Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  You had to have plans if you wanted to be somebody someday. And Zach did want that, desperately. Provided he lived long enough. That wasn’t a sure thing where he came from, but Zach didn’t dwell on that.

  One step at a time.

  He peered around the crate. Ritter was nearly at the end of the pier.

  “One step at a time,” Zach whispered, and he crept out of his hiding place.

  * * *

  For the second time that day, Zach found himself crouched in the belly of a boat, fighting off sleep. He’d tailed Ritter to another ship, a trim, fast-looking vessel called Fly By Night. Ritter had disappeared inside about two hours ago, and Zach hadn’t seen him since. He was so bored that he’d started counting seagulls. (It wasn’t a very satisfying pastime; they all looked exactly the same, and they kept moving around.) He was getting thirsty too, and hot. He should have been hungry, but the smell of fish guts baking in the sun was too off-putting.

  He was just about to give up when something finally started to happen. A bunch of dockhands showed up, milling around while one of their number boarded the ship. Zach could hear them talking among themselves while they waited.

  “Better not be the same story as last time,” one of them said.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said another, “if one of those little buggers so much as sticks his head out of his cage, I’ll twist it off for him.”

  “I’d like to see that,” said a third. “Twisting the head off a monkey.”

  Monkey? Zach felt himself grinning. At last, something interesting!

  “All right, lads,” a familiar voice called. Ritter waved over the rail at the assembled dockhands, and they headed up the gangplank, each one trailing a dolly. They were gone for a while, and when they showed up again, they had crates loaded onto the dollies, and they started ferrying them off the ship. Zach couldn’t help sticking his head up a little higher, hoping for a glimpse. He’d never seen a monkey before. Ritter, meanwhile, positioned himself at the bottom of the gangplank, making notes on a ledger as each crate went past.

  It took forever. Somebody must have been starting a zoo or something, because even at one monkey per box, there were a whole lot of boxes. Zach had long since lost count by the time Ritter said, “That’s enough—we don’t want to overdo it.”

  The head dockhand gave him a mystified look. “There’s gotta be at least two hundred more down there.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Ritter’s pencil continued to bob. “But we don’t want to flood the market, not yet. The product has only just started selling. It’s simple supply and demand, my good man. Too much, and the price drops. Too little, and we don’t make enough profit. Find the right balance, and you’re rich.”

  “We, is it? What’s this got to do with you anyway, Ritter? This isn’t your rig. How come Marsh’s men aren’t taking care of this themselves?”

  “I’m doing Captain Elder a favor, that’s all, while he and his crew take advantage of some well-deserved shore leave.”

  The dockhand shrugged. “Whatever you say. Where do you want ’em?”

  “Warehouse 57, same as last time. My associates will pick them up from there.”

  The dockhand nodded and withdrew.

  Once the crates had been taken away, Ritter went back up the gangplank. He stayed inside the ship for a while, and when he reappeared, he no longer had the ledger. He was whistling as he came back down, and he continued his happy little ditty all the way back to Duchess of the Deep.

  “Huh,” said Zach when Ritter had gone inside. So much for finding Nash. From the way Ritter had been acting earlier, Zach had been sure he was heading off to warn his friend about the hounds. Instead, he’d just been going about his business. Well that’s disappointing. Maybe he should have followed Hairy after all.

  Something puzzled him, though. If Ritter worked on Duchess of the Deep, how come he was unloading crates of monkeys from Fly By Night? Zach didn’t know much about sailing, but he was pretty sure you could only work on one ship at a time.

  He waited for Ritter to show up again, but he didn’t. Meanwhile, Zach’s curiosity started to tug at him. Monkeys. Whole crates of them, just sitting there in Warehouse 57.

  What ten-year-old could resist?

  It wasn’t hard to break in. Warehouse 57 looked formidable, a grim brick structure with padlocked doors, but the small arched windows lining one side of the building provided Zach with the perfect entry point. The windows weren’t big enough for a grown man to squeeze through, but Zach was a boy, and small for his age. He picked up a stone, glanced around to make sure no one was nearby, and threw it at the glass. He knocked out the jagged shards so he wouldn’t cut himself. Then he grabbed an empty crate, clambered on top, and wriggled through the window.

  It was hot in there, and dark, but there was enough light coming through the windows to see by. He spotted the cluster of crates near the doors and headed over, pulse skipping with nervous anticipation. The crates were about the size of a coffin. Zach couldn’t see any air holes; he wondered how the monkeys breathed. He pressed his ear up against one of them, but he couldn’t hear anything. Tentatively, he scratched the wood with his fingernails. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He groped around in the dark until he found a pry bar. It was heavy and rusted, but it would do. Zach wedged the thin end under the lid of one of the crates and cranked it. The nails popped free, and a two-inch slice of darkness appeared. Zach waved his fingers in front of the gap, but nothing happened. He sniffed at it, but the smell that greeted him wasn’t fur or dung. It smelled more like grass.

  Zach moved farther down the crate and leaned against the pry bar again. The lid creaked and rose higher, but there was still no sound.

  Sod it.

  Zach tore the lid free and looked inside. In the shadowed depths, he could just make out the shapes . . .

  ...of a bunch of dried plants.

  “Aw, come on!” His voice echoed in the cavernous space, sharp and indignant. It was like finding spinach on your plate when you’d been promised sugar biscuits. He slammed the lid back down in disgust. He opened one more crate, just to be sure, but it was the same as before: rows of dried plants tied in neat little bushels. Spices and cotton, cotton and spices. He could now add herbs to the list. Talk about boring.

  Zach was still scowling as he squirmed his way back through the window. He was so annoyed that he didn’t even notice the man lounging in the shade of the warehouse, and would have walked right by had a great paw not seized the back of his collar. “Hey!” He twisted to glare at his captor, half expecting to find Lenoir.

  The face that loomed over him was not the inspector’s. Bevin smiled, slow and nasty and full of teeth. “Hello there, little pup.”

  Zach’s throat seemed to close up a little, but he swallowed through it and mustered every ounce of bravado he had. “You better leave me alone, Bevin. I got friends in the police.”

  “Oh, I know it.” Bevin’s grin widened, and he lifted Zach off the ground like a kitten by the scruff of its neck. “That’s just what I’m counting on.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “There’s another one,” Kody said, pointing. The scrap of black cloth dangled from a grimy window on the fourth floor. The window next to it also had a black flag, though whether it was the same residence, or a neighbor’s, Lenoir could not tell. “That’s eight now,” Kody said.

  Lenoir had no interest in listening to a running tally of death. “Perhaps you could turn your thoughts to more useful pursuits, Sergeant.”

  Kody scarcely seemed to hear him. “Panic’s going to spread even faster now, with those flags popping up everywhere.”

  “And hounds wearing scarves and gloves wherever they go,” Lenoir said, gesturing meaningfully at Kody. “Your attire is hardly going to inspire confidence in the public.”

  Kody gave him a dark look
. “I shouldn’t protect myself?”

  “This is not the Camp. The risk here is minimal.”

  “Tell that to the people flying those flags.”

  Lenoir let the matter drop. If the sergeant chose to be overcautious, that was his business.

  Kody brooded in silence for a time. After a few blocks, he blurted, “Even if this Ritter fellow can help us find the rest of the old Serendipity crew, it’s not going to be enough.”

  “We don’t know that. At a minimum, it will give us a pool of potential witnesses who might be able to tell us more about the plague, where it came from, and perhaps even how the Inataari cured it. And, if we are very lucky, someone who can identify the man in the sketch.”

  “And if they can’t?”

  The sergeant was on thin ice now; Lenoir could feel his patience cracking. “You are unusually negative today,” he said coolly. “I thought we had discussed this. There is no point in lamenting our situation. We can only hope for the best. If the sketch yields nothing, there is still Harund. Zach may yet find something useful by tailing him.”

  Kody said nothing. He had little faith in the boy, Lenoir knew. He believed Zach’s age and delinquency made him unsuitable as an informant. That only proved how green the sergeant was. Zach’s age and delinquency were precisely what made him so valuable. Necessity had taught the boy resourcefulness, and he knew how to play the child when it suited him. Zach had turned coal into diamonds more than once for Lenoir. He had also failed, sometimes spectacularly, but more often, he contributed some little tidbit, a piece of the puzzle that Lenoir would not otherwise have found. Lenoir would be more than grateful for a little tidbit now.

  A shrill voice broke into his thoughts. “Protect yourself and your loved ones from the plague! Get the latest medical advice here!” A boy about Zach’s age waved a newspaper over his head. About a dozen more of the papers rested by his feet, pinned under a rock. It looked like he had almost sold out, even though it was only midmorning.

  “I’ll take one of those.” Lenoir flipped the newsboy a coin.

  The boy caught it with a whoop, grinning from ear to ear. “Hot damn, I’m gonna sell out today! Plague’s good for business!”

  “Show some respect, boy,” Kody snapped. “People are dying.”

  The newsboy gave him a sullen look and peeled another page off his pile. “Protect yourself and your loved ones! Latest medical advice here!”

  Withdrawing a little for the sake of his ears, Lenoir unfolded the newspaper and scanned the page. “Let us see what the latest medical advice has to offer.”

  Remain indoors as much as possible, with all doors and windows firmly shut. Use a rag or similar means to block off any gaps or drafts. Ensure that a fire is burning at all times. Fire consumes the miasma and purifies the air. Take care, however, not to inhale too much smoke. If possible, add camphor or rosemary to the flames. This increases your protection.

  “Miasma.” Lenoir shook his head. “This country.”

  “They’d have a better explanation in Arrènes, I suppose?” Kody asked irritably. He had been reading over Lenoir’s shoulder.

  “A better explanation than mysteriously corrupted air? Is it even possible?” Lenoir snorted and kept reading.

  Should you find it necessary to go out of doors, take precautions. Cover your nose and mouth at all times. Take a scarf—any fabric will do—and fold it to make a pouch, as shown in Diagram A. Fill the pouch with straw. This will act as a filter against the miasma. If possible, add rosemary or camphor to the straw, the latter in conservative quantities. Be aware that too much camphor can cause disorientation, shortness of breath, lethargy, reduced appetite, and rash.

  Prevent bare skin from coming into contact with any foreign surface. Use a handkerchief or gloves to touch doorknobs and handrails. Close contact, including shaking hands, hugging, or kissing should be avoided at all costs. Should a member of the household become infected, that person should be isolated immediately . . .

  Lenoir skipped to the end of the article. It was attributed to none other than Dr. Horst Lideman, Head of Medical Sciences, Royal Braelish College of Physicians. “Wonderful.” He folded up the paper and jammed it in his pocket. “Now every household in Kennian will be burning a fire at all hours, many using a highly flammable substance.” He drew a deep draft of gritty air. He would have sworn the soot was laced with camphor already, though that was probably his imagination.

  They continued on their way, heading toward the poor district and the docks. They had passed through here only yesterday, but the plague had marched on overnight, annexing new territory and consolidating its hold over the old; the sunlight spilling over the rooftops revealed a rapidly decaying world. Anyone brave enough to be out on the street wore a scarf, many of them folded into the cunning little masks described in the Herald. No doubt the article had been carried in all the newspapers, and terrified Kennians were taking Lideman’s word as scripture.

  Shops in this part of town had been closed for days, but many were now boarded up. One shop, a cheap jewelry and watch repair, had a man seated out front with an old musket posed across his knees. Kody scowled when he saw it. “What’s that about?”

  Lenoir thought it rather obvious, but before he could say so, Kody was striding purposefully across the street, looking every inch the Stern Hound. He truly was in a mood today. Lenoir could only sigh and follow.

  “Sir, would you mind telling me what you’re doing with a firearm in public?” Kody jabbed an accusing finger at the musket.

  The man in the chair tensed, peering up at Kody with suspicious eyes. “Protecting my shop. What business is it of yours?”

  In answer, Kody flipped out his badge. The shopkeeper just laughed derisively and shook his head.

  “Civilians aren’t allowed to carry firearms within city limits,” Kody said.

  “Not bad enough you hounds abandon us, now you’re hassling honest folk trying to protect what’s theirs? Where were you last night, when Mrs. Peters’s place got busted into?” The man gestured angrily at a shop down the street, where a stout woman hunched over a broomstick, sweeping up broken glass. Several panes were missing from her storefront window, dark squares gaping like missing teeth.

  “Don’t see you chasing down the thieves, either,” the shopkeeper continued, “any more than you’re chasing down the thugs who snatched Mrs. Feldman’s handbag. I could give you a description, you know. Anyone on this street could. They set on her in broad daylight, bold as you please. And why not? Not as if there’s any hounds nearby to stop ’em.”

  Kody pursed his lips and glanced down the street at the damaged shop. He had no answer for the shopkeeper, of course. The hounds had abandoned these people, albeit unwillingly.

  “We understand your difficulties, sir,” Lenoir said, “but we cannot have firearms in the street. Put your musket inside. Somewhere you can reach it quickly, if need be.”

  “What good is that? I don’t plan on shooting it. I just want those crooks to see it, so they think twice about hitting my shop.” The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I got jewelry in there. Might not look like much to you, but it’s worth a few crowns, and I’ll be damned if I let some street thug make off with it just because you hounds can’t be bothered to do your jobs.”

  “We’re busy with the quarantine,” Kody said. It sounded peevish and defensive, and it produced a predictable answer.

  “Cracking good job you’re doing too.” The shopkeeper’s voice dripped with contempt.

  “We do not have time for this,” Lenoir said. “Put the musket away, or it will be confiscated. Display a warning sign, or a length of pipe, or even a blade—I don’t care. But no firearms. They are too unpredictable.”

  So saying, he turned and headed up the street to have words with the woman whose shop had been broken into. It would be a purely symbolic conversation, but now that he and Kody
had identified themselves as hounds, they could not very well walk past a crime scene without saying anything.

  The woman was stooped over a dustpan as Lenoir approached, chasing glittering fragments into its maw. Glass crunched under Lenoir’s boots. “Mrs. Peters.”

  The woman straightened. “Yes?”

  “Inspector Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police. I understand you have had a break-in.” He glanced at what remained of the windows, but the name of the business must have been etched onto one of the broken panes, because he could not tell what kind of shop it was. “What was taken?”

  Mrs. Peters leaned on her broomstick. She was about fifty, Lenoir judged, round and knobby, with a face like a root vegetable. “Laudanum, mostly. Some rubbing alcohol.”

  “You are an apothecary?”

  “That’s right. They took all my camphor too.” She shook her head and emptied the dustpan into a waste bin. “People only started coming in asking for it yesterday, and already someone’s taken to stealing it. Criminals aren’t as dumb as you think.” She resumed sweeping.

  “Not all of them, anyway,” Lenoir allowed.

  “Anyone hurt?” Kody asked.

  “No, thank God.” Mrs. Peters glanced up from her sweeping. “Not everyone can say the same. I’m the third break-in on this street in as many days, Inspector. When are you hounds going to do something about it?”

  “As soon as we can.” A thin answer, but it was the only one he could give.

  “I don’t suppose you got a look at whoever did this?” Kody asked.

  “Nope. Heard the glass breaking in the middle of the night, but by the time I came downstairs, they were half a block away. Just as well. All I had to defend myself with was an iron skillet. Not like Torben there. Least he’s got a gun.”

  Not anymore. Lenoir did not have to look behind him to know that the other shopkeeper was still glaring after them. At least he had put his musket away.

  “I am sorry for your troubles,” Lenoir said. “We will do what we can.”