Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel Read Free

look. “You’re an art critic now?”
    “I am Arrènais, Chief. We are all art critics.”
    Reck snorted. “Not to mention food critics, fashion critics, theater critics . . .”
    “Criticism builds character.”
    “I guess that explains why you lot are such a
humble
people.”
    Lenoir’s lip quirked just short of a smile. “Undoubtedly.”
    The repartee was short-lived. The chief’s countenance clouded over again, his thick gray eyebrows gathering beneath the deep lines of his forehead. “You want to tell me what in the below my best inspector is doing running down a thief? That’s
his
job.” He jabbed a finger at Kody.
    The irony of this lecture was not lost on Lenoir.
Small wonder Kody acts like a watchman, when you act like a sergeant.
“I was not precisely running the man down,” he said, a little defensively. “I did not expect to meet the thief, merely to discover his hideout.”
    Reck spread his hands, inviting Lenoir to continue.
    “The painting was stolen yesterday, from the auction house. His Lordship wished to recover it, and he asked for me personally. I intended to discover the thief’s hideout and assemble some watchmen to bring him in.”
    “Didn’t quite go to plan, though,” Kody put in, helpfully.
    “So you end up chasing him all over Evenside.” Reck shook his head. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Lenoir. A few months ago, I could hardly get you to take an interest in a murder investigation. Now you’re putting your life on the line for a stolen painting. You have a recent brush with death or something?”
    This time, Lenoir chose to ignore the irony. “I thought you would want me to take the case, Chief. Lord Einhorn is a particular benefactor of the Metropolitan Police.”
    “Don’t I know it! And now I have to explain to His Lordship how a valuable piece of art came to be destroyed!”
    “I can explain it to him, if you wish.”
    The wry look returned. “No, thank you. I’d like to make it sound like we
regret
ruining his painting.”
    Lenoir shrugged. “As you like. And now if you will excuse me, I have a report to file. . . .” More accurately, Kody had a report to file, but Lenoir saw no point in bothering the chief with extraneous details.
    “Later,” Reck said, rising and grabbing his coat from the rack. “You’re coming with me, Lenoir. We have business with the lord mayor.”
    Lenoir made only the barest effort to conceal his dismay. “
We
, Chief? I cannot imagine what His Honor could possibly—”
    “Save it. I know how you feel about the man, but fortunately for you, it’s not mutual. His Honor has a crisis on his hands, and he wants our best. That means you. Now let’s go.” Turning to Kody, he added, “I’ll want that report when I get back.”
    Lenoir trailed the chief down the stairs and into the kennel, bracing himself for the throng. The shift was just changing over, and watchmen teemed in every direction, choking the narrow avenues between work spaces. Sergeants tucked themselves more tightly behind their desks, and scribes pressed up against walls and collected in corners, clutching their ledgers and ink bottles and waiting out the tide. The chief made no such accommodation, nor did he need to; as soon as his boots hit the floor, the pack of hounds parted as if by some collective instinct, standing aside to let their alpha through. Lenoir followed closely in Reck’s wake, feeling the pack close up behind him.
    The chief’s carriage waited for them in the street, a pair of watchmen serving as driver and footman. Reck waved the latter off as he climbed in, and he was still scowling when Lenoir took the seat across from him. “If you hatethe carriage so much, why do you take it?” Lenoir asked, amused.
    “For the dignity of the Kennian Metropolitan Police,” Reck said dryly. “If I showed up at the lord mayor’s mansion on horseback, I’d never hear the end of it.” He rapped his knuckles on the wall behind him, and the