Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (34 page)

“Inspector?”

Lenoir shuffled over to the edge of the loading platform. Zach stood below, gazing up with a worried expression. “You don’t look so good. Is that blood?”

“Don’t worry, Zach. I will be fine. I just took a blow to the head.”

“Again?”

“So it would seem.”

“Better watch you don’t get punch drunk,” the boy advised.

“I shall certainly try,” Lenoir said wryly. “And where have you been?”

Zach opened his mouth, then paused. He shifted a little. “Hanging around with Bevin. You know.” He scrutinized his boot.

There is more to that story,
Lenoir thought. But it would have to wait. “How did you find me?”

“We didn’t,” Zach said. “Not exactly.”

“We were following Ritter,” Bevin said. “Your little pup here figured he was into some nasty business, so I offered to help.”

Zach snorted.

“That is, I agreed to help, for a small fee.”

“A fee?” Lenoir arched an eyebrow.

“The lad’s idea.”

Lenoir looked down at Zach. The boy took a renewed interest in his boots.

“A commission, like,” Bevin went on.

“A commission from the Metropolitan Police. For killing a man. What an interesting idea.”

Bevin shrugged. “Had no choice, did I? He was about to bash your head in. But anyway, that’s not what the payment is for. It’s a finder’s fee, if you will. You obviously didn’t have a clue where Ritter was, seeing as you thought he was dead. I found him for you.”

“So you deserve a commission.”

“Plus future considerations.”

Lenoir’s other eyebrow flew up. “Such as?”

Bevin grinned like a cat washing cream from its whiskers. “Seems to me the little pup here is onto a good thing. Wouldn’t mind a little work like that thrown my way now and then. I’d be a real . . . what’s the word I’m looking for . . .”

“Ass,” Zach said. “Ass something.”

“Asset,” said Bevin.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Zach looked up at Lenoir and smirked.

Lenoir wrestled down a smile of his own. “I will consider it.”

The big man jammed his knife back in its scabbard. “You do that, hound. You owe me, remember.”

“I have a feeling you will help me to remember.”

“Count on it. Now . . .” He clapped his hands together. “What do you say we have ourselves a little celebration? The Port is always open.”

“Tempting,” Lenoir said dryly, “but I will have to pass.”

“Need to see a physician?” Zach asked.

“I do, but first, these crates need to be loaded into wagons and sent to the Camp.”

“Oh yeah?” Zach glanced up at the cluster of coffin-sized crates. “Sure are a lot of ’em. What’s in ’em, anyway?”

Lenoir ran his hand over the rough wooden surface. “Life, Zach. What’s in them is life.”

L
enoir stared out over the faces of the crowd, trying his best to keep his expression neutral as the lord mayor droned on and on about courage, sacrifice, and a host of other qualities but thinly represented on the stage—least of all by His Honor. The speech had gone on for more than ten minutes, and Hearstings gave no sign of winding up. At first Lenoir had been merely bored, but the more the lord mayor talked, the angrier Lenoir became, until it was all he could do to keep still.

How dare you speak to these people about courage, when you fled the city during the fire? How dare you speak to them of sacrifice, when they have lost so much? You, who abandoned the Camp to plague, and the rest of the city to mayhem? You, who did not liberate a single resource to find a cure?

He glanced away, half afraid the crowd would read his thoughts in his eyes, and found himself meeting the gaze of another official on the stage. The Duke of Warrick wore a look of elegant contempt. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if to say,
Can you believe this drivel?
That only stoked Lenoir’s rage; he felt his jaw go taut, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The duke’s lip curled smugly. He looked away.

This city will learn its lesson,
Warrick had said on the night of the fire, as he watched the city burn. His Grace was not a man given to idle words. The exchange still nibbled at the edge of Lenoir’s consciousness, but he was not ready to deal with it just yet.

The sound of his own name cut through his thoughts.

“Inspector Lenoir, please step to the dais.”

Under cover of applause, Lenoir took a deep breath.
On your best behavior, Inspector.
He glanced at the chief for added inspiration. Reck wore a perfect mask, utterly impassive. Lenoir did his best to imitate it. He approached the podium.

Hearstings was draped in the trappings of his office, looking even more pompous than usual. His mustaches had been waxed to points, and the shine off his forehead was enough to blind a man at close range. Lenoir took petty satisfaction in seeing the tiny beads of sweat gathering at the lord mayor’s temples as he suffered under the afternoon sun.

His Honor assumed an air of profound gravitas. “Inspector Lenoir, your tireless efforts to bring the monster responsible for these crimes to justice, and your pivotal role in identifying the cure for the terrible disease that has ravaged our city, are quite simply an inspiration. You have done tremendous credit not only to yourself, but to the entire Metropolitan Police force, and on behalf of the City of Kennian and all those assembled here, I offer our heartfelt and eternal thanks.”

More applause. Lenoir fixed his gaze somewhere over the lord mayor’s shoulder. He thought about strawberry tarts.

“In recognition of your tremendous contribution, I hereby present to you this key to the city. With it, you have the right to enter any public building, and open any of the city’s gates.”

Lenoir could not help it; his gaze strayed to Warrick. The duke did not look over, but his lip curled again, this time in a smirk.

Belatedly, Lenoir realized that His Honor was holding out a ridiculously large key. He took it, gazing helplessly at the polished brass whorls and wondering what he was meant to do next. The idea that he might be expected to speak struck him with sudden and sickening force. Clutching the key to his chest, Lenoir did the only thing he could think of: he bowed.

There was an awkward pause. Chief Reck began to clap, loudly. The lord mayor joined in, if a little bemusedly, and the audience soon after. The Duke of Warrick contented himself with a nod. To the crowd, it would seem a dignified gesture of acknowledgment. Lenoir knew the duke too well for that, however. Warrick was mocking him, if subtly. He was mocking the entire assembly. Lenoir might have joined in, were he not too uncomfortable with the idea that he was in sympathy with the Duke of Warrick, however briefly.

“You survived,” Reck said when the handshakes were done and the crowd had begun to disperse.

Lenoir glanced over at Hearstings. His Honor was prattling away at a visibly disinterested Warrick. So much the better. Lenoir might have a chance of slinking away quickly. “It was a near thing, Chief,” he said. He sounded as bitter as he felt.

“Be that as it may, I’m grateful. I don’t need any more drama.”

“I cannot disagree with that.”

He started to say more, but Hearstings wedged himself between them and grabbed Lenoir’s hand yet again. Apparently, he had been abandoned by Warrick, and could again bestow some of his time on the little people. “Really, Inspector, jolly well done! You single-handedly saved the day!”

His palms were even sweatier than his forehead. Lenoir squirmed free as quickly as decorum would allow. “Hardly single-handed, Your Honor. Aside from the many hounds who played a role, there are those in the Camp
whose efforts to heal the sick have saved many lives. In particular, a pair of Adali healers—”

“Yes, I heard about that.” Hearstings thumped his shoulder. “Just goes to prove that there are always a few good ones, eh?”

“I’m afraid I do not follow,” Lenoir said coolly.

“Not that I blame the Adali, mind you. Not their fault their traditions are unsanitary. I mean, one could hardly expect those backward tribes to understand that burning bodies causes plague.”

Lenoir stiffened. “You cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“Sergeant Kody!” the chief bellowed, loud enough for Lenoir to start.

Kody bounded over dutifully, looking remarkably hale for a man who had recovered from plague and taken a knife to the throat only two weeks before. A small bandage and a jaundiced hue around his eye were the only remaining signs of his ordeal.

“Your Honor,” Reck said, “this is Sergeant Bran Kody. He was at Lenoir’s side for the entire investigation. In fact, he actually caught the disease himself, but soldiered on anyway. . . .”

By the time Reck had finished singing Kody’s praises, Lenoir’s temper had cooled enough that he was able to bid the lord mayor a polite, if starchy, farewell. “Thank you, Chief,” he said as he watched Hearstings’s receding back. “You narrowly averted a diplomatic incident.” Reck just rolled his eyes.

Lenoir turned the brass key over in his hands, feeling foolish. Sunlight brushed the metal in liquid gold, polishing the rounded edges of the lion motif.

“What’re you going to do with it?” Kody asked.

Lenoir shook his head.

“You’ll display it, at least,” Kody said.

“Oh?” Lenoir looked up. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, it’s an honor, isn’t it?” Kody said.

“Is it?”

“Yes, Inspector, it is,” Reck said. “It’s a symbol. Symbols are important.”

Lenoir looked back down at the key. “You’re right,” he murmured, more to himself than the chief. “They are.” And suddenly, he knew just what he wanted to do with it.

*   *   *

“I wonder, Inspector, how many times I need to remind you to wear a mask.”

Lenoir hovered under the tent flap, scanning the shadows. Seeing the cot empty, he stepped all the way inside. “The danger is not what it was,” he said.

Merden
tsked
. “We are running low on tonic already, and it will be several weeks yet before we receive another shipment of angel wort. We cannot afford to be cavalier.” He stepped into the candlelight, and Lenoir winced inwardly. Though he knew it was impossible, he would have sworn the soothsayer had lost weight overnight. “Besides,” Merden said, “I doubt you would find the illness a pleasant experience, curable or not.”

“I daresay Kody would agree with you.” Lenoir glanced around the empty tent. “Taking a break?”

“Believe it or not, my services are not required just now.”

Lenoir’s eyebrows flew up. “Not at all? That is certainly good news.”

“A temporary lull, no doubt, but yes—welcome news indeed.”

At last, we are bringing it under control.
The number of new infections dropped every day, and with the College of Physicians finally on board, they had been able to get tonic to nearly everyone who needed it. The number of cases requiring Merden’s . . .
special talents
 . . . had been greatly reduced. “You can rest,” Lenoir said. “At last.”

Merden slumped into a chair, gesturing for Lenoir to do the same. “I have been trying, but believe it or not, I cannot sleep.”

“Nor I,” said Lenoir, though he doubted they suffered from the same ailment. Night after night, Lenoir found himself staring at the ceiling, his mind raking through the details of the case, dwelling on every clue missed, every opportunity squandered, every bad decision that had cost time and lives. Of all the mistakes he had made, his failure to stop Oded’s murder weighed heaviest on his mind. And it could have been still worse. If Kody had not recovered . . .

It did not bear thinking of.

“It has been a long time since I have been so thoroughly outwitted, Merden,” he sighed.

The soothsayer cocked his head. “Outwitted? How so?”

“Ritter planned everything so carefully. Not only did he create demand for an otherwise worthless product, he founds ways of making money off the indirect effects as well. Did you know that when we raided his cabin, we found documents tying him to florists, funeral parlors, tombstone makers . . . He had even lined up buyers for his infected monkeys.”

Merden grunted. “An astute businessman. But I still do not see how he outwitted you.”

“He predicted every move we would make, and he was ready for it. He had me chasing shadows and decoys. Every time I got close, he would throw someone else in my way, someone he had paid or conned or otherwise manipulated into acting for him.”

“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, some
thing
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?”