Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel

by E. L. Tettensor

  “To do what?” Kody asked, looking between Izar and Innes in confusion.

  Lenoir swore quietly in Arrènais. The sinking feeling had become a great hollow pit. “How much of it is he sealing off?”

  “All of it, Inspector,” Izar said. “As of now, the Camp is under quarantine.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Hearstings is a fool,” Lenoir growled, watching as the city officials conferred with Lideman over the arrangements. The physician looked grave, but determined. Most likely he approved of the decision.

  He was not the only one. “Maybe it’s for the best,” Kody said, “if this thing is really as bad as they say.”

  Lenoir clucked his tongue impatiently. “Closing off the Camp may be prudent, but he could have waited a few hours at least, until we finished a first round of interviews. Instead he has torched our investigation.”

  Kody gave him a skeptical look, as if he thought his superior was being dramatic.

  Nettled, Lenoir said, “What do you suppose the residents of the Camp will make of the quarantine, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t suppose they’ll like it.”

  “And whom do you think they will blame?” To aid Kody’s thinking, he gestured at the watchmen swarming the foot of the bridge into town.

  Kody’s brow smoothed as the situation dawned on him.

  “That’s right, Sergeant. They will blame the hounds preventing them from fleeing this death trap. They will blame us.”

  Kody sighed. “They won’t tell us a bloody thing.”

  “Except, perhaps, to join the ranks of the damned. So we had better hurry and get what we can, because in a few hours, we will be about as welcome as this plague.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I have no idea.” Lenoir scratched his jaw. Two days’ worth of stubble answered irritably, but gave him no inspiration. Then he spotted the nun lingering near the green tent. “Sister Rhea,” he called, heading over.

  The nun seemed not to hear. Her eyes followed the officials as they pointed at the riverbank, gesturing along its length.

  “Sister,” Lenoir said again.

  Rhea did not turn. “They’re condemning these people to death,” she said, as if to herself. “We might have got it under control, but now . . . if people can’t leave, they will get sick. And they will die.”

  Better the slums than the whole city. The thought hovered, unspoken, in the air.

  “The volunteers who collected the bodies,” Lenoir said. “I presume they fell sick also?”

  Rhea turned at last. Her eyes were dull and gray, like clouds burdened with unshed rain. “There was just the one, actually. An exceptionally hard worker. Drem.” She shook her head. “He started showing symptoms a few days after the first body turned up. That would be about four weeks ago now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kody said. He knew better than to wait for Lenoir to say it.

  “Did he mention anything before he died that might be helpful?” Lenoir asked, sticking to the practical. “Something he saw, perhaps, or something he heard?”

  To his surprise, the nun smiled, albeit wanly. “Oh, he didn’t die. Drem is exceptional in that way too. He’s one of the few survivors. He’s still very ill, but he will recover.”

  Every man appreciates random strokes of luck, but to an inspector, they are diamonds in the dirt. Lenoir permitted himself a rare smile. “In that case, Sister, I should very much like to speak with him.”

  “If he’s strong enough,” Kody added, but that was pure theater. He knew perfectly well that Lenoir would conduct the interview regardless.

  “That should be possible,” Sister Rhea said. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  The red hand of healing was visible from a long way off, waving gently in the breeze. Lenoir could not suppress a shudder at the sight. Aside from the general queasiness he experienced in any encounter with Braelish “medicine,” he found the crimson hand to be a singularly macabre image. Was it meant to represent the stained hand of the barber? The lifeblood of the dying man? The frantic wave of someone signaling for help? The universal symbol of healing should be a source of comfort and solace. Instead, it was a vivid reminder of blood, of death and violence—or so it seemed to Lenoir.

  The inside of the clinic was scarcely more reassuring. Flickering candlelight picked out the angles of a cramped space littered with the trappings of human suffering. Scalpels, scissors, and stained bandages lay scattered across one table; brown medicine bottles crowded another. Bedpans leaned in a precarious stack next to a washbasin. A familiar, funereal silence stifled the place.

  “Most of the patients have gone,” Sister Rhea said, speaking softly. “Those afflicted with the plague were sent to the pestilence houses, and those with the cough have mostly fled. They would rather die of consumption than catch the plague, and I can’t say I blame them.”

  “So there’s no plague in here?” Kody asked, visibly relieved.

  “No longer. We have converted the clinic into a convalescent house.” Rhea sighed. “Which is why it’s nearly empty.”

  “But you did treat plague patients initially?” Lenoir asked.

  “I tried to. About two dozen patients came through here before the pestilence houses went up. I lost all but Drem.”

  “That is to be expected, from what Lideman told us. In fact, it is fortunate that you yourself did not fall ill. How do you account for it?”

  Her answer was predictable. “By God’s grace. He obviously has plans for me yet. This way, please, Officers.” She brushed aside the thin sheet separating the vestibule from the patient beds.

  The clinic had a similar layout to the treatment tent presided over by Lideman, albeit on a much smaller scale. Two rows of cots lined either side of the tent, the passage between them barely wide enough to permit a man to pass. Most of the cots appeared to be empty, though it was difficult to be sure in the dim light. A single figure moved at the back of the tent; a nun, judging by the silhouette.

  “Sister Ann,” Rhea called quietly, “would you excuse us a moment?”

  “Of course.” They stood aside to let her pass, and she vanished without another word.

  Rhea led them to a bed near the back of the tent, where they found a thin figure huddled under a blanket. Pale, translucent skin stretched tightly over cheekbones, hung loosely beneath sunken eyes. Ashen lips moved wordlessly, as though in prayer. This man is near death, Lenoir thought. And he was one of the lucky ones.

  “Drem.” The nun rested a hand against his shoulder. At first, the only reaction was the scuttling of eyeballs beneath bluish lids. After a moment, the waif called Drem opened his eyes, his pupils coming slowly into focus.

  “Sister.” The voice scraped out, barely audible. “I’m so cold.”

  “I’ll bring you some tea. In the meantime, do you think you can manage a brief chat? This is Inspector Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police, and he wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “It will not take long,” Lenoir added, feeling a stab of pity for the man, despite himself.

  Drem’s watery gaze darted to Lenoir. “Police?”

  “We are trying to learn about the disease,” Lenoir said. He did not elaborate, having already decided not to discuss the criminal aspect of the case openly. Rumors would spread quickly, and that could result in conspiracy theories, accusations, and worse. People instinctively wanted someone to blame for tragedy, and when they found that someone, real or imagined, retribution was usually swift. Word would get out eventually, but Lenoir had no desire to add fuel to the fire. He made a mental note to speak to Lideman and Rhea about the need for discretion.

  Fortunately, Kody did not need to be told. “We think if we can trace it, maybe we can learn something that might help us treat it.” The sergeant had good instincts, Lenoir had to admit. He was already competent; if he learned to challeng
e his mind a little more, he might even be more than that one day.

  Drem struggled to sit. Rhea helped prop him up with a pillow before heading off to procure the promised tea. “Don’t know what I can tell you,” Drem said.

  Neither do I, Lenoir thought, but he had to try. “The first body you found—do you remember exactly where it was?”

  “Sure. You don’t forget something like that.” He shivered, as if to emphasize the point. “It was in the river.”

  Interesting. “Who discovered it?”

  Drem shook his head. “You’ll have to ask Sister Rhea. I wasn’t there when she heard about it. She just asked me to get the wheelbarrow, because someone had drowned in the river. Only when I got there . . . I’m no healer, but even I could tell he hadn’t drowned.”

  “What exactly did you find?”

  “He was mostly underwater, but his leg was up on the bank, tangled in some logs. That’s what was holding him there. I fished him out—wasn’t easy—and soon as I saw him, I knew something was wrong. Figured he’d been beaten to death, covered in bruises like that. Sister Rhea thought so too, until the others started turning up, all looking the same.”

  “While you were collecting the body, did you see anything else that struck you as strange?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anyone watching, for example?”

  “Don’t think so.” Drem furrowed his brow. “No, I reckon not, or I’d have asked ’em for help. Had a demon of a time getting him out of the river.”

  “What about the next body?” Lenoir continued, though his hopes were dimming. “Where was that?”

  “Just off the market road, in a heap of rubbish. He was . . .” Drem paused, a hand swiping at his eyes. “Sorry. I’m just . . . dizzy. . . .”

  Lenoir waited until Drem had recovered. “After the rubbish heap?”

  “After that . . .” He stared into space for a moment before shaking his head. “After that it all starts to . . .” He trailed off.

  Lenoir finished the thought for him. “It all starts to bleed together.”

  Drem swallowed, nodding. He drew his blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

  This is not getting us anywhere. Lenoir was running out of questions, and judging by the frustrated look on Kody’s face, the sergeant could not think of any either. “Forget the bodies,” Lenoir said, grasping. “Over the course of those few days, did you see anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all that struck you as strange, no matter how seemingly insignificant?”

  “When I was picking up the bodies, you mean?”

  “At any time.”

  Drem closed his eyes, remembering. “I don’t think . . . Wait.” He paused. “Guess there was that . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but . . . I do remember seeing an Inataari. Just walking, mind—nothing suspicious about him. But you did say anything.”

  “An Inataari?” Kody frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Seen their kind before, when the circus came through a few years back.”

  “I remember that,” Kody said. “Never got a chance to see it myself.”

  “Me neither, but I saw ’em in the street, juggling and such.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Lenoir interrupted, before the sergeant could lead them farther down Irrelevant Lane. “I wish you a speedy recovery.” On cue, Sister Rhea appeared with the tea.

  As soon as they were outside, Kody let loose. “That’s something, isn’t it, Inspector? The Inataari?”

  “Why so?”

  Kody looked surprised. “Well, have you ever seen one?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Once or twice, and look how old you are. That means it’s rare.”

  Lenoir scowled. “Rare, yes, but that is hardly definitive. The Inataari trade more and more with Braeland, and aside from the docks, the Camp is the first place one would expect to find them.”

  “So . . . we just dismiss it?” Something like the old disdain colored Kody’s voice.

  “Of course not. We make a note of it and move on, and do not allow ourselves to be distracted by what is most likely a meaningless detail.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “I am delighted you think so, Sergeant,” Lenoir said coldly. He quickened his step, heading for the pestilence houses. He would say a few words to Lideman and the sergeants, collect his horse, and depart. There was nothing more to be gained in the Camp, at least not today.

  By the time they reached Addleman’s Bridge, a crowd had already gathered, drawn by the spectacle of dozens of watchmen erecting a barricade. For now, the Camp’s residents were too stunned to be angry, but that would not last. The watchmen knew it too; a cache of rifles could be glimpsed between the timber planks of the barricade. On the opposite bank, an identical barricade was going up. Barely noon, and already the work was almost complete; Lenoir and Kody had to dismount and lead their horses through the small gap remaining between the barricade and the edge of the bridge. The next time they came through, it would have to be on foot.

  “Look at that,” Kody said as they made their way across the no-man’s-land between barricades.

  Lenoir followed his gaze to the far side of the river. The barricade was not the only hive of activity. Watchmen lined the riverbank in both directions, stacking sandbags as though preparing for a flood. They are building a wall, Lenoir realized. Glancing downstream, he could see watchmen patrolling at intervals, conspicuously armed with rifles. He wondered how much of the river the hounds could possibly cover.

  “The chief must have every watchman we’ve got out here,” Kody said into his thoughts.

  “So it would seem.”

  There was a stretch of silence, broken only by the hollow clacking of the horses’ hooves. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Kody said, “Even if we find whoever started this thing . . .”

  “It will do nothing to stop the plague,” Lenoir finished. “That is true, Sergeant, just as finding a murderer will do nothing to bring his victim back to life. Sometimes, the best justice has to offer is vengeance.”

  Vengeance was something Nicolas Lenoir knew all about.

  As they passed through the barricade on the Fishering side, Lenoir scanned the crowd of watchmen in search of whoever was in charge. He did not have to look far: Lendon Reck himself prowled the scene, pointing fingers and barking out orders. Lenoir handed the reins of his horse to Kody and made his way over.

  “Chief.”

  Reck made a dismissive gesture. “Not now, I’m— Oh, it’s you.” The chief glanced him over, as though looking for signs of success. “Find anything?”

  “Very little, but I am”—Confident? Optimistic?—“still investigating.”

  Reck understood the subtext well enough. He grunted and made another impatient gesture. “Look at this damned mess, will you? I could throttle Hearstings with my bare hands. A few days of this, and the city will tear itself apart.”

  Lenoir frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m under direct orders”—he spat the words out—“to do everything in my power to make sure the Camp is sealed off.”

  “So?”

  “So, this festive little crowd you see is not temporary. When they’re done here, these hounds will be deployed along the banks of the Sherrin, as far as we can stretch them.”

  “What, all of them?”

  “That’s right. Virtually every watchman and sergeant on the force, right here.”

  “But the rest of the city . . .”

  “Will tear itself apart,” Reck repeated.

  Good God. As foolish as he knew Hearstings to be, Lenoir would never have thought the man capable of something this catastrophically stupid. “Did you not explain to him—”

  “Of course. Told me I was overreacting. Don’t worr
y, he says. In times of crisis, people come together.” He glanced at Lenoir, and they shared a brief, bitter laugh. Politicians might traffic in such comforting platitudes, but experienced hounds knew the truth: in times of crisis, people ate each other alive.

  “Where to now?” the chief asked, sounding only half interested. He had bigger worries now.

  “The docks.”

  “Got a lead?”

  “No. Merely a deduction.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a good one.”

  Lenoir was not sure it even mattered. Kody was right—catching whoever did this would do nothing to stop the plague. It would do nothing to contain the panic. And it would do nothing to protect Kennian from herself.

  Even a small city needs a police force to prevent it from sinking into anarchy. Kennian was home to hundreds of thousands, including some of the most ruthless criminal networks in the world. With the quarantine in effect, word of the plague would spread in hours, and nothing provoked chaos more quickly than panic. What would happen when people realized that only a skeleton crew of hounds patrolled the streets?

  They were about to find out.

  * * *

  Twenty feet away from the Fishering barricade, in a secluded spot on the far side of the street, a curious bystander observed the activity. He watched as the chief of the Metropolitan Police gestured angrily at the river, explaining the situation to one of his men—an officer of some rank, judging by the civilian clothes. The officer had just come from the Camp, accompanied by a younger partner who hovered nearby deferentially. The younger man wasn’t in uniform either. That meant he was at least a sergeant, which in turn meant that his superior must be at least a senior sergeant, if not an inspector. That wasn’t good news. It could be a coincidence; maybe they were investigating a murder or some such, and just happened to be in the Camp when the quarantine was declared. More likely, though, it had something to do with the plague.

  The curious bystander cursed quietly. Had they figured it out already? It hadn’t really occurred to him that anyone would bother to ask where the plague had come from, at least not right away. He’d assumed that everyone would be too busy panicking. The disease was highly contagious, after all, and it killed with ruthless efficiency. Maybe that’s the problem, he mused. Maybe that’s how they worked it out. Regardless, the Camp was now swarming with hounds, and it was about to get a whole lot harder to keep an eye on his little project. He needed a plan.