Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (8 page)

“You there!” Izar stepped away and jabbed a finger at one of the watchmen. “Put that rifle up, fool!”

But the watchman could not hear over the crowd. He brandished his weapon in the face of a young Adali man, threatening, until one of his more sensible fellows grabbed the muzzle and jerked it upright, saying something heated.
These men are no more trained for this than the dogs,
Lenoir realized with a sinking feeling. As a young watchman in Serles, Lenoir had been instructed in crowd control, using tactics developed by the Prefecture of Police during the revolution. But Kennian had never known revolution, and Lenoir had not thought to recommend such training to the Metropolitan Police.

“Where’s Merden?” Kody cried, whirling around.

“Here.” The soothsayer appeared at Kody’s elbow.

Lenoir did not have time for relief. The shouting around them kept growing in volume, the space between storm fronts shrinking inch by inch. Demands and accusations drifted like sparks over tinder, just waiting to catch light.

“—cannot keep us trapped in here like animals!”

“—just supposed to wait here to die?”

“Stand back! I’m warning you—”

“—not sick! Open your eyes! Can’t you see that I’m not—”

A stone sailed through the air. It struck a watchman in the head, near his temple. He staggered.

The shouting swelled into a feverish crescendo. Izar surged, long arm reaching, crying out something even Lenoir could not hear.

A gunshot rang out.

Lenoir closed his eyes in the sudden silence.

When he opened them, the weapons were everywhere—rifles and blades, sticks and rocks, a length of what looked like lead pipe. The dogs tore into the crowd, set loose or simply broken free, and now there was screaming on top
of the shouting, and the two fronts met in a brutal crash of bodies. Lenoir tried to reach for his pistol, but someone barreled into him, smashing him up against the barricade and pinning him there. He could hardly even see for the flurry of limbs. The edge of a log pressed painfully into his ribs. The pressure grew and grew as the crowd heaved against the barricade, trying to overwhelm it. If Lenoir did not break free, he would be crushed.

Another gunshot sounded, and another. It seemed only to whip the stampede into more of a frenzy. Lenoir thought he heard Kody shouting nearby, but he could not pinpoint exactly where. He heard a
crack
and a grunt, and the pressure against his chest loosened a little. Another
crack
, and the body against Lenoir’s went slack. Merden appeared, his herder’s stick clutched in both hands. “This way!”

The hounds had clustered together in a chaotic semicircle, creating a small, protected space between themselves and the right side of the barricade. Lenoir and Merden slipped behind them. It bought them some time, but little else; there was no way out except back through the rioting crowd or up over the barricade, and Lenoir did not want to risk being gunned down. The watchmen in the towers were firing warning shots at anyone foolhardy enough to attempt the climb. So far, the threats were doing the job, but Lenoir doubted it would last. “We have to get to one of those towers!”

“How?”

Lenoir had no idea. Izar was nowhere to be seen. They had lost Kody too. Lenoir drew his pistol, for all the good it would do him. He had two shots, and then it would be the sword. Even a skilled fighter would have trouble wielding a long blade in such a melee; in Lenoir’s hands, it was as likely to end up in his own belly as someone else’s.

The watchmen were not having much more luck with their rifles. The weapons were effective deterrents, but
virtually useless at close quarters. Most of the men were using them like staves, cracking them across the faces of anyone who got too close. Somewhere within the horde, the dogs could be heard snarling and snapping. Still the rioters pushed in, pelting the police with stones and landing as many blows as they could with fists and sticks and whatever else they had managed to get hold of.

“Look!” Merden pointed. The hounds had dragged some of the sandbags out from the base of the nearest tower, and were smuggling their injured through the opening. Lenoir bolted toward it, pistol raised, hoping the sight of it would be enough to dissuade anyone from attacking him. The hounds held the line, keeping the tide at bay. The gap at the base of the tower was tantalizingly close, a light at the end of the tunnel of bodies.

He never made it.

The line broke just before Lenoir reached the gap. The tunnel of bodies collapsed in on itself, rioters flooding in through the breach. Izar appeared, grappling with someone. He had a pistol in his hand, hammers cocked and ready, but instead of firing, he was trying to subdue the civilian by hand. The sergeant paid for his mercy. Someone cracked the side of his face with a shovel, and he spun with a spray of blood before sinking down beneath the waves of humanity.

Lenoir dove at the spot where Izar had disappeared, but something struck the back of his head. White light flared in his vision, and then everything tilted, the bodies whirling away sickeningly as the ground rushed up to meet him. He went down hard, crashing against the barricade as he fell.

The last thing he remembered was the taste of blood.

W
hen Lenoir opened his eyes, he found himself staring at his own bedside table. For a moment, he wondered if he had dreamed it all—the witchdoctor, the hissing shadow, the riot. Then a bright flash of agony arced through his skull, and he knew better. He groaned and started to roll onto his back, but a rich voice said, “No.”

Lenoir froze. “Merden?”

“Obviously.”

He waited for more, but the soothsayer had apparently said all he wished to. Lenoir scowled. “Why am I not allowed to move?”

“You may move, Inspector, but you may not lie on your back. That would have unfortunate consequences for your split skull.”

“Split?” If Lenoir had considered moving before, the notion left him quite completely.

“You need not be too concerned. It is not that bad.”

The pain in Lenoir’s head begged to differ. “Are you sure?”

Merden’s only answer was an impatient expulsion of breath.

“What is that smell?” Lenoir asked.

“A poultice.”

Instinctively, Lenoir reached for the sore spot at the back of his head. His fingers touched something cold and wet.

Merden
tsked
. “Really, Inspector, are you such a child? Must I tell you not to touch it?”

Lenoir struggled to a sitting position. The curtains were drawn, but a single oil lamp was enough to illuminate all four walls of his tiny flat. By its light, he took in the usual disarray: cupboards ajar, hearth unswept, threadbare blanket pooled carelessly at the foot of a single upholstered chair. He found Merden seated at the table with a cup of tea.

Another man might have felt uncomfortable at having a near stranger left unattended for hours in his home, but not Lenoir. There was nothing private for the soothsayer to find. Papers were scattered across Lenoir’s writing desk, but none of them were personal correspondence. Portraits hung on the walls, but they were not friends or relatives. The only truly personal touch in the room was his books, one of which lay open in front of Merden.

When Lenoir recognized the title, his surprise momentarily overtook his pain. “You read Arrènais?”

“Not yet.” The soothsayer sipped his tea.

Lenoir let that go. “How did I get here?” Even as he asked the question, an image passed through his mind, brief and hazy, like a half-remembered dream: someone grabbing his arm and hoisting him over a shoulder. “Did you carry me?”

Merden’s eyebrows flew up. “I am flattered you think me capable of such a feat of strength, but no—it was not I who carried you. It was Sergeant Kody.”

Lenoir grunted. It was as close as he could bring himself to verbalizing his satisfaction at the news that Kody had escaped the riot unscathed. “Where is he now?”

“At the station, I presume.”

“And Izar?”

“The Adali sergeant? I do not know.”

“What happened back at the barricade?”

Merden shook his head and took another draw of tea. “I do not think the wall was breached, but I cannot be certain. The riot was still in progress when we got you out.”

“And how long ago was that, exactly?”

A look of irritation crossed Merden’s face. “Perhaps it would be best if you asked all your questions in one go, Inspector, and spared me this tedious interrogation. Or shall I guess them?” He started to tick them off on his long fingers. “You have been out for approximately ten hours, mostly due to the healing tea I gave you. You were struck in the back of the head by a rock. I do not know who threw the rock. I do not know who survived and who did not. I do not know if the quarantine still holds, or if infected Camp residents are swarming all over the Five Villages in the first wave of the world’s ending. Anything else?”

Lenoir gave him a flat look. “I think that covers it, thank you. But let us not pretend it is my questions you find tedious. You are annoyed because you are full of questions yourself, but have been obliged to sit here watching over me, and so have been unable to learn the answers.”

Merden drank his tea.

Lenoir stood, gingerly at first, and was surprised to find that aside from the headache, he felt more or less intact. He washed his face, did his best to arrange his hair over the blot of healing mud at the back of his head, and checked his cupboards for something to eat. (The latter was wishful thinking; he never had anything to eat.)

“We had best head to the station,” he said. “We can find out what happened, and see whether it will be possible to go back to the Camp today. Hopefully, Oded is still expecting us.”

“As you wish.”

“And Merden . . . thank you.”

The soothsayer’s golden eyes looked up from the
page. “I have remarked on it before, Inspector, but you are vested with an uncanny store of luck.”

“So it would seem. Now, shall we go press it some more?”

Merden smiled and grabbed his cloak.

*   *   *

“Izar’s alive,” Kody said, “but he won’t be on his feet anytime soon.”

Lenoir nodded, looking relieved. The inspector had never said so, but Kody figured he liked Izar pretty well. The Adal was quiet, reliable, and clever, all traits Lenoir admired—in that order.

“Who else was hurt?” the inspector asked.

Kody ran through the list—those he could remember, anyway. More than a dozen watchmen and two sergeants had been seriously injured in the riot, and many more had bumps, bruises, and broken bones. As for the civilians . . . “Eight dead and countless injured,” he said, concluding the briefing, “but at least they didn’t get through the barricade.”

Lenoir sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It will take years for the reputation of the Metropolitan Police to recover from this, especially in the Camp.”

“Not like we were exactly popular before,” Kody said with a rueful grin.

Lenoir didn’t see the humor. “Do not be naive, Sergeant. Effective police work depends in no small measure upon the trust and goodwill of the population. If that trust is broken . . .”

“Very true,” Merden put in from over Kody’s shoulder. The soothsayer was drifting around Lenoir’s office, inspecting its meager contents with detached curiosity. Kody had almost forgotten he was there. “My people are an eloquent example. How often do you find the Adali helpful in your investigations?”

“Seldom,” said Lenoir. “At best they are uncooperative; at worst, actively obstructionist.”

“Because they do not trust the police,” Merden said.

With good reason, maybe, but as for what happened yesterday . . . “The hounds didn’t start that riot,” Kody said.

“Debatable,” Merden said, “and irrelevant.”

Kody opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. There was no point in arguing with the soothsayer. Like Lenoir, Merden seemed to think he was the smartest person in the room most of the time. And like Lenoir, he was probably right most of the time.
Good thing the two of them agree on just about everything. I’d hate to see those egos clash.

“We had best hope things have calmed a little overnight,” Lenoir said, rising and reaching for his coat. “If we cannot pass through the barricade, all our progress will be undone. I doubt very much Oded will present himself to Horst Lideman of his own accord.”

“And if he did, no one would listen,” Merden said.

“They still may not, but perhaps we will get lucky.” Lenoir flashed Merden an enigmatic smile and shouldered his way out the door.

They grabbed the last three horses in the livery and headed out at a brisk trot, taking advantage of the light traffic at this early hour. The ride was uneventful until they reached the old Stag’s Gate. Then things started to feel a little . . .
off
.

Small things, at first—the streets a bit quieter than they should be, the people a bit more careworn. Gradually, though, the signs became more obvious. Morning was well under way, but a lot of shops were still closed. Others had signs on their doors warning the sick not to enter, or advertising miraculous healing products. They passed a kid hawking newspapers with cries of, “Riots in the Camp! Can the hounds hold the line?” A few people even had scarves tied around their faces.
The only thing that spreads faster than an epidemic is word of it,
Lideman had said. The disease might still be confined to the Camp, but fear of it had infected half the city.

And there was something else.

“Not a hound in sight,” Lenoir said, slowing his horse to a walk as he scanned the empty street corners. He shook his head and swore quietly.

Kody shared the sentiment. “I wonder if it’s started yet.”

Merden glanced back and forth between them, his brow stitched. He wasn’t a hound; the progression of their thoughts wasn’t obvious to him. “If what has started?” he asked.

Lenoir put it into terms any Adal would understand. “We hounds sometimes refer to ordinary citizens as
chickens
. Did you know that? Scattered about, scratching a living. Vulnerable. With no hounds to keep watch . . .”

“They are easy prey for the foxes.” Merden nodded. “I see.”

“This neighborhood has more than its share of foxes,” Kody said, “and chances are, they’re on the prowl already. We’re not going to be very popular here, either, Inspector.”

“No.” Lenoir kicked his horse back into a trot. “Come. We are nearly there.”

A few minutes later, Addleman’s Bridge came into view—or it would have, had it not been completely obscured by the crowd of hounds manning the barricade. Two dozen at least, Kody reckoned, looking grim and ready for action. He wondered how many more they would find on the far side of the bridge.

“You sure you want to go in there, Inspector?” Sergeant Kelliman, the ranking officer, asked as he took Lenoir’s bridle.

“What I want is immaterial, Sergeant. If I have ridden all the way out here, you can be certain it is important.”

“Wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask,” Kelliman
said, unfazed by Lenoir’s brusqueness. The sergeant was older than God, and had been a hound since before Kody was born. He’d seen dozens of inspectors come and go, some of them even ruder than Lenoir. Presumably.

They left their horses in the care of some watchmen, and Kelliman led them to the makeshift gate at the foot of one of the towers, letting them through with a look that said,
On your heads be it.

A surprise greeted them on the other side. A second barrier had been erected at midspan, a bristling palisade of man-size thorns that stretched from one guardrail to the other. It must have gone up overnight.

Kody whistled. “They really are worried, aren’t they?”

“With good cause,” Lenoir said. “The barricade was nearly breached last night.”

“If the crowd does break through, a bunch of sharpened logs won’t stop them.”

“No, but it will slow them down long enough to make easier targets for the rifles.”

Kody grimaced. “Do you really think they’d do it? Open fire on a bunch of unarmed civilians?”

“I’m not sure.”

Kody was silent for a moment. Then, tentatively, he asked, “Would you give the order?”

Lenoir flicked him a glance. “I’m not sure.”

Another surprise awaited them at the foot of Addleman’s Bridge. Just inside the makeshift gate, a small man with flaming red hair stood at the center of a cluster of sergeants, giving orders. Kody’s mouth dropped open. “Crears! What’s he doing here?”

Following his gaze, Merden said, “By the looks of it, he is in charge of this operation. Is that unusual?”

“Crears is constable of Berryvine,” Kody said. “He left Kennian years ago.”

“The chief must have called him in,” Lenoir said, sounding more than a little pleased. He headed over.

“Morning, Inspector. Kody.” Crears shook hands. “Figured you’d be back. How’s the head?”

“Painful, but not serious, apparently. When did you get here?”

“Couple of hours ago. Chief called up reinforcements from the outer villages last night. Me, plus two-thirds of my volunteers.” Crears made a face. “Left my town pretty wide open, to tell the truth. Hope it doesn’t come back to bite us.”

“I daresay they will do more good here, Constable,” Lenoir said. “It was a wise decision. Particularly putting you in charge.”

If Kody had been on the receiving end of a compliment like that from Nicolas Lenoir, he’d probably have blushed. Crears, though, just nodded, like he’d heard it before. Which he probably had. Before he was Constable Crears of Berryvine, he’d been Sergeant Crears of the Kennian Metropolitan Police. He’d also been Lenoir’s deputy, and the inspector made no secret of the fact that he considered Crears to be the best officer he’d ever worked with. In fact, he’d rubbed Kody’s nose in it more than once. Kody might have resented Crears for it, were it not for the fact that the constable deserved every bit of that praise, and was a stand-up bloke besides.

“Got a line on who’s behind this, Inspector?” Crears asked.

“Unfortunately not, but we may have found someone who can help treat it.”

Crears glanced at Merden. “Even better.”

If it works,
Kody thought, but there was no point in saying it aloud.

“The crowd is smaller this morning,” Lenoir said.

“It’s early,” said Crears.

Kody scanned the mob. Sullen faces stared back at him, but nobody looked openly challenging. “Maybe last night knocked some sense into them.”

It sounded naive, even to him, and of course Lenoir
just snorted. Kody gritted his teeth.
Another tick in the minus column.
Lenoir was forever evaluating him, forever finding him wanting.
So quit making it so easy for him to judge you a fool.

Crears was more charitable. He just shrugged and said, “Can’t hurt to hope.”

“We will leave you to it, Constable,” said Lenoir, taking out his scarf and tying it around his face. “You have more than enough on your hands without us distracting you.”

Crears didn’t disagree. He left them with a brief nod and the typical farewell of a hound: “Good hunting, Inspector.”

They headed up the main road, giving the mob as wide a berth as possible. Kody couldn’t help brushing his hand over his coat, feeling the reassuring shape of the gun at his hip. He preferred his crossbow—more accurate, and less likely to blow up in his face—but it hadn’t done him much good last night. It was too slow to reload, and anyway, even a flintlock was hard-pressed to miss at point-blank range. Still, he didn’t much fancy putting a lead ball into a civilian’s shoulder just because the guy was dead scared. He hoped he wouldn’t find himself in that position again anytime soon.