Mrs. Peters gave him a wry look. She knew exactly what those words were worth.
Lenoir and Kody moved on. They made good progress, for there was little to impede them; the streets were largely deserted. With shutters closed, windows boarded up, and residents sheltering indoors, the city felt strangely anonymous. Ageless. Lenoir could not shake the feeling that he was walking back through time, each step bringing him closer to Serles—not the blooming beauty he had left behind, but the withered, diseased crone she had been during the revolution. Streets of brick and mortar devoid of life, a skeleton of a city with nothing flowing through her veins but a slow, invisible poison. The thought that someone had inflicted that poison deliberately was more than he could comprehend. Perhaps the chief is right, he thought. Perhaps whoever did this is simply mad. Lenoir was a practical man; he did not suffer from romantic ideas about tortured, twisted creatures hiding in laboratories and caves. Men, not monsters, committed crimes. Yet surely only an irredeemable psychopath could perpetrate an evil such as this.
They found Duchess of the Deep moored along the main wharf. She was an ungainly thing, a three-masted bark that sat high above the waterline. Her hold might be empty, but the thin line of barnacles on her hull told Lenoir that she never sat much lower. He did not know much about ships, but the Duchess did not look like one of the faster models. Most likely she kept close to home, bearing coal or timber or some other Humenori goods. All was quiet up on her decks, suggesting most of her crew was on shore leave. Lenoir pressed his lips together worriedly, a foreboding that proved justified when the sailor who answered Kody’s shout said, “Ritter isn’t here.”
Lenoir cursed under his breath. “Where is he?”
“No idea.” The man’s irritable tone suggested he had better things to do than answer for the whereabouts of his shipmates. “And before you ask, I haven’t seen Nash either.”
Lenoir and Kody traded a blank look. “Who?”
“Never mind.” He started to turn away.
“Why would we be looking for Nash?” Lenoir called.
“I don’t know.” The sailor made an impatient gesture. “It was just a guess, obviously a wrong one. Now are we done? I’ve got things to do.”
“We’re done when the inspector says we’re done,” Kody snapped.
Something nibbled at the edge of Lenoir’s thoughts, but he could not quite make it out. “What made you think of Nash, when I was asking about Ritter?”
Kody threw him a puzzled frown, as if to say, Where are you going with this? Lenoir could not have answered him. Ritter was no one special, as far as they knew; just the former purser on Serendipity. They hoped to get a list of names out of him, nothing more.
“Look, forget I said it,” the sailor said. “Just that someone came by looking for Nash this morning, and when he couldn’t find him, he asked for Ritter instead. So when you come by looking for Ritter . . .” He shrugged.
Lenoir sighed. He had been grasping, and his fingers had closed on empty air. “Very well. Do you know when Ritter will be back?”
“Captain lets him sleep here, so probably by dark.”
Lenoir nodded. He had only one question left. “The sketch, Sergeant.”
“Right.” Kody reached into his pocket. “One more thing. Do you recognize—”
A gunshot popped, and someone started screaming.
CHAPTER 20
Lenoir flinched and reached for his pistol. Kody swung the crossbow off his shoulder, his gaze raking the pier. The screaming seemed to be coming from somewhere behind them, at least one pier over, but the looming cliffs of timber and canvas blocked their view. Lenoir dropped to his haunches, trying to peer beneath the needle nose of a brig, but he saw nothing. The screaming went on, a sound more of fear than pain, reaching across the water with unsettling intimacy. A second gunshot rasped through the salt-crusted air, and then all was silent. The screaming had stopped.
“Shit,” said Kody, and he bolted.
They raced up the pier toward the boardwalk, Kody cradling his crossbow, Lenoir cocking one hammer of his pistol, their boots pounding out an urgent rhythm beneath them. Shouts of alarm went up all over the docks. Lenoir spotted a sailor up in the rigging of a nearby clipper, shading his eyes as he surveyed the scene. “You there!” he called. “See anything?”
“Puff of smoke over there!” The sailor pointed.
“Anyone hurt?”
“Can’t tell!”
They banked right at the boardwalk, heading for the next pier. Just as they were about to reach it, the man in the rigging called out to them again. “Hey, someone’s running down there!”
The sailor was too far away now for Lenoir to see where he pointed, but it hardly mattered—the pier ran only one way. That meant whoever was fleeing the scene had three options: board one of the ships, leap into the water, or make for the street, which would send him right past the hounds. Whatever he chose, he would be easy prey.
Lenoir and Kody turned right at the pier, heading back out into the bay. The scene that greeted them was one of confusion. Bodies cluttered the wharf, sailors and dockhands swarming out of the ships like ants rousted from their nests. Lenoir gritted his teeth in frustration. Not only did the crowd block his view, they were clogging the narrow pathway between the hounds and their quarry.
“Clear the way!” Kody cried. “Police coming through!”
Slowly, blinking like bewildered cattle, the sailors stood aside. For a moment, Lenoir feared the runner had escaped, boarding a ship unseen or simply melting into the crowd. But then someone cried, “There he goes!” A sailor perched in a crow’s nest jabbed a finger excitedly. “Down there. Do you see him?”
A dark figure darted through the crowd, disappearing and reappearing between the bodies. Kody found a new burst of speed. “Somebody stop that man!”
The runner must have heard him, because he veered suddenly, heading up the gangplank of a four-masted bark. Fool, Lenoir thought in grim satisfaction. They had him now.
KaPOW.
Another gunshot sounded from behind. Lenoir whirled around. Over the heads of the crowd, he saw a puff of white smoke. What in the below?
Indecision cost him several seconds, but there was really only one choice. “Split up!” Lenoir pointed at the ship, then turned to pursue the shooter, giving Kody no time to argue.
Up ahead, the shooter tossed his spent musket aside, letting it skitter across the pier. He was faster without it, and he hit the boardwalk in a few short strides, disappearing moments later behind the hull of a ship. By the time Lenoir cleared the obstacle, his quarry had almost lost him, ducking through the double doors of one of the warehouses. Has he trapped himself, or is there another way out? Lenoir had no way of knowing. His quarry, meanwhile, had no way of knowing whether Lenoir had seen him go in. Lenoir could use that to his advantage—presuming the man was actually trying to hide, and not simply looking to break his pursuer’s line of sight.
Lenoir paused outside the warehouse to catch his breath and let his swimming head settle. He was no longer in a hurry; either the shooter was hiding inside, or he had already fled out a back door somewhere, in which case Lenoir had already lost him. Better to let his breathing slow until it was not so labored that it would give away his position. Pinned down or not, his quarry was dangerous, for he might still be armed.
His breath recovered, Lenoir crouched and made his way to one of the windows. He dared not go inside, not yet; opening the door would leave him backlit, an easy target. Hopefully, he could catch a glimpse of the shooter through the window. Licking his lips, his fingers constricting unconsciously around the butt of his gun, he peered inside.
No such luck. The glass was encrusted with salt, leaving it virtually opaque. If the warehouse had been lit inside, he might at least have glimpsed a shadow, but as it was, the only thing casting a shadow was Lenoir. He ducked back down, c
ursing silently. Now what?
He leaned against the wall, the brick pressing against his shoulder blades, his heart thudding warningly in his chest. You are being foolish, he told himself. Armed or not, whoever was hiding in that warehouse was not gunning for Lenoir. Indeed, he was probably cowering in a corner somewhere, cursing his luck. The docks were thinly policed at the best of times, and these were hardly the best of times. The fact that Lenoir and Kody had been within earshot of the crime was pure coincidence, and only the most hardened criminals had the stomach to take on the hounds. He is more afraid of you than you of him, Lenoir. Now get going. Thus armored, he headed back to the doors.
He hesitated just long enough to regret sending Kody after the runner. With the sergeant to kick down the doors and cover his entrance, Lenoir would not have felt so vulnerable. But it was done now. He had no choice. Steeling himself, cocking the second hammer of his pistol, Lenoir shoved his way in.
* * *
Kody opened his mouth to say something, but Lenoir was already off, heading back up the pier after the shooter. Swearing, Kody turned and resumed the chase, thanking God with every step that he had Merden’s headache powder to keep him on his feet. The runner had already disappeared, but there weren’t many places he could go now that he’d cornered himself on that ship. Not that it made Kody’s task easy. It was a huge vessel, and from the looks of it, there was no one else on deck. Kody could only hope that at least one sailor was still on board and could point him in the right direction, or he’d be searching cabins and cargo spaces all day.
He hesitated at the bottom of the gangplank, feeling exposed. But he hadn’t seen a weapon on the runner, and anyway, he wasn’t even sure he was chasing a criminal. The shooter had been on the opposite end of the pier; maybe this bloke was just running for his life.
Best not to assume, Kody thought. Plan for the worst and hope for the best. He paused a moment to catch his breath. Merden’s medicine had brought the fever down, but he still felt a little light-headed, and a gentle throb still pulsed inside his skull. Not exactly top shape for running a man down, he thought bitterly. He started up the gangplank.
The deck was deserted except for a pair of seagulls complaining noisily on the opposite rail. Kody scanned his surroundings, his crossbow tracking left to right, but unless the man was pressed up against one of the masts, he wasn’t here. Four sets of stairs led to raised platforms fore and aft, just high enough that Kody couldn’t see more than a few feet over the top. Beneath each platform was a cabin, and another set of stairs led down below. The runner could be hiding anywhere.
Kody decided to start on high ground and work his way down. That way, the runner couldn’t get off the ship without him seeing. Cautiously, he climbed the nearest set of stairs at the foredeck. A light breeze swept in from the bay, cooling his brow, but all else was still. He could see the raised deck at the stern of the ship from here, and it looked empty too. Time to search the cabins.
The doors of the forward cabin were locked. Kody was pretty sure he could bust through, but he decided to check the aft cabin first. He kept to the rails as he crossed the deck, and hunched low as he passed in front of the cabin windows to reach the door. His fingers slipped around cool iron, and he tugged ever so slightly. Open. Kody paused just long enough to check his crossbow and loosen his pistol in its holster before slipping inside.
He hurried away from the door, blinking furiously to help his eyes adjust to the gloom. Shadowy shapes crowded the interior: a table here, a writing desk there, a bookshelf with narrow slats to keep the books from tumbling out in a storm. Kody moved as silently as he could, but the boards creaked beneath his boots, conspicuous enough that he might as well have whistled a jaunty tune. He made a slow tour of the room, keeping to the walls to cover as much ground as possible with his crossbow, but it was too dark to see much of anything. He could scarcely identify the furniture, let alone a shape that didn’t belong. Back to the windows, he thought. Putting the light behind him would help a little.
Just as he reached the windows, a cough seized him, so sudden that he actually staggered.
It was all the opportunity the other man needed.
Something blasted into him, knocking him backward into the windows. Glass shattered, wood splintered. Kody tumbled out onto the deck, his crossbow spinning out of his grasp. His head came down hard, and for a moment, the sky spun above him. The air was gone from his lungs, and he lay on his back like an upended turtle, blinking and gasping. He rolled onto his side in time to see the runner pick up a coil of rope and throw himself over the rail.
Kody clambered to his feet and reached for his crossbow, but the weapon had discharged when he hit the deck, and there was no time to reload. Growling, he slung it over his shoulder and staggered to the rail. The runner was climbing down the seaward side of the ship to a dinghy hanging ten feet below. Without thinking, Kody drew his sword and slashed the rope. The runner dropped, but he was already far enough down that the fall didn’t matter; he landed messily, but safely, in the dinghy. He looked up at Kody, and the expression on his face was one of pure panic.
Kody reached for his pistol and pointed it. “Don’t make me.”
The man choked out a terrified sound and started to climb over the edge of the dinghy.
“Stop!” Kody cocked a hammer. The man continued to scramble, flinging wild glances back and forth between Kody’s gun and the distant surface of the water. Jumping from this height might well break his legs, but allowing himself to be arrested didn’t appear to be an option.
Kody’s finger twitched on the trigger. But he couldn’t be sure of merely wounding, not with a weapon as inaccurate and devastating as a pistol, and he didn’t really know who this man was. He wasn’t the shooter; he might even be the intended victim. Swearing, Kody holstered his gun and climbed over the rail. Nice move cutting the rope, genius. There wasn’t enough left for Kody to use. Gritting his teeth and bracing himself, he jumped.
His legs blasted into the dinghy, and he crumpled to the floor of the boat. An instant later, something connected with his head, sending a flash of agony through his brain, and for the second time in as many minutes, the world spun. He heard a frantic rasping sound, as of rope being cut. Kody started to his feet, but the dinghy bucked suddenly, dropping him to his knees. He had almost recovered when the rope snapped a second time. A pulley whirred, and the boat fell out beneath him. Kody seized the side of the dinghy as its nose dropped, and then he was dangling over the sea, his arms straining in their sockets. The boat plummeted, a counterweight for the fugitive as he rode the rope back up to the ship. A heartbeat later, the prow of the boat struck water, and Kody plunged into the cold and the dark, his mouth full of seawater and the taste of failure.
* * *
He found Lenoir on the boardwalk, alone.
“You lost yours too,” Kody said. It was not a question.
Lenoir looked him over. “While you were swimming, it would seem.”
Kody squinted against the pain in his skull. The gentle throb had reverted to hammer blows, courtesy of a boot to the head. He hoped Lenoir would assume it was seawater stinging his eyes. Part of Kody wanted to tell him right now. Just get it over with. But another part, the hound part, knew this wasn’t the time. There was still too much to do, and the day was withering faster than the bloom on a morning glory.
It was past noon already. He’d broken his promise. Merden would have told Crears by now. In which case, Kody reasoned, there was no point hurrying off to the Camp. He needed to stick with this. It was his only real hope. It wasn’t like he expected a miracle—not really—but if there was even a hint of a chance they might learn something that could lead them to a cure . . . well, that was his best play, wasn’t it? With all due respect to Merden’s healing capabilities, if Kody didn’t respond to the tonic, no amount of smoke and mirrors was going to save him.
A current of panic arced through
him, bright and icy. He shuddered, then squared his shoulders.
Thinking like that doesn’t get you anywhere, he told himself. Focus on the task at hand. “Did you get a look at him?”
“No. He escaped through the back door of a warehouse.”
“Mine was a sailor, I think. He sure knew his way around a ship.”
Lenoir nodded, as if he was not surprised. “The shooter as well. He knew which warehouse was open, and how to escape through the back loading doors. Obviously a local.”
“What do you suppose was going on?”
Lenoir shrugged. “No way of knowing. Yet more evidence of the breakdown of law and order, perhaps.”
“Probably just some stupid row.” The thought of having been thrown through a window, kicked in the head, and dropped off the side of a ship because of some squabble between a couple of drunken sea dogs made his temples throb even worse. Surreptitiously, he reached inside the pocket of his trousers, and was relieved to find the powder still there, tucked into a small leather pouch. The seawater would have turned it into a paste by now, but hopefully it would still work.
Lenoir, meanwhile, looked pensive. “Possibly, though the choice of weapon would suggest not. An argument between sailors, no matter how heated, does not generally result in firing a musket. A knife to the belly would be much more likely. Same goes for a robbery.”
Kody grunted. The inspector had a point. What, then?
“It doesn’t matter,” Lenoir said into his thoughts. “We did our duty—or attempted to, at any rate—but we are here for another purpose.”
“Yeah, about that . . .” Kody withdrew a tattered sheet of paper from his other pocket—what was left of the sketch. The saltwater had not been kind. Torn, smeared, and creased, the drawing no longer resembled anything human. Unless their suspect had been run over by a wagon recently, no one was going to recognize him. “Sorry, Inspector.”
Lenoir sighed. “There is nothing to be done about it now. We will have to get another one done as soon as we can. In the meantime, let us move on to the next name on our list. We might not have a likeness, but at least we can ask about the plague in Darangosai. First, however, we should pay a brief visit to your flat.” The wry look returned, stopping just short of a smile. “You are somewhat less intimidating sopping wet.”
Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel Page 20