Free Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel by E.L. Tettensor

door. He had never told the sergeant the whole story; he could hardly believe it himself. “That is a tale for another time,” he said, hoping Merden would take the hint.
    “A shame. I should very much like to hear it.”
    You have no idea.
Aloud, Lenoir said, “This is Sergeant Kody.”
    Merden turned his golden-eyed gaze upon Kody, allowing the sergeant to experience that profoundly wise, profoundly unnerving stare. The Adal said nothing, but inclined his head in greeting. Kody ducked awkwardly in return.
    “Merden is a soothsayer,” Lenoir said.
    “Okay.” Kody stayed where he was.
    Turning back to Merden, Lenoir said, “I need your help.”
    “Plainly.”
    Lenoir had forgotten how sharp—and how sharp-tongued—the Adal could be. “Are you aware of the disease that has been ravaging the Camp?”
    “I do leave this shop occasionally, Inspector.” The dryness of his tone cut cleanly through the lilting accent.
    I will take that as a
yes
.
“And its symptoms—you have heard them described?”
    “I have.”
    “Is the disease familiar to you?”
    There was a long pause. Merden considered him carefully. “I would be very disappointed, Inspector, if this was a roundabout way of asking me whether the Adali are responsible for bringing this plague to Braelish shores.”
    “Not at all.” Lenoir raised a hand in a mollifying gesture. “I am merely asking whether, in your experience as a practitioner of”—he hesitated, darting another look at Kody—“of traditional medicine, you have come across this disease before.”
    “If you mean
khekra
,
you can say it,” Kody said from the doorway. “I’m not stupid.”
    Merden glanced at him. “You would not be stupid to fear dark magic, Sergeant. On the contrary, you would be a fool not to.”
    Silence descended on the room like a fine layer of dust.
Khekra
was rarely spoken of openly, not even among the Adali. Few southerners had even heard the word, and those who had invariably wished they had not. Fewer still were those, like Lenoir, who had witnessed its power. He cleared his throat. “You did not answer my question.”
    “The disease is known to my people,” Merden said warily.
    Lenoir could not help smiling. “As are its secrets. Is it not so?”
    The soothsayer made no reply.
    Lenoir shook his head. “I should have seen it sooner. All the signs were there.”
    “What signs?” Kody directed a mistrustful stare at the tall man behind the counter. “Sorry, Inspector, but I don’t follow.”
    “It was the report that finally made me see it, though it has been in front of us all along.”
    “What has?”
    “No Adali among the corpses brought into the clinic.None in the treatment tent, or the convalescents’ tent. Not a single Adali name listed among the dead. And then there was the rumor Zach mentioned, about the Adali having the only cure. Is that true, Merden, or are your people simply immune?”
    The soothsayer’s eyes narrowed.
    “That is not an accusation,” Lenoir was quick to add.
    “Isn’t it?” Merden’s rich voice sounded a dangerous note, and for the first time, Lenoir found himself wondering what this man might be capable of. He had seen enough of the occult to know he had reason to fear.
    “No, it is not. As I told you, I need your help. If you have a cure, you must share it.”
    Merden eyed him for a long moment, as though weighing Lenoir’s intentions. The Adali rarely discussed their traditions with outsiders, still less with the police.
I should have been more diplomatic,
Lenoir thought. Tact had never been his strong suit, but he should have made more of an effort. If Merden turned them away, there would be no second chance.
    “
I
do not have a cure,” the soothsayer said at length. “If I had, I would have told someone by now. Or do you think me a barbarian?”
    “Of course not,” Lenoir said, but it sounded defensive, even to him.
    Merden went on as though he had not heard. “It is quite possible, however, that a