Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (23 page)

“Aldwich and Baker?” The man’s brow stitched up in confusion. “Why them?”

Deep breaths, Lenoir.
“It does not matter,” he said through gritted teeth. “The point is, if we can block them off, the wagons will be able to get through. Post your men at the intersections. Have them tell anyone they see that the fire is only just behind them.”

“But that isn’t true.”

Lenoir’s hands balled into fists at his sides. It was all he could do not to grab the man and shake him until his teeth rattled. “No, it is not true. But if we simply ask nicely, the evacuees will go where they please, and one man at an intersection will not be able to stop them. If, on the other hand, a member of the fire brigade says that the street behind him leads into a blazing inferno, they will believe it.”

“I suppose.” The fireman grabbed a pack off the skid and produced a map of the old city. “So you want us here, and here . . .”

Looking at the map, Lenoir felt a stab of desperation.
So crowded. So narrow.
The flames would leap from rooftop to rooftop as easily as a sparrow flits between the branches of a tree. “We have no time to lose,” he said. “Have you sent for the lord mayor?”

“Not yet.”

“We must do so immediately. It will not be enough to bring down one or two buildings. We will have to demolish entire blocks of housing.” For that, they would need the lord mayor’s permission.

A great, tortured moan sounded from the western side of the street. “Look out!” someone cried. The horses harnessed to the fire engine whinnied and danced. Wood creaked, cracked, and finally collapsed in a roar as the innards of one of the buildings gave way. Windows blew
out, and a hot wind rushed into the street. Lenoir threw an arm over his face.

“Time to move,” the fireman said, grabbing Lenoir’s arm.

He pulled away. “Give me a horse. I will ride ahead and find the gunpowder. Send the other horse with a message to the lord mayor.”

The fireman did not look happy about leaving his fire engine behind, but it was useless anyway. Lenoir unharnessed one of the horses and slung himself gracelessly onto its back. “Remember, Aldwich and Baker’s Lane must remain free.”

“I’ll take care of it. Just get us that gunpowder, Inspector, or nothing we do will be worth a good Goddamn.”

Lenoir pointed his horse south and put his heels into it.

L
enoir clattered down the cobbled street, moving at a canter until he reached the intersection, where he found his way blocked by a crowd of onlookers. He drew his mount up short. “Move aside! This area must be evacuated!” A few of the gawkers glanced at him, but most paid him no heed at all. Lenoir drew his pistol, tightened his hold on his horse, and fired into the air.
“Move now!”

The startled crowd parted for him. As he rode through, Lenoir glanced over his shoulder and saw Kody and his press-gang making their way up the street.
Good.
The sergeant would have his work cut out for him, but Kody was a big man, and not shy about using that to his advantage. He would get the job done.

Lenoir steered his horse through the winding alleys until he found Kingsway. The largest thoroughfare south of the city walls, it cut a wide path through the heart of the old city, dividing Morningside from Evenside, from the Tower all the way to Kingsgate. Lenoir had thought to find the way relatively clear, but word of the fire’s progress had obviously got out, for a steady stream of traffic flowed southeast, away from the market square. Horses and handcarts, wagons and sleds, Kennians had loaded up whatever they could find in
their haste to flee. They would have to turn off Kingsway eventually, heading south to Tower Gate, or looping back around to Castlegate. For now, they formed a river of humanity, and Lenoir had to slow his horse to a trot to get through.

It was full dark by the time he reached the poor district, and still there was no sign of wagons bearing gunpowder. Lenoir veered east toward the docks.
I should have found them by now. Could I have missed them?
But no—he had taken the most direct route, and surely they would have done the same. Lenoir paused and looked over his shoulder. To the west, the horizon had an ugly red glow, though it was long past sunset. The wind blew into his face, carrying smoke and ash and giving wings to glowing flecks of debris. In the dark, it was easy to spot the places where new fires had sprung up. Lenoir counted three of them, one of which was not so very far from where he stood now. He closed his eyes, listening in vain for the sound of a demolition, as if he could will it into being.

Even this far away, the streets were filled with people. Lenoir moved upstream against the tide, guiding his horse at a walk. Most traffic was headed for the Tower Gate. They would take the Bay Bridge across the Sherrin, but then what? They would find themselves stranded in the marshlands, for the hounds would prevent them from heading farther west, toward the Camp.
Trapped between the hammer and the anvil,
Lenoir thought.

He passed the Firkin, Zach’s favorite haunt. He hoped the boy was making his way to the Tower Gate along with everyone else. The last time Lenoir had seen him was at the docks, but that had become the most dangerous place in Kennian.
Zach is clever,
he told himself.
He won’t allow himself to become trapped.
He needed to believe that, for there was nothing he could do to help the boy. He would never find Zach amid this river of humanity.

He had nearly reached the docks when he found what
he was looking for—after a fashion. A wagon emblazoned with the emblem of the Whitmarch Firefighters stood in the middle of the street, unmoving. And empty.

Lenoir rode up to it. “Who belongs to this wagon!”

“I do.” A man in the livery of the fire brigade appeared beside Lenoir’s horse. “Who wants to know?”

“Metropolitan Police. Where is the gunpowder?”

“Gone.”

The air seemed to leave Lenoir’s body. He stared, uncomprehending. “What do you mean,
gone
?”

“I mean gone. Bloody well
stolen
.” The man gestured angrily at the street. “Gang of thugs was waiting for us, like they knew we was coming. I suppose they did, what with the fire setting half the market district aglow. Set upon us with swords and rifles. Took as much of it as they could carry in one wagon.”

“One wagon.” A timid little pang of hope lit up Lenoir’s breast. “How many wagons were there?”

“Three.”

“So one of them got away?”

“Yep. Took the long way, just in case there was more thieves waiting on Kingsway. He should be there soon, if he didn’t have more trouble on the way. You never know, what with the streets being completely wild these days.” The man glared up at Lenoir. “Not a hound in sight, least not when you need one. This city is paying something dear, and no mistake.”

Lenoir could not deny it. “Which way did they go? The other wagon?”

The man pointed, and Lenoir took off at a trot.

It took him twice as long to retrace his steps, and by the time he had covered half the distance, he could tell something was wrong. Kingsway had become all but impassable. The smaller tributaries branching off were nearly as bad, with traffic at a virtual standstill. Refugees milled around in confusion, babies crying and goats bleating, trying in vain to find a way through. Overhead,
a haze of smoke blotted out the stars. Lenoir abandoned Kingsway and continued to fight his way north.

He found the wagon at Orlister Plaza, adrift like a raft on a motionless sea. The driver was on his feet, his expression desperate as he sought a way through. It looked like he was trying to get to Smithrow.

“You there!” Lenoir fought his way close enough to shout. “This way! Baker’s Lane is blocked off. You will be able to get through there!”

The driver shook his head; even at this distance, he could not hear above the babble of the crowd.

Lenoir tried again. “Baker’s Lane! You will be able to get through!”

The man looked half hopeful, half suspicious. “Says who?”

Lenoir grabbed his badge and held it high. The man squinted, then sagged in relief. “Baker’s?”

Lenoir pointed again, impatiently, and the driver nodded. He sat down and tugged at the reins. The draft horses shuffled about, but they had nowhere to go. Meanwhile, someone had climbed up onto the back of the wagon to get a better view. The driver tried to wave him off, but the man paid no heed, craning his neck as he peered above the rooftops. And now he was clambering up onto the barrels of gunpowder. . . .

Swearing, Lenoir grabbed his flintlock and fired into the air. “Metropolitan Police! You, get down from there! Clear a path for that wagon,
now
!”

With the right encouragement, the crowd managed to find enough space to let the wagon pass through. Lenoir rode in front, brandishing his pistol as though he might fire again, even though both barrels were now spent. So unencumbered, it took them less than five minutes to reach the roadblock at Baker’s Lane. A pair of firemen barred the intersection. They were from a different brigade, Lenoir noted. That was well—the more manpower
they could muster, the better. “We have gunpowder here,” Lenoir said, “for the firebreaks. Let us through.”

The firemen looked the wagon over. “You with the Whitmarch brigade, then?” one of them asked Lenoir.

“Metropolitan Police.”

“Oh yeah?” The fireman looked relieved. “Listen, can you help us get some of these folk into a bucket line? We’ve been trying to round up volunteers, but nobody is willing. . . .”

Lenoir scowled. “Nor do I blame them. We have already determined that there is no further use in it. That is what the gunpowder is for.”

The firemen exchanged a look. “That’s not the orders we got.”

“What orders? From whom?” A cold trickle of dread slithered down the back of Lenoir’s neck.

“From our chief, but he had ’em from the lord mayor himself. All hands on deck, that’s what we were told. That’s why they closed the gates.”

Lenoir jerked on his horse’s reins so sharply that the animal backed up a little, nickering in protest. “What did you say?”

The fireman hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Kingsgate. “His Lordship ordered the city gates closed, so as to encourage people to help fight the fire.”

Durian’s ghost.

Lenoir felt sick. He had known Hearstings was a fool, but this . . . this was madness. He scanned the sea of people around him.
Trapped like rats inside twenty-foot stone walls.

“Where is he?”
God as my witness, I will shoot him myself.

His thoughts must have burned in his eyes, because the fireman actually shrank from him a little. “Not sure. Think he might have left already.”

“Who is in command?”

“Chief of Police.”

“Where?”

“Up there.” The fireman pointed. “Addley, just outside the church.”

Lenoir called over his shoulder to the wagon driver. “You will be fine from here. Hurry!” So saying, he blasted through the roadblock and headed for Addley.

He found Lendon Reck outside the church, poring over a map with a group of firemen. They wore at least four different liveries, representing brigades from all over the city. Reck barely glanced up when Lenoir approached, sparing only a fleeting look of surprise before continuing with his conference. Lenoir waited until they had finished, for he knew Reck would not tolerate any interruption.

“What are you doing here?” As usual, the chief did not trouble with niceties.

“Kody and I were in the area. Have you not seen him?”

“No.”

“He cannot be far. I had him press-gang anyone he could find into helping with evacuations.” Lenoir did not dare mention Kody’s illness, not now. That would come later.

“Was that you who ordered Aldwich and Baker’s Lane blocked off?” the chief asked.

“Yes.”

“That was good thinking. It allowed us to get some gunpowder through, and I hear there’s more on the way.”

Lenoir nodded. “Only just down the road. The wagon should be here any minute.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a church to blow up.”

“What, this church?”

“The very same. I’d be worried about my immortal soul, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be fighting on the side of the Dark Flame anyway, when the time comes.”

You and me both, Chief.
“Has the fire spread so far already?”

“At this rate, everything inside the walls will be burnt to ashes by prayer day.”

The walls.
Lenoir felt the rage boil up inside him again. “Did you know Hearstings has ordered the gates closed?”

The chief had started to walk away, but Lenoir’s words drew him up short.
“What?”

“Some firemen just told me. It would appear His Lordship did not see fit to consult you.”
Or even to inform you.

Reck cursed expansively. “First the quarantine and now this! I ought to hang that piece of shit up by his—”

“Castlegate is closest, and the fields around Castle Warrick are a perfect place to shelter. I will try to get them to open it. Do I have your authority?”

“Much good may it do you. If the guards have got their orders from the lord mayor, there’s nothing I can say will sway them.”

“That is not what I meant, Chief.” Lenoir rested his hand against the butt of his pistol. “Do I have your authority?”

Reck’s eyes met Lenoir’s. His mouth pressed into a hard line.

“If those gates do not open . . .” Lenoir did not need to finish. The riot in the Camp would still be fresh in the chief’s mind, as it was in his own.
If the fire does not get them, the panic will. Scores will die at the gates.

All around them, bells clamored and men shouted. Beneath that, the distant roar of flames, punctuated by the occasional crash of timber giving way. Yet in that moment, as Lenoir and the chief stared at each other, there was only silence.

He saw it the moment Reck decided. The chief’s shoulders sagged, and he seemed to age before Lenoir’s very eyes. “Would you really do it?”

“I don’t know.” He said it so softly, he doubted Reck even heard.

The chief looked away. “Blowing up churches and pulling guns on city guards. Aren’t we a pair. Destined for the Dark Brigades and no mistake.” He shook his head. “Go. Do whatever it takes to get those gates open. But remember, Lenoir, those men are just doing their jobs.”

“I know. But, Chief . . . let me have your gun. Mine is spent, and there is no time. . . .”

Reck sighed and handed over his own flintlock. “God help us both.” It sounded more like a verdict than a prayer.

Lenoir pointed his horse toward Castlegate.

If it had not been for the roadblocks, the journey would have taken hours. As it was, Lenoir had to argue his way through each checkpoint, glancing behind him every now and then at the angry glow staining the sky.

When he reached Castlegate, he saw that the guard had been doubled—to four. What had been a largely ceremonial position only hours before was suddenly all too real, and the four young men manning the gate looked equal parts determined and afraid. Lenoir could not blame them. Armed with muskets and swords, they were all that stood between thousands of terrified Kennians and the safety they sought. Worse, the gates had been designed to shut invaders out, not to keep city folk in, so the mechanism stood exposed, readily accessible to anyone brave or desperate enough to challenge the guards.
It’s the Camp all over again,
Lenoir thought. It was only a matter of time until the blood flowed.

And you might be the one to start it.

Steeling himself, he edged his horse up to the gate and flashed his badge, letting the torchlight flame on its contours. “Inspector Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police.”

The guards just stared at him, their muskets clutched
to their chests in white-knuckled grips. Behind them, the portcullis offered a tantalizing glimpse of freedom—or at least, of Meadowsmead.

“You must open these gates.” Lenoir kept his tone as even as possible, wishing he did not have to shout. It would be better if the crowd could not hear him, but there was no avoiding it.

“Our orders are to keep them sealed,” one of the guards replied. Raising his voice, he added, “For the good of the city!” Shouts and jeers answered from the crowd.

“The orders are a mistake,” Lenoir said. “The bucket lines have been disbanded. It is too late to fight the fire.”