shoot them?”

  “I might.”

  For the life of him, Kody couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

  CHAPTER 9

  “You cannot be serious.”

  Horst Lideman gaped at Lenoir as though the inspector had just ordered him to hop on one leg and bark like a dog. Which, Kody supposed, was about what it amounted to in the physician’s eyes.

  “I am perfectly serious,” Lenoir said. “From what we have seen, the treatment appears to work.”

  Lideman knitted his fingers atop his desk and took a deep breath, as though to compose himself. “I am a physician and scholar, Inspector, and without wishing to give offense, these”—he glanced at the two Adali hovering behind Lenoir—“traditional remedies have no basis in science.”

  “That is true,” Merden said. “They do, however, have a basis in fact, unlike most of your science.”

  Not helping, Kody thought.

  Lenoir agreed; he fired an irritated look over his shoulder at Merden. “This is not a competition. Lives are at stake, and I would hope that healers such as yourselves could put aside your philosophical differences, for now at least.”

  Lideman shook his head gravely. “You don’t understand, Inspector. If this were merely a question of philosophical differences, I might be persuaded to indulge in experimentation. But under the circumstances, it is quite impossible. These patients are under my care, and it is my duty to ensure that they receive the best medical treatment known to science. To do otherwise would be unethical.”

  “A curious argument,” said Merden, “since the vast majority of the patients under your care are dying. A man of science such as yourself must surely recognize that repeating the same experiment over and over is unlikely to yield a different result. Your hypothesis is faulty, and it is past time for a new one.”

  Lideman turned an ugly shade of pink. “How dare you—”

  “There is no point to continue,” Oded put in. “It is always the same. These physicians care only for their pride.”

  “You know nothing about me, sir,” Lideman said icily.

  Lenoir growled and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though he were struggling not to explode. Meanwhile, the Adali and the physician continued to bicker. Kody could feel the conversation slipping away from them, and with it, their only shot. Before he could think better of it, he blurted, “What about the bruises, Doctor?”

  “What about them, Sergeant?”

  “The other day you said you’d never seen anyone come back from that.”

&n
bsp; “So?”

  “So we have. Yesterday.” Technically, that wasn’t quite true; they’d heard the woman would recover, but they hadn’t actually seen it for themselves. But Kody was pretty sure none of his companions was going to contradict him.

  It didn’t matter. Lideman wasn’t buying it. “Is that so? Only yesterday, you say? And how do you know he has recovered, and is not merely experiencing a temporary improvement?”

  Oded opened his mouth to reply, but Kody cut him off, determined to make his point before the argument deteriorated again. “How many times have you seen a temporary improvement in a patient who’s that far gone?” Based on what Lideman had said the last time they’d met, Kody was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  The physician shifted in his seat. “None.”

  “If those bruises are pretty much a death sentence, where’s the harm in letting Oded try to heal one of the patients who has them? He can’t make them any worse, right?”

  Lideman sighed, regarding Kody with watery, bloodshot eyes. “Logic like that may sound compelling in the abstract, Sergeant, but these are human lives we’re talking about. Each and every one is sacred. You and I do not have the right to decide who is beyond help, and who is fit to be experimented upon.”

  “But surely—”

  “Are you married, Sergeant?”

  Kody frowned. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

  “You have loved ones, I imagine. A mother, perhaps?”

  “And?”

  “Imagine your mother, God forbid, came down with this dreadful disease. How would you feel if I told you she was beyond help? That I would stop trying to save her, and instead planned to subject her to some heathen ritual that would almost certainly achieve nothing except to terrify her in the final hours of her life? What would you want me to do?”

  It was a fair question. Kody didn’t believe in demons, and he didn’t want to believe in magic. He did believe in God, and he wasn’t at all certain God would approve of experimenting with witchcraft, however desperate the circumstances. But if it were his mother, and this was her only chance . . . “I’m not sure, but I would at least want to be given the choice.”