“A shepherd as well as a businessman.”
“A shepherd?” Lenoir grunted, dropping his head onto the back of the chair. “An odd analogy.”
“I do not see why. A shepherd leads his flock. He directs their movements, for good or for ill. He can lead them to green pastures, or he can lead them to slaughter. This Ritter was a shepherd of men.”
“A shepherd of shadows,” Lenoir said bitterly. “I should have seen the pattern.”
Merden laughed. “Such hubris, Inspector.”
Lenoir sat up, scowling. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Merden’s golden eyes held him, unfazed. “You must think awfully highly of yourself, to imagine that you could discern a pattern from what you had before you. Frankly, I am amazed you caught him. Though not quite as amazed as I am that you found a cure.”
“You already had a cure.”
“A much less potent one, and less sure, as your sergeant unfortunately discovered. I would not have been able to do much good on my own.”
Lenoir snorted. “And you accuse me of hubris. You saved over a hundred lives, Merden. Is that not good enough for you?”
Merden closed his eyes and knit his long fingers over his chest. “Perhaps there is no such thing as good enough in our lines of work.”
In all the speeches he had listened to that afternoon, Lenoir had not heard words so wise as those.
“Still,” Merden went on, “the value of what you have done cannot be denied. I believe it solves a mystery that has troubled my mind for days.”
“Oh? What mystery is that?”
“Why you are still alive.”
Lenoir blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were marked by the Darkwalker. A sentence of death. No one ever escapes his vengeance, yet here you are. In nearly a thousand years of oral history, there is no precedent for it. You promised to tell me the tale, but you did not.”
A shiver of dread rattled Lenoir’s shoulders. “I was spared,” he said quietly.
“Plainly. The question I have been asking myself is, why?”
“And you think you have an answer?”
“I do. I believe you were spared so that you could stop the plague. Settle your account, as it were.”
“I had a similar notion,” Lenoir admitted. “But perhaps that was merely wishful thinking. Vincent is the champion of the dead. Why should he care if thousands die of plague?”
“You forget, Inspector, it is not the Darkwalker who decides. He is merely an instrument, one without will of his own. Someone, something else, decided you should live.”
“It.” Lenoir’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “He referred to his master as it.”
The golden eyes opened. Merden sat up. “You spoke to him?”
“I did.” Lenoir had done more than speak to Vincent. He had helped him. Fought alongside him. They had been, however briefly and improbably, partners. But Lenoir did not have the energy for that tale now. “He said it no longer sought my death.”
“It,” Merden said pensively. “Your god, perhaps. That would explain the desire to save lives.”
There was a thought. Lenoir had long since given up hope of being right with God. The idea that he could be called upon to do His work . . . “Does God require a mortal instrument?” And if He did, would it be me? Or was it some kind of test?
Merden waved an indifferent hand. “Your guess is as good as mine, Inspector. The southern god has never made much sense to me.”
Nor to me, Lenoir thought. Not for a long time.
“Regardless, whatever it may be, you have obviously served it well.”
“You sound so certain.”
“I am.” Merden gave him a long, level look. His mouth quirked just short of a smile. “Perhaps you will sleep better tonight.”
“Perhaps.” Lenoir did not hold out much hope. No matter—he was used to it. “In the meantime,” he said, leaning forward, “I have something for you.”
Merden took the proffered gift with a bemused expression. “What is it?”
“The key to the city.”
“What is it for?”
“It is a token of gratitude, in recognition of great deeds on behalf of the city. It was given to me by the lord mayor. But it should have been given to you.”
Merden arched a coal black eyebrow. “Indeed? According to whom?”
“According to me.”
“I see.” Merden examined it, looking every bit as nonplussed as Lenoir must have looked that afternoon. “What shall I do with it?”
“You can enter any public building, or order any gate opened.”
“Do your public buildings truly have such enormous locks?”
Lenoir smiled. “It is not really meant to be functional. It is a symbol.”
Merden’s expression cleared. The Adali put great store in symbols, their spiritual leaders most of all. “A mark of respect, then.”
“Indeed. Now you are twice mekhleth. To your people, and to mine.”
“In your eyes, maybe.”
Lenoir slumped low again, resting his head against the backrest of his chair. “Is that not enough?”
The soothsayer’s smile came through in his voice. “Perhaps it is.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
E. L. Tettensor likes her stories the way she likes her chocolate: dark, exotic, and with a hint of bitterness. She has visited fifty countries on five continents, and brought a little something back from each of them to press inside the pages of her books. She lives with her husband in Bujumbura, Burundi.
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Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel Page 34