Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “No. We are not through with the physical description. What else can you recall?”

  “Er . . .” Brice gazed at him helplessly.

  Lenoir sighed. “Any distinctive markings? Scars? Tattoos?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Was he fit?”

  “He looked pretty strong, yeah.”

  “Pale skin, or tan?”

  “Tan, I guess.”

  “Accent?”

  “I . . . Pardon?”

  Lenoir opened his eyes just enough to give the young man a flat look. “His accent, Brice. What did it sound like? Was he Braelish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kennian?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Morningside or Evenside?”

  “Dockside.”

  Lenoir grunted. “Not educated, then.”

  Brice blinked, as though someone had just snapped his fingers in front of his face. “I guess not, now that you mention it.”

  Couldn’t have been a reporter then, could he? Kody rubbed his temples. People were so thick sometimes.

  Lenoir must have been feeling generous, because he let it pass without comment. He just closed his eyes and said, “Continue.”

  “He asked me if I could comment on the treatment, how it was going. At first I gave him the usual answer—that we were making progress, doing what we could and all that. Then he asked why the hounds were coming around the pestilence houses day after day. I said they were—you were—trying to find out if maybe someone had started the plague deliberately.”

  Lenoir grunted. “How did he react to that news? Did he seem surprised?”

  “Maybe not as surprised as you’d expect,” Brice said in a tone that implied he’d thought as much at the time. Probably disappointed that his gossip wasn’t quite as explosive as he’d hoped, Kody thought.

  “What else did you tell him?”

  “I said you were onto a new treatment, maybe even a cure. I thought that might give people hope, you know? So I told him about the Adali healer.” The young man’s gaze darted fearfully to Merden, as though he thought the soothsayer might turn him into a lizard. “He said his readers would be interested in that. He asked me to tell him how the treatment went.” Brice’s voice started to tremble. “So I did. Except I couldn’t tell him much, because we didn’t really know for sure. The witchdoctor said they would recover, and that’s what I told Burell. I never thought . . . How could I know he was going to . . . ?” He trailed off, overcome.

  “When and where did you last see him?” Lenoir asked. “I need you to be as specific as possible.”

  Brice swallowed hard. “Last night, just before dark. It was near the treatment tent. I watched him walk away, back toward the main road. I guess he must have come back . . .”

  “Kody.” Lenoir opened his eyes and straightened. “Find a watchman and have him ride back to Kennian. Tell him to fetch our best sketch artist.”

  “On it.”

  “I didn’t know,” Brice said, turning again to look at Lideman. The boy’s eyes were red and pleading. “Until you told me a few minutes ago, Doctor, I swear to you, I didn’t know.”

  Lideman just shook his head and said nothing.

  Kody started for the tent flap, but he found his path blocked by Sister Ora. “Janice said you wanted to see me, Doctor?”

  “I asked for you, Sister,” Lenoir said. “Please, come in.”

  The nun approached with a bemused expression, taking in the strange sight of Lideman ejected from his own desk and young Brice weeping openly in a chair. “What’s happened?”

  Lenoir ignored the question. “Sister, did you at any time observe Brice here conversing with a man called Burell, who claimed to work for the Herald?”

  “I’m not sure. What did he look like?”

  “I introduced you,” Brice said. “The dark-haired man with the ledger. I didn’t say who he worked for.”

  Ora nodded. “I remember.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Lenoir asked.

  “Just hello. I was too busy to chat.”

  “And was that the only time you saw him?”

  “Well, no. He was around for most of the day yesterday. He kept out of the way, and I suppose we all assumed he was with Brice, so no one asked him to leave. Why, has something happened? Has he stolen something?”

  “He has murdered someone, in fact,” Lenoir said, his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched her reaction.

  Ora’s hand flew to her mouth. “God have mercy! How awful! Who?”

  She didn’t know, Kody decided. Lenoir thought so too; Kody could tell by the way he nodded.

  “And you’re sure it was that man, the one Brice was talking to? Why, I only just saw him this morning!”

  Lenoir leaned forward. “Wait. You saw him this morning? At what time?”

  “A little over an hour ago.”

  Kody and Lenoir exchanged a look. An hour ago, they’d been on their way to examine the bodies. Why would he be hanging around after committing murder? Why risk getting caught? The answer came to Kody almost instantly. “He wanted to see if we would figure it out.”

  “And we did,” said Merden. “He must have realized that we suspected something when he saw us heading out to the graves.”

  Lenoir shot to his feet. “Oded is in danger.”

  “Oded?” Kody frowned, bemused.

  “Fool! I should have seen this coming!” Lenoir was already halfway to the door.

  Kody started to ask why, but thought better of it. Seeking an explanation would only earn him another dose of contempt, and the inspector probably wouldn’t answer anyway. Think it through, he told himself as he followed Lenoir outside.

  Those people were murdered so it would look like Oded’s treatment didn’t work. Whoever killed them didn’t want Lideman and the other physicians to think there was a cure, because if there was a cure, then the plague could be stopped. That means our killer is almost certainly the one who started the plague. Fine—he’d figured that much out already.

  Lenoir paused at the edge of the pestilence houses, seemingly undecided about whether to go back to the barricades for a horse or make the journey on foot. He chose the latter, breaking into a jog as he headed up the main road. Kody was grateful; he didn’t fancy trying to navigate around these crowds with a horse. Besides, if they hurried, they should reach Oded’s tent in about twenty minutes, and it would take half that time to reach the barricade.

  Kody continued to mull it over as he ran. The exertion was making his head pound, but he had to stay focused.

  So things are going fine for our killer until the hounds show up. They start asking questions. They obviously think something’s up, but they can’t prove it—so far, so good. But then Lenoir decided to involve an Adali witchdoctor, introducing a complication. The killer was forced to improvise. So he decides to make it look like the treatment doesn’t work. All he has to do is discredit the witchdoctor, and he’s back on track. Except things didn’t go to plan. The killer hadn’t managed to discredit Oded, because Merden had proved that the victims were murdered. If anything, the fact that the killer had gone to the trouble lent credence to the idea that Oded’s treatment worked. Instead of undermining the witchdoctor, the killer had unwittingly boosted his reputation.

  Which means Oded is still a threat.

  The killer had gone the soft route the first time around. It didn’t take much to murder people who were already dying, especially if you were the sort of madman who would start a plague on purpose. More importantly, if he succeeded, nobody would be the wiser. But now his cover was blown, and he had no choice but to go the more extreme route.

  Lenoir was right: Oded was in trouble. Big trouble. And he was the only one who knew the cure. If they didn’t get there in time . . .

  Kody pushed hi
mself into a flat-out sprint.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kody had left Lenoir and Merden well behind by the time he reached Oded’s tent. He arrived, panting, temples throbbing, to find that the crowd waiting outside was bigger than ever, and they didn’t look happy. Those that could stand were on their feet, milling about in restless, muttering clusters, and when Kody started to shoulder his way through, it earned him more than a few dark looks. It reminded him of the crowd at the barricade on the morning of the riot. Tinder waiting for a spark. Isn’t that all we need?

  He was hardly surprised when a tall man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Can’t you see there are people waiting?”

  “Police business,” Kody said. “Stand aside.”

  “Police.” The man sneered. “You think we’re stupid? We know what this is. You Braelish need our medicine. You need our healer, so you take him away from us. All day I sat here yesterday. All day, waiting my turn for my daughters. The healer never came back!”

  People were staring now, and the man’s words drew noises of approval. Careful, Kody. “He’s here now,” Kody said between gritted teeth, “and I need to talk to him. Right away.”

  “Here, yes—seeing another Braelish man! You think because you have pale skin, you can just jump to the front of the line?”

  Another Braelish man? Kody swore and tried to move past the Adal, but the man shoved him hard in the chest. Kody’s fist curled, but he didn’t dare take a swing. The crowd was too ugly; they’d tear him apart. He’d have to talk his way through this one. “The Braelish man—what does he look like? Does he have dark hair?”

  “What do I care? You Braelish all look the same to me.”

  Kody got right up in the Adal’s face, close enough for the man to see how deadly serious he was. “That Braelishman shouldn’t be here. Let me through and I’ll take him away. You can have your healer all to yourself.” For now, at least.

  The man glared at Kody for a long, torturous moment. Then, grudgingly, he stood aside. Kody barreled ahead before anyone else took a notion to get in his way, and when he reached the tent flap, he ducked through without hesitating.

  He plunged into the darkness of the witchdoctor’s tent, pausing at the threshold to let his eyes adjust.

  “Oded?”

  His voice sounded small and flat, swallowed by silence. Only now did it occur to him that the witchdoctor might be in the middle of a ritual. The thought sent a new stab of pain through his skull.

  Something moved in the shadows. Kody tensed. “Oded?”

  A low moan sounded at the back of the tent. Kody felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. He reached for his crossbow, then changed his mind and went for the flintlock instead. Just as his fingers brushed the gun, he sensed something move, and he jumped back. A shadow flitted in front of him, black on black, and he felt a breath of air. He pulled his gun and trained it on—what? Whatever it was fled deeper into the darkness, and Kody backed up against the side of the tent, keeping his gun leveled in front of him. His heart thudded in his throat.

  This is ridiculous, he told himself. It’s not a demon, it’s a man, and odds are he’s a lot smaller than you. If he had a gun, he’d have fired it already. So quit cowering like a little girl.

  Kody stepped farther out into the tent. “Oded, are you here?” He started to move in the direction the sound had come from. He had almost reached the cot at the center of the tent when he sensed movement behind him. He pivoted in time to see something flash in the darkness. Pain blazed down his arm, and he dropped his gun. The thing flashed again, but Kody managed to twist out of the way. He threw a punch with his left, and it connected—with flesh and bone. Someone staggered in the darkness.

  “Got you, you piece of—”

  His attacker came at him again, and this time, Kody caught a glint of metal. A knife, and not a small one. He leapt back, narrowly avoiding a swipe to his midsection, and collided with the empty cot. Stepping around it, he put the cot between himself and his attacker. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed his crossbow. “You’d better hope your night vision is better than mine, mate, because I never miss.”

  For long moments, all was still. Kody held his breath, listening, sweating, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat. Somewhere in that silence, maybe only inches away, Oded waited. He was obviously hurt. Maybe worse. The temptation to look for him was almost overwhelming, but Kody knew better. He stayed where he was, waiting for his attacker to make the next move.

  He didn’t wait long. The dark shifted, and Kody fired. He hit his target dead on. When it shattered, Kody knew he’d been duped. A clay pot, by the sounds of it. He swore, tossing the useless crossbow aside. He drew his sword and braced for the counterattack, but it never came. Instead, something ripped near the back of the tent, and a blade of sunlight appeared. Kody tried to get there, but with the cot in his way, he knew he would never make it. Another slash of the knife was all it took to set his attacker free. The outline of a man slipped through the hole and vanished.

  Kody started to follow, but froze halfway through the hole. His quarry had already vanished amid the tightly clustered tents. Kody might catch him, or he might not. Oded might need help, or he might be beyond it. It was a risk either way, and Kody lost precious seconds to indecision. But the cure was more important than catching a killer, so he grabbed the ragged flap of tent and pulled, tearing the opening wider to admit the sun. The light fell on a pair of boots lying where they didn’t belong. Kody rushed over.

  He found Oded facedown near the table at the back of the tent. Kody rolled him over, tucking his fingers under the witchdoctor’s jaw in search of a pulse. Nothing. He leaned in close, listening for breath as he patted Oded down. Just below the rib cage, he found what he’d dreaded: a sodden patch of clothing, still warm. Kody slipped his fingers through the tear and searched for the wound. He found it. And then he found another, and another.

  His mind catalogued the details as though he were writing a report: multiple stab wounds to the midsection, large blade, upward thrust. The assailant was right-handed, and what he lacked in precision, he made up for in brutality. The knife most likely punctured the heart. Kody swore and sat back on his heels. He was too late.

  The tent flap opened, and Lenoir and Merden entered, both of them out of breath. Kody’s posture and the gaping hole at the back of the tent told them everything they needed to know, so he didn’t bother to say anything. He just stared into Oded’s lifeless face and thought, I’m sorry.

  Merden said something rueful in Adali, and then he was kneeling beside Kody, scanning the body as though hoping to find something Kody had missed, some sign that Oded could still be revived. Kody left him to it; for all he knew, the soothsayer had some mysterious Adali trick up his sleeve. But it would have to be some trick, because the witchdoctor was most definitely dead.

  A moment’s examination was all it took for Merden to reach the same conclusion; his posture sagged. Lenoir spat out an oath in Arrènais, then added one in Braelish for good measure. “The killer?”

  “Gone. I might have been able to catch him, but I thought maybe I could still help Oded, so I let him get away.” The words came out with remarkable calm, considering that he was moments away from being fired. He’d failed Oded. Worse, he’d failed Lenoir. The inspector didn’t tolerate incompetence. He didn’t even tolerate mistakes.

  “How long ago?” Lenoir asked.

  “Two minutes, maybe. I’ll go after—”

  “Don’t bother. I’m sure he is long gone.”

  The shame brought heat to Kody’s cheeks. “Sorry, Inspector.”

  Lenoir made an impatient gesture. “Flagellate yourself if it pleases you, Sergeant, but the matter was decided before you ever got here.”

  Kody blinked in surprise. Lenoir never missed an opportunity to criticize him.

  Except, perhaps, when he was too busy
criticizing himself. “If anyone is to blame, it is I. I should have seen this coming. Regardless, neither your regret nor mine will improve the situation, so it is pointless to indulge.”

  Merden began to murmur over Oded’s body, one hand on the dead man’s chest, the other on his forehead. Kody watched for a moment, curious despite himself. Lenoir, though, was not the least bit interested in Adali funeral rites. He paced the tent like a caged animal, scratching the stubble on his jaw and muttering the occasional curse.

  What do we do now? The question was on Kody’s lips, but he didn’t dare utter it. He’d narrowly escaped Lenoir’s wrath moments before; it would be foolish to risk it again. Besides, the inspector obviously didn’t have an answer. “We can still get the sketch artist,” Kody offered, wiping his bloody hands against his trousers. “At least we’ll have a likeness of the killer. And we can have posters put up all over the Five Villages . . .” It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think of.

  Lenoir wasn’t even listening. He froze midstride. “Zach.”

  “What about him?”

  “He found some sailors who encountered the disease overseas. Perhaps, if we show them a sketch of the killer . . .”

  Kody grimaced. “Bit of a long shot.”

  “More than a bit. But they may also be able to tell us something about the disease, something that might help us to find a treatment.”

  “We have a treatment.” Merden rose from his crouch, his long body unfolding like a pocketknife.

  “We had a treatment,” Kody said. He was being negative, he knew, but his head was killing him, and the taste of failure was still bitter on his tongue. “Now that Oded’s gone, nobody knows how to do it.”

  “I do,” said Merden.

  Lenoir turned. “You can perform the ritual? Oded taught you?”

  “I observed him closely while he worked on each of the patients. I understood most of what he was doing, and the rest, I asked him to explain.”

  “And you are certain it will work?”

  The soothsayer smiled wryly. “I had better be, Inspector, since any mistake could well be fatal.”