Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “You think the killer is still in there? With a rotting corpse?”

  “Most likely not, but we are closing in on some dangerous men, and I have a feeling we will be crossing paths very soon. It is better to be cautious.”

  Kody couldn’t disagree with that. He swung his crossbow down from his back. “Ready?”

  Lenoir cocked the hammer of his pistol and gave a short nod.

  Kody burst into the room, crossbow leveled. He covered all the corners himself, not trusting Lenoir to do it properly. Only when he was satisfied that the tiny flat was empty did he allow himself to throw his sleeve over his face. “Durian’s grave. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  “That would hardly improve the smell,” Lenoir said from behind his own arm.

  It wasn’t hard to find the body. The flat was barely big enough to accommodate a bed, a table, and a washbasin. Lenoir had scarcely crossed the threshold before he said, “Over here.”

  The corpse lay facedown near the table. From where Kody stood, he could just make out the awkward angles of the man’s frame, as though he had tumbled out of a chair. Sunlight straining through a grimy window fell upon a stain on the floorboards. The dark spot was already moving with flies, and Kody said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t have to deal with maggots on top of everything. He wasn’t particularly squeamish, but there were limits, and little squirming sacs of goo were on the wrong side of them, especially when he already felt like something a cat retched up.

  Lenoir wedged his boot under the corpse and rolled it over. Kody’s stomach heaved at the smell, but he forced himself to get closer. “Throat cut,” he said through his sleeve. “From behind, looks like.”

  Lenoir knelt. “A curved blade, I think.”

  Kody looked closer. There did seem to be a bit of a flourish at one end of the cut. “Could be.”

  “He knew his killer.”

  Lenoir’s eyes were on the corpse, but there was no way he could draw that conclusion just from looking at the body, so Kody threw a glance around the room to find what Lenoir had already spotted.

  Bed unmade. Pair of boots near the door. No sign of forced entry, but the door wasn’t locked, either. How . . . ? Then he noticed the jug on the table. “Two cups.” He picked one up and sniffed it. “Mead.”

  “No signs of a struggle on the body. Our Mr. Bird was taken by surprise.”

  “Someone’s cleaning house,” Kody said. It was practically inevitable with conspiracies, especially when there was money involved.

  “So it would seem,” Lenoir said, standing. “Days ago, by the looks of it.”

  “And the smell of it.” Kody considered the corpse. Tattoos covered his arms, and his head was close-shaven. “Tough-looking bloke. I’m guessing he wasn’t much of an intellectual.”

  “Impossible to be sure, but I am inclined to agree. And our man in the sketch did not strike the witness as particularly educated either. Neither of them is likely to be the brains behind this operation.”

  “Maybe our man in the sketch is the one who took out Bird.”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  The inspector’s lips pursed in annoyance. On any other day, Kody knew, Lenoir would have ignored him, or ridiculed him for asking. But almost dying of plague had its advantages. Lenoir pointed at the body and said, “The curved blade. We have already determined that our man in the sketch is Kennian. It’s possible that he has taken a liking to exotic swords, but it is much more likely that our murderer is the Inataari, since their kind are known to favor curved blades.”

  Kody did a quick tour of the flat, but found nothing of interest. A single canvas bag seemed to contain everything Bird owned in the world, which consisted of some well-used clothing, a well-used bones set, and a very well-used knife. “Guess Bird didn’t earn that much,” Kody said.

  “Either that, or he did not manage his earnings well.” Lenoir held up the money purse he’d found on the body and gave it a shake.

  “Not much jingle there,” Kody agreed.

  “It would appear that Mr. Bird had not yet received his cut of the profits. My guess is that whoever did this was never planning to share.”

  “Might be more bodies in store for us today.”

  “Almost certainly. As for Mr. Bird here, he has told us all he can.” Lenoir rose.

  “So what next—the purser?”

  “Indeed.”

  They made their way south, skirting the edges of the still-smoldering ruin that had once been the busier half of the poor district. The place was all but unrecognizable. Here and there, a familiar landmark—a church spire or a fountain—offered some sense of geography, but it was hard to believe this was the same neighborhood Kody and Lenoir had walked through so many times before. People had started to trickle back in, but most of them didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves, wandering around with dazed looks, or picking aimlessly through the rubble in search of something left behind. They started out with nothing, Kody thought, and now this. Less than nothing. Was there even a word for that? Destitute seemed like an understatement. It was a potent reminder that whatever he had suffered, it couldn’t compare to what many people in this city were going through.

  According to Hughley’s secretary, the purser of Fly By Night rented a flat in a three-story tenement on Hammond Street. The building was still standing, but Kody and Lenoir did not find a soul inside, and when they knocked on Marten’s door, no one answered. Kody tried the knob, but it was locked. His shoulder seemed to give a subtle pang, like a plea for mercy, but there was no getting around it this time. Kody readied his crossbow, braced himself, and lunged.

  The doorframe blasted into kindling on the second try, and Kody tumbled into a two-room flat with a generous window, curtains rolling in the ash-scented breeze. He paused to collect himself, just long enough to be annoyed that it was necessary, and gave the main room a quick once-over. Satisfied it was empty, he moved on to the bedroom. “Inspector,” he called. “You’d better come here.”

  Kody kept his crossbow trained on the body just in case, but the man was lying facedown on the bed, and judging from the amount of blood on the bedclothes, he was almost certainly dead. Kody reached for his neck. “No pulse, but still warm. The blood too.”

  Lenoir cursed from the doorway. “We only just missed him.”

  “But how can that be? The door was locked. . . .”

  Curtains rolling in the breeze.

  Kody shoved past Lenoir and back into the main room. Sure enough, the window was open; he ran over and stuck his head out. A ladder leaned against the wall, reaching easily to the second-floor window from the lane below.

  “Damn!”

  If only they’d started with the purser, they might have caught the killer in the act. Still swearing, Kody went back to the bedroom. “He came in through the window.”

  “So I had surmised.”

  “A ladder.” And why not? With no one around to report it, subtlety was superfluous.

  “It would appear that Marten was expecting trouble,” Lenoir said, gesturing at the clothes spread all over the bed. From the looks of things, the purser had been loading up a trunk when he’d been taken.

  “Looking to skip town,” Kody said. “Maybe he heard what happened to Bird.”

  “Or that the hounds were getting closer. Either way, he was aware of his situation.”

  He even had a knife strapped to his waist, for all the good it had done him. “Whoever got him must have been real quiet.”

  Lenoir rolled the body over. Kody looked first at the man’s neck; sure enough, the throat was cut, that same little flourish on one side of the gash. Then he looked at the dead man’s face. “Well I’ll be buggered.”

  Lenoir looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched.

  Kody pointed. “That’s the bloke I was chasing on
the pier yesterday.”

  He had the rare satisfaction of seeing Nicolas Lenoir look stunned. “Are you certain?”

  “Well, he did kick me in the head, but yeah—I’m certain.”

  Lenoir looked back at the body. He was silent for a long moment. Then he swore softly in Arrènais. “Of course.”

  This time, Kody didn’t bother to ask.

  “A diversion,” Lenoir said, and he actually sounded impressed. “That’s all it was. There was no crime in progress, no sailor’s squabble. That gunshot was designed to distract us from what we were doing.”

  Kody thought back to yesterday afternoon, though it seemed a lifetime ago. “We were going through the list of names from Serendipity.”

  Lenoir didn’t answer. He sat on the bed, eyes closed, silent. Then he said, “Duchess of the Deep.”

  Kody nodded. “I remember now. There must have been something on the Duchess they didn’t want us to find.”

  “Something, or someone. We were just about to show them the sketch.”

  Kody lit up at the memory. “That’s right! Whoever we’d gone to see wasn’t there, so I grabbed the sketch, and that’s when the gun went off.”

  Lenoir swore again. “The list. I left it in my coat, back at the station. Do you remember which name went with which ship?”

  “Sorry, Inspector. Too many names, and too much has happened since then.”

  “For me as well. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. Something tells me our man in the sketch is connected to Duchess of the Deep. Since we have nothing else to go on, we might as well find out.”

  Kody trailed Lenoir out into the hallway. “Back to the docks, then?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “What about the killer? Shouldn’t we be focusing on him?”

  “How do you propose we find him, Sergeant? Shall we walk around the poor district asking random passersby if they’ve seen an Inataari?”

  “Why not? Someone must have seen him.”

  “And so?”

  That caught Kody off guard. “Well, at least—”

  “No, Sergeant, not at least. At most. At most someone might have seen him on the street. Where does that get you? Or do you imagine we can deduce his location simply because a witness placed him heading westbound on Hammond ten minutes ago? Unless you’re feeling especially clairvoyant today, that is not a going to be a fruitful line of enquiry.”

  Kody scowled. “So I guess almost dying of plague doesn’t buy much indulgence after all.”

  Lenoir’s boots scraped to a halt. He turned. “Is that what you want, Sergeant? Indulgence?”

  Just like that, Kody felt foolish and exposed, like a rebellious child facing a stern father.

  “Perhaps you would prefer if I did not bother to point out when your impulses are illogical or counterproductive? That I did not expect you to think for yourself? Is that why you asked to serve under me? So you could carry on without learning a thing?”

  Heat flashed over Kody’s skin. He could almost have wished it were fever. “Of course not. I don’t mind being told I’m wrong. I mind being talked to as if I’m thick as a stump.”

  Lenoir made a face, as if he’d swallowed something faintly sour. “I will admit that my tongue is occasionally more barbed than it needs to be. A bad habit acquired long ago, one I find difficult to break.”

  Kody stared. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Nicolas Lenoir admitting fault? To him?

  Maybe I’m in a coma again, he thought, and this is all a dream.

  Lenoir sighed. “Let us make a pact, Sergeant. I will reflect a little more before I speak, if you promise to do the same. You have a perfectly serviceable mind, but you are lazy with it. You ask questions instead of seeking the answers for yourself. You follow your instincts blindly, without pausing to question them. You will never sharpen your critical faculties that way, and as for me, I will never have a moment’s peace. For our mutual sanity, let us both agree to take an extra heartbeat to think.”

  Bran Kody had been called a lot of things in his life, but lazy wasn’t one of them. Then again, nobody had ever critiqued his intellect before. The flush returned, whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Maybe a little of both. He opened his mouth to reply, but a shout from up the street cut him off.

  “Let go!”

  It was a woman’s voice, shrill with fear.

  “Leave me alone! Help!”

  Kody spotted the woman just before she disappeared around a corner, dragged by an unseen assailant. “Hey!” He took three long strides, stopped. “You there!”

  No answer.

  Kody bolted, reaching for his crossbow as he ran. He could hear Lenoir shouting after him. Probably something about getting his heart rate up, but what was he supposed to do, just stand there and let a woman be attacked?

  No, some things you didn’t have to think about. Some things you just did. Kody wasn’t going to apologize for following his instincts.

  He was going to prove them right.

  * * *

  Lenoir watched Kody round the corner at the far end of the street, debating whether to follow. He could not keep up with the sergeant, not even now, and would not be much help in a physical altercation in any case. More to the point, he had a mass murderer to catch, and he was running out of time. In seizing the cargo of the Fly By Night, Lenoir had exposed his hand, giving the killer a chance to flee. He could not afford to be distracted by a purse snatching, or a lovers’ quarrel, or whatever it was. The rational choice was clear: focus on the task at hand, and let the sergeant handle whatever little scuffle was occurring round the bend.

  And yet.

  Your job is to catch the killer. But is it not also to protect the weak? His hand drifted toward the butt of his gun, as if in answer. Cursing himself for a fool, he lurched forward.

  The sudden movement saved his life.

  Something brushed the back of his shoulder. Lenoir spun and found himself face-to-face with the man in the sketch. The sailor had been reaching for him with one hand, a knife clutched in the other, ready to ram the blade into Lenoir’s back. A straight blade, some part of him registered. The man lunged.

  Lenoir leapt back and drew his gun, but his attacker was ready, dropping the knife and pulling a pistol of his own in one fluid motion. Both hammers clicked back at the same moment. Lenoir and his attacker stood eye to eye, barrel to barrel.

  The sun vanished behind the rooftops, plunging the street into shadow. Another day dies, Lenoir thought. A bloody day.

  And it seemed the blood was not yet done.

  CHAPTER 31

  Lenoir had heard of standoffs like this, but he had never experienced one for himself. There was no way he would get the drop on this man. The sailor outweighed him by at least twenty pounds, and there was a wild glint in his eye, like that of an animal cornered. It was impossible to know which of them had better aim, which of them had taken more lives, but the odds did not tilt in Lenoir’s favor.

  So what now?

  Bereft of any better ideas, Lenoir started talking.

  “You are a hard man to find.”

  “So are you. Lately, anyway.” The hand holding the gun had a slight tremor. Fear or excitement? Lenoir could not tell.

  “I did not realize you were looking for me. Worried I was getting too close?”

  The man hitched a shoulder. The gesture was meant to look indifferent. It did not quite get there. “I wouldn’t call it worried, but it’s become inconvenient. You’ve become inconvenient.”

  “The woman at the end of the street,” Lenoir said. “Your doing?”

  “Your partner is a big bloke. Didn’t fancy taking you both at a time.” He flashed a thin smile. “Clever, right?”

  “In a common sort of way, perhaps. But being clever is not really your role in all of this, is
it? You are the muscle. The plague, the miracle tonic . . . those were not your ideas.”

  “What do you know about it? Think I’m not smart enough?” The man flicked the barrel of his gun irritably. “You know nothing about me, hound.”

  Are you trying to get yourself killed, Lenoir? There was little to be gained in antagonizing the man. Yet Lenoir could not resist the opportunity to get some answers at last. “I know you serve on Fly By Night. I know you murdered your captain and most of your crew.”

  “Not my fault Marsh was stupid. Didn’t have to be that way. He could’ve come in on it. There’s plenty to go around.”

  “Oh? From what I have seen, those who were promised a cut of the wealth were lied to.” Lenoir held his breath, hoping. It was possible the man did not know his comrades had been murdered. If the sailor thought he was next, perhaps he might—

  “They got a cut all right,” the man said with a smirk, “just not the kind they was counting on.”

  Damn. So much for that idea. “What makes you think you have not been cheated like the rest?”

  “Ritter and me go back. Way back. He owes me.”

  Ritter. The name flared in Lenoir’s memory, but for a moment he could not place it. Then he remembered. Duchess of the Deep. The former purser of Serendipity. The last piece of the puzzle snapped into place. The picture was complete at last.

  A pity about the gun in his face.

  “So,” he said, “what now?”

  “Would’ve thought that was obvious, mate.” The man’s arm leveled out. The tremor was gone.

  “If I die, you die.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe I’m the better shot.”

  “Possible, but irrelevant. Even a blind man could not miss at this range.”

  The sailor swallowed, but his arm did not waver. “And if I lower my gun, what then? You’ll shoot me.”

  “I will not. You have my word.”

  He snorted. “So, what—you’ll just let me go?”