Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “Remove your scarf, please.”

  Kody complied. Merden held up a lantern and shone it right in Kody’s face.

  “Hey!” He threw his arm over his eyes. “Didn’t you hear what I just said about light?”

  “I heard. I needed to see if your eyes were bleeding, or your nose.” Merden lowered the lantern. “You will be pleased to know they are not.”

  “Real pleased,” Kody growled, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “You say you think you may have sneezed blood. When?”

  “This afternoon. Just as I was leaving here, in fact.”

  “And since then?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.” That had to be a good sign, right?

  Merden raised a hand to Kody’s brow. His fingers felt cool. That wasn’t such a good sign. “Definitely fever,” Merden said, “though not, as you say, too serious. When did you first begin noticing symptoms?”

  “Early afternoon, I guess. On the way to the docks.” He shifted in his chair. The conversation felt oddly like a confession. “I guess if I think about it now, though, maybe it was this morning. That’s when the headache started. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know. People get headaches.”

  Merden’s amber eyes searched him. “You came alone. I assume that means you have not told the inspector of your condition.”

  “What condition? For all I know, it’s just flu. No point in getting him all riled up for nothing.”

  “It is hardly nothing, Sergeant. Even if it were flu, that would greatly increase your chances of catching plague. You must realize that. And since it is summer, and there are no reports of flu circulating at the moment, I am not inclined to believe that is what we are dealing with.”

  Kody’s stomach seized, as though he’d been punched. He swallowed again. “So, you think it’s . . .”

  Merden sighed. It was all the answer Kody needed.

  His gaze dropped to the floor. The world seemed to tilt around him, as if he were a pocket of stillness in the midst of a storm. “Okay.” He breathed in, out. Listened through the roaring in his ears until there was only silence. “Okay.” He looked up. “So, I need the tonic, then, right?”

  Merden rose and circled the table, chose a bottle from among many. “I have been preparing it all afternoon. It should work.”

  “Should?” The word had an ugly power to it. Kody felt light-headed again.

  “It depends how far the disease has progressed, and on other things besides, things we cannot know. As Oded told us, not everyone can be cured this way. Some require stronger measures.”

  Kody shuddered. He’d seen what stronger measures looked like. If it was a cure at all, it was surely worse than the disease. That was his first thought, at any rate. Then he pictured the bodies they’d seen, black and blue and bloated, and thought, Maybe not.

  “Three drops every hour until I say otherwise,” Merden said, “starting right now. You will rest here. I will wake you in an hour for the next dose.”

  Kody glanced at the cot where the boy had undergone his treatment. Where he’d bucked and writhed and burst into shadow.

  “Not there, Sergeant.” Merden’s deep voice carried a hint of amusement. “You would not find your dreams . . . restful. You will sleep on the ground, on a blanket. The night is warm. You should be fine.”

  Kody suddenly felt too tired to argue. He took the cup of water Merden offered him, downed it. It was so bitter that his throat closed up and his mouth started watering in protest, as if to banish the taste.

  He curled up on the floor like a dog and closed his eyes.

  He dreamed of his childhood, of summers by the lake and autumns picking fruit in his uncle’s orchard.

  When he woke, he was trembling. Or shivering. He couldn’t tell. A hand was on his shoulder. Merden’s.

  “The fever grows worse,” the Adal said. “That should not happen, not after three doses.”

  “Three?” Kody rolled over, squinting up at him. “I only remember two.”

  “Three,” Merden repeated, “and you should be showing signs of improvement.”

  “In three hours?”

  “Everyone is different, but Oded assured me that most patients show improvement within two hours.” Merden shook his head. “I am sorry, Sergeant, but it appears you are not responding to the potion. You will need—”

  Kody held up a hand. He didn’t want to hear it.

  A wave of panic crashed over him, frigid, airless, dragging the world out from under him. For a moment, he thought he might actually throw up. But he didn’t. He just sat there, staring at nothing, his breath whispering darkly in his ears. Somehow—a hound’s instinct, maybe—he’d known it wasn’t going to be that simple. Not for him. He was special, apparently, and not in the way you wanted to be special. It would be so easy to hate the world for that, but what would be the point? It was what it was.

  Kody made a decision. He pushed himself to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” Merden asked warily.

  “Going home. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “You cannot seriously be thinking of leaving?”

  Kody went over to the table, trying to identify the tonic amid the clutter. All the little brown bottles looked the same. His hand hovered over them, indecisive but steady. The sound of his breath in his ears was as thick as smoke. It was almost comforting.

  “Sergeant, you are sick, and getting sicker all the time. You need treatment.”

  “I’m getting treatment.” Kody chose a bottle at random. He figured Merden would stop him if it was a problem.

  “It is not working.”

  “You don’t know that,” Kody snapped. “You just said it yourself—everyone’s different. Maybe it just takes longer for the potion to work on me than it does on most people.”

  Merden sighed. “I doubt that, and even if it were true, it would still be unwise for you to exert yourself.”

  “I don’t have a choice. We’re canvassing the docks tomorrow. The inspector can’t do it alone, and there’s no one else to help him. Every hound in Kennian is busy enforcing the quarantine. You know that. I can’t afford to take time off, no matter how sick I am.”

  Merden folded his arms. “And what about Inspector Lenoir? Or anyone else you come into contact with? Do you imagine I will let you go out there and infect others?”

  “You think you can stop me?” He eyed the Adal’s slender form meaningfully.

  “I am quite certain of it, Sergeant.” Merden’s gaze was as level as his tone.

  Kody looked away uneasily. “Look, I’m not even very contagious yet, if what Dr. Lideman told us is true.”

  “An if of some importance,” Merden said dryly. “Besides, not very contagious is not good enough. We cannot take the risk of you breaching the quarantine your colleagues are working so hard to defend.”

  Clever, that—bringing his fellow hounds into it. Kody’s mouth twisted bitterly.

  “Your devotion to duty is commendable,” Merden went on, “but there is too much at stake.”

  “But that’s just my point! There’s too much at stake, and I can’t leave the inspector to go it alone.” He had to make Merden see. Had to. His life, even Lenoir’s, was a small price to pay if it helped them find out something useful about the plague. “You’ve got to help me, Merden. Help us. All I need is a few more hours. That’s not too much to ask, is it? Give me something to manage the symptoms, and I promise I’ll wear a scarf and gloves the entire time. I’ll keep my distance as much as possible.”

  The soothsayer shook his head and opened his mouth, but Kody ploughed on.

  “It’s my job to risk my life. Lenoir’s job too. This thing is bigger than us. You know he’d agree with me.”

  Merden looked away, still shaking his head.


  “Just a few hours,” Kody said again. “Just the morning. I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon. I swear. I swear, Merden.”

  Amber eyes locked on to his. Merden’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well,” he said at length. “This is police business. The decision is not mine to take. But know this: if you are not back by afternoon, as you have sworn, I will no longer be able to suspend my conscience. I will alert your colleagues to the situation, and you can explain yourself to your chief.”

  Kody let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you.”

  Merden gave him an irritable look. “I would rather you did not.” He headed over to the table. “I will give you something to manage the headache and fever. Dissolve a spoonful of the powder in liquid, at most every four hours. That means I am giving you three doses, since you will be back here by noon.” He raised an eyebrow significantly.

  “Got it.”

  Merden reached for a mortar and pestle. He paused. “Do not make me regret this, Sergeant,” he said softly.

  “I won’t,” Kody said. He prayed to God it was the truth.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lenoir took the long way in to the station. He had the streets largely to himself at this early hour; only the bakery on Little Oxway had its lanterns lit, washing the cobblestones in a weak glow. He closed his eyes as the scent of fresh bread filled his nose, warm and golden and comforting. He would have bottled that scent if he could, carried it with him through the day so that he could draw on it when he needed to. Instead, he turned a corner and it faded away, like a pleasant dream that he could not quite recall.

  Chimes rang out from a nearby church, greeting the dawn. Their triumphant song frayed Lenoir’s nerves. He had taken too much wine last night, and each strike of the mallet seemed to glance off the inside of his skull. More than that, the paean to God’s glory seemed out of place on this gloomy morning, tasteless and unfeeling, like laughter at a funeral. Better for the priest to sound a toll for the hundreds who had perished last night, a single pang for each of God’s children who had been carried off like notes on the wind.

  On a whim, Lenoir turned left on Grantley. The avenue curved too far to the southeast, but it cut through the heart of the flower district, and the sight of summer roses would do him good. Even at this hour, preparations for the day’s business were well under way. Clouds of color lined the street, tables and wagons loaded up with fresh blossoms of every size and shape. Young girls in dingy frocks stood by while their mothers filled baskets for them to carry, and little boys tied bundles with twine and cheap black ribbon. The black ribbon puzzled Lenoir until he noticed the signs: FUNERAL FLOWERS HERE. SYMPATHIES AND CONDOLENCES. CASKET FLOWERS AVAILABLE. Some tables even offered little pouches of lavender to be carried under the nose, to “ward off bad air.”

  You cannot escape it, he thought, not even for a moment. Each reminder of death was a reminder of failure. His failure.

  Pride alone would make that a bitter draft to swallow. But something much more corrosive gnawed at Lenoir’s nerves. He could not shake the thought that perhaps this case held the answer to a question that had hung over him for months:

  Why did the Darkwalker spare you?

  Lenoir had saved Zach’s life and thwarted the necromancers, but surely that was not enough to atone for his sins? Surely his debt remained? Why, then, had he been given his life?

  Perhaps it was not a gift at all, but a bond. An unspoken compact between Lenoir and whatever cosmic judge had decided to stay his execution. He had been set free on the condition that he repay his debt at the first opportunity. And now here it was, his chance to atone for his sins, and he was failing. The lives that were meant to pay for his own were slipping through his fingers. For them, there would be no second chance.

  There is no redemption, the Darkwalker had said.

  Lenoir was proving him right.

  “Miracle tonic!”

  Lenoir nearly jumped out of his skin.

  A salesman darted out from behind his cart, waving a brown glass bottle as though it were the Golden Sword itself. “Cure what ails you! Only half a crown!”

  Lenoir glared at the swindler. “Have you no shame, sir? Profiteering on tragedy?” The furious tremble of his voice surprised even him.

  The man blinked, taken aback. “Just trying to make a living.”

  “By peddling worthless concoctions to desperate people?”

  The salesman just stared, as though Lenoir had lost his mind. Perhaps I have, he thought. A vulture this man might be, but there was nothing unusual in that. Was he really so different from the flower women with their lavender pouches and funeral arrangements? “What are you doing in the flower district?” he growled, irrelevantly. “You would have more luck plying your trade in the slums.”

  “Not worth the risk.”

  Lenoir frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Too much plague. Better to keep to neighborhoods like this, just on the edges of it.”

  A finger of ice slid down Lenoir’s spine. “What do you mean, on the edges of it? We are well away from the Camp.”

  Once again, the man stared at him as though he were insane. “You been living in a cave, mate? It’s not just the slums now. It’s all over the poor district.”

  “But the quarantine . . .”

  The salesman snorted. “Right. Might as well carry water with cheesecloth.” Just then, he spotted another passerby, and he dove after her. “Miracle tonic! Only half a crown!”

  Lenoir looked up, his gaze skimming over the windows of the flats above him. It did not take long to find what he dreaded: the black cloth dangling from closed shutters, just as he remembered it from his youth. Plague here, the cloth announced. Stay away.

  “It’s happening,” he murmured.

  He jogged the rest of the way to the station.

  * * *

  Lenoir found Chief Lendon Reck doing what he did best: stalking about the kennel barking orders.

  “I don’t give a damn what he told you, Stedman, I told you to bring them here—all of them! This isn’t bloody optional, do you understand? We’ve lost a whole day! And you, scribe!” Reck jabbed a finger at a passing youth. “Send a messenger out to Barrier One right away! Tell Crears that the dozen men I promised him won’t be coming, thanks to his cretin of a colleague in North Haven!”

  The young man hovered uncertainly. “Er . . . do you really want me to say that last part?”

  “Of course not!”

  The scribe scrambled away, Inspector Stedman following close behind. As he passed, Stedman gave Lenoir a look that said, Watch out. It was good advice; Lenoir had learned long ago that it was best to steer clear of Reck when he was in such a mood. Unfortunately, Lenoir did not have that luxury today. “Chief,” he said, a little warily.

  “Well, well. Look who’s decided to pay a visit.”

  Lenoir winced. It had been a while since he had passed through the station. “Do you have a moment?” Reck gave him a scathing look, and Lenoir laughed humorlessly. “Very well, a foolish question. Nevertheless, I need to speak with you.”

  For a moment, it looked like the chief was going to tell him to take a long leap from a very high building. Instead, he motioned irritably toward the stairs. “Five minutes. Let’s go.”

  When they reached the chief’s office, Reck sank behind his desk with a windy sigh, as though he had not sat down in days. “Close the door.”

  Lenoir complied before taking a seat of his own. Reck had not offered, but he rarely did, and Lenoir rarely waited for an invitation. He settled against the creaking wood and watched as the chief rubbed his eyes, his temples, his jaw—the latter sporting at least three days’ growth of beard. He looked as exhausted as Lenoir felt.

  “You got something to say, Inspector, or did you just come to gaze at my pretty face?”

  Lenoir had
many things to say, but he hardly knew where to begin. “Has the quarantine been breached?”

  “Breached? No, but it’s leaking, and getting worse every day.”

  “Where is the plague turning up?”

  “Where isn’t it?” Reck gestured at a map of the city pinned to the wall behind him. “Fishering, Stonesgully, Houndsrow. That’s as of yesterday morning. I’m sure we’ll add more to the list today. Isolated cases for now, but that won’t last.”

  “I saw a black flag on Grantley on the way in just now.”

  “Grantley? In the flower district?” Reck swore and shook his head. “First I’ve heard. If it’s that far in . . .”

  “General contamination cannot be far behind.”

  Reck rubbed his eyes again. “General contamination, is it? You’ve been spending too much time around physicians.”

  “It is a term I recall from my youth. Or at least, an approximate translation of it.” He could still see the words on the front page of every newspaper in Serles, stamped in pitiless black ink. “We should shut down the port, Chief.”

  Reck looked up sharply. “What do you mean, shut it down?”

  “If Kennian falls to the plague, the other port cities of Humenor will not be far behind.” Starting with Serles.

  “Hearstings would never agree. There’s too much money involved, not to mention goods the city needs to survive. And even if he did agree, we could never make it happen. I don’t have the manpower.”

  “Parliament could request the king to send the army.”

  Reck’s eyebrows flew up. “Have you lost your mind? You want the army to take over Kennian?”

  “If that is what it takes to preserve law and order, and to prevent the plague from spreading over the entire continent. You do not know what it will be like, Chief. You cannot imagine. . . .” Lenoir closed his eyes and shook his head against the memories. Corpses stacked like firewood. Black smoke billowing over rooftops. Human ash drifting like snow over barren streets . . . He had thought those images banished forever, but they returned to him now in a rush, every hellscape that had ever haunted his nightmares as a young man.