Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  It was over.

  A thump sounded in the gloom. Lenoir felt Merden move away from them. The soothsayer murmured a few words.

  “Mekhleth,” a familiar voice said weakly. Merden responded in hushed tones.

  Lenoir’s fingers closed convulsively around a small box in his pocket: his precious stash of matches. He rarely used them, for they were difficult to find and monstrously expensive. But he did not hesitate now. A flame hissed to life in his hands, and by its trembling light Lenoir saw that Oded had collapsed near the cot. Merden was helping him to stand. As for the cot itself, it held a small boy who appeared to be asleep. Lenoir approached on shaky legs, and saw that the boy’s chest rose and fell in a regular, if shallow, rhythm. He lit the nearest candle just as the match started to sputter between his fingers.

  “What in the name of the Holy Host did we just see?” Kody whispered.

  “The demon young were strong,” Oded said, as though that were any kind of answer. “I nearly failed.”

  “But you did not,” Merden said. “A creative solution, my friend. Well done.” He might have been congratulating the healer for solving a particularly tricky riddle, so matter-of-fact was his tone.

  “You attacked the boy!” Lideman was shaking violently, whether from rage or fear, Lenoir could not tell.

  Merden gave him an icy look. “You are mistaken.”

  “Leave it.” Lenoir had no patience for squabbling, especially not now. “What matters is whether the boy will recover. Oded?”

  “He should. But that is only the first part of the treatment. The second part you saw yesterday. Once I have rested, I will begin. After that, the boy must be given this.” He held up a flask. Lenoir could not see what was inside, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful. “A few drops in water every hour for the first five days, and three times a day after that, until the potion is gone.”

  Lideman eyed the flask suspiciously, but he took it. “What’s in it?”

  “I will give you the list of ingredients,” the healer said. “But now, I must rest.”

  Lenoir, Kody, and Lideman could not get out of the tent fast enough, and as soon as they were outside, Lideman unleashed his outrage. “Madman! Charlatan! I don’t know how he achieved that awful spectacle—illusions and distractions and sleight of hand—but it is a scandal that he should be permitted to perform it on a sick child!”

  “What if he healed the boy?” Kody said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! If there is any actual healing being done, it will be due entirely to this.” Lideman held up the flask.

  “Perhaps,” Lenoir said, “but as long as it works, I, for one, am grateful.”

  “You cannot possibly expect me to go through that”—Lideman waved vaguely in the direction of the tent—“that ghastly bit of theater. You should arrest that man, Inspector, not encourage him! He could have killed the child!”

  Lenoir felt his own temper stir. “If it was merely theater, Doctor, then the child was not in any danger. You cannot have it both ways. If you are incapable of being open-minded, at least be logical.”

  Lideman colored, but he took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “I sincerely hope this experiment does not backfire, Inspector. As for my adopting this ritual as a form of medicine . . .” He gave a mad little laugh and shook his head. “That is quite impossible. Good day.” With that, he spun on his heel and stalked away.

  A moment later, his assistant appeared, carrying his ever-present ledger. “Excuse me, Inspector, was that Dr. Lideman?”

  “It was.”

  “Oh. I wanted to tell him that Sister Ora found some others who are willing to try.”

  “Perhaps you should tell him, then.”

  The assistant did not take the hint. “Four patients should be enough, don’t you think?”

  “I would not know.”

  Still the young man hovered, his eyes darting nervously to the tent. He lowered his voice. “How did it go?”

  “I am not a physician, sir,” Lenoir said, letting ice crystals form on the words. “As for Dr. Lideman, I am quite certain he will not hesitate to give you his opinion on the matter. If you hurry, you can catch him.”

  At last, the assistant fled.

  There was a long stretch of silence. Lenoir and Kody watched the comings and goings about the pestilence tents, priests and nuns and medical students crisscrossing one another in a steady stream of industry. It was comforting somehow.

  “What do you think we saw in there, Inspector?” Kody asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it is as Lideman says, and it was all an illusion.”

  “That would be some trick.”

  Lenoir shrugged. “A few judiciously placed mirrors, some smoke to divert the eye . . .”

  “And that giant swarm?”

  “Perhaps Oded is a talented beekeeper.”

  Kody gave a weak laugh. “Maybe.”

  “Perhaps it does not matter. If the boy’s condition improves, Lideman may be persuaded to make more of the tonic, and perhaps that will be enough.”

  “A lot of perhaps in that formula.”

  Lenoir could not disagree.

  “What happens now?” Kody asked.

  Lenoir rubbed the back of his aching head and sighed. “We go home.”

  * * *

  The hounds were walking straight toward him. Nash looked down, pretending to consult his notes. At the same time, he reached up and adjusted the scarf around his face so that it covered more of his features. He was being paranoid, he knew; there was no way the hounds could possibly recognize him from the riot. Yet it was impossible to suppress the instinct to hide, as if they somehow knew what he’d done. He stopped and turned away, writing furiously on his ledger to cover the furtive movement.

  Footfalls sounded on the road. His pulse quickened. If the hounds looked closely, they’d see right away that he wasn’t a medical student. He was too old, and his clothes were too modest. And if he wasn’t a medical student, or a priest or a physician or a hound, then he had no reason to be here. He’d already invented a cover story that let him move freely among the men and women caring for the sick, but that story wouldn’t appease the hounds. On the contrary, it would probably land him in jail. Keep walking, chaps, Nash bid them silently as they passed. Nothing to see here. He didn’t even dare to glance at them, but kept scrawling crude oaths on the page in front of him, just to keep his pencil moving.

  Gradually the footfalls receded, and when Nash looked up, the hounds were still headed toward Addleman’s Bridge, pulling the scarves from their faces as though they were on their way out. He sighed, half in relief, half in disappointment. Part of him actually wanted to get into it with the hounds. He was tired of sneaking around. As smug as he felt about inciting a riot with nothing more than a few whispered words, he preferred a more direct approach. On the other hand, he’d be crazy to confront them out in the open, where they could easily call for backup. Better to deal with them quietly, if it came to that.

  Bloody hounds. His employer had been right to worry. Day after day they’d come, sniffing around, asking questions. Nash was sniffing around too—after the hounds. His employer wanted to know what they were up to, how much they knew. That way, he could stay one step ahead of them. And if they got too close, it was Nash’s job to take care of them. Nash didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to put down a troublesome dog.

  And they were troublesome, though what exactly they were up to, Nash couldn’t say. One minute, they seemed to be investigating the source of the plague, and the next, they were looking for a cure. Now they’d dragged a pair of Adali witchdoctors into it. Creepy folk, those two. Nash wasn’t eager to cross them. He was pretty sure all that magic business was bollocks, but that didn’t mean he fancied putting his theory to the test. And besides, tying off loose ends
was supposed to be Sukhan’s end of the deal. Still, Nash couldn’t let the hounds and their Adali friends get in the way of his employer’s plans.

  No, there was nothing for it. Nash was going to have to get his hands dirty. And he was going to have to do it tonight.

  CHAPTER 11

  Zach lifted the corner of his card and peered underneath, the way Brick had taught him. He had to be careful—his hands were a lot smaller than Brick’s, and he was pretty sure the bloke to his left was trying to cop a look—but Zach reckoned it was worth the risk. It showed that he knew what he was doing, and that was half the battle in this game. Brick’s First Law of Crowns: always look like you’re winning, even when you’re losing. Zach adopted a confident expression.

  The tip of a sword peeked out from under the card. He lifted a little higher, and saw another sword, and another after that—just as he’d seen thirty seconds ago, when last he looked. Zach had a good memory, but this hand was taking forever, and he was getting bored. Sailors, it turned out, could talk the ear off a donkey.

  “She was big, mind you,” the man across the table was saying, cupping his chest to demonstrate. “And a mouth to match!”

  “So long as she puts it to good use,” said the red-haired man, the one who was supposed to be Zach’s partner. His name was Hairy—at least that’s what it sounded like—and the name suited him. He had more fur on his arms than Zach had on his head, all of it rust colored. “From spilling so much blood,” he’d said. Zach knew bluster when he heard it (and he’d heard plenty of it today), but he reckoned there was some truth in it too. Hairy looked like the kind who’d spill blood just for the fun of it.

  “Enough about whores,” said Gerd. “Play the game!” The Sevarran rapped a knuckle against the table for emphasis.

  “Patience, patience.” Hairy played his card, a bushel of wheat with ten pips.

  Durian’s balls, Zach cursed inwardly. Ten was a high card, but wheat? That was a peasant card. Plus, he couldn’t follow suit. Just my luck. I finally get a mittful of swords, and my partner plays sodding wheat.

  “Better hope the boy has gold, Hairy, or you’re buggered,” the first man said, playing shields.

  “He won’t let me down, will you Short Shank?” Hairy winked, but there was just enough malice in his eyes to make Zach swallow hard. Would Hairy kill a kid over a game of cards? Zach couldn’t be sure. That was the thing about the docks—you just never knew.

  Gerd tapped his fingers against the table, eyeing each of the players in turn, as though he could read their minds if he stared hard enough. He was peasants this time around, and he didn’t have much to go on. He should hold out for another round, Zach thought. Brick’s Second Law of Crowns: don’t commit until you’re sure, and that goes double if you’re peasants. Nobody had played a sword yet, so it was anybody’s guess who would go on the attack first. Gold could mean anything. And as for sodding wheat . . . Zach puffed out a breath, but otherwise managed to keep his expression blank.

  “Pass,” Gerd said, though he didn’t sound happy about it.

  Zach didn’t really have to think about his move. All he had was swords, and there was no point in wasting a high one, since he would be breaking suit. But he had to at least make it look like a tough decision, or he’d give away the rest of his hand. Good time to get the conversation flowing, he decided as he slid a thumb under his cards. “You all come in on the Serendipity?” he asked. “She’s a handsome one.”

  “She’s a bucket of piss,” Hairy said, “but she’s home. To Bevin and Gerd and me, at any rate. As for this one”—he inclined his chin at the man to Zach’s left, a brooding Lerian named Augaud—“met him only this morning.”

  “Been anywhere good lately?” Zach asked, pretending to reorganize his cards.

  “Play, kid,” Gerd growled.

  Zach shrugged, his eyes still on his cards. “I can talk and play at the same time. I’m clever like that.”

  Bevin snorted appreciatively. “Clever mouth, anyway.”

  “Come on,” Zach said, putting just enough childish whine in his voice. “I’m stuck here all day, nothing to do. You must have some good stories.”

  “Tell you what,” Hairy said, “you put down a nice tenner of gold, and I’ll tell you all about my evening with Dockside Daisy.”

  Zach made a face. Suddenly, his lack of gold didn’t seem like such a bad thing. He tossed a sword onto the pile, shooting a look at his partner that said, Get it?

  Hairy shot him a look right back. He got it, sure enough, and he didn’t like it. Zach squirmed in his chair.

  Bevin barked out a laugh. “Bless my balls, kid, that’s beautiful! Breaks suit and wastes a sword besides. Beautiful!” His partner, meanwhile, didn’t even hesitate—he threw a big fat shield on the pile and grinned.

  We’re getting walloped, Zach thought ruefully, and I’m getting nowhere. He didn’t fancy having to tell the inspector that he’d failed. Informants shouldn’t fail, especially if they were hoping to become hounds one day.

  Bevin was still sniggering about Zach’s play. “All right, kid, just for that, I’ll tell you a story. About Hairy here, and how he nearly got his manhood snipped by a pirate in Inataar.” He elbowed his companion in the ribs. Hairy glared at Zach even harder, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  Zach sighed. At least there were pirates.

  They went round again, and it was even worse this time. Hairy threw a torch, which made no sense at all, and Bevin played a heap of gold. At this point, Gerd could safely declare a side, which he did, giving Bevin and Augaud a huge advantage. With the peasants as allies, they didn’t even need any swords; they could just sit back and let Gerd do all the work. At least Zach could follow suit now. He used a fiver of swords to knock out some of the shields, but of course they still had their gold, and their peasants, and all Zach’s side had was sodding wheat. And then Augaud broke out a real big torch, and they didn’t even have that.

  “So there he is, hopping from tavern to tavern, trying to win enough coin to hire some sellswords to protect him.” Bevin was laughing so hard that he couldn’t keep his ale in his flagon; it sloshed over the sides and spattered the table in little foaming puddles. “Except you can see what a cardplayer he is, so now he’s broke and hiding, and not just from the brother and the rest of the pirates, but from the blokes he owes money! Now, Hairy owing money is nothing new—owes me about a year’s wages—but these fellows are serious business, connected to half the criminal underworld in Darry, and they’re out for blood. Suddenly, the brother and his pirate friends don’t seem half bad.”

  Even Gerd was warming to the story now. He threw down a hammer, adding double to his allies’ shields. “Then word comes in it’s to be a duel at sundown.”

  “A duel?” Augaud frowned. “What does it mean, duel?” His accent was similar to Lenoir’s, but harsher. Peasant Arrènais, Lenoir called it, though Zach doubted he would say so to a Lerian’s face. Especially not this one. Augaud had a big knife at his hip, the kind fur traders carried, and fur traders were not known for their social graces. They were known for their skill with big knives, and that meant it was best to stay on their good sides.

  “A duel is when two men fight for honor,” Zach explained.

  “Except in this case, the honor would be having your balls cut off if you lost,” Bevin said.

  Zach had to admit it was a good story, but it wasn’t giving him any useful information. It wasn’t helping his game, either; he still had two swords, both big ones. He really only had one choice if he wanted to earn his money back. But if he did it . . . Brick’s Third Law of Crowns: never betray your partner. Zach licked his lips nervously. “So what happened?” he asked, stalling for time.

  “Nothing,” Hairy said. “Not a damned thing. Now play your card, boy.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that, Hairy,” Bevin laughed. “Not the kid’s fault. Can’
t you see he’s got nothing but swords?” He took a long, loud swig of ale. “Anyway, Hairy’s right, more or less, even though he’s about as gifted a storyteller as he is a cardplayer. The brother never showed. Came down with the plague, if you can believe it. His mates too—most of ’em, anyway. I heard that whole ship got wiped out, and half the town besides.”

  Zach sat forward a little, his dilemma temporarily forgotten. “The plague, huh?” Hadn’t the inspector said he was especially interested in reports of disease? Keep your cool, Zach. This is your chance. If he got what the inspector needed, he’d be sure of another job, another step on the path. He forced himself to slide down a little lower in his chair, trying to look casual. “What kind of plague?”

  “Who knows?” Bevin upended his flagon, belched, and waved for the barmaid. “Some kind of bleeding disease, like the one they got in the Camp.”

  “Sort of like that, or exactly like that?”

  “Can’t say I’ve thought about it much. Guess it could be the same.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Bevin had swiveled in his chair to watch the barmaid, but he turned back around now, eyes narrowing.

  Zach could have cuffed himself. He’d overplayed it. He could have found a subtler way of asking, shifted the conversation back to the pirates first.

  “Four, five years ago,” Bevin said warily. “What’s it to you?”

  Zach shrugged as indifferently as he could manage. “Just wondering if maybe one of these ships brought the plague here, that’s all.”

  Hairy wasn’t interested in plagues or pirates. He leaned forward and stabbed a finger at the table. “Boy, I’m not gonna tell you again. Play. Your. Card.”

  There was nothing for it. Zach snapped his card down, the biggest sword in his hand. Then, with a deep breath, he flipped his crown over, the blue one that matched Hairy’s on the other side of the table.