Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (16 page)

Lenoir eyed the approaching pitcher of ale irritably. Gerd’s speech had already begun to slur, and Stew’s grin had turned sloppy. Soon, they would be too drunk to be of any use. Lenoir could try to cut them off, but they would take it badly. Whatever else they knew, Lenoir would have to get it from them fast. “Is there anything you can tell me about the cure the Inataari found?”

“Not a thing,” Bevin said. “We were on this side of the ocean when we heard the plague was done, and by the time we went back”—he shrugged and glanced at his mates—“I suppose we didn’t care.”

“What about your other shipmates?” Kody asked. “Any of them the curious sort?”

Gerd snorted into his flagon. “Doubt it.”

“All the same,” Lenoir said, “I want the names of every man who served on that ship four years ago.”

The sailors laughed at that. “Couldn’t do that sober, Inspector,” Bevin said. “
Serendipity
’s a big girl. I’ll give you those as I remember, but the rest . . .” He gestured at the small man. “What about you, then? Stewards keep track of who’s who.”

“The whole crew?” Stew shook his head. “No way. Ritter, maybe.”

Bevin grunted. “Maybe, if you can find him.”

“Ritter was purser back then,” Marius explained. “I think he’s with
Duchess of the Deep
these days.”

“And the captain?” Lenoir asked. “Would he know?”

“
Serendipity
’s got a new master since then,” Marius said. “As for Captain Hollingsworth, last I heard, he was dead.”

“Reckon he still is,” Bevin said, and his shipmates laughed.

Lenoir fought to keep his frustration from showing. He could not tell if he was on the verge of discovering something important, or merely chasing chickens round the yard. Moreover, he was out of questions; he had played every card in his hand, save one—the wild card. “Sergeant, you may let Harund out of the cuffs now. I am certain he will behave.” The red-haired man said nothing, preferring to glare sullenly as Kody removed the iron cuffs. Lenoir met his eye just long enough to convey mild amusement at this childish display. Then he drew a roll of parchment out of his coat pocket and flattened it on the table. A charcoal sketch of the “reporter” calling himself Burell stared out at them. “Have any of you seen this man before?”

Lenoir watched closely as the sailors leaned over the sketch. Stew scrunched up his face, exposing his front teeth like a rodent sniffing at garbage. Harry gave a dismissive little snort and looked away in apparent boredom. Marius frowned, and Gerd’s mouth drooped open a little. Bevin scratched his beard and shook his head. Even Zach came over to look, and as he drew near, he trod gently but unmistakably on Lenoir’s foot. Lenoir turned to look at the boy, but Zach ignored him, his gaze riveted to the sketch.

“Don’t know him,” said Bevin. Gerd, Harry, and Marius grunted dismissals of their own. “I might’ve seen him,” Stew said, “but I’ll be buggered if I know where.”

“Very well.” Lenoir dragged a chair over from the adjacent table and plopped himself down. “In that case, we will drink a toast to your old shipmates on
Serendipity
—as many as you can remember. Zach, run to the dockmaster and fetch a ledger, quill, and some ink. It is time to practice your letters.”

“I
t’s not going to be easy, Inspector,” Kody said, scanning the page by the failing light of evening. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. It had been warm in the alehouse, though not unpleasantly so. Lenoir had not been sweating, but then, Kody was a bigger man, and his shirt looked to be thicker.

“We’ll be able to find the ones who are still with
Serendipity
,” the sergeant went on, “but the rest . . . Looks like sailors aren’t much for keeping in touch. Fewer than half of these names have ships beside them.”

“And lots of those ships aren’t in port,” Zach added. “Who knows when they’ll be back?”

“Maybe if we had a dozen watchmen to help,” Kody said, “but with the whole force tied up on quarantine duty . . .” He shook his head, looking uncharacteristically worried.

“If you are through enumerating the challenges,” Lenoir said, “perhaps we could focus on what we have in hand.” Turning to the boy, he cocked his head in the direction of the tavern from which they had just emerged. “Which one of them was lying about the sketch?”

Zach grinned, visibly pleased with himself. “Harry.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’d bet a crown on it.”

Kody gave the boy a skeptical look. “How can you tell?”

“He snorted when he looked at it. He does that whenever he’s pretending he’s got good cards. Like if you play a sword that knocks out his shields, he’ll snort, as if he doesn’t care, so everyone will think he has another good play to make. But it’s a lie. If he really has good cards, he gets this nasty little smile on his face that he thinks no one can see.”

“You got all that from one round of cards?” Kody asked, a hint of admiration creeping into his skepticism.

“He’s really bad,” Zach said solemnly.

“Nevertheless,” said Lenoir, “you did well. Not everyone would have noticed.”

“Bevin would have noticed,” Zach said, “and the others too, unless they were too drunk.”

Lenoir grunted. “True. They have been playing cards with Harry for years. If he was lying, they would most likely know it.”

“If they knew, they didn’t let on,” Kody said.

“That is hardly surprising. Shipmates protect each other.”

“Should we bring him in?”

“To what end? I doubt he would talk, not without resorting to some of the more persuasive interrogation methods, and we do not have enough evidence for that.” Despite his earlier bluster, Lenoir was painfully aware of the limitations of Braelish law. “If this were Arrènes, perhaps, but I’m afraid your parliament is regrettably squeamish on such matters. I doubt the word of a ten-year-old cutpurse will suffice.” Zach scowled, but did not otherwise defend his honor.

“We could follow him,” Kody said. He sounded unhappy about the idea.

Lenoir considered. Even if Zach was right, and Harry was indeed lying about the sketch, there was no
guarantee that following him would yield anything. Lenoir had already guessed that their killer might be a sailor. The fact that another sailor recognized his face proved nothing except that the two had crossed paths at some point. Harry’s lie was similarly inconclusive. He struck Lenoir as the sort who would be uncooperative purely for the sake of it, taking petty delight in thwarting the hounds. He might not even know the killer’s name. “We would do better to show the sketch around the docks,” he said, thinking aloud, “starting with the names on our list. We will begin first thing in the morning.”

“What about me?” Zach asked. “I could follow him.”

The thought had already occurred to Lenoir, but there were risks. “Harry does not appear to be very fond of you, Zach. I’m not sure it is a good idea.”

“I’ll keep out of sight. It won’t be hard—he’s drunk half the time anyway. I’ll watch the door from over there.” He pointed to a rowboat bobbing noisily amidst the cluster of smaller vessels near the boardwalk. “I can hide in there, and when he comes out, I’ll tail him. That way, if he meets up with the bloke in your drawing, I can follow
him
and find out where he stays. I come get you, you arrest him, and
wham!
Fort Hald!” Zach mimed the slamming of a prison door, then dusted his hands off for good measure.

“I doubt it will be quite that simple.” Still, they could not afford to let Harry go completely, not if there was a chance he might lead them to the killer. Lenoir could try enlisting another hound, but the rank and file were not trained for undercover work; a watchman would blend in like a pigeon among ravens. Most of the sergeants were fools, and anyway, the chief would never agree to assign a second one, not with so many injured in the riot. As it was, the hounds could barely maintain the quarantine; any spare capacity would be devoted to maintaining law and order. Catching a killer came a distant second, for now at least. As for his fellow inspectors . . . Lenoir
almost laughed out loud.
The Drunk, the Lout, and the Imbecile,
he called them. One day, he would write a play.

No, there were only two choices. Either Lenoir and Kody would have to split up, or they would have to take a chance on Zach. As for the boy, he would be taking chances of his own. Lenoir gazed down at him, irresolute. The eyes that met his were sharp, alert, almost disturbingly adult. But the rest of him—the flyaway hair, the scuffed knees, the restless, self-conscious way he kicked at the pitted planks of the pier . . . Clever he might be, but he was still, unmistakably, a child. “It could be dangerous, Zach. If he spots you . . .”

“He’s just waiting for an excuse to wring my neck.” Zach shrugged. “I know.”

Lenoir sighed. It was unwise, unethical, and would almost certainly earn him a strong reprimand from the chief. It would also put the boy at considerable risk. Zach was the only person in Lenoir’s life who might legitimately be considered a friend, for all that he was a child. Yet to assign him such a task would mean putting the case ahead of Zach’s welfare.
Business as usual, then,
he thought with a twinge of bitterness
.
“Promise me you will be careful, Zach. I have enough on my conscience already.”

The boy grinned. “Don’t worry. I got you covered.”

“That is not what I’m afraid of,” Lenoir said, but Zach was already halfway down the pier, bounding away like the eager child he was. The setting sun traced a bloodred line around his silhouette as he stooped to grab the painter of the battered rowboat he had chosen as a hiding place.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Inspector,” Kody said, swiping at his brow. He looked even more worried now.

Lenoir watched as the boy stepped into the shadowed belly of the boat and was gone.

*   *   *

“Kody.” Crears held out his hand. Kody hesitated half a heartbeat, then shook it. He hoped Crears hadn’t noticed the delay.

“Bit warm for gloves, isn’t it?” the constable asked.

“They’re to protect from plague.” It was the truth, even if it deliberately gave the wrong impression. “You should be wearing some. The men too.”

“I’ll look into it,” Crears said. “Where’s the inspector?”

“Home, probably. He doesn’t know I’m here.” No point in lying about that, either.

Crears considered him in the wan glow of the lamplight. “What’s up?”

“I’m here to see Merden. I thought of something later this afternoon, after we’d already left, and I wanted to run it by him. Might be nothing, but”—he shrugged—“worth checking out, anyway.”

“It’s pretty late.”

“Yeah, well, the inspector didn’t think there was much in it. You know how he is.” Kody put on his best Arrènais accent.
“You may chase your tail if you wish, Sergeant, so long as you do it on your own time.”
He shrugged again. “So here I am. On my own time.”

He’d had the whole ride over to think about how he was going to explain his presence to Crears, and he figured his story was solid enough. It wouldn’t be the first time Kody did some digging on his own after Lenoir had dismissed his ideas.

Crears had his back to the lanterns. A scarf shrouded half his face, and his eyes were lost in shadow. Kody couldn’t tell if he was buying it. He glanced away, pretending to be interested in the nighttime arrangements at the barricade.

“Got you those guards you asked for,” Crears said at length. “One out front, one out back. Merden should be safe enough.”

“Thanks.” The relief in his voice was unmistakable.
Hopefully Crears would put it down to the news about the guard. “See you on the way out,” he said.

“Watch your step, Kody. Mood’s mighty ugly around here.”

Kody nodded. He paused a moment longer, so as not to seem like he was in too much of a hurry. He scanned the barricade one last time, threw a casual wave at the watchmen on duty, and struck off toward the main road.

A full moon glared down from above, bathing his path in cold silver. Kody glanced up at it, but had to look away. The glow was too much for him. It made his eyeballs ache, the way frigid water makes a tooth ache. Even so, he was grateful for its light. He’d forgotten to bring a lantern. Stupid of him, but he’d been . . . distracted.

It could be something else,
he told himself for the hundredth time. People got headaches, didn’t they? Got fever. Didn’t mean they had the plague. It didn’t mean
he
had the plague.

Three to four days before you started showing symptoms, Lideman had said. Five, if you were especially hale. Kody was especially hale. That meant it couldn’t
be the plague . . . didn’t it? It had only been two days since they watched Oded treat the boy. Even if Kody had been infected then, he wouldn’t be showing symptoms already.

Unless you caught it that first day.
That very first day when he and Lenoir had met Lideman among the pestilence houses. Before they’d had scarves and gloves.

But that would be such bad luck. Such incredibly bad luck.
That couldn’t happen to him. It
couldn’t
 . . .

His heart thudded in his chest. In his throat. At his temples. He could feel it everywhere, as if it were searching for a means of escape. Kody jammed his hands in his pockets and quickened his step.

A low murmur guided him the final fifty paces or so to the tent that had once been Oded’s. The crowd had only grown since the afternoon. They seemed more subdued than they had been earlier, though. News of Oded’s
death must have reached them by now, and it seemed to have inspired a somber mood. For the most part, people were seated, or lying down, and no one offered any resistance as Kody wove his way between them. They recognized him from before, most likely, knew he wasn’t here to jump the queue.

Well, not exactly.

He nearly walked right into the hound guarding the door. Crears had told him to expect someone, but he’d been so lost in his head, he’d forgotten already.

The tent blocked out much of the moonlight, but even so, Kody recognized the man looming over him. There weren’t many men who did that—
loomed
—and of those who did, only one had shoulders as broad as an oak tree.

“Hi Kody,” said Innes. Thankfully, he made no move to shake.

Kody was glad they’d picked Innes. He was big enough to intimidate even the hardest criminal, and he wasn’t easily spooked. That last bit was important, considering what he would be standing guard over, the kinds of things that would be going on in that tent. “I’m here to see Merden,” Kody told him, hoping it was enough.

Innes just nodded. He wasn’t the sort to question things too much, thankfully. He stood aside to let Kody enter.

A soft glow suffused the tent. Merden was bent over Oded’s medicine table, studying it, making notes. A sliver of moonlight peeked through the slash at the back of the tent, where the killer had escaped. Merden must not have had time to repair it yet.

“Sergeant,” the Adal said, straightening. He looked over Kody’s shoulder, expecting to find Lenoir.

“I’m here on my own,” Kody said. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

Merden waited.

“I . . .” Kody cleared his throat. His hands clenched
into fists at his sides. “I think maybe . . .” He couldn’t even say the words. His head felt as though it could float away at any moment, though whether that was fever or just plain panic, he wasn’t sure.

“I see,” Merden said, and Kody could tell from his tone that he did. “Sit down, please.” He gestured at what Kody supposed was meant to be a chair, a tripod of sticks with a saddle of animal hide. It creaked when he lowered himself onto it, but it was surprisingly sturdy. Merden sat across from him. “Describe your symptoms.”

“Headache. Light hurts my eyes. Fever, but not too bad. I’m feeling a little light-headed just at the moment. And before, I”—he hesitated—“I think maybe I sneezed up blood.”

“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.”