The room over John Lovekyn's fish stall was hardly an ample space for six people. They crowded around a trestle table previously used for processing fish, which John had conscientiously draped with a sheet of old canvas. He sat on an upended barrel of salted herring, having welcomed his guests to all the chairs and stools in the place.

After observing etiquette with a perfunctory toast to God, King Edward, and each other's continued health, the gathered set aside formalities. Though their number included one knight, two Barons, and one Countess, they mostly called each other by name alone.

“I hear another ship has come in. More French.” Lady Anne Stockridge observed, apropos nothing. She sniffed disapproval.

“They're being herded into quarantine off the Southern point with the others.” This was John Tramwick, sitting far enough back to avoid touching the table in any way. Tall and thin to the point of emaciation, his obssessive fastidiousness was infamous. His presence owed to his family having paid to nullify his conscription. While several elder family members were away at war, he sat as de facto Baron of Epsom. More importantly, he controlled his family's influence and wealth.

Across the table, William Clovis thumped his cup down, empty. He wiped his great red mustache with the back of a sleeve.

“They bring anything of value? And can we... confiscate it? For the safety of all, of course.” He spoke very clearly and intelligently, belying the sort of impression his bear like appearance often gave.

Between Clovis and Lovekyn sat Andrew Aubry. The actual Alderman for Cordwainer, he had become distant since his wife had fallen to the plague. He murmured unintelligibly, absently staring into his cup. Lovekyn spared Aubry a glance before speaking.

“Food stuffs would be fine. Small folk carry on crowding in from the countryside. More mouths to feed and less harvest being brought in by the day.”

At the foot of the table, across from Lovekyn, Timothy Westmarch peaked over the rim of his cup. He seemed content to hold it up in front of his face as if hiding behind it. None of the others took notice. In fact, they rarely acknowledged his presence unless to suggest he refill their cups or light a new candle. Similar to Tramwick, Timothy's fresh Baronial position came courtesy of losses in his family – which in turn came courtesy of the war and the Black Death.

It was in Timothy's genes to inherit, but it was not in his genes, among other things*, to Lord. His facial features suggested that many of his forebears had, at some point, been very close in both relation and proximity. He tended to put people in mind of an overwrought chihuahua, bug-eyes and all.

{*These other things included standing in the face of a stiff breeze, speaking more than ten words without tripping over his own teeth, and actually having a chin.}

Lovekyn sometimes good-naturedly encouraged 'Little Timmy,' and it was probably this encouragment which gave him the fleeting confidence to speak up.

“Ehh... C-could not the food shtuffsh be... er... tainted?”

Four pairs of eyes turned on him. Alderman Aubry's gaze remained aimed into his cup.

“To ensure detection of any hint of the Great Mortality is the whole point of quarantine.” Tramwick pointed out.

“Hmm,” Clovis growled thoughtfully, “I'm for taking what we can – for the city's sake, but it would be just like those trufflemongers to bring plague with them.”

A ponderful silence would have fallen, if not for Clovis sliding his cup down toward the young Lord Westmarch and tapping it upon the tabletop. Timothy poured from a clay jug. Upon offering around, he was waved off by Tramwick and Lovekyn, ignored by the Countess, and went totally unnoticed by Aubry.

At length, Lady Stockridge broke the silence.

“Does it truly require forty days to reveal if there be plague on a ship?”

“You'll not catch me setting foot on some perhaps plague ridden French ship.” Clovis made French sound more distasteful than plague ridden.

Tramwick grimaced, unconsciously wiping his hands on his cloak.

“Here, we have men who see to the sick. If their masks and things are proof against the evil, they should not bridle at the prospect of taking a look at these ships. Checking the crews and cargo.” Lovekyn suggested.

“Yes,” Aubrey finally showed some interest, “Let these plague- surgeons earn their keep.”

“We can pay them in food.” Clovis thought aloud, scratching his stubbled jaw.

“Do you suppose fishes are immune to the Mortality?” Lord Timothy asked.

The others at the table looked at one another. William Clovis cleared his throat.

“Now, regarding the burning of bodies...”

* * *

Around the city church bells tolled the hours into the night, though nobody cried 'All is well.'

It was shortly after nine'o'clock when Dick the ratcatcher returned home. His hovel stood amidst a row of similar one-room abodes directly across the street from the tanneries. The rent was cheap, since only those with a nose as insensate as Dick's would even consider rooming there. In other words, tannery workers, gong fermors, and Dick.

It was half past ten when the unofficial meeting over Lovekyn's fish stall was unofficially adjourned. As the others dispersed, bound for their own lodgings, Lovekyn locked up and walked down to the bridge tower. He briefly lamented not having bothered to hunt down his rod of office when he saw a particular heap of rags huddled near the corner where the road met the bridge. It was with great relief that he passed the heap without incident. Blessedly, Little Bobby Riggs Jr. was already fast asleep.

The bells tolled eleven'o'clock as Felix settled his head back against the cottage door to sleep. He sat on one of the duffel bags he had unloaded from Caesar's back, having seen Mrs. Weissberger off to bed earlier. After some talking to she had calmed considerably and eventually agreed that she would probably be better prepared to face matters in the morning. He hadn't been sure ghosts could sleep, but upon laying down on the bed, she quickly entered some form of unconsciousness.

Felix had fed Caesar and put him in the other room, which had contained a spinning wheel and some baskets and nothing else. And finally he tossed the sack of clothes against the door and settled down. While he waited for sleep to claim him, he mentally listed off the errands he hoped to run before he was due at Rubbery Hall.

To the soapers and apothecary for lye, vinegar, sulfur, and bleach for cleaning and for certain experiments he had in mind. To see a carpenter about a long table and some chairs. To market for food. Perhaps he could arrange to pay Lord Rubbery for a supply of strong spirits.

* * *

Felix woke bright and early. He was greeted with the muted but unmistakable sounds of bustling. Lifting his head to look around, he felt a twinge in his neck. He made a mental note to see about getting another bed. Or two. He might have occasion to host patients, and he would do well to use a bed from time to time himself. And something told him Mrs. Weissberger would object to sharing.

Speaking of Mrs. Weissberger, he found her to be the source of the bustlement. Though Felix could see that the fireplace was cold and empty, and there were no pots or pans in evidence, the late lady of the house moved industriously. She flitted, or at least flounced with purpose, between the fireplace, table, and hutch as if preparing a hearty breakfast. For a moment Felix fancied he caught a whiff of bread frying in drippings.

Felix sighed. Probably whatever imaginary dish she was putting together would be a lot tastier than the travel food waiting for him in Caesar's saddlebags.

Anyway, if it kept her occupied and stopped her breaking down again, she could spend the day preparing an imaginary feast.

Rising slowly, Felix worked at the kinks in his neck before stepping into the next room to check on Caesar. Taking a waterskin from the saddlebag, he first emptied some into a bucket for the mule, then helped himself to several swallows. He splashed a further handful on his face and ran his hand back through his hair. Corking and returning the waterskin, he rummaged around until he came up with a runty carrot and an apple that was mostly bruises. Holding one in each hand, he presented them to Caesar. The mule sniffed, then snapped up the apple between his teeth.

“Ass.” Felix snatched his fingers away. After giving it a withering look, he lifted the carrot to crunch off a bite.

“Right. Market first. Let us away.” He spoke around a mouthful of carrot.

Twitching the lead, he led Caesar out to the front door. While he paused to pull on his mask and gloves, Mrs. Weissberger spoke up.

“Going out?”

“Errands.” Felix replied laconically.

“You are coming back?”

“Before noon. Nil desperandum, Mrs. Weissberger.” he called over a shoulder as he led Caesar out. He turned then, cut a shallow bow, and pulled the door closed.

As the two headed to market – at the steady walking pace Caesar was willing to keep up, sparse dark clouds loomed in the East. Felix eyed them speculatively. The country desperately needed the rain. Like as not, any rain would fall off the coast.

Or perhaps a storm would come inland and drop a rain of herring.

The first stop, the market, was neither busy nor empty. The people gave each other a bit more space than they might have done before the Mortality. Still, goods changed hands. Men and women coughed and sneezed and spat. Perhaps half of them wore a handkerchief or cloth tied over their mouth and nose, or carried similar stuffed with herbs or flowers.

Felix noticed without surprise that those he passed gave him a wider birth than they did one another. There were sidelong glances and whispers, of course. Still, when he demonstrated he was spending, the vendors were not too reticent to take his money. He perused baskets of runty potatoes, wilting ramps, and spotty cabbage. Over the years he had grown somewhat disinterested in food in general. The condition of the food on offer made little difference to him. Falling back on a tried and true method, he bought a few of everything, and crammed it all unceremoniously into Caesar's saddlebags.

The vegetables were followed by a clutch of eggs held in a crude box of woven reeds and padded with straw. Splurging, he also purchased a few thick slices of salted bacon. This was more a strategic consideration, in case he ever ended up entertaining guests as opposed to patients, than for his own sake. The butcher was momentarily confused when Felix paid the hugely inflated price without comment or complaint.

The last stop before leaving the market was to purchase a large earthenware jug of ale from a friar. The man's name would remain a mystery because the moment Felix stopped and spoke to him, the fellow began telling the story of his life. He wasn't bothered about trivialities like chronological order or context. When Felix pointed to one of the jugs at his feet, the friar added; “Fine ale, ten pence now and I'll buy it back empty for three.” As if it were an aside to his much more interesting story.

Without actually speaking a word to the man, Felix paid and, instead of rearranging the contents of Caesar's saddlebags, he checked the cork and hefted the jug onto one shoulder. With one decisive nod he left the rosey-cheeked friar, who was still happily holding forth, and set off for baker street.

Stopping at the first home with a sign reading 'Baker,' he encountered a grandmother with more offspring than teeth. He paid for two large loaves, and the old matriarch clapped a round-faced grandson across the back of the head.

“Fetch them 'uns there off the board, boy.” she croaked.

While the chosen helper fetched the bread, the elderly breadmaker surreptitiously scrutinized her patron.

“All 'is,” she gestured in front of her own face with a hand of bone and sinew, “'at's for the Death, is it?”

“Aye, Mum.”

“I wouldn't take that from this lot,” she cracked a smile and waved the same hand again to indicate various offspring bustling at the ovens or working dough, “They call me Granny Smith or they feels my kneadin' hand. But I gets a queer feelin' about you, my cheeky young buck.”

“Say true?” Felix asked while accepting the loaves from the boy. He felt the rare frisson of thrill that came when it seemed someone might be glimpsing the glint along the edges of his unspoken lies.

“Heh. Aye, too true, boy. What do you call yourself?”

“Felix, Mum.”

Granny Smith pursed her lips, then nodded.

“Latin.” she approved.

“Aye.” Felix nodded.

“Hm. Come again, Felix, if you live that long. Now get thee gone. This isn't a brothel.”

Granny Smith cackled. She turned to open a jar of flour and spread a handful across the counter top. For the first time Felix noticed her left hand, which was curled and rigid. He had seen the affliction before. The result of a form of arthritis.

Filing the fact mentally, he turned to go.

“Aye, Mum. Good day to you.”

The bread joined the vegetables and fish and things in Caesar's bags. All save a hunk that Felix tore off and ate, tucking his mask under an arm. He turned his gaze skyward as he walked, enjoying the smell of the still warm bread as much as the taste. The clouds he had earlier spotted had drifted South. Oh well.

The bread had gone down just in time that he didn't choke on it when a man emerged from an alley swinging a bell. Felix ducked aside, then continued side stepping as the man was followed by another man pulling a cart. The bell clunked, the sound a bit higher and much louder than the sound of Caesar's bell. The bell ringer turned toward Felix and tipped his head back to bellow.

“Bring out ya dead!”

Caesar gave a weak bray and twitched his ears.

The bell-ringing cryer drew up short, only just noticing Felix and Caesar. He looked very average. His clothes and hygeine were no better or worse than the average Londoner. Average height, which came up a few inches shorter than Felix's six feet.

“Here, mind the way. Body collectors coming through. We're official, you... know.” The fellow paused.

“That a mask? Shouldn't you be wearing that then?” he asked, gesturing with his bell.

“Ah. Yes, well, I was hungry, you see. And I haven't found a way yet to eat with the mask still on.”

The cryer gave this due consideration before nodding.

“Man's got to eat, sure.” he allowed.

There was a creak as the cart-puller bent and set the rails down. He stretched, yawned, and leaned back against the box. Glancing over the cryer's shoulder, Felix noted an arm hanging out over the side.

“Should you not be wearing something yourself?” he asked, returning his attention to the completely maskless cryer.

“No need. I been 'nointed, me.”

“Ah. Yes?”

“S'right. Over to St. Frohickey's. Father Mockry took the holy water and said the words and 'nointed me right on the head.”

“Oh. Indeed.” Felix tried a smile.

“And o'course I got my cross.” the cryer pulled forth a crude iron cross strung on a hemp cord around his neck. It appeared to be fashioned from two horseshoe nails and a bit of wire.

“Would not the, ahem, 'nointing have sufficed?”

“Aye, for The Death, sure. But what if I was to come upon a devil like? Interferin' with a body or like that?”

“What if...” Felix stared for a moment. He shook his head slightly and put on an earnest expression. “Pray tell, what if you did, ah, come upon... that?”

“Well, because, what if they didn't know I was 'nointed? Right? Better safe than sorry, eh?”

Felix squinted at the man. As instructional as it might be to continue engaging this specimen, he really should be on his way.

“Uh, right.” he nodded, beginning to raise his mask. “I've borrowed scales need returning,” he lied, “And I'm sure it's best I don't keep you from your work.”

“Right. We're official.” the cryer reitterated, raising his bell to tap his own puffed out chest.

Felix secured his mask in place, waved, and led Caesar away as quickly as decency allowed. They were seen off by the creaking of the cart and an inglorious clanging.

“Bring out ya dead!”

* * *

Things were getting worse. It wasn't exactly surprising. They all expected it. With the way things were, it was bound to get worse before it got better. It was just that somehow you never truly expected Things Getting Worse to show up on your doorstep.

Sheets and rolls of parchment lay scattered across the floor of John Lovekyn's office. He had pushed them from his desk in frustration shortly after entering and sitting. Now he sat and stared at the desktop. He let his eyes lose focus until faces and waves and fish coalesced out of the grain of the wood.

It didn't help. He reached for the clay jug he had earlier sent Barker out to fetch. After prying out the cork with his teeth and spitting it across the room, he drank deeply. Froth from the ale developed into drooping mustaches on his face. While he wished for calm and clarity, or at least the peace of ale-induced stupor, his mind replayed events from hours before, when he had arrived at the offices on London Bridge.

His way to the entrance had been blocked by a selection of the masses, washed and unwashed, who apparently had no more pressing business. They had gathered, spurred on by a few vocal rabble rousers, to voice their dissatisfaction, demand help, or shout 'Aye!' and watch for an opportunity to pitch rotten produce. Produce which plenty of homeless in the city would have been happy to call dinner. They had gathered and shouted a bit, and then stood about – most of them shuffling their feet and looking uncertain.

Barker and a fellow guardsman had emerged after a few minutes of poorly coordinated shouting, to greet them. They had taken up station flanking the main door, hooked-bill polearms presented, wooden truncheons on their belts. Barker had answered the crowd's faltering questions with his best impersonation of his old drill Sergeant, Ron 'Thumpy' Thurman.

“The Lord Mayor is not in.” Barker barked. “Any man who wishes to file a complaint or arrange for trial may queue up along the wall 'ere. Any man with an appointment, line up on the other side over 'ere. Anybody else is getting this chance to disperse.”

“Wot's disperse?” called one bystander.

“Means go on your way without any help from me an' Lloyd here.” Barker supplied.

Lloyd, the other guardsman, had given a decidedly evil smile at this. It's worth noting that Lloyd had picked up an extra bit of smile as a knife fighter before joining the guards.

A handful of those gathered, having gravitated to the mob in the hope of being entertained, chose that moment to disperse.

And it was at that point that Lovekyn had arrived on the scene. Pulling his hood up and drawing his cloak around him, he avoided being noticed by any of the dispersers. Stooping and slowing to a shuffle, the option to shuffle away and come back after the crowd had further dispersed presented itself. It was not unattractive, as options went, but Lovekyn had never been the type to take the easy way. He hadn't managed to become Mayor of London and Warden of London Bridge by shying away from something as innocuous as a small gathering of rabble.

If there had been a hundred of them – or if they had been well armed, well, a man should know his limitations. But this lot?

He had continued his shuffling, insinuating himself and shouldering his way to stand behind the most vocal ringleader. Straightening and squaring his shoulders, he lay one meaty hand on the man's shoulder. He waited for the man to turn and look up in annoyance, timing it perfectly. Just as the demand for an explanation began, John pulled back his hood.

“Yeah, whadda ya wa- uhhh.” the offended party had managed.

“Good morning, Mister Pinfoil, isn't it?”

It had been no more than luck that he recognized the man, but it was quite satisfying to see the bastard swallow hard upon hearing his name. Trouble makers seldom enjoy being singled out – unless they're running for office. They tend to expect the sheep gathered around to take the brunt of any backlash. Being able to point at the purported enemy, who would traditionally be standing somewhere outside the collection of 'Aye!' shouters, vegetable throwers, and general hangers-on, was rather integral to enjoying that measure of relative safety. You didn't welcome the opposition into your midst unless you were planning on beating it to death, or carrying it along to the nearest tree to string it up.

Lovekyn was not the bear of a man that Clovis was, but neither was he small. Or weak. And he was smiling a disconcerting smile. It was a smile that said; 'Here we are, then. We can play nice and friendly – or we can not. But whatever happens, it's not going to happen from across the street or the other side of a crowded room. It's going to happen up close and personal, as it were.'

Mister Pinfoil became quite wary, though he tried to put on a confident smile. The result was a slightly manic, sickly expression. A couple of those nearby had turned at Lovekyn's greeting, and upon reassuring themselves of what they were seeing, they began sidling. When they were confident they were well out of arm's reach, they transitioned from sidling to dispersing.

At that point, half those gathered had shuffled over to line up to one side or the other of guardsmen Lloyd and Barker. Those still milling about had all turned to see what the guardsmen were saluting. All but one. Just when Willy Pinfoil had conceived of a reply formulated to defuse the situation without making him sound a coward, another voice stole the moment.

“Wots 'is, Willy? The whole lot'a pantloads just linin' up? On account'a these two jumped up anklebiters?”

The voice was somehow high pitched and yet rasping. A sharp little whistle accompanied each ess. There were a few sniggers, and a few worried winces among the gathered cityfolk. Willy Pinfoil, for his part, closed his eyes and shook his head.

Lovekyn turned, scanning for the speaker. He was easy to find. Those around him, having gauged the situation, had reflexively sidled. A tall, lanky fellow in a dirty, stained oilskin cloak stood at the center of a growing circle of vacant ground. A long, scraggly beard trailed down before his chest. His eyes, what was left of them, were hidden behind a folded black handkerchief.

Ah. Old Casper Morgan. Blind Morgan. Blind ever since one night of unsupervised drinking several years back, when he had broken into the tannery where he worked days. Bottle in hand, he had decided to test the depth of some foul mixture in one of the six foot tall vats. With a yard stick.

Morgan had discovered the hard way that the tanning solution was deep enough to submerge a sitting man in. He had managed to clamber back out of the vat, and crawl out into the street. His horrible screaming had brought hesitant help, and a barber-surgeon had been dragged out of bed. Morgan had been made to vomit until in danger of tossing up his backside, then fed crushed charcoal and distilled water until he stopped vomiting that up. He'd been stripped and scrubbed clean, leaving an ugly rash, which eventually cleared, leaving no visible damage. His eyes, sinuses, and throat, alas, were already irreparably effected.

John had flashed Willy Pinfoil another smile – this one of genuine amusement.

The citizens standing in queue, Lloyd and Barker, Willy Pinfoil, and several newcomers who had seen people dispersing and wondered if there might be a spectacle in the offing, all watched with great interest as Lovekyn strode over to stand before Blind Morgan.

“Mister Morgan.”

“Mister my arse,” Morgan shot back, pausing to snort an approximation of laughter before adding, “Who's that?”

“It's John.”

“Eh? John, eh?” Morgan sounded uncertain. “Come to take th' piss out of the Lord Mayor with us, have ye?”

Lovekyn's eyebrows rose, as he worked to keep a straight face'.

“Well... not until after his tea, at least.”

Morgan gave a perfunctory snort.

“Aye, well-”

Lovekyn ignored him, turning to the majority of those formerly know as 'The Mob,' and spread his hands expansively.

And gave them a well-used, moderately uplifting speech. Law and order. God and country. Duty and decency. Stiff upper lip and to Hell with the French. Or at least the French over there where the fighting was.

He understood their woes. After all, was he not just a fishmonger not so many years ago? Wasn't he working day and night with those Lords and Ladies still in England to better the situation vis a vis food and jobs and so on?

What they really wanted, most of them, was for someone to tell them that everything was going to be alright. They wanted someone somewhere to have a grip on the situation, and for that person to be seeing to it that sooner or later things turned around. And for that someone to be someone else. And, if we're being honest, even if that person had no idea how to fix things, the mob wanted them to lie well, so that everyone could put off dealing with things until tomorrow. So that they could go back to getting on with life, at least for today.

So he had given them what they wanted, and then gone inside before any of them could screw it up by asking stupid questions. Nothing ruined a good speech like specifics.

Nonchalantly dragging Barker in with him, he had bid the guardsman go and find the resident scribe and have him see to the people still lined up outside. Take their names and concerns and arrange appointments if it would placate them. That done, he trudged upstairs to his office.

And here he sat, watching the wood grain swirl before his unfocused eyes. Behind his eyes, problems swirled. Problems and oh, so few solutions. Oh, Clovis and the others had some ideas. They generally featured phrases like 'for their own good,' and 'acceptable losses,' though. Lady Stockridge wasn't so bad. Arrogant and self important, certainly. But at least when she suggested something be done for someone's own good, she genuinely believed it was, in fact, for their good.

Clovis would sell a thirsty man an empty glass on the professed principle that the man would then have the means and motivation to dig a well. And Tramwick hardly merited thinking of.

And John was spared thinking of him when someone knocked on his door. John sighed.

“What?”

“It's me sir.”

“Barker?”

“Yessir.”

“Why is it you, Barker?”

“There's a fellow here wants to speak to you, Lord Mayor. Said he has an appointment. I checked with the scribe first. Turns out he really does have an appointment.”

“What's it about, Barker?”

“Uh, I gather he's got some ideas about The Mortality. He's keen to explain, but I reckon it's beyond me.”

While Barker spoke, Lovekyn took a long drought of ale from the jug. He wiped his face with a sleeve and replaced the cork in the jug, and set it on the floor behind him. At the last moment he stopped himself before ordering Barker to show the mystery appointment in. With a grunt he bustled around his desk to gather the fallen papers and dump them back on the desktop.

“M'Lord?”

“Yes, yes, alright.” Lovekyn called, settling back in his chair, “Show him in.”