Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (33 page)

“W
ill he be all right?” Lenoir asked.

“Should be.” Keane was making notes, but he glanced up long enough to give Lenoir a reassuring look. “He passed out, but he was awake by the time I found him. Didn’t look too good if you ask me, but he got into the wagon on his own legs, so I guess that’s a good sign.”

“It’s fortunate he did not bleed out.” Lenoir had seen an Inataari throwing knife once, in a museum in Serles. They were a nasty bit of business, barbed in more places than was strictly necessary.

“Funny thing, that.” Keane looked up again, his brow creased in puzzlement. “He didn’t even lose that much blood. By the time I found him, you would’ve sworn that wound was hours old.”

Lenoir blew out a breath, something between a gasp and a laugh.

Clotted up faster than anything I’ve ever seen.
Kody’s words as he praised the miracle potion, a medicine that thickened the blood. The sergeant’s life may well have been saved by that tonic. Had he not contracted plague, Kody could easily have died from a knife wound in the street.

Now that, Sergeant, is irony.

Or was it justice after all, winking at them across the void of the universe? Lenoir shook his head in wonder.

He scanned the row of bodies before him. They lay side by side, ready to be loaded up into the wagon. Two of the dead were scribes. A third was missing most of his face—the Inataari, judging by the mustaches matted with gore. As for the fourth . . .

“We got him.” Lenoir could scarcely believe it.

“Sure did.” Keane put a boot to the corpse, as if for emphasis. The head rolled against the uneven cobbles, sightless eyes tracking across the sky.

Ritter.
In the flesh at last. Dead flesh, thankfully. Lenoir had been right about all of it: the plan, the disguise, the neighborhood. The only thing he had not foreseen was the Inataari, though of course he should have. Ritter could have managed on his own for a while, but he would have needed help to drag a cartload of bodies all the way up to Blackpoint. “What exactly happened?”

“Scribe came across your man and his cart. Had a full crop of corpses with him. Reckon that’s how the scribe knew.”

“Where are the bodies now?”

Keane pointed. They had put the cart at the far end of the street, as far away as they could manage without losing sight of it. Even at this distance, Lenoir could see that it was full. Limbs dangled over the edges—an arm here, a leg there, bruised and swollen.

“Guess that means we managed to stop him in time,” Keane said. “Unless he’d dumped a load already, that is.”

“That would not have been possible. He would have had to wheel the corpses up from one of the infected neighborhoods. That would have been hard work, and taken hours, especially if he was trying not to attract too much attention.”

Keane grunted, his pencil still bobbing. “Anyway, scribe sees them, blows his whistle, and takes one in the
guts for his troubles.” Keane indicated one of the bodies at his feet.

Lenoir knelt. If he had ever seen the young man before, he did not remember it. As for Ritter, he looked much as Lenoir had imagined him: small, pale, and rat-faced. He was perhaps a little more sinewy, a little more weathered, than Lenoir would have guessed, but the man was a sailor after all. He had been shot twice, once in the gut and once in the throat. Keane had unloaded both barrels on him. Lenoir would have done the same, and possibly run him through for good measure.

Still, gazing upon the corpse of his foe, a man responsible for so much death and destruction, Lenoir felt strangely hollow. There was no triumph, no sense of reckoning or redemption. He was relieved, certainly—but it was an exhausted sort of relief, as if a great wave had come and gone, leaving him scoured and empty.

Belatedly, he realized Keane was still talking. “We reckon the Inataari was keeping a lookout, ready to add some muscle if things went sour. Once he’d spent his barrel, they tried to make tracks, but Joyce here”—he indicated the body of the second scribe—“caught up with them around the corner. That’s when he got it. Bastards nearly cut his head clean off.”

Lenoir recognized the signature flourish of the Inataari’s blade. He grimaced.

“They split up after that,” Keane went on. “Kody caught up with this one first, and they tussled. Might’ve gone badly if Patton—that’s him over there—hadn’t showed up and given Kody a hand. Meanwhile, I got me this one.” He shoved Ritter’s corpse again. The head lolled to one side, leaving him face-to-face with his miasma mask. Vacant gaze met vacant gaze, each reflected in the glassy surface of the other. “You ask me,” Keane said, “he got off light, considering what he did. If I had my way, we’d have fed him to the dogs in the Camp.”

Lenoir could not disagree.
Sometimes, the best justice has to offer is vengeance.
In the end, justice had not even offered that. Nor was Ritter’s bloody work complete. They had stopped him before he had managed to implement the last stage of his plan, but that would be no consolation to the sick and the dying, to those who would fall ill tomorrow, or the day after that. Hundreds of deaths had yet to be laid at Ritter’s feet. Still, it might have been thousands had they not discovered the cure.

Speaking of which . . .

“Very well, Sergeant. Get these bodies loaded up and ready to go. As for Ritter’s cart, leave a guard on it, and when you get back to the station, have the corpse collectors we rounded up tonight come up here and deal with them. Make sure everyone wears proper protection. Those corpses are highly contagious.”

“Sure thing, Inspector. What about you? Where you headed?”

“To the docks,” Lenoir said. “We have medicine to make.”

*   *   *

The first rays of dawn filtered weakly through the salt-crusted window of Warehouse 49. Lenoir leaned against a wall, arms crossed, waiting. He had managed to roust the dockmaster hours ago, but it would be another hour or so before his crew started to arrive on the scene. Sailors were early risers, but the predawn hours belonged to the fishermen.
I like to keep the piers clear until the fleets put out in the morning,
the dockmaster had said.
Keeps the misunderstandings to a minimum.
Judging by the men Lenoir had passed on his way in—bleary-eyed, irritable, reeking of spirits—it was a wise precaution.

It had not taken the dockmaster long to locate the right warehouse, once he had Ritter’s name to work with. Now it was simply a question of getting the angel wort out to the Camp, where it could be put to good use.
To do that, however, Lenoir needed hands, and plenty of them. That meant dallying about in this damp, stinking cave of a warehouse, idle and useless, while more pressing matters gnawed at his nerves.

Fortunately, he did not have to bear it for long. The warehouse doors creaked, and the first of the dockhands drifted in. He paused when he saw Lenoir, seemingly surprised to find him alone. “Good morning,” the dockhand said, a little tentatively. Lenoir wondered what the man had been told about his first task of the day.

“You are earlier than I expected,” Lenoir said. “That’s good.”

“Oh.” The dockhand glanced around. “How many are we expecting?”

Lenoir shrugged. “You tell me. As many as it takes to load these crates up quickly.”

“Where’s the dockmaster?”

“I sent him off to round up some wagons.”

“Oh.” There was an awkward silence. The dockhand glanced behind him, at the door. “I suppose you’re in a hurry.”

“You might say that.”

“Well, if you give me a hand, we could save time by getting ’em ready at the loading door. I mean, I know it’s not your job and all, but if you’re in a hurry . . .”

Lenoir considered. It was not the kind of task he would ordinarily consider, but he
was
in a hurry. Every minute they delayed was a chance for the plague to claim another victim. “I suppose they are not that heavy, considering the cargo.”

“That’s right. Most of the weight is in the crate itself.” So he did know why he was here. That was good.

“Very well,” Lenoir said, motioning for the dockhand to lead the way. They headed up the gangplank to the loading level. “Do you have a key for the loading door?”

He shook his head. “One of the other lads has got it.
He’ll be along soon. But if we line the crates up nice, it’ll make things go faster. Here, I’ll take this end. That way, you don’t have to walk backward.”

Together, they hoisted a crate and started moving.

“You’re a hound, then?”

Lenoir grunted, half in exertion, half in annoyance. He was not in the mood for idle chatter.

Taking the sound for assent, the dockhand went on. “Shouldn’t you have a partner or something?”

“He is unwell.” Following the dockhand’s lead, Lenoir started to lower the crate, but it slipped from his grasp. He hissed in pain as a sliver the size of a toothpick sliced into his skin. “Stupid,” he grumbled, picking at it. He should have asked to borrow a pair of the thick canvas gloves the dockhands wore.

“I got it,” said the other man, bracing his hands against the crate to shove it into position. Lenoir noticed that this particular dockhand was not, in fact, wearing gloves. Perhaps his hands were so callused that he did not need to. But no . . . looking closer, Lenoir saw that the man’s hands were white and soft-looking.
Odd, considering his line of work.

“Ready for the next one?”

Lenoir turned and started back.

A blow landed against the back of his skull, sending him staggering. He tried to regain his balance, but the floorboards swayed beneath him. He fell to one knee. Then came another blow, harder than the first. Lenoir’s face hit the floor. He tried to move, but his head was full of cotton, and the cotton was soaked in blood. He could not see properly. He was so tired. . . .

“Now what?” a voice above him muttered. Something
clicked
.

I know that sound,
thought Lenoir, but he could not place it through the fog in his brain.

“Well, shit,” said the voice. “I suppose if I shoot you, every rat on the docks will come running.” The click
sounded again, followed by a long stretch of silence. Then a pair of hands grabbed Lenoir under the armpits and started pulling.

Soft hands,
Lenoir thought.
Too soft to be a dockhand . . .

His attacker dragged him, puffing and cursing, across the floor, until he found a dark corner behind some crates. There he deposited Lenoir, positioning one of the crates to hide him from view. At first, Lenoir thought his attacker meant to flee, but instead he heard footfalls tracking back and forth across the space, as though searching for something.

“Aha!” the voice said. “That’ll do.” A bright, cheerful whistle went up from the lower level, accompanying the footfalls back up the gangplank.

On your feet, Inspector.
Lenoir struggled to a sitting position, but his skull was throbbing, and the floor still seemed unsteady. He reached up and touched the back of his head; his fingers came away smeared with blood. The wound was in nearly the same spot as he had taken the rock a few days before.
You must get up. If you don’t get up, you will die.
His thoughts were still foggy, but he knew that much.

He tried to brace himself between the crates and the wall, but his boots slid weakly out from under him. And then his attacker was back, standing over him with a pry bar. He looked mildly put out to find his victim conscious, as if he did not fancy the idea of caving a man’s skull in while he was looking on. Lenoir did not think for a moment that would stop him, however.

“You don’t have to do this.” The words came out slightly slurred.

“I’m afraid I do. I’ve got a nice big wagon out there, and a couple of pairs of hands to help me load it. Can’t have you getting in the way. I’m sure you understand.”

“It’s over. Ritter is dead.”

The counterfeit dockhand blinked. Then he burst out
laughing. “Poor fellow. You really don’t have a clue, do you? I’d love to explain it to you, but I’m afraid I haven’t got that kind of time.” He raised the pry bar.

An arm snaked suddenly round the man’s neck from behind. He gasped. The pry bar clanged to the ground.

“Hello, Ritter,” said a voice. “Got something for you, from me and the lads.”

The man’s eyes went wide. He started to speak, but it turned into a grunt as something drove into his back. Another impact, and another, the man’s body shuddering with each blow. His mouth hung open, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then the arm drew away, and Lenoir’s attacker slumped to the ground. Behind him stood a large, bearded man holding a knife wet with blood.

“You’re one lucky hound. I reckon you had about half a second left to live.”

Lenoir recognized the man, but for a moment he could not place him. Then a familiar voice called, “Bevin?”

The man looked over his shoulder. “Best you stay down there, little pup. No need for you to see this.”

“Is Inspector Lenoir up there with you?”

Bevin grinned. “That he is.”

A pause. “Is he all right?”

Bevin extended a hand. Tentatively, Lenoir took it. “He’s fine, lad,” said Bevin. “Leastways, he will be.”

“Thank you,” Lenoir said once he had regained his feet. He leaned heavily on one of the crates. It was all he could do not to vomit.

“Believe me, hound, it was my pleasure.” Bevin wiped the blade of his knife against the edge of one of the crates. “Ritter had that coming, and then some.”

“Ritter . . .” Lenoir gazed down at the dead man. “Are you certain?”

“I’d know him in my sleep. In my nightmares, more like. Coin-snatching little weasel was the bane of my
existence for nigh on three years. Mine and every other honest sailor on
Serendipity
.”

Lenoir shook his head. “Then whom did we take down in Blackpoint?”

The question was directed at the air, but it was Bevin who answered. “Don’t know about all that, but one thing I can say about Ritter: he never did for himself what he could con another man into doing for him.”

That fits,
Lenoir thought. The crew of
Fly By Night
. The apothecaries and the tonic salesmen. Even Nash and the Inataari. All of them had been foot soldiers in Ritter’s army, manipulated in one way or another to serve his ends. He had used direction and misdirection at every turn, herding all those around him.
Herding even you, Lenoir.
It was impressive, in its way.