Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  Kody sighed. “Here we are.”

  Lenoir shared the sergeant’s lack of enthusiasm. The last time he had been here, it was in the company of a supernatural creature who wanted him dead. Somehow, he had survived that night, and even found an ally in the vengeful spirit who had once hunted him. But that did not mean he was eager for a reminder of the experience. It made the scar on his right forearm squirm a little, as though maggots wriggled just under the skin.

  “Let us be as quick as we can about it,” Lenoir said, and he spurred his horse.

  He could see the pestilence houses from the bridge, their pale peaks looming over the hovels like a range of snowcapped mountains. They could not have been there long, judging from the crisp white color of the canvas, but there were already at least two rows of them. There will be more, Lenoir thought, before this thing is done.

  As they neared the foot of the bridge, he felt increasingly uneasy. The cold clatter of their hooves intruded upon an eerie hush, as though they were barging uninvited into a funeral. Mercifully, the sound died away as the horses passed from stone onto earth, their hooves beating out a dull, irregular rhythm, like the stutter of a terrified heart. The street was nearly deserted. A few people stirred here and there—carrying water, or firewood, or sacks of flour—but they went about their business in hurried silence. No children played in the street. No idle youths loitered about. Even the stray dogs sat subdued as the horses plodded past.

  Kody threw Lenoir a grim look, but he did not speak. Disturbing the silence seemed disrespectful somehow.

  The pestilence houses had been erected a short distance from the river, for ease of access to the water. The ranks of white tents looked like the camp of some invading army. Both sights were familiar to Lenoir, and they often coincided, as they had during the revolution in his home country. Lenoir’s beloved city of Serles had suffered greatly under the twin scourges of violence and disease; his adolescence had been a study of death in every possible shade.

  More delightful memories. The Camp seemed to be full of them.

  They found Lideman in the largest of the tents, where the procedures were performed. A row of cots lined the space on either side, each one occupied by a patient. Lenoir spotted the physician immediately: he strolled between the rows, hands folded behind his back, as though he were taking a leisurely walk in the public gardens. Behind him trailed a younger man, furiously scribbling notes in a ledger. They had not yet noticed the visitors, and Lenoir could not prevent his gaze from roaming over the patient beds in morbid curiosity.

  He immediately wished he had not.

  Men, women, and children of every shape and size occupied the cots, about fifty in all. Their pale flesh gleamed with sweat, and their hair clung to their scalps in matted clumps. Some seemed to suffer only from fever, but others presented ghastlier symptoms, looking almost as if they had been beaten half to death. Their arms and chests were covered with massive purple welts, and their limbs appeared swollen. Dark blood trickled out of nostrils, from the corners of mouths. Bloody tears streaked faces white as death. The smell of rotting flesh hung in the air, like a butcher’s on a hot day. Lenoir threw his arm up over his nose and mouth to prevent himself from retching. Kody did the same, backing away instinctively until he bumped against a table and was forced to grab it to steady himself. Instruments rattled, and Kody cursed quietly.

  Lideman and his young assistant turned at the sound. Both men wore scarves tied around their faces. “Gentlemen, you should not be here!” the physician called. “It is not safe!”

  “We are with the Metropolitan Police,” said Lenoir through his sleeve. “We have been sent by the lord mayor.”

  Lideman grunted. “Good. But it is still not safe. Wait outside, and I will be with you directly.” Turning to his assistant, he said, “Ten more minutes of draining, and not a moment more. These people have little enough blood to spare.”

  Draining? Lenoir looked again at the nearest cot, and he realized that some of what he had taken for bruises were actually leeches. Of course. Braelish physicians and their leeches.

  Kody’s nose wrinkled behind his sleeve, and he glanced at Lenoir. See? the look seemed to say. Charlatans.

  They quit the tent without any further encouragement, waiting for Lideman to join them. In spite of what they had just seen, neither man spoke; the strange hush had descended over them again. They watched mutely as a steady procession of nuns moved between the tents, carrying bloody rags, pails of dark liquid, and assorted other items Lenoir did not care to scrutinize. A pair of young men, presumably medical students, appeared at the mouth of one of the tents, bearing a litter with a sheet draped over it. A child, judging by the length of the body.

  “Where do you bury them?” Lenoir asked, breaking the silence as Lideman joined them.

  The physician tugged the scarf down, revealing a kind face lined with care. “A trench near the edge of the woods. We don’t have time for individual graves anymore.” He held out a hand. When Lenoir hesitated, he smiled. “You are wise to be cautious, but you needn’t worry. I touch nothing with my bare hands.”

  Even as he spoke, Lenoir noticed the leather gloves stuffed into the physician’s coat pocket. The coat itself appeared to have been treated with some kind of wax, and the hem was unusually long, reaching almost to the ground. The physician was taking no chances. “Inspector Nicolas Lenoir,” he said as he shook, “and this is Sergeant Kody.”

  “Horst Lideman, from the College of Physicians. But I suppose you already knew that.” He gestured at a small green tent set apart from the others. “This way, please, Inspector. It’s not much safer out here than it is in the treatment tent.”

  They followed Lideman into the green tent, which appeared to be a makeshift office. A desk laden with books and ledgers crowded the space, leaving only enough room for a few extra chairs. A soft globe of light from a pair of lanterns was all that illuminated the space. A gloomy place for gloomy work, Lenoir thought, taking one of the proffered chairs.

  “I’m glad His Honor sent you,” Lideman said as he sat behind the desk. “I wasn’t sure he would. He didn’t seem to put much stock in our theory.” There was no bitterness in the words; it was simply a statement of fact.

  “Our theory?” Lenoir arched an eyebrow.

  “The college is of one mind on this. The disease was definitely planted.”

  “And what leads you to this conclusion?”

  “It is quite straightforward, once you know the characteristics of the disease.”

  Lenoir was not eager to know the details, but he was obliged to ask. “How so?”

  “There are three factors,” Lideman said, holding up as many fingers. He assumed a professorial tone. “First, we have never seen this disease in Braeland before, though we have heard rumors of it appearing much farther north, beyond Adaliland. I have written to my colleagues all over Humenor, but I am virtually certain they will confirm that the disease is unknown to their shores as well.”

  “Kennian is a port city,” Lenoir pointed out. “Exotic diseases are often brought in by ship. That is how the pox reached Arrènes thirty years ago.”

  “That brings me to the second factor, Inspector. This disease is exceptionally virulent. It kills more than three quarters of those it infects, and it does so with remarkable speed. For the first day or two, the symptoms appear remarkably like influenza. But after that, the patients deteriorate rapidly. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Bleeding from various orifices. After the lesions appear, it is more or less a lost cause. Death typically follows in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Those people in the tent . . .” Kody said.

  Lideman shook his head. “We’re doing what we can, but I’m not hopeful. Some of them will survive, but those with the bruising . . . I haven’t seen a single patient come back from that.”

  “How long does it take for the patient to fall ill?” Lenoir as
ked.

  “It’s difficult to be sure, but what we’ve seen so far suggests that symptoms begin appearing three to four days after infection. Perhaps five, if the patient is especially hale.”

  “Approximately a week between infection and death,” Lenoir summarized.

  “In most cases, less.”

  “Which means that whoever carried it into Kennian cannot have come from a very great distance, even by ship. He would not have survived the journey.”

  “He might, if he was very lucky, but not without infecting others, two thirds of whom would have perished.”

  “But he must have come from a long way,” Kody said, “and fast, or we would have heard about this disease before now.”

  “Precisely.” The physician bestowed an approving nod, as though on a particularly bright pupil. “The only thing that spreads faster than an epidemic is word of it. Kennian is a port city, as you have pointed out, full of the comings and goings of foreigners. If a disease this devastating was headed our way, we would have heard about it.”

  “Could a person be infected without showing signs?” Lenoir asked.

  “Unlikely, and even if it were possible, I do not believe such a person would be contagious. The college has been here for over a week, and what we have seen in that time suggests that patients are not contagious until after they have presented with symptoms.”

  “And for how long do they remain contagious?”

  Lideman smiled. “Excellent question, Inspector, and that is the third factor. Patients are contagious for as long as they display symptoms, and they grow steadily more contagious as the disease progresses. So a patient in the early stages with flu-like symptoms is not terribly infectious, whereas someone with the lesions is dangerously so. As soon as they recover, however, they cease to be a danger. The battle is won, whether by the grace of God or modern medicine, and they have driven the enemy off the field. When they perish, however, they remain quite infectious, for the disease invades completely. It continues to feed on their dead flesh.”

  Lenoir was beginning to understand. “It came to us through a corpse.”

  “Or corpses,” Lideman said, with an arch of his eyebrow.

  “In that case, Doctor, I am inclined to agree with your assessment. It seems very likely that this epidemic was started deliberately.”

  “Sorry, Inspector, but . . .” Kody had the awkward, self-conscious look of a man who suspects he is about to ask a stupid question. “Are we sure about that? Maybe someone died on a sea voyage, and whoever unloaded the body didn’t realize it was infectious.”

  “You have obviously never been on a ship, Sergeant,” Lenoir said with a thin smile. “Sailors are not known for their sentimentality. If a shipmate dies, he is tossed overboard, not transported lovingly into port. Especially if the crew fears that whatever killed him is contagious.”

  “Besides,” Lideman said, “the disease seems to have cropped up in several places more or less simultaneously, suggesting multiple sources of infection.”

  A rustle at the tent flap distracted them. The young assistant Lenoir had seen earlier poked his head through. “Excuse me, Doctor, but I’ve brought the nun you wanted to see.”

  “Ah.” Lideman rose, smiling. “Excellent timing. Show her in.” A small, birdlike woman in white robes slipped into the tent, nodding gravely at each of them. “Sister Rhea,” Lideman said, indicating the last remaining chair, “thank you for coming back so soon. These men are from the Metropolitan Police.” Lenoir introduced himself and Kody. “I wonder if you could repeat for them what you told me yesterday, regarding the bodies you found.”

  “I’m happy to tell what little I know,” the nun said. She was probably in her early thirties, but just now, she looked much older. Dark circles sagged under her eyes, and when she went to rub them, her hand revealed a slight tremor. She has not slept in days, Lenoir judged. “I didn’t find the bodies, exactly. They were reported to the clinic by local residents. I sent my volunteers out to collect them and bury them, after I had blessed them.”

  “Volunteers?” Lenoir echoed, curious in spite of himself.

  “Those who are willing to volunteer at the clinic receive a hot meal for every day they work,” the nun explained. “It gives them a sense of dignity to earn their keep.”

  “Collecting corpses is a tough way to earn a meal,” Kody said.

  The nun sighed. “And dangerous, apparently. It wasn’t a common activity until about a month ago. Usually, when someone dies in the Camp, his friends and relations bury him, or at least bring him to the clinic for us to take care of. When a body turns up in the street, it’s usually because the victim had no connections to speak of.”

  “Plenty of people like that in the slums, I reckon,” Kody said.

  “You would be surprised, Sergeant.” The nun’s tone was gently admonishing. “Life is hard here, it’s true, but these people look out for each other. Even if a man has no family or friends, his neighbors generally wouldn’t leave him lying in the street.”

  “These bodies your volunteers collected,” Lenoir said, “did anyone recognize them?”

  “Not that I know of, and no one came looking for them, the way relations do when their loved ones have gone missing.”

  “Did you notice anything else unusual about the bodies?”

  “You mean besides their condition?” The nun paused, considering. “Well, I suppose it’s a little strange that none of them was Adali.”

  Lideman gave a thoughtful grunt. “The Camp must be twenty percent Adali, at least. Considering how many bodies you picked up, one would expect to find at least one Adal among the dead. Yet more evidence that these corpses came from elsewhere.”

  “How many were there?” Kody asked, stealing the question from his superior’s lips. Lenoir shot him an irritated look, and was rewarded with a slight flush. The sergeant’s discipline had taken an unfortunate turn since the incident with the necromancers. Quite on his own, Kody had come close to cracking the case, and the success seemed to have gone to his head. Lenoir hoped he would not have to remind the sergeant of his place.

  “There were eleven in all,” the nun said, “if I only count that first wave, the ones who were never identified.”

  Lenoir drummed his fingers on his arm, thinking. “This first wave, as you call it—you found them over what period of time?”

  “Four days. Perhaps five.”

  “No two in the same place,” Lideman said. “All over the Camp, in fact.”

  “Like sowing seeds in a field,” Lenoir murmured.

  “Precisely,” said Lideman. “So you see, Inspector, it is quite obvious. Even if we presume the highly unlikely scenario of infected corpses somehow arriving in Kennian by accident, the odds of all of them turning up in the Camp, yet no two in the same place, are so minuscule as to defy belief. This epidemic was started deliberately, and whoever is behind it, he was thorough.”

  Kody’s mouth tightened into a thin, angry line. Even he could not doubt it now.

  “Exactly how infectious is this disease?”

  Later, it would seem to Lenoir that his question had somehow tempted fate.

  Before the physician could answer, a crack of sunlight appeared, signaling the return of the young assistant. He hesitated at the tent flap, looking afraid. “Doctor, you had better come. There are some men outside. They brought a warrant.”

  “A warrant?” Lideman rose, looking bewildered. “A warrant for what?”

  “You’d better come.”

  Lenoir had to shield his eyes against the glare as he trailed Lideman out of the tent, Kody and the nun following. Two men stood arguing with one of the nuns. Lenoir studied them closely. Pressed slacks, laced shoes, buttoned coats. The raiment of the urban professional, but of modest make—too modest for bankers or lawyers. Officials of some kind, then. They could have been hounds, but Lenoir
would have recognized them. From the City, he concluded, but before he had time to reflect on that, he realized they were not alone: Sergeants Innes and Izar stood at a discreet remove, their expressions grim.

  The chief expects trouble. It was obvious from his choice of sergeants. Izar was a towering Adal with a permanently serious expression, and Innes looked like he had been hewn from the side of a mountain. Each of them was intimidating in his own right. Most people would think twice about crossing one of them, let alone both. In pairing them, Lendon Reck was sending a signal to anyone with eyes.

  “Sergeants!” Lenoir called, startling them. They had not seen him emerge from the tent.

  Izar and Innes came over, while Lideman hurried to join the nun arguing with the officials. “What are you two doing here?” Kody asked as his colleagues drew near.

  “Chief sent us,” Innes rumbled. “Said we might find you here.”

  Lenoir swallowed his irritation at this nonanswer. Innes was a capable enough sergeant, but that was mostly owing to his immense strength and ability to follow orders. His mental faculties were decidedly less remarkable. Lenoir addressed Izar instead. “These men—they are city officials?”

  The Adal nodded. “They are here with a writ,” he said in a low voice, “from the lord mayor. The chief already got word, and he sent us to keep an eye on things, to see that they don’t get out of hand. There are watchmen on the way too, and lots of them.”

  Lenoir had a sinking feeling. “The lord mayor is afraid the disease will spread.” Izar nodded again, gazing down at Lenoir with solemn golden eyes.

  “Chief’s snarling mad,” Innes added. “Says he should have been told this was in the works when you all went to see His Honor yesterday. Says he doesn’t have the manpower to do it.”