Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (28 page)

L
enoir stopped dead when he saw Kody.

The sergeant was perched on the edge of Innes’s desk, sipping tea, the two of them gossiping like ladies at needlework. The left side of Kody’s face looked every bit as ugly as it had the day before, and his normally square shoulders had a droop to them, like a beanstalk that wants water. Lenoir’s already foul mood instantly became fouler.

“What in the name of Durian’s Holy Host are you doing here?” he demanded from halfway across the kennel.

Kody actually looked surprised. “Where else would I be?”

“In bed, recuperating from plague!”

The whole kennel froze. At that moment, it would have been possible to hear a mouse washing its whiskers.

The station was virtually deserted, but every man and woman in the place, watchman or scribe or sweep, was now staring at Kody. And then at Lenoir. And back at Kody.

Kody flushed, the first hint of genuinely good color he had had in what seemed like forever. “Maybe we could talk in your office, Inspector.”

“I would be delighted, Sergeant.”

Together, they headed up the stairs, Lenoir venting his exasperation on the aging carpentry with every step. What in God’s name was the matter with this man? Had he not learned his lesson yesterday? (No, Lenoir corrected himself, the day before. Where
had
these last couple of days gone?) The chief had not yet come in—or, more likely, had already gone out to the barricades—so Lenoir would not get any help there.

Kody did not even wait until the door was closed. “I’m fit for duty, Inspector.”

Lenoir scowled. “According to whom?”

“According to me. And Merden.” He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Lenoir.

“You got a note from Merden?” Under other circumstances, it would have been amusing.

“I figured you wouldn’t take my word for it.” Kody took a sip of his tea, his features as calm and collected as half a gargoyle mask could be.

Lenoir looked over the beautifully flowing script. In writing, as in speech, Merden was brief and mysterious, leaving many questions unanswered.
Sergeant Kody is fit for duty. However, he should not run, lift anything heavy, or otherwise cause his heart rate to climb too much.

“This is meant to convince me?” Lenoir growled, waving the paper. “What good are you to me if you cannot let your heart rate climb
too much
, whatever in the below that means?”

Kody sighed. “Listen, Inspector, I’ve spent the better part of the past twenty-four hours asleep, with a steady dose of tonic. The fever is gone, the bleeding has stopped, I’ve had plenty of time to rehydrate, and I couldn’t sleep another minute unless you knocked me cold or drugged me, not with the bastard who did this still roaming loose.”

“I am on the verge of a major break in this case,” Lenoir said.

“You’ve already had a major break,” Kody said, smiling. “You found a cure to the plague. If you hadn’t, I’d probably be dead by now. Instead, I feel like I’m getting over the flu. That stuff is amazing.” He held out his arm. “You see this cut? Merden made it this morning. Clotted up faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“I am pleased to hear it, Sergeant, but I meant that I am close to finding out who is responsible for all of this.”

Kody’s smile vanished. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Sergeant Innes is downstairs. Give me one good reason why I should not take him, a perfectly healthy specimen?”

“Because there’s no one in all of Kennian who wants to find this bastard more than me. Or who deserves it more, if I may say so. Sir.”

There, Lenoir could not argue.

“I appreciate your concern for my health,” Kody went on, “but that’s my business. As for whether I can hold up my end—you don’t need to worry about that either.”

Perhaps it was the look in the sergeant’s eye, or the determination in his voice, or the thick thread of guilt that tugged like a taut fishing line at the bottom of Lenoir’s belly. Whatever the reason, he found he could not deny Kody.

He sighed. “On your head be it, Sergeant,” he said, and he gestured at the door.

*   *   *

“There.” Lenoir dragged the ledger closer to the window and tapped it. “
Fly By Night
, provenance Inataar by way of Mirrhan, seven hundred crates angel wort.” He read the date in the right-hand column. “Six weeks ago.”

Kody forced himself not to squint in the cheerful morning sunlight. The headache was more or less gone, but for some reason, bright light still bothered his eyes. He couldn’t let the inspector see that, though. He’d had a hard enough time convincing Lenoir as it was, and had endured nearly half an hour of barbed remarks on
the way to the docks. If it hadn’t been for Merden’s note, he wouldn’t be here, he knew.

Merden had taken some convincing of his own. The note Lenoir saw wasn’t the first version he’d penned. The original started out,
Sergeant Kody continues to display remarkable bullheadedness and indifference to his health,
but Kody had managed to persuade him to stick to the facts. And the facts were that he could stand upright, could walk and talk without keeling over, and wasn’t in any danger of relapse. There was nothing wrong with his mind, and he was no longer contagious. He wouldn’t be joining the lads for a friendly game of dustball anytime soon, but even if he was at half strength, he’d still be stronger than Lenoir. As far as he was concerned, that meant he was fit for duty, and when he explained it that way to Merden, the Adal had reluctantly agreed.

“I owe you one, Merden,” Kody had said.

The Adal had snorted and criticized Kody’s maths.

Kody didn’t much fancy the idea of being indebted to a witchdoctor, but there was nothing,
nothing
, he wouldn’t do to get his hands on the sick bastard who had done this to his town. To him.

“Seven hundred crates,” Lenoir repeated, “at a total estimated value of two hundred fifty crowns.”

Kody frowned. “That’s it?”

“My guess is it is worth even less than that. The value was probably exaggerated to avoid suspicion. If the herb is as commonplace in Inataar as its cousin in Braeland, it is probably worth next to nothing at its point of origin.”

Meanwhile, it was apparently selling at half a crown a bushel in Braeland. Someone was getting very, very rich.

“Look here, Inspector,” Kody said. “There are three different dates in the
unloaded
column. The last one was just yesterday.”

“That’s right.” The dockmaster leaned in over Lenoir’s shoulder. “Pain in the arse, that rig. Unloading in dribs and drabs, taking up space while I got others
waiting out in the bay. She’s paying the fees, but still . . . it’s not right, treating her like a warehouse. She belongs out on the seas, not gathering barnacles at port.”

Lenoir glanced back over his shoulder. “What do you make of that? Why wouldn’t she unload all at once?”

“Most likely they don’t want to pay too much for warehousing, and the crew said they didn’t want to put all the product on the market at once. Building up demand, or some such.” The dockmaster shrugged.

Fury flooded Kody’s face. “Depraved sons of—”

Lenoir shot him a warning look. He didn’t want Kody giving away too much. He was right, of course. They were finally homing in on a suspect, and the last thing they needed was to show their cards. Kody took a deep breath.

“When they unloaded yesterday, where did they take the goods?” Lenoir asked.

The dockmaster consulted the ledger. “Warehouse 57.”

“Show me the ledger for that warehouse.”

The dockmaster fetched it down and handed it over with a sullen expression. He still didn’t fancy being ordered around. If Lenoir noticed, he didn’t care; he scanned the columns again, looking back and forth between the two books. “It says here there are two hundred fifty crates remaining on board.”

“So it does.”

“And between these three columns, the number unloaded comes to four hundred fifty.”

“That adds up,” Kody said.

“Yes, but look here. According to the warehouse ledger, four hundred thirty-nine crates were checked in to Warehouse 57.”

The dockmaster frowned. “Odd.”

Eleven missing.
Odd indeed.

“Could it simply be a clerical error?”

The dockmaster shook his head. “My people are careful about that sort of thing. That ledger tells the customs
commissioner what he’s collecting on. If he shows up at the warehouse and finds something else . . . Best-case scenario, the difference comes out of our pockets. Worst case, my arse is in Fort Hald.”

“And yet you failed to notice the discrepancy.”

The dockmaster reddened. “Smuggling happens, Inspector. We do what we can, but I can’t personally crack open every crate, or escort every load to the warehouse and guard it until the customs man arrives. All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t be a problem of sums. If the figures don’t add up, it means somebody’s up to no good.”

“So the question,” Kody said, “is what was in those eleven crates?”

“Something they did not wish the customs collector to see.”

But what?

Judging from Lenoir’s expression, he had no idea either. “Who captains
Fly By Night
?”

“Captain Marshall Elder.”

“Elder.” Lenoir said the name like it meant something to him. “Where can I find him? On the ship?”

“You can try,” the dockmaster said, “but I doubt it. I’ve been down there to look for him three or four times, and he’s never there. Haven’t seen Marsh since
Fly By Night
got back, to tell you the truth. No one has.”

“Then who is dealing with the cargo?”

“His crew. What’s left of ’em, anyway. When a ship comes into port, her crew scatter like dandelion fluff. Only a few stay behind to watch over the rig, and even those are ashore half the time. Most days, it’s just the security guard they hired here in port.”

“What about the first mate?” Kody asked.

“Haven’t seen him in days.”

Lenoir swore and rubbed his eyes. “What about the ship’s owner? Where can we find him?”

“There I can help you.
Fly By Night
is a local girl, not
one of those foreign jobs. Like as not, her owner is a Kennian.”

The dockmaster fetched another ledger. As he flipped through the pages, Lenoir asked, “You seem to know a lot about the comings and goings of the
Fly By Night
crew, considering how many ships you have to deal with every day.”

“Marsh is a friend of mine, or at least I thought so. Damned rude, coming into port and not even saying hello.” He shook his head and wet his thumb, flipping a page. “Then there’s the business with his ship sitting idle. Not like him at all. I’ll give him a piece of my mind, next I see him.”

Something told Kody it was going to be a long time. “Here you go.” The dockmaster pushed the ledger across his desk. “Third line down.”

“Lord Kelvin Haughty,” Kody read.

Lenoir frowned and looked for himself. “Hughley. Lord Kelvin
Hughley
.”

“Oh,” said Kody.

“We will pay him a visit presently,” said Lenoir. “But first, I want to see that ship.”

*   *   *

An empty ship is an eerie place. Like an abandoned house, or a temple long forsaken, its former inhabitants do not seem absent so much as invisible—watching, silent and unmarked, from a space the living cannot touch. Lenoir both loved and hated such places. Hated, because they oppressed his nerves, as if eyes followed him from every shadow. Loved, because they seemed to him almost alive, witnesses to the truths he sought. Capable, if he was clever enough, of telling him everything he needed to know.
Fly By Night
held the answer to the riddle—who had brought the plague, and how. She spoke to him, albeit in a language he did not understand. He could hear her whispering in the creak of timber and the soft sigh of the
sea. Messages were hidden in the enigmatic geometry of her cargo hold, if only he could make them out.

Kody absorbed the scene differently. “This place stinks.”

“Impressive analysis, Sergeant. Do be sure to mention it in your report.” Lenoir held out the pry bar.

The sergeant snatched it up with a wry look and went over to the cluster of crates crammed in a corner of the hold. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t smell like herbs to me. It smells like
piss
, and a whole lot worse
.
” If he experienced anything more than olfactory distress at finding himself in the belly of the ship that had brought him plague, he gave no sign.

“Ship’s holds aren’t known for their pleasing perfumes,” the dockmaster said. He adjusted the scarf on his face, perhaps hoping it might do a better job of blocking the smell.

Wood barked, and Kody pried the lid off the crate. “Herbs,” he reported.

“Do one more, just to be sure,” said Lenoir.

Kody pried open a second crate. “Same.”

Lenoir nodded; he had expected as much. “At half a crown a bushel, these crates are worth at least a hundred crowns apiece.”

The dockmaster whistled. “For a bunch of dried plants? Who knew?”

“Whoever shipped them across the Grey knew.”

“Lord Hughley, I guess,” Kody said.

“Perhaps.” Lenoir was not so sure. To the dockmaster, he said, “You mentioned that you have found the ship deserted several times when you stopped by. Is that not unusual?”

“Yeah, it is. Most captains insist on at least one or two staying behind, plus a couple of guards. That’s the way we prefer it on our end too, in case anything comes up. Like the hounds taking an interest, for example.”

“How many men does it take to operate a vessel of this size?”

The dockmaster glanced around. “Rig like this? Crew of fifteen would be typical.”

“Fifteen crew, and none of them aboard.” Lenoir raised his lantern higher, chasing back the shadows. “You say you know Captain Elder well. What about his first mate?”

“Bird?” The dockmaster shrugged. “Enough to say hello.”

If only we had the sketch.
Something told Lenoir that the dockmaster would know their suspect too, whether it was Bird or someone else.