Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (29 page)

He turned full circle, letting the light spill over the timbers. Something against the near wall caught his eye: a thin white scar at about the level of his knee. He went to take a closer look. “There is a scratch in the wood here. Fresh, by the looks of it.”

“Probably nicked it when we were unloading the crates,” the dockmaster said.

“I don’t think so.” Lenoir moved the lantern a few inches to the right. “There are more over here.” Transferring the lantern to his left hand, he held his right to the wall, pressing the tips of his gloved fingers against the wood. “Four parallel scratches, like claw marks. A cat, perhaps?”

“Could be, but I’ll bet it was the monkeys. Filthy little buggers.”

Lenoir whirled around, the light from his lantern slashing the darkness. “What did you say?”

“
This
was the ship with the monkeys in it?” In the glow of the lantern, Kody’s scowl was truly frightening. “Why in the below didn’t you say so?”

“How was I supposed to know you’d care?” the dockmaster said defensively.

Lenoir shook his head. The imbecility of the common man never ceased to amaze. “Why were they not listed on the manifest?”

“Because they weren’t cargo. Not officially, anyway.
They were just pets. Belonged to Marsh, or so I was told.”

“Told by whom?”

“Bird, the first mate.”

“But you never confirmed this with the captain himself?”

“Like I said, I haven’t seen Marsh since
Fly By Night
set sail a couple of months back.”

“Where are the monkeys now?”

“No idea.”

“That must be why it smells like piss in here,” Kody said.

“Possibly.” Lenoir had no idea what monkey urine smelled like, but to his nose, the stench in the hold was all too human. He made a slow tour of the area, scanning the floor, the walls, what remained of the cargo. In one corner of the hold, he found a series of barrels, most open and empty, a few still sealed. In another, the reek of urine was especially strong, as if it had been doused over and over. He found another series of scars in the wood, but these had not been made by claws. There were six of them, perfectly even cuts in two groups of three. Nearby, Lenoir found a dark stain on the floorboards. He drew his knife and scratched at it, producing a rust-colored sawdust.
Blood.

Lenoir shone his light on the dockmaster. “Fifteen men to sail this craft, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“In that case,” Lenoir said, “we are looking for four suspects, and one of them is named Bird.”

“Only four?” Kody frowned. “What about the rest?”

“The rest,” Lenoir said, “are dead.”

“D
ead?” Kody blinked, surprised. “Not that I’m sorry to hear it, but . . . how do you know?”

“Because I read the signs,” Lenoir said. He walked over to the cluster of barrels. “You see these? They are supply barrels. Food and water.”

“So?”

“So, look how many are still sealed. The crew consumed only two-thirds of what they brought.”

“Maybe they overestimated what they’d need.”

“Not bloody likely,” the dockmaster said. “Marsh is too experienced a captain to take up precious cargo space with supplies he didn’t need.”

So why all the uneaten food?
Kody was beginning to see where Lenoir was headed.

“Then there is the urine smell, as you so cunningly observed. The stench is concentrated here, in this corner. Some animals instinctively urinate and defecate in a particular spot, but most are indiscriminate. That, and the smell itself, leads me to suspect it is actually human urine.” He walked over to another part of the hold, shining his lantern against the wall. “As for these scratches, they are definitely human. Too even to have been made by anything but a knife, and clustered together in distinct
groups of three. Someone was keeping count of something. The passage of time, for instance. One mark for each day, such as prisoners are wont to do.”

“Someone was being held down here,” Kody said.

“Exactly.” Lenoir moved again, and this time he shone the light at the floor. “The blood soaked into the boards here may or may not be his.”

Kody knelt beside the bloodstain. “If it is, this isn’t where he died. Not enough blood.”

“No. But my guess is whoever it was did not die violently, at least not in the conventional sense.”

Kody looked up at Lenoir. “And you think that because . . .”

“Eleven crates, Sergeant.”

“The missing cargo.” Kody remembered, but he didn’t quite follow.

“Eleven crates disappeared somewhere between this ship and Warehouse 57. And do you happen to recall how many infected corpses Sister Rhea’s man collected?”

Kody swore softly. “Could it be a coincidence?”

“Possibly.” Lenoir walked back over to the cargo, the two hundred–plus crates full of herbs. “It could also be a coincidence that these crates are approximately the size of a coffin. Or that the first load of cargo was taken off this ship six weeks ago—around the time bodies started turning up in the Camp.”

“A lot of coincidences,” Kody said, sighing.

“Too many to credit.”

“But if it takes fifteen people to sail this ship, how did they manage?”

“Judging by the barrels, they were most of the way home before the crew started to perish.” Lenoir turned to the dockmaster. “Is it possible that a skeleton crew could pilot the ship for a short distance?”

“Just barely, but yeah—it’s possible, if they were close enough to home, and they didn’t hit any weather. If they were gonna make it, this would be the season to do it.”

“That is not a coincidence either. This was all meticulously planned.”

The dockmaster looked grim. “So Marsh—he’s dead, then?”

“I cannot be certain about anyone specific, but it does seem likely.”

“Bird never said anything. Guess that means he’s involved?” The dockmaster’s hands were balling into fists at his sides.
There’s a storm brewing there,
Kody thought. He understood it well enough. He was feeling pretty dark-minded himself.

“You think this Bird and his coconspirators infected the rest of the crew on purpose?” Kody could feel the anger boiling up again, like lava rising in a volcano. “Depraved doesn’t even cover it,” he growled.

“Depraved,” Lenoir said, “and efficient. As I said, this was all planned very carefully.”

“Where do the monkeys come into it?”

“Is it not obvious? The monkeys were the carriers. Bird and the others couldn’t risk traveling for weeks on end with infected corpses, so instead they brought monkeys, something they could keep safely caged until the right moment. It explains everything—how they were able to find an infected host even though Inataar is plague-free, how the corpses came to be fresh in spite of a long sea voyage. Animals have been known to carry diseases to which they themselves are resistant or immune. Most likely, that is what happened here. They were kept segregated somewhere in the hold, separate from the crew, until Bird needed them. All he had to do was wait until the ship was most of the way home, stage a mutiny, lock the crew down in the hold, release the monkeys, and wait it out. In such close quarters with the animals, infection would have been inevitable. As long as Bird and his coconspirators handled the monkeys carefully, it would have been a simple matter to control who was exposed to the disease, and when.”

A simple matter.
Kody wasn’t sure what infuriated him more: the ruthlessness of the crime, or the matter-of-fact way Lenoir explained it.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Lenoir sighed. “I do not mean to sound callous, Sergeant. But if we are to find these men, we must first understand them.”

Kody knew he was right, but it still made him sick. “Are you sure about all this? What about the bloodstain?”

“We know at least one crew member had a knife on him when he was locked in the hold. Perhaps a fight broke out.”

“Or maybe they managed to take out one of the monkeys.” Somehow, the idea made Kody feel a little better.

“Perhaps,” said Lenoir. To the dockmaster, he said, “This Bird, can you describe him?”

“Well, he takes after a bird, doesn’t he? Or did you think that was his real name?”

Lenoir gave the man a sour look. “I did, actually. So, what—he has a long nose?”

“Long nose, beady eyes. Built like a beanpole. Has a weird, twitchy way about him.”

Built like a beanpole.
“Not the man Brice saw,” Kody said.

“It would seem not. We must get the scribes to work on new sketches as soon as possible—of Bird, and of our original suspect.”

“With the Inataari, that makes three out of four we should be able to spot easily enough.”

“Perhaps if we had watchmen at our disposal.” Lenoir sighed. “As things stand, nothing will be easy.”

“And there’s still the fourth man. We have no idea who he might be.”

“We’ll find out,” Lenoir said. “And when we do, he will hang.”

*   *   *

Durian’s balls.
Ritter lowered the spyglass. In the distance, the dockmaster and the hounds were reduced to specks as they climbed the gangplank up to
Fly By Night
. If they’d found the ship, they knew most of it already, and soon enough they’d know the rest. Out in the suburbs, Ritter could continue to pass himself off as Captain Elder, but down here at the docks, that wouldn’t fly. He was known around here, and though there weren’t many who could connect him to
Fly By Night
, it took only one.
I should have been more careful,
he thought. He could have hired someone else to oversee the cargo, someone expendable. That way, none of it could be traced back to him. But he’d been too excited, too tickled by his own cleverness, and now at least half a dozen dockhands could attest to his involvement. One of them might have mentioned him already, and even if they hadn’t, the hounds would most likely interview the lot. They’d find out about Ritter sooner or later, and then it would be over. He’d already made enough money to walk away—more than enough—but there was a king’s fortune still unsold. . . .

Damn!
If only he’d given Nash the order days ago, the hounds would have been taken care of by now, the way Sukhan had taken care of the other loose ends. Nash would get to them eventually, but by then it might be too late. They’d already found the
Fly
, and thirty-six thousand crowns worth of goods were about to be seized. That thought alone was enough to make Ritter queasy. Worse, the hounds would certainly use the angel wort to make more tonic. They’d distribute it for
free
, dumping it on the market. They’d ruin everything
.

Ritter figured he had about two, three days at most. After that, it would all be over. Most likely, he’d find himself in jail. Best-case scenario, the roaring market he’d carefully constructed for himself would collapse. Still, you could make a lot of money in forty-eight hours, if you knew what you were doing.
Volume is the answer,
he thought. Before, he’d been relying on fat margins. He didn’t have time for that now.
Get it all out there, reduce the price, sell as much as you can, then disappear.
That was the only course left to him.

He had enough product, even without the remaining cargo on the
Fly
. He’d moved the last load out of Warehouse 57 as soon as he’d discovered the break-in, and that was as much as he could hope to sell in forty-eight hours anyway. With the supply side taken care of, he could concentrate on creating demand.

He had his monkeys, but letting them loose in an open space wouldn’t do much good. It had taken days of being locked up in the hold with them for the crew to fall sick. The little bastards might bite one or two people if he got lucky, but that wouldn’t be enough. Besides, it would take a few days for the victim to start showing symptoms, and Ritter didn’t have that kind of time. He needed another plan.

Fortunately, Ritter was never short of plans.

All it would take was a handcart and a miasma mask. With so few corpse collectors making the rounds, he’d have no trouble finding households desperate to be rid of their dead. He’d have a barrowful in no time, and another after that. He could plant the corpses anywhere he liked. Out in the open, in untouched neighborhoods, where they’d create the most panic. A water well here and there, just to speed things along. It would take a couple of weeks for the plague to really get going, but that was all right. The deaths were just a side effect anyway. It was the
fear
he really needed.

Ritter glanced up at the sun. Early afternoon. If he could get a couple of loads of corpses by nightfall, he could distribute them under cover of darkness.
Perfect.
By this time tomorrow, if he planned his route well, every neighborhood in Kennian would be covered—starting with the richest. Then it would be too late to stop
it. He’d have his demand, and every sprig of angel wort in Kennian wouldn’t be enough to slake it.

You’ll have to leave town,
he thought. That was unfortunate. He loved Kennian; he hated to have to sacrifice her to the plague. There was no help for it, though. As much as Ritter loved Kennian, he loved gold even more.

One hundred seventy crates left, at a hundred and forty-four crowns apiece, minus Nash’s ten and Sukhan’s fifteen . . .
Ritter did the maths, and decided it was more than enough to live on, even for him.

Whistling, he collapsed his spyglass and headed for Warehouse 49.

*   *   *

“I am very sorry, Officers, but His Lordship is unable to receive you today. Good morning.” The chamberlain started to close the door.

Kody wedged his foot in the doorjamb. “I think maybe there’s a misunderstanding here. This isn’t a request.”

The servant regarded him coldly. “There is indeed a misunderstanding, sir. I very much regret that His Lordship is
not able
to receive you.”

“Not able.” Lenoir narrowed his eyes. “Why is that, exactly?”

The chamberlain hesitated, and for a moment, Lenoir thought he was going to have to ask Kody to be even less polite. Then the servant lowered his voice and said, “His Lordship is not well, and we are under strict instructions to admit no visitors.”

“Not well as in, has a bit of a sniffle? Or . . .” Kody shifted a little farther back from the door, as if he might catch plague a second time.

The servant made no reply, but he did not need to; Lenoir read the truth in the tense lines of the man’s face. “I believe it is a little more serious than that, Sergeant.”

Kody glanced up at the windows. “There’s no flag. . . .”

“Of course not.” An aristocratic household would
never advertise the presence of plague. Lenoir was surprised the chamberlain had admitted as much as he had. Perhaps he was hoping the hounds would insist the servants be sent away. If so, he would be disappointed; Lenoir had no legal basis for interfering. “How long?” he asked the man.

“Yesterday morning.”

“And his condition?”

The chamberlain cleared his throat uncomfortably. “His Lordship’s physician is . . . not optimistic.”

“That is unfortunate.” Lenoir paused, considering the man. “I have heard of a new medicine,” he said, watching the chamberlain carefully. “A tonic sold on the street that is said to bring some relief to the afflicted. Have you not tried it?”

The chamberlain looked positively scandalized. “A miracle potion peddled by street hucksters? I think not. His Lordship is in the care of Dr. Ipsworth, the finest physician in Braeland.”

“I see. And what treatment has Dr. Ipsworth prescribed?”

“I hardly think it appropriate for me to discuss such details.”

“A harmless question, surely? The plague gains new ground every day. If I should fall ill, I would very much like to know what the finest physician in Braeland recommends.”

The chamberlain glanced furtively behind him and narrowed the doorway to a crack, as if afraid the good doctor might overhear and charge him a fee. “His Lordship’s chamber is purified continuously with camphor smoke, and the dark blood is drawn off every few hours.”

Smoke and leeches. And they call the Adali superstitious.

Aloud, Lenoir said, “I will certainly remember it, and I wish His Lordship a speedy recovery. In the meantime, perhaps you can help me. I am trying to track down a
man called Bird, who is first mate aboard
Fly By Night.
Do you know where I might find him?”

The chamberlain shook his head. “But perhaps Mr. Garren can help you. He is Lord Hughley’s personal secretary.”

“Is he here?”

“Oh, yes. He is never far from His Lordship’s side, even now. I will fetch him from the study. Under the circumstances, I think it best if you remain outside the manor.”