Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “It didn’t happen that way before,” Reck said. “The pox that hit Arrènes never came to Braeland. As far as I know, it never turned up anywhere else either, except a few cases here and there. Not even the neighbors got it.”

  “That was different. Serles was isolated because of the revolution. Shortly after the plague began, the navy blockaded the port to prevent rebels from entering. Very few ships got through. Even the main highways were blocked. Serles suffered alone. And besides, the pox was nowhere near as deadly as this . . . hatekh-sahr.”

  The chief frowned. “What did you call it?”

  “Hatekh-sahr. It is the Adali name for the disease. It means marks of the demon.”

  Reck grunted. “It’s a demon, all right, and it’s running rampant in my city. But I can’t close the port, not with hounds. I’ll speak to the lord mayor, but . . .”

  “But he is a fool.”

  Reck ignored that. “You getting anywhere?”

  “Honestly, I do not know.” This was why he had come—to update his superior, and to get a second opinion from a hound who had been on the job longer than any other man on the Metropolitan Police force. But now that the moment had come, Lenoir felt oddly detached. What did it matter anyway, with the plague slowly seeping out of the Camp and into the veins of Kennian proper? The worse the epidemic became, the more his task seemed petty and pointless. For the first time in a long time, he felt something like the old apathy creeping back in. How else to feel in the face of such futility? So much for finding purpose in your work, he thought bitterly.

  Reck read it all in his eyes, and he did not bother with false comfort. Catching whoever was behind this was no longer his priority. “I hear you convinced Crears to turn Sergeant Innes into a bodyguard for some Adali witchdoctor.”

  “Innes and a pair of watchmen. It was generous of Crears to agree.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Did you pull rank, or just call in a personal favor?”

  “It was necessary.”

  “And why is that? What are you up to, Lenoir?”

  “Merden is a healer of some renown among his people. I believe he may be able to cure the disease using a remedy he learned from another Adali healer.”

  Reck’s bushy gray eyebrows climbed his forehead. “That so? Cure it how?”

  “It is”—Lenoir hesitated—“a traditional remedy. My hope was that once the cure had proven itself, the College of Physicians would be willing to reproduce it on a large scale.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not sure. They remain . . . skeptical.”

  “I’ll bet. But that doesn’t explain the guard detail. You afraid this miracle cure is gonna start a riot?”

  Lenoir blew out a breath. He had not even thought of that, but it was certainly a possibility. Just one more thing to worry about. “Innes and the others are there to protect Merden from a killer. You see, the other healer I mentioned—the one who taught Merden the treatment—was murdered yesterday morning.”

  “Murdered?” Reck frowned. “What’s that about?”

  “Four patients he had treated were also murdered. I believe the killer is the same person who started the plague. Or at least, he is part of the same conspiracy.”

  “Back up—did I hear you right?” The chief leaned forward in his chair. “There were five murders yesterday and I’m just hearing about it now? What in the below have you been doing out there, Inspector?”

  Lenoir sighed. “I apologize, Chief. I should have updated you sooner.”

  “Damn right you should have. It’s been three days, Lenoir. Three days of all-out chaos on my streets. I’ve had two murders—not counting the ones I didn’t know about—and my best inspector nowhere to be found. I’d have had you hauled in by your bootheels if I wasn’t up to my neck in shit.” He shook his head, but Reck was too much of a hound to let his ego get in the way of good police work. He folded his arms and sank back into his chair. “All right, let’s hear it. Everything you’ve got so far.”

  Lenoir began by explaining how he and Kody convinced Horst Lideman to let an Adali witchdoctor practice on his patients.

  “I’ll bet that was a tough sell,” the chief said.

  “Indeed, but I was convinced the Adali were onto something, and in the end, we were able to persuade Lideman to try. Oded performed his ritual on four patients, all of them terminal. But when Kody and I returned to the Camp the next morning, all four patients had died. At first, we thought the treatment had failed, but when we examined the bodies, we discovered signs of smothering.”

  Reck grunted thoughtfully. “Someone wanted it to look like the treatment failed. And when his ploy was discovered, he went for the witchdoctor instead.” The chief studied him for a moment, and Lenoir could not help fidgeting a little under the scrutiny. You should have seen that coming, Reck’s eyes seemed to say, but perhaps Lenoir was merely imagining it.

  “We were able to get a description of the killer from one of Lideman’s people,” Lenoir continued. “I had a sketch done up, and Kody and I took it to the docks.” He explained about Zach’s information, and the story of Serendipity in Inataar.

  “So you think the plague was brought in from Darangosai?”

  “I don’t know. There is so much that doesn’t make sense. If what the sailors say is true, Darangosai has been plague-free for some time. Where did they obtain a sample of the infection, and how did they transport it without becoming infected themselves? Then there is the distance. Even if our guess is correct, and they used corpses to transport the disease, the crossing from Inataar takes at least three weeks, and often more. The corpses would have decomposed significantly on the voyage, yet the bodies Drem found in the Camp appear to have been fresh—a few days old at the most. I cannot account for it.”

  “Don’t get bogged down in the details, Lenoir—that’s not your style. We know it came in by ship. That gives you a place to start. The particulars don’t really matter.”

  “I suppose not. What matters is why someone would do this, but I am no closer to understanding that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s so important either,” Reck said. “Whoever he is, the bastard is obviously insane. Who knows why madmen do anything? Just for the fun of it, sometimes.”

  Lenoir shook his head. “No, Chief, that does not fit. Aside from the fact that one man could not possibly transport this disease across the sea without help, the murders in the Camp were too calculated to be the work of someone purely bent on mayhem. There is an angle to this, I know it.”

  Reck considered him with an odd expression. “You’re putting an awful lot of thought into this, considering how little is likely to come of it. That’s not your style either.”

  Lenoir knew exactly what the chief was getting at, and it sat badly with him. It was not the first time Reck had taken a swipe at him for his erstwhile lack of enthusiasm for police work. True, Lenoir had changed, but he saw no purpose in dwelling on it, least of all now. “Once, perhaps,” he said coolly. “But I trust you are not suggesting I should revert to old habits?”

  Reck snorted. “Don’t get your feathers in a fluff, Lenoir. I’m just saying you’re overthinking it. It’s like those jigsaw puzzles—you ever done one of those? My son used to be crazy about them. He liked to try to guess what the picture was after he’d only put a handful of the pieces together. He’d stare at them for hours, days even, just these little scraps of paint on wood, as though he could make sense of it. But he never did, not until he had enough of the pieces in place. You can stare all you like, Lenoir, but you don’t have enough pieces.”

  “And how do you suggest I get them?” Lenoir asked irritably. He was not in the mood for folksy wisdom.

  Reck, meanwhile, was not in the mood for impudence from his subordinates. “I suggest you do your job, Inspector. Take your sketch and head back to the docks. If you’re lucky, you’ll hook s
omething. If you’re very lucky, it will lead you to your killer. None of which will do a damn thing to keep the peace or stop the plague, so if you’ll excuse me, your five minutes are up.”

  Lenoir sighed and got to his feet. “One more thing. If the Inataari did find a cure, perhaps we can learn what it was. Someone should dispatch a ship to Darangosai at once.”

  “I’ll tell Hearstings, but I wouldn’t pin much hope on it. Even the fastest ship in the navy couldn’t get there and back in less than six weeks.” He gestured at a ledger on his desk. “You got any idea how many people will be dead by then?”

  Lenoir shuddered as the images accosted him again. Priests in waxed robes pushing handcarts. Packs of dogs roaming the streets, feasting . . . “Yes, Chief,” he said softly, “I do.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Zach woke with a snort. His cheek was pressed against something hard, and there was a faint rocking motion beneath him. He smelled fish. Where in the below? Then he remembered: the rowboat. He’d fallen asleep on the job.

  Damn! He’d practically begged for this chance, and here he was, dozing off like a little kid up past his bedtime.

  He sat up, rubbing an awful crick in his neck, and peered into the weak wash of dawn. To his surprise, the docks were already bustling. Fishermen, mostly, though it looked like the Regent was fixing to sail this morning, bound for shores unknown. Zach longed to go with her. It would be easy enough to sneak aboard. He could hide belowdecks and pilfer food and water, at least for a while. Then, when they were too far out to sea to turn back, he’d come out of hiding and offer to work in exchange for passage. They’d let him, probably. Or they’d toss him overboard. Zach reckoned it’d be worth the risk if it meant he got to see Inataar, or Mirrhan, or even Arrènes, where Lenoir was from.

  Maybe next time, he told himself. Right now, he had a job to do—if he hadn’t already stuffed it up.

  He gazed groggily at the Port, rubbing one eye with the backs of his knuckles to banish the sleep. The tavern looked deserted, but he knew better. The Port was the kind of place that never really closed. Men stayed up all night playing cards and whoring, and those who felt tired simply curled up on the floor, sawdust in their beards, for a bit of a kip. The question was, had Bevin and his crew left while Zach was having a kip of his own, or were they still in there?

  As though in answer to his thoughts, the door opened, and a familiar figure appeared. The skinny bloke, Stew, emerged into the light, blinking and muttering to himself. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, as if to get his bearings, before tottering off into the morning. Feeling perfectly awake now, Zach crouched lower into the belly of the boat and waited.

  A few minutes went by. Zach started to worry. Maybe Stew had been the last to leave? But no—here came Bevin and Gerd, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, Bevin howling with laughter as usual. Come on, Hairy, Zach thought. Come on out. He refused to believe he’d missed his chance. If he had, he’d never be able to face Lenoir.

  Gerd started off in the same direction as Stew, but Bevin paused just outside the door. He poked his head back inside and said something, and moments later, Hairy appeared.

  Zach flicked his eyes skyward in silent thanks.

  Hairy looked like he’d been run over by a stagecoach. His hair stood up at all angles, and his clothes were rumpled, as though he’d slept in them. Judging from the straw clinging to his shirt, he had.

  The three sailors shambled off down the boardwalk. Zach started to climb out of the boat, but then Hairy stopped suddenly, as if he’d just remembered something. Zach dropped back down, wincing as the movement caused the boat to rock conspicuously. He waited until it leveled out a bit before peering over the gunwale. Hairy was saying something Zach couldn’t hear, and he cocked his head in the direction of one of the piers. Bevin shrugged, and Gerd started off again, plodding along like a horse bound for the barn. Bevin said something and then turned away, leaving Hairy alone. The red-haired man changed direction and started up the pier.

  Zach clambered out of the boat and followed, darting between the crates and stinking piles of netting that littered the wharf. He must have looked dodgy, scurrying along like a rat, but luckily, the fishermen and dockhands were too busy to notice. He kept far enough back that if Hairy chanced to look back over his shoulder, he probably wouldn’t recognize Zach straightaway.

  They were almost at the end of the pier when Hairy stopped, craning his neck to look up at a hulking ship with a trio of red masts poking up into the sky, the words Duchess of the Deep painted on the hull. He shouted something Zach couldn’t make out, and a man appeared on the deck. While Hairy was absorbed in yelling up at the other man, Zach found a nice big coil of rope to crouch behind. One good thing about the docks—there was no shortage of places to hide.

  “He’s not here,” the man on the deck called down. “Haven’t you heard? He’s with Fly By Night now. Has been for near half a year.”

  Hairy swore. He started to walk away, then paused and turned back. “What about Ritter?”

  “What about him?”

  “Durian’s balls! Is he there or not?”

  “All right, pipe down. I’ll get him.” The man on the deck moved out of sight. Hairy folded his arms and kicked at the crust of salt between the slats of the pier, waiting. Eventually, another man appeared up on deck.

  “Harund?” He sounded surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  Hairy scowled. “You want me to shout your business from down here, do you?”

  “Wait. I’m coming.” The sailor disappeared over the rail, only to reappear on the gangplank, making his way down. Zach tried to get a good look at him, but he didn’t dare stick his head up too far, or he’d be spotted for sure. At least he could hear pretty well. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” the unfamiliar man said. He didn’t sound too unhappy about it.

  “Yeah, I missed you too,” Hairy said sarcastically. “So Nash has gone over to another rig, then?”

  “A while ago. So?”

  “But the two of you are still tight?”

  “Tight? I don’t know. I see him now and then. Why?”

  “Think you might see him today?”

  There was a pause. “What’s this about?”

  “What’s your problem? Simple question, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” said the other man. “Just curious, I guess.”

  “Well, you’re not the only one. Hounds came around last night asking about him. Didn’t know his name, but they had a real good sketch.”

  “Is that so?” The other man sounded worried.

  “Didn’t say what they wanted him for, but they were asking lots of questions about the plague, and Serendipity too.”

  The other man swore. “And they didn’t say what they wanted?”

  “Something to do with the plague. Seemed to think we could help ’em find a cure, or some such.” He laughed contemptuously. “Talk about chasing the wrong rabbit.”

  “Yeah.” The other man sounded distracted.

  “Anyway, if you see Nash, better let him know the hounds are looking for him. I’d tell him myself, but I gotta get to bed. Head feels like a butcher’s block.” It sounded like Hairy was fixing to leave.

  His companion, though, wasn’t quite ready to let him go. “What did you all tell them, anyway?”

  “The hounds? Not much. I’m the only one knows Nash, and I didn’t say nothing.”

  “And the plague?”

  Zach could easily picture the annoyed look on Hairy’s face. “What about it?”

  “Well, did you tell them about Darangosai?”

  “Sure. So?”

  “And did they think it was the same disease?”

  “Not you too! What in the Dark Flame is everyone so interested in this bloody plague for?”

  “I’m not,” the other man said quickly—too quickly, it s
eemed to Zach. “Just wondering what the hounds are looking for, is all.”

  “Who gives a damn? To the below with ’em. I had half a mind to knock some teeth out, only I didn’t want to spill my ale.”

  Zach snorted. Was that before or after Sergeant Kody slammed your big ugly face into the table?

  “Anyways,” Hairy continued, “I’m dead tired. Gotta get home. Just pass the message to Nash, all right? I owe him one.”

  “You owe everyone on the docks, I hear,” the other man said dryly. “But yeah, I’ll pass the message.”

  Zach heard footsteps, one set on the pier, the other on the gangplank, as the sailors parted ways. He shifted in his hiding place to make sure Hairy couldn’t see him as he passed. Now Zach had a dilemma: keep following Hairy, because that’s what Lenoir asked him to do, or stay with the other man, the one called Ritter? From the conversation, it sounded like Ritter would be seeing Nash before Hairy did, and wasn’t the whole point of following Hairy to get to the man in the sketch?

  Plus, this Ritter bloke sounded suspicious. Hairy might not have noticed, but Zach was pretty sure Ritter was sweating the fact that the hounds were snooping around, even though they’d been asking about Nash. Then there were his questions about the plague. Why should he care about that unless he was involved somehow?

  Zach glanced back over his shoulder at Hairy’s receding form. He bit his lip uncertainly. He looked back at the Duchess. Ritter had reappeared at the rail, and he was watching Hairy too. He looked anxious.

  As soon as Hairy was out of sight, Ritter came back down the gangplank. That sealed it. The bloke was dodgy and no mistake. Zach could always find Hairy at the Port later on, if he needed to. For now, he would tail Ritter, and hopefully, that would lead him to Nash. Sure, it was a gamble, but if he got it right, Lenoir would be pleased, and that meant Zach would be one step closer.

  To being a hound. To having a future. To having a life.

  Most street kids didn’t bother thinking about the future, not once they were old enough to understand they weren’t entitled to one. But Zach was different. He was smarter. Better. He had plans.