Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “Inspector.” Innes’s voice was oddly subdued through the filter. “How goes the hunt?”

  “Better.” At least, Lenoir hoped so. “And here?”

  Innes shrugged. “All right. Had a tussle or two between folk anxious to see the witchdoctor, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  “And you are checking everyone who goes in or out?”

  “Even the patients. Good thing we got masks and gloves.”

  Lenoir nodded. As arrogant and narrow-minded as Lideman could be, there was no denying he cared about people’s health. Lenoir was grateful he had provided the hounds with proper protection. “No sign of our man?”

  “Nope. I reckon he figured out we were onto him and made tracks.”

  Lenoir could not decide whether that was a good thing or bad. It meant Merden was safer, but it also meant they had less chance of catching their quarry.

  “Some pretty weird sounds coming out of that tent, Inspector.”

  Lenoir could well imagine it. “Adali medicine is . . . elaborate.”

  The glass eyes gazed down at him, dark and empty. “Reckon so,” Innes said.

  “We must take our salvation in whatever shape it comes, Sergeant.” Even if it is dark magic, or a miracle tonic sold on the street.

  “Reckon so.” Innes paused. He shifted his bulk. “Kody looked pretty bad,” he said. “He take a beating?”

  “He was kicked in the head.”

  “Rough.” Innes hesitated again. “I heard a rumor, Inspector.”

  Lenoir said nothing.

  “Kody . . . Is he all right?”

  Lenoir was not surprised that word of the sergeant’s condition had already circulated among the hounds. The only thing that spreads faster than plague is word of it. “He is not all right, Sergeant,” he said quietly, “but I very much hope he will be.”

  Innes nodded. “Me too.”

  A stretch of silence ensued. Lenoir and Innes gazed out over the somber movements of the Camp. “Do you mind if stand watch with you a while?” Lenoir asked at length. “I am waiting.”

  “Sure thing, Inspector. What’re you waiting for?”

  “A miracle.”

  * * *

  “It’s incredible,” Sister Rhea said, taking Lenoir by the hand and leading him into the treatment area. She practically glowed with delight. “See for yourself.”

  For the second time in a year, Lenoir gazed down at the inert form of Bran Kody. This time, at least, the sergeant was not in a coma. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling peacefully, but his face was still half a horror, and the splotches peeking out from the cuffs of his trousers had darkened to purple. If there was a miracle here, Lenoir could not see it. “This is better?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Oh, yes! The fever is gone, and the nosebleeds have stopped. And look at the hematoma on his ankle!”

  Lenoir looked. “It is worse than ever.”

  Rhea smiled. “It looks worse, perhaps, but it’s actually a good sign. When the bleeding is fresh, the bruise is red. This darker color means the blood has clotted.”

  Like a corpse, Lenoir thought before he could stop himself.

  “And see here, the other patient . . .” Rhea led him over. Like Kody, the young woman was asleep. And like Kody, she did not look like a miracle. Alive, certainly, but her skin was ashen, and plum-colored arcs sagged beneath her eyes.

  “The treatment works, then,” Lenoir said, wishing he felt more confident about it.

  Sister Rhea had enough confidence for both of them. “Better than the one we’ve been using,” she beamed. “Much better! Where can we get more?”

  “There is a man selling it on the streets.”

  The nun stared at him, astonished. “Just like that? Why, everyone must be buying it!”

  “He has many customers, but the product is too expensive for most. He is charging two crowns a bottle.”

  “Two crowns!” A small, despondent sound escaped her throat. “Why, that’s immoral!”

  Lenoir could not disagree.

  “The quantities we need . . . we’ll never afford it!”

  “You will not have to.” Lenoir turned and headed for the tent flap.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get you your medicine.” Lenoir quit the tent in long, determined strides.

  That tonic, and the man selling it, were about to become the property of the Kennian Metropolitan Police.

  CHAPTER 26

  Sergeant Ray Innes liked a good interrogation.

  It was the part where all your hard work, all the scratching around in the shit with the chickens, started to pay off, and you got to see the pig you’d been chasing get a spit up the arse. He never got tired of watching them squirm. And by God, this one was gonna squirm and squeal like a hog at the slaughterhouse, at least if Innes had anything to say about it.

  Kody was sick because of this bastard. Or at least, he was sicker because of him. Inspector Lenoir hadn’t explained the whole thing (he never did) but from what he’d told Innes, this skinny bloke—the one Innes currently had by the scruff of his neck—had been hoarding a cure for the plague. A bloody cure. All those people dying, vomiting up blood and such, and this vermin was sitting on the one thing that could save them, just so he could make some coin.

  It made Innes want to snap his skinny vermin neck.

  The chief wouldn’t like that, of course. Innes would get himself tossed on his ear, and maybe worse. It almost seemed worth it.

  “Now this room,” he growled, putting every lick of menace he felt into his voice, “is my favorite part of the station. We call it the Pit. Know why?” He steered the prisoner roughly over to the solitary chair in the center of the room and shoved him onto it. “’Cause it’s where we roast the pigs.” Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, Innes leaned in close enough to smell the terrified man’s breath. “That concludes our tour.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” The voice came from over his shoulder, and there wasn’t a hint of feeling in it. Innes couldn’t tell if Inspector Lenoir was annoyed, amused, or something else. The inspector was wearing his interrogation face, smooth and unreadable. Trying to guess his thoughts was as good as trying to see through stone. The inspector was good at that—being intimidating without saying a word. Half the time, Innes figured, he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You could look at him sometimes, and you knew he was thinking things about you. Those dark eyes, sharp and cunning, looking straight through you. You could practically see the wheels turning in his head. It was enough to make a man suck in his gut and stand up real straight.

  Lenoir leaned against the wall near the doorframe, arms folded, looking at the prisoner with an unblinking gaze. As usual, he let the silence do his work for him, letting the tension coil around them like a snake slowly tightening its grip.

  “I don’t understand why I’m here!” The prisoner appealed to Lenoir with his gaze. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  The inspector said nothing.

  “Seems to me you’ve done plenty wrong,” Innes said. He knew his part in this. Enjoyed it. He was the heavy, a role he’d played from the day he joined the force, owing to his size. It came natural. That’s why the inspector had chosen him, plucking him off guard duty and replacing him with a watchman. Because Innes was a first-rate heavy. He hadn’t done many interrogations with Inspector Lenoir—Kody was a first-rate heavy himself, so the inspector didn’t have much call to look elsewhere—but it wasn’t like they needed a lot of practice together. The rhythm was always the same: the sergeant (or sometimes, the watchman) was the heavy, and the inspector was the cold, calculating one, a man who wouldn’t be moved by tears or pleas or claims of innocence. Inspector Lenoir played that part better than any of them. It came natural.

  “Leastways, you’re a slimy bastard,” Innes rumbled. “All
those folks dying, hundreds every day, and all the while you’ve been sitting on the cure just so you could get rich.”

  “I haven’t been withholding it!” The whites of the man’s eyes showed, like a spooked horse, and his body tensed up around itself. “I’ve been offering it since the beginning! Selling it, sure, but that’s not illegal, is it?”

  Should be, Innes thought, but that didn’t make it so. He wasn’t sure what they could even charge the pig with. Course, that didn’t mean much. Innes had never been much good at memorizing the rules. That was the inspector’s job, and Innes reckoned he knew what he was doing.

  He kept on. “Selling it, sure. For two crowns apiece. What kind of filth takes advantage of desperate folks like that?” He leaned in again. “You know how many hounds got plague on the barricades? The inspector here—his deputy got it. My friend. Got any idea how that feels?” He straightened, started massaging his hands, real slow and deliberate. “Makes you damned mad, I can tell you. Start looking for someone to blame. And now here you are . . .”

  The man sucked in a few rapid lungsful of air, each one noisier than the last. He was on the verge of full-blown panic. All right, Inspector, that’s the meat, good and tenderized. Innes stepped back. It was Lenoir’s turn now.

  “Are you Thirman?” Lenoir posed the question blandly, like he didn’t much care about the answer.

  “Me? No. Irving’s my name, and I—”

  “Quiet. Short answers, please. Nod if you understand.”

  Irving nodded.

  “I wonder, Irving, why you did not see fit to inform anyone—the police, the College of Physicians, anyone—that you were in possession of a cure for the plague? Surely you can see why the sergeant here finds that upsetting.”

  “I . . .” Irving’s glance cut between Innes and Inspector Lenoir, trying to decide which of them was scarier. He licked his lips. “The truth is . . . well, I didn’t know. Not at first, anyway. I mean, you know, I hoped . . .” He trailed off with a weak little laugh.

  “You mean you did not care,” Lenoir said. “You informed no one of your miracle cure, but let the plague gather steam, until you had more customers than you could keep up with. By then, you were able to charge whatever you wished. No matter how exorbitant the price, there would always be someone willing to pay it.”

  “But I never lied about it.” Irving looked pleadingly at Innes, as if he was going to find any help there. “I never lied. I said I had a cure. I shouted it from the streets!”

  “At a minimum, as the sergeant has pointed out, you withheld your miracle cure, which should have been given to the authorities without delay. I have no doubt I can convince the magistrate that qualifies as criminal negligence.”

  The pig went white.

  “However,” the inspector continued, “I think it is a great deal worse than that.”

  Innes grunted. This sounded interesting.

  “I have a theory. Would you like to hear it?” Without waiting for an answer, the inspector went on. “Having obtained the recipe for a tonic that cures a particularly horrendous strain of plague, one as yet unknown to Braelish shores, you saw a business opportunity. If such a plague were to break out in Kennian, you would have cornered the market on a product people would be desperate to buy at any price. You would become rich overnight. I don’t know how you first came upon the cure, and it does not matter. I do know how you brought the plague over from Inataar.”

  Irving’s eyes widened. “What? Are you crazy? You think I—”

  “Four thousand people, at last count.” Lenoir shoved himself away from the wall, and now he let the anger shine through, a sight all the more frightening for its abruptness. “That is how many you have murdered. Sadly, a man can only be hanged once.”

  “Wait a second, Inspector—are you saying this pig started the plague on purpose?” As a rule, Innes didn’t lose his temper. If he wanted to knock someone’s teeth out, he did it, and he didn’t think much about it. Sometimes people needed to be taught a lesson. But he never lost his cool. He just did what needed to be done, because it needed doing.

  This, though . . . He’d never heard of anything like this. It made his blood boil.

  “All those people . . . Kody . . . so this piece of shit could get rich?” Innes took a step forward, and for a moment, even he wasn’t sure what he meant to do. The prisoner cried out. Lenoir shot him a look.

  With an effort, Innes straightened, his fingers twitching in and out of fists.

  “That’s what you think?” Irving’s voice rose in pitch. “That I started the plague?”

  The inspector tilted his head. All of a sudden, he didn’t look angry anymore. He looked cool as mint, the wheels turning behind those dark eyes of his.

  He doesn’t, Innes realized. He’d been playing the prisoner all along. That was the thing about Inspector Lenoir. He knew how to play people.

  “That’s not even . . . I didn’t . . .” The pig couldn’t even finish a sentence. Talk about tenderizing the meat.

  “You didn’t?” The inspector’s tone was guarded, like he could maybe, just maybe, be convinced. “Someone did. That much we are certain of. The plague was started deliberately, and at last I understand why. There was profit to be made, a great deal of it. From where I stand, it all points to you.”

  When a man sees his escape open up right in front of him, he takes it. “I’m not the only one making money!” Irving was quick to say. “Not at all! Truth is, I’m not even making that much!”

  “Really.” The inspector folded his arms.

  “I’m just a salesman! There are a few of us who were given the product, and we’ve got a system between us. I work Morningside, south of Kingsgate. Farther north, that’s a bloke called Freeman. And on Evenside, there’s—”

  “Given the product, you say. Who gave it to you? Thirman?”

  “That’s right! Thirman! It’s his product. I just sell it. He’s the one you want!”

  In the end, if you did your job right, the pigs served one another up on a platter.

  “Who is he?” Lenoir demanded.

  “An apothecary up in Meadowsmead. Not far from here, actually. I can give you the address.” Irving was really warming to his subject now. “He’s the one making the real money, I’m telling you. Charges a nice shiny copper for that potion, and more every day. He’s the real reason my prices have gone up so high . . .” He trailed off, seeing as how neither Lenoir nor Innes looked very sympathetic. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, like I said . . . he’s the one you want.”

  “I will take that under advisement.” Lenoir looked up at Innes. “Sergeant, I believe we are through here.”

  “Looks like there’s more to our tour after all,” Innes said, wrenching Irving up out of the chair. “Next stop, the Pen. Can you guess why we call it that?”

  He processed Irving as quick as he could. It never hurt to hang on to a prisoner for a while, even if he wasn’t your man. You never knew what might come up down the road. Chances were he’d be out in a couple of days, though. It didn’t look like he’d done anything illegal, and though there were ways of getting around details like that, Innes doubted the inspector could be bothered. He had bigger game to chase, like this Thirman bloke. “Should we bring him in, Inspector, or question him there?” Innes asked once he’d rejoined Lenoir.

  “Let us start there, and see what develops. I have a hunch the chain is longer than a link or two. We know that the plague was brought in by sea, but we have not yet found anyone with an obvious connection to the docks. Until we link the tonic to the docks, we have not yet completed the chain.”

  “You don’t think this apothecary bloke is your link?”

  “It is possible, but how would a Braelish apothecary come across the secret to curing a plague from Inataar? We shall see what this Thirman has to say, but on the face of it, I am inclined to believe that he, to
o, is just an intermediary. In which case, we have a long afternoon ahead of us, Sergeant.”

  * * *

  A cheerful little bell tinkled as they opened the door to the apothecary’s shop. Innes gave the place a quick once-over, but he saw nothing to worry about. It was even sort of nice, with a flowering plant in the windowsill and a pair of plush chairs set in front of the counter. Meadowsmead was one of the posher suburbs of Kennian, sitting between the old city and the rolling green estate of Castle Warrick. Innes didn’t expect any trouble here.

  A thin man appeared from a back room, smiling warmly. He had a kindly old face creased with laugh lines, and his clothing was crisp and well tailored. He didn’t look like a monster. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  Better hope so, Innes thought darkly. He was too experienced to be fooled by the apothecary’s grandfatherly appearance. If Irving was telling the truth, this pig was responsible for thousands of deaths—or at least had stood by and gotten rich while it happened.

  “Mr. Thirman, isn’t it?” the inspector asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Of Thirman’s Miracle Tonic?”

  “The same.” The man’s smile turned proud.

  “I will have every drop of it in your possession, sir, and I will have the recipe too.”

  The apothecary blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You may beg it, but you are unlikely to receive it.”

  That was a good one, Innes thought. He’d have to remember it.

  Thirman took a step back, wary now. “Who are you?”

  “Perhaps you did not hear me. I want every bottle on the counter now, and if you are very lucky, you will not live out the end of your days in Fort Hald.”

  “I hope that’s because you mean to see him hanged, Inspector.” Innes leaned against the counter. It creaked under his weight.