Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (5 page)

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 worry,
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.

He’d foreseen the quarantine, of course. The Camp was tantalizingly easy to cut off, what with the river doing most of the job on its own. And the lord mayor and his council had little to fear in the way of political consequences. The slum rats had no voice of their own, and even the most dewy-eyed humanitarian would find his principles sorely tested by the prospect of plague. The city would quietly turn its back on the Camp. It had already begun. He’d predicted this, and it didn’t get in the way of his plans. In fact, he’d counted on it.

What he hadn’t counted on was how quickly it would happen. It wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak past the hounds—there just weren’t enough of them to watch the entire length of the river, especially after nightfall—but that was assuming you were healthy. An infected person would never make the swim, and a boat would easily be spotted.
But that quarantine can’t be allowed to hold. It’ll ruin everything.

An idea was already forming in his mind. It wouldn’t be easy, and it might get a little messy, but luckily, he wasn’t squeamish. Still, he couldn’t do it alone. He needed eyes and ears in the Camp—that, and maybe a little muscle. Fortunately, he knew just where to look.

He hadn’t anticipated having to kill hounds, but that was the thing about plans: the best ones always took a little improvising.

B
ran Kody didn’t like the docks.

There was no escaping them, not if you were a hound. Like the slums, they were familiar hunting grounds, especially for the lower ranks. As a watchman, Kody had spent at least half his time prowling these stinking piers, arresting smugglers and breaking up tavern brawls. He’d been stabbed—twice—and had his nose broken by the biggest man he’d ever seen, a slave trader from some country Kody couldn’t pronounce, let alone locate on a map. He’d seen all sorts of awful things—a beggar kid who’d been beaten to death, a pretty whore called Clari carved up until she was unrecognizable. Once, he’d fished the bloated corpse of one of his fellow watchmen out of the bay. Avoiding the docks, and places like it, was one of many reasons Kody had been so eager to be promoted from watchman to sergeant. The higher ranking you were, the less time you spent in the filth. That was the theory, anyway. Yet here he was, alongside Lenoir, an inspector.

Some things were just part of the job. You couldn’t escape them, at least not entirely. Not until you were chief of the Metropolitan Police.

He tried to console himself with that thought.

“We’re starting with the dockmaster, I suppose?” he
grumbled as the familiar stench of fish guts drifted up the alley to meet them.

Lenoir did not respond. The inspector’s hands were jammed in his pockets, and he had the collar of his coat turned up, in spite of the midday heat. Kody had come to recognize this posture as a sign of deep thought. It was as though Lenoir was trying to shut himself off from the world, to retreat into a place of darkness and silence, free of distractions. Maybe it helped him to concentrate. Or maybe he was just cranky.

Kody spotted the dockmaster from a long way off, even though he’d never seen the man before. It wasn’t so much the uniform—though the bright red jacket did draw the eye—but the way the man carried himself, crusty and confident, like a sea captain. The wharf was his deck, the dockhands his crew, and he presided over them with an air of absolute authority.

Apparently, that authority extended over Lenoir and Kody too—in the dockmaster’s mind at least. “Got some business down here, Officers?” the man asked as they approached. He’d pegged them for hounds as easily as they’d pegged him for dockmaster. “I’m real busy here,” he added, gesturing at the massive ship moored beside him. She was an impressive vessel, with towering masts and an elaborately carved prow. Foreign, Kody reckoned, but he wasn’t an expert. A steady procession of dockhands marched down the gangway from her decks, unloading her cargo; they reminded Kody of ants ferrying eggs.

Lenoir dismissed the dockmaster’s self-importance with three simple words: “Come with me.”

Captain Crusty didn’t like that one bit. He squared off to face Lenoir, giving the inspector a full view of his broad chest and meaty arms, like a bird puffing up its feathers to intimidate a rival.
Ex-sailor,
Kody thought. They usually were. “Maybe you didn’t hear me,” the dockmaster said. “I’m real busy.”

Lenoir greeted this display with a look of perfect
boredom. “The City of Kennian thanks you for your industriousness. Now come with me.”

The dockmaster turned an ugly shade of pink, and Kody tensed, frisking the man with his gaze. No sword, but Kody would bet a day’s wages there was a knife hidden on him somewhere. Sailors were seldom without them. Kody’s hands curled into fists, ready. He’d leave his own sword in its scabbard unless he really needed it.

The dockmaster wasn’t that stupid; he wilted a little in submission. Lenoir’s bland confidence had carried the day again. “Better be quick,” the man said sullenly.

Lenoir ignored the remark. He turned and walked back up the pier, leaving the dockmaster and Kody to follow. They found a quiet spot near some fishing boats, most of which had already been scrubbed down for the day. One or two pairs of ears still loitered about, but it was as much seclusion as they were likely to find at this time of day. Lenoir paused, looking the dockmaster up and down. Kody would have given another day’s wages to listen in on the inspector’s thoughts, but all he heard was the creak of rope and the gentle slapping of water against the hulls of the boats.

“How long have you been dockmaster here?” Lenoir asked.

The man regarded him warily. “Seven months. Why?”

“And you have been on duty every day for the past few weeks?”

“Except on prayer day,” the dockmaster said. “And I got witnesses to that.”

He thinks he’s being accused of something.
Kody wasn’t surprised. If the man had been a sailor, chances were he’d been a smuggler too. The words were practically identical in Kody’s lexicon.

“Have you seen any unusual activity over the past six weeks or so?”

The dockmaster blinked. He hadn’t expected that question. “What do you mean,
unusual
?”

“Braelish is not my mother tongue, but I believe I am employing the customary definition of the word. As in,
out of the ordinary
.”

The man’s jaw tightened, but he swallowed his anger. “Hard to say what’s ordinary around here, Officer.”

“Inspector.”

“Oh.” The dockmaster shifted uncomfortably. “Well, anyway . . . I can’t say anything unusual has caught my attention, unless you count a couple of escaped monkeys.”

“Monkeys?” Kody echoed, incredulous. “Yeah, I’d say that counts.”

“Filthy little buggers.” The dockmaster spat into the water for emphasis. “Got out of their cages down in the hold, only the crew was too stupid to notice. Little vermin came boiling out of there the minute we opened the hatch. One of my men got bit rounding ’em up.”

Kody felt a little pang of excitement.
That could do it, couldn’t it?

“When did this incident occur?” Lenoir asked.

The dockmaster hitched a shoulder indifferently. “Five days ago. Maybe six.”

Damn
.
So much for that idea.

“Lucky my man was wearing heavy gloves,” the dockmaster said, “or he might’ve got rabies or some such.”

“You managed to catch them?” Lenoir asked.

“Took us over an hour, but yeah, we managed.”

“No one else was bitten?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Five or six days ago, you said. You are absolutely certain?”

“You can check the records if you doubt me.”

“I shall. Thank you. I’ll need to see everything from the past six weeks, starting with the oldest.”

The dockmaster’s mouth dropped open. “Six weeks? You got any idea how many ships come in here every day?”

“Quite a few, I should imagine, and I will need the cargo and crew manifest for each and every one.”

Kody stifled a groan.
We’ll be here for hours.
He could only hope that Lenoir would deign to help sift through the ledgers. Usually, he left such menial tasks to Kody.

“Before we get to that, however,” Lenoir said, “I have one more question. Have you had any recent reports of disease among the arriving passengers or crew? Deaths, perhaps?”

The dockmaster smirked. “Don’t know much about sea voyages, do you, Inspector?”

“Answer the question,” Kody said, crowding the man a little.

The dockmaster gave him a sulky glare. “Sure, I’ve had reports. Every day, practically. Just part of being at sea, isn’t it? They’re out there a couple of weeks, they get sick. They die. Sometimes lots of ’em die.” He shrugged. “Just how it is.”

“But the dead are not typically brought into port,” Lenoir said.

“Pretty rare. A loved one, maybe, but most folks would rather bury ’em at sea than leave ’em to rot in the hold. You can imagine the smell.”

Kody could imagine it all too well. He grimaced.

“Have any been brought in recently?” Lenoir asked.

“Dead bodies? Not so as I’ve heard.”

Kody sighed.
Dead end.

Lenoir thought so too; Kody could tell from the sour look on his face. Even so, he said, “We will see those records now.” Apparently, he was determined to be thorough.

He really has changed,
Kody mused. A year ago, Lenoir could barely be convinced to take up a case, and when he did, he haunted the streets aimlessly, like the ghost of a hound long dead. He’d been irritable, arrogant, and apathetic, to the point where he and Kody were barely on speaking terms. Things were different now.
He
was
different. Still irritable and arrogant, maybe, but Kody found those foibles easier to put up with now that Lenoir had rediscovered his edge. Something had happened to him during the case of the corpse thieves, something that had reminded him of who he was: the finest detective in Braeland.

But even the finest detective needs leads, and right now, they had none. Lenoir was convinced that the disease had come to Kennian by ship, and he was probably right, but without evidence, the knowledge did them no good.

Sometimes vengeance is all justice has to offer,
Lenoir had said. For now, it seemed that justice could not even offer that much.

*   *   *

Kody winced, massaging the kink in his neck. He had a corker of a headache, and the insides of his eyelids felt like rasps. Sorting through the ledgers had taken way too long, and turned up way too little. “Who knew Kennians were so fond of spices?”

“Of course,” said Lenoir, buttoning his coat. “How else could one tolerate Braelish cuisine?”

Kody rolled his eyes, but otherwise let the remark pass. He’d learned long ago that it was pointless to dispute the cultural superiority of the Arrènais. “I guess we’re calling it a day?”

“Not quite.”

Kody checked a sigh. “Where to?”

“You look like you need a drink, Sergeant,” Lenoir said archly, and he headed for the street.

Kody stared after him, stunned. Inspector Lenoir had never invited him anywhere, not socially. As far as he knew, Lenoir didn’t have a social life. And if he did, he wouldn’t spend it with a junior officer whose company he obviously found irritating.

Must have something to do with the case,
he decided. Regardless, when your inspector invited you for a drink, you didn’t refuse. Kody caught up in a few short strides.

Evening had fallen, and the harsh glare of the dockmaster’s lantern still stained his vision, giving depth to the shadows and sketching the street in charcoal and ash. Up ahead, soft globes of light blossomed one by one as the streetlamps were lit. Kody trailed Lenoir in silence, his confusion only growing as they made their way toward the poor district. He would have thought Lenoir had had enough of the slums for one day.

It had been a while since Kody had been in this part of town after sunset, and he was surprised at how lively they found it. The more respectable neighborhoods had already shuttered their shops and retreated indoors, but the poor district buzzed with activity. Revelers poured in and out of taverns, and hawkers still lined the streets, flogging humble wares like cooking oil and tallow candles and old boots. A man selling a miracle tonic grabbed at Kody’s sleeve as he passed. “Cures what ails you! Only a quarter!”

“A quarter crown for a pint of liquid?” Kody laughed. “You’ve got a sense of humor, mate.”

“Small price for your health,” the man retorted, but he knew a lost cause when he saw it; he turned his attention elsewhere.

Two blocks later, they reached their destination: a slightly rough-looking alehouse called the Firkin. Kody shook his head, bewildered.
Wouldn’t have thought Lenoir would set foot in a place like this, not unless he was on the job.
But then, how much did he really know about his superior, anyway? Lenoir didn’t confide in him. Could barely stand to talk to him. Could barely stand to talk to
anyone
, as far as Kody could tell. To describe the man as “private” would be like calling water wet.

Lenoir paused just inside the door, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes. He must have spotted what he was looking for straightaway, for he plunged into the melee, leaving Kody to follow. When they had shoved their way into the heart of a group of friends toasting flagons,
Lenoir stopped. Kody was just about to ask what was going on when the inspector’s arm jerked, as though he had caught a fish somewhere between the bodies.

“Hey, hands off! I wasn’t doing nothing!”

Lenoir ignored this indignant protest, dragging his catch through the crowd to an open space in the corner. Only then did Kody get his first glimpse of the owner of the voice: a ragged, squirming boy with sandy hair poking out from under his hat like straw from the stuffing of a scarecrow. He looked to be about seven, judging from his height, but Kody knew better. The boy was ten, and he was called Zach.

“Don’t have to be so rough about it,” the boy grumbled, straightening his shirt and tucking the ends back into an ill-fitting pair of half breeches. “You could’ve just shouted, you know.”

Lenoir regarded his favorite informant with a wry expression. “I could have, at peril of my dignity, but you would have finished with that baker’s purse first.”

Zach glanced back to the crowd with a shrewd eye. “Baker, huh? How can you tell?”

“Flour on his trousers, oven burn on his right wrist.”

The boy sighed. “Not much coin to be had there. Wouldn’t have bothered if I knew.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it, the little delinquent.
What in God’s name did Lenoir see in this boy? Something, obviously; Kody suspected it was Zach’s kidnapping that had shaken Lenoir out of his torpor last winter. The inspector hadn’t been the least bit interested in the corpse thieves until Zach went missing.
But why should he trouble with a pint-size cutpurse?
“Like calling water wet,” Kody said under his breath.

“What’s that, Sergeant?”

“Nothing.”
Just pondering the mystery that is Nicolas Lenoir.

“Was he your first victim this evening?” Lenoir asked
the boy. “Or do I have to turn in a few purses to the barman?”

Zach twisted away protectively. “I earned this money fair! Beat those drunkards at bones, twice!”

Kody and Lenoir turned to look at the drunkards in question, a trio of hard-luck types who could barely keep themselves upright. “I’m not sure I would call that fair, Zach,” Lenoir said, but he sounded more amused than admonishing. He turned away to get the attention of the barmaid.