Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (6 page)

The boy, meanwhile, eyed Kody curiously. They had met twice before: once at the kennel, when Zach had given a statement following his abduction, and another time in a place much like this. Then, as now, Zach had stared openly at Kody, fascinated by something only he could see. It made Kody uncomfortable. “All right, kid?” he asked awkwardly.

Zach shrugged. “Still alive.”

The barmaid came over with a flagon of ale and two cups of wine. The beer went to Kody, and Lenoir handed one of the cups to Zach. The boy sighed as he took it, casting a longing glance at Kody’s flagon.

“Do you really think he should have that?” Kody asked the inspector in an undertone. “At his age?”

“It’s only wine, Sergeant.”

“But he’s a child.”

Lenoir gave him a blank look. “Do children not consume wine in Braeland?”

“Er, no. Not generally.”

Lenoir frowned into his cup. He took a sip, swirled it in his mouth, and shook his head, mystified. Kody decided to let it go.

Zach took a swallow too, and his face puckered. “Tastes like vinegar.”

“Agreed,” said Lenoir, “but it is still better than beer. One day, I will buy you a glass of proper Arrènais wine.”
Zach looked skeptical, but a free drink was a free drink—he took another big draft from his cup, wincing as he swallowed. “I have a task for you,” Lenoir said.

The boy brightened. “What’s that?”

“I need you to spend some time at the docks for the next few days. As much as you can manage.”

Kody tried not to look surprised. He knew Lenoir sometimes gave the boy odd jobs, but he’d assumed nothing important. Plus, the wharf was no place for a kid.

Zach, for his part, looked pleased at the prospect. “The docks, huh? Sounds good.”

“You like the docks?” Kody asked, a little incredulously.

“Sure. Most interesting place in town. All sorts to see and do down there. And the money’s not bad, either.”

Kody shook his head in disbelief. Drunken sailors might be easy marks for a thief, but they were dangerous ones too. Make a mistake, and you were liable to get your throat cut, child or not. “Keep that up and you won’t live long.”

“Live better while I do, though.”

“That’s some philosophy for a ten-year-old,” Kody said.

Zach shrugged. To Lenoir, he said, “What am I looking for?”

“I’m not sure. Keep an eye on the cargos. I want to know what is coming in and going out. And see if you can wheedle some tales out of the crews. Anything strange or interesting they may have come across, here or abroad. Do not trouble too much if the stories are true—at least not for now.”

“Really?” Zach’s eyes widened with his grin. “Wow, this is the best job ever!”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Lenoir’s face. “I thought you would like it.”

“Listening to tall tales from all over the world? What’s not to like?”

It was a rhetorical question, but the answer came to Kody anyway, in a vision of the beggar boy he’d found beaten to death all those years ago.
I hope this one’s as clever as you think, Inspector.

“I’m especially interested in reports of disease,” Lenoir said.

“Like the one in the Camp?”

Kody and Lenoir exchanged a look.
Word is spreading already.
Panic would not be far behind.

“Where did you hear about that?” Lenoir asked.

“Everybody’s talking about it.” Zach lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They say you bleed your guts out through your nose.”

“Who says that?”

“Everyone.”

“What else do they say?”

Zach did not miss the edge in Lenoir’s tone. “What’s the matter?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know,” the boy said, looking a little wounded. “The usual stuff. How the Adali are the only ones who know how to cure it. How they brought it here in the first place.”

Kody sighed and muttered an oath. “Can’t say I didn’t see that coming.” The Adali were already despised as heathens and sorcerers, and frequently blamed for everything from crime to bad harvests. The fact that the plague had started in the Camp, where a disproportionate number of Adali lived, all but guaranteed they’d take the blame. “It’s going to get ugly, Inspector,” Kody said, “and soon.”

“Most likely.”

“You think people will make trouble for them?” Zach asked. “The Adali, I mean?”

He is a clever one at that,
Kody thought.

“Hopefully it will not come to that,” Lenoir said, but Kody could tell he didn’t believe it.

So could Zach. “But it’s just a stupid rumor. They don’t
know.
”

“Sometimes a rumor is enough,” said Lenoir.

“But it’s not fair.” The boy scowled. “It’s like the nuns at the orphanage. They always think I’m in trouble, even when I’m not. They don’t
know
, but they think they know. They hear a rumor and
wham
—I’m scrubbing pots!”

Lenoir’s mouth twitched, as if he were wrestling a smile. “It is true that people are often treated as if they are guilty, simply because they cannot prove they are innocent.”

“You can prove it,” Zach said, with absolute conviction.

Aha
. Kody was beginning to understand what Lenoir saw in the boy.

“I’m surprised you care what happens to the Adali,” he said, “after what they did to you.”

Zach cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you were kidnapped by Adali.”

“The ones who took me are dead.”

“Well, sure,” Kody said, “but some people would hold that against the whole lot.”

Zach just looked at him as though he were babbling nonsense.

“Consider his life, Sergeant,” Lenoir said in an undertone. “He has been on the streets since the age of six. He has seen evil in every race, in every age and sex. He cannot hate them all.” Turning to the boy, he said, “Let the sergeant and me worry about the plague. You have business at the docks.” Zach presented an open hand, into which Lenoir dropped a few coins. “No beer,” he said, one eyebrow arched to show he was serious. “I will know.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to say that every time.”

“If you hear anything interesting, find me straightaway. Otherwise, we will meet in two days. But not here—we
will do it at the Courtier. My stomach cannot handle any more of
this
.” He frowned down at his wine cup.

“Fine by me, as long as I can have some steak.” The boy headed for the door, his small frame weaving easily through the crowd. It took Kody and Lenoir longer to negotiate their way; Zach was already outside when they caught up with him. “So you’re gonna find a way to stop the plague?” he asked as they parted.

“I am an inspector, Zach, not a physician.”

“But you find things. You could find a cure.”

“A cure is not something you track down as you would a murderer. It must be discovered through science, and I have no gift for science. We must rely on others to find a way to stop this plague, and I am afraid that will not happen quickly.”

“Oh.” Zach’s brow furrowed as something new occurred to him. “What if I get sick? What if you do?” The boy seemed equally worried by either prospect.
He really looks up to Lenoir,
Kody thought. So the inspector wasn’t entirely friendless after all.

“Go home, Zach,” Lenoir said. “You are safe, for now. We both are.”

Kody could tell he didn’t believe that, either.

“T
hree thousand and some,” Kody said, sliding the report across Lenoir’s desk. “That’s more than fifteen hundred deaths in the past three days.”

“I can count, Sergeant.” Lenoir reached for the report, then changed his mind and left it alone. What could it tell him that he did not already know?

“You talked to the boy last night, didn’t you? He find anything?” The barest hint of hope colored Kody’s voice.

“Nothing yet.”

Nothing.
It had become their watchword, their constant companion.
Nothing
was what came of the day spent at the College of Physicians. The stagecoach, the post, and the river ferry had turned up still more of it. “So much nothing,” Lenoir said, sounding every bit as resentful as he felt.

Kody nodded, and for a moment, the two of them just stared at the report, a malignant thing lying there between them, mocking their impotence. Lenoir’s thumb tapped out an erratic rhythm against the surface of the desk, and his knee bounced against his chair. He had rarely felt so helpless. The plague was like a boulder tumbling down a hillside, picking up speed as it fell. Meanwhile, Lenoir was
no closer to finding out who was responsible, and the odds of that happening dwindled with each passing day.

Inevitable,
the rational part of him argued.
This was always a fool’s errand.
They had no evidence. No hint of motive. The crime was unlikely to be repeated. In short, they had none of the elements required to solve a case. Not so long ago, Lenoir would simply have given up. Oh, he would have gone through the motions—a man must earn a living, after all—but his lack of progress would not have vexed him overmuch. As Kody had already pointed out, catching whoever was responsible would do nothing to slow the plague. From that point of view, little enough hung in the balance beyond some vague notion of justice, and it had been a long time since Lenoir had been taken in by her deceptions. Justice was a mirage, a shimmering ideal on the horizon that kept men plodding onward, hoping in vain to reach her. Lenoir had seen through that illusion long ago.

No, it was not justice that spurred him. It was something much more primal, much more urgent. It was
necessity
. For if he did not have the case, what did he have?

Nothing.

The Darkwalker had spared him. Given him back his life. A precious gift, yet Lenoir found he did not entirely know what to do with it. After so many years of being marked for death—of not caring, not allowing himself to be cared for—Lenoir scarcely knew how to
live
. He had no family. No real friends. No dreams or aspirations, at least not for himself. He had divested himself of those things long ago. Once, he had filled the void with liquor and indolence. These days, he filled it with the Case. It was not enough, but it was all he had.

And it was going nowhere.

For once, Kody’s voice was a welcome intrusion. “Did you hear they reassigned Izar?”

Lenoir looked up. “No.”

“Chief said it was too dangerous to keep him on the barricade. People had started throwing rocks at him.” Kody shook his head. “How do you like that? Throwing rocks at a hound!”

“He is not a hound in their eyes,” Lenoir said. “Right now, he is only an Adal.”

“Ingrates. Anyway, they moved him to the other side of the bridge. I guess they figured there were enough Adali in the Camp that no one would give him trouble.”

Lenoir winced. That meant Izar was the one enforcing the quarantine, keeping the Camp’s residents from entering Kennian proper. “The gatekeeper against his own people.”

“Rough,” Kody agreed. “Chief didn’t have much choice, though. At least it means we’ve got one of our best on it.”

Somehow, Lenoir doubted that would be much comfort to Sergeant Izar.

He reached for the report, scanning it listlessly. The scribe, whoever he was, had started to write down the names of the dead, only to give up when it became clear there were too many.
Death rate has quadrupled in the past week,
it read.
If current trend continues, Camp population will be halved by the end of the month.
Lenoir swore in Arrènais and pushed the report away, sorry he had given in to his curiosity.

He paused. He grabbed it back.

He felt his lips moving as he read, but he did not care. He leaned in close enough to smell the ink on the paper.
Milswaith, Brandton, Filimore.
With each successive name, he became more convinced. But how could he test his theory?

The idea came to him almost instantly, yet he hesitated.
This is not your task,
he thought.
But still . . . so many are dying. . . .
“Get your coat, Sergeant,” he said, rising.

“What is it?”

“Something the boy said. Now go.” Kody needed no further encouragement; he bounded out of the office like a foxhound let off his lead. By the time Lenoir joined him at the bottom of the stairs, Kody had his coat buttoned, his sword belt on, and his crossbow slung over his shoulder. If he had had a tail, it would have been wagging.

Lenoir shared the sergeant’s enthusiasm, even if he did not show it. After three days without a lead, even a long shot felt like a breakthrough. And though this would bring him no closer to the perpetrator, it was
something
. A purpose.

A purpose was all he needed.

He kept a brisk pace all the way to the market district, Kody following resolutely, and best of all, silently. It was so blissful that Lenoir was almost in a good mood when they arrived at their destination: an anonymous building in the market district, wedged between a butcher and a tailor. Then he remembered what lurked behind that shroud of curtains, and his momentary cheer vanished.

“What is this place?” Kody asked.

“It is . . .” Lenoir paused, unsure how to describe it. “There is someone I need to speak with,” he finished awkwardly, reaching for the door.

Dozens of candle flames shuddered against the breath of wind that followed them inside, their glow flickering against mysterious shapes. Horns dangled in spirals and spikes from the rafters, as though a herd of exotic antelope grazed upon the ceiling. Smooth orbs of glass glinted in the dark like the eyes of a nighttime predator. Shelves lined the walls, as high and crowded as any library, their shadowed recesses only hinting at their contents. Woven twigs and dried bushels of herbs swallowed the light; the sharp facets of crystals threw it back. Lenoir had to duck beneath a brace of pheasants suspended just inside the door, their blood dripping noisily into a tin pail below.

From behind the counter, a pair of golden eyes watched his progress curiously.

“What in the below?” Kody hesitated in the doorway. Lenoir had done the same the first time he visited this place.

“Greetings, Inspector,” said a deep, resonant voice. “I hope you will not think me rude if I say that I am surprised to see you again.”

Surprised to see me alive, you mean.
“I am still a little surprised myself,” Lenoir said.

Merden tilted his head thoughtfully. Candlelight burnished the prominent peak of his left cheekbone, melted away into the hollows of his angular face. “How did you survive?”

Lenoir shot a look at Kody, who still lingered warily near the door. He had never told the sergeant the whole story; he could hardly believe it himself. “That is a tale for another time,” he said, hoping Merden would take the hint.

“A shame. I should very much like to hear it.”

You have no idea.
Aloud, Lenoir said, “This is Sergeant Kody.”

Merden turned his golden-eyed gaze upon Kody, allowing the sergeant to experience that profoundly wise, profoundly unnerving stare. The Adal said nothing, but inclined his head in greeting. Kody ducked awkwardly in return.

“Merden is a soothsayer,” Lenoir said.

“Okay.” Kody stayed where he was.

Turning back to Merden, Lenoir said, “I need your help.”

“Plainly.”

Lenoir had forgotten how sharp—and how sharp-tongued—the Adal could be. “Are you aware of the disease that has been ravaging the Camp?”

“I do leave this shop occasionally, Inspector.” The dryness of his tone cut cleanly through the lilting accent.

I will take that as a
yes
.
“And its symptoms—you have heard them described?”

“I have.”

“Is the disease familiar to you?”

There was a long pause. Merden considered him carefully. “I would be very disappointed, Inspector, if this was a roundabout way of asking me whether the Adali are responsible for bringing this plague to Braelish shores.”

“Not at all.” Lenoir raised a hand in a mollifying gesture. “I am merely asking whether, in your experience as a practitioner of”—he hesitated, darting another look at Kody—“of traditional medicine, you have come across this disease before.”

“If you mean
khekra
,
you can say it,” Kody said from the doorway. “I’m not stupid.”

Merden glanced at him. “You would not be stupid to fear dark magic, Sergeant. On the contrary, you would be a fool not to.”

Silence descended on the room like a fine layer of dust.
Khekra
was rarely spoken of openly, not even among the Adali. Few southerners had even heard the word, and those who had invariably wished they had not. Fewer still were those, like Lenoir, who had witnessed its power. He cleared his throat. “You did not answer my question.”

“The disease is known to my people,” Merden said warily.

Lenoir could not help smiling. “As are its secrets. Is it not so?”

The soothsayer made no reply.

Lenoir shook his head. “I should have seen it sooner. All the signs were there.”

“What signs?” Kody directed a mistrustful stare at the tall man behind the counter. “Sorry, Inspector, but I don’t follow.”

“It was the report that finally made me see it, though it has been in front of us all along.”

“What has?”

“No Adali among the corpses brought into the clinic.
None in the treatment tent, or the convalescents’ tent. Not a single Adali name listed among the dead. And then there was the rumor Zach mentioned, about the Adali having the only cure. Is that true, Merden, or are your people simply immune?”

The soothsayer’s eyes narrowed.

“That is not an accusation,” Lenoir was quick to add.

“Isn’t it?” Merden’s rich voice sounded a dangerous note, and for the first time, Lenoir found himself wondering what this man might be capable of. He had seen enough of the occult to know he had reason to fear.

“No, it is not. As I told you, I need your help. If you have a cure, you must share it.”

Merden eyed him for a long moment, as though weighing Lenoir’s intentions. The Adali rarely discussed their traditions with outsiders, still less with the police.
I should have been more diplomatic,
Lenoir thought. Tact had never been his strong suit, but he should have made more of an effort. If Merden turned them away, there would be no second chance.

“
I
do not have a cure,” the soothsayer said at length. “If I had, I would have told someone by now. Or do you think me a barbarian?”

“Of course not,” Lenoir said, but it sounded defensive, even to him.

Merden went on as though he had not heard. “It is quite possible, however, that a cure is known among the northern clans, for this plague has struck them before.”

“When?”

“Not in our lifetime, but the Adali pass such knowledge from father to son, from mother to daughter, for every season comes again.”

“Death isn’t a season,” Kody said, annoyed.

Merden raised an eyebrow. “What an odd thing to say, Sergeant. Death is the most reliable season of them all.”

Lenoir clucked his tongue impatiently. “Someone in Kennian knows this cure. Otherwise, there would be
Adali victims, and many of them.” The Camp was nearly a quarter Adali, after all.

“Perhaps there are,” Merden said. “It may simply be that the Adali who fall ill do not present themselves at your Braelish clinics. My people have little faith in your medicine. We prefer to seek treatment among our own kind.”

“That is possible, but it bears investigating. Will you help?”

“How can I help? I have already told you that I do not know the cure, if indeed such a thing exists.”

“The Camp is under quarantine, a blockade enforced by the Metropolitan Police, and I am about to go canvassing the locals about Adali magic. I would think the matter is plain.”

The soothsayer grunted. “I suppose it is at that.”

“So you will come?”

Merden sighed, his eyes roaming regretfully over the shop. “The summer months are best for business,” he said, “for spirits grow restless when the sun is near.”

Lenoir had no idea what to say to that.

“I will come, Inspector, but give me a moment to prepare.”

“Certainly. We will wait for you outside.”

“You sure this is a good idea?” Kody asked as they stepped out onto the street. “With tempers the way they are, it might not be safe for him to walk around town right now.”

“No more than it is safe for us to walk around the Camp. Hopefully, we can avoid drawing attention to ourselves. In any case, Merden can take care of himself, just as we can.” He patted the sword at his hip for emphasis.

Kody eyed it dubiously. “You carrying a gun too?” The sergeant did not have much faith in Lenoir’s ability to wield a blade, a misgiving that was not entirely unwarranted.

Lenoir pulled his coat back, exposing the butt of a
flintlock. Kody looked reassured.
As though I am any better with the damn pistol,
Lenoir thought.

A moment later, Merden came out of the shop. At the sight of him, Kody groaned softly, and even Lenoir struggled to hide his dismay. The soothsayer had donned a traditional Adali cloak, a spectacular garment of dyed purple wool and bloodred embroidery. Horn beads fringed a wide, drooping cowl, and a rune of some kind was picked out in tiles of bleached bone down the back. It was the most elaborate specimen of its kind Lenoir had ever seen, and though undeniably handsome, it would not exactly blend in with everyday Kennian attire. In the unlikely event that the casual observer should fail to notice the cloak, Merden had helpfully chosen a seven-foot tall walking stick of ebony and bone. They wanted only a herd of cattle to complete the picture.