by Kester Grant
So instead, we run down the villainous-smelling streets, weaving between wagons and Those Who Walk by Day. Dodging an old lady sitting on a crate with a sign that says she’ll mend clothes for a few sous; darting down an alley, throwing out a prayer that we’ll find it empty. We skitter along the alley’s length before ducking into another one.
Ettie’s boots are too big, and she can’t run fast. But I bring her along at breakneck speed. We have to keep moving. The city assumes that anyone hesitating too long in one place is issuing a challenge.
Ettie pulls on my arm to slow me down.
“Nina, if we could find a carriage, I could go to my maman.”
I shake my head. Her maman stopped sending letters months ago; we both know what that probably means.
So we hurry along till we get to a ramshackle factory in the Gobelins, shut down by the banks for debt.
“Where are we?” Ettie asks.
I ignore the question.
It takes a ridiculous amount of time to clamber through a window and hoist Ettie up, since she’s awful at climbing. She’s awful at a lot of things….
Ettie wrinkles her nose at the stench; a toxic smell from the arsenic used to dye the wall coverings, hats, and dresses of the nobility hangs in the air.
“How long will we stay here?”
I’m in no mood for Ettie’s questions. “I’m not sure—a day or two, maybe.”
She looks around, not liking what she sees. “Will you tell me a story?”
“This is hardly the time for a story!” I snap, making my voice as hard and ugly as I can, for it is an ugly thing that I am doing.
She shrinks from me, eyes wide.
I try to calm myself, but my thoughts aren’t so easily cowed; they whir and screech in my head, accusing and shouting, clawing at me with a thousand knives of guilt. What kind of person sells another?
The kind of person who would do anything to get her sister back, I remind myself grimly.
I’ve no choice; it’s the only way. Azelma safe. Isn’t that worth the cost?
And yet I know I’m not just condemning Ettie to the Guild of Flesh. Whispers speak of Sisters smuggled in boxes, of living cargo traded to the Tiger’s allies overseas.
The horror rises and threatens to overwhelm me. What he does, what he is, is an abomination, forbidden by the Law. The Law that is meant to protect us, to keep us safe.
And yet I cannot help the Sisters hidden in the shadows. I cannot save all the women in the Fleshers’ houses. But I might free one of them. I can make Azelma safe.
For a terrible price.
I eye Ettie shivering in the corner.
“I’m sorry,” I say, for snapping at her. And for what is about to happen, and for my part in it. I am so filled with regret that it threatens to burst out of me.
As if she can sense the turmoil I’m in, she gives me a small, forgiving smile, which is so typical of Ettie. It is not enough that she is beautiful; she is also kind. She rises and comes nearer to me and sits down on the floor.
“Tell me what happened to Ysengrim’s daughter when Rennart found her.”
I swallow. Ettie is obsessed with stories. And yet…what harm is there in finishing the tale? In giving her one last good thing before the end? And so I begin.
“Rennart the Fox went to the house of Ysengrim the Boar,” I say. “He stole into his lair in the darkness. There he found the daughter of Ysengrim, and he gazed upon her beautiful face as she lay sleeping.”
Ettie inches toward me and leans into me, like she did on the nights when she couldn’t sleep; like I did when Azelma relayed stories to me.
“It was for revenge that the Fox had come,” I continue, relaying the betrayal of Rennart by Ysengrim, the murder of his wife, the casting out of the Fox to a dark hell until he could escape and have justice.
But my voice grows unsteady. I try not to remember Azelma wrapping her arms about me like this, the warmth of her. Azelma, who protected me, who would never have done to me what I am contemplating doing to Ettie.
When a warm tear rolls down my cheek, she reaches up to wipe it from my chin.
“Don’t cry, Nina,” she says in her small voice.
And I know then that even for Azelma, my sister, even for her, I cannot go through with this. And the knowledge defeats me. For if I can’t exchange Ettie for Azelma, then I cannot save my sister at all. I’ve lost her again, lost her forever.
The pain of it slices at me, but I cannot let it drown me, not now. I did a terrible thing setting this plan in motion. Ettie’s life hangs in the great and terrible balance, and if I fall apart now, there will be no one else to help her. I must concentrate on the only thing I have any chance of changing now….I must think of Ettie.
I glance sideways at her. She is so vulnerable, in her oversized shirt and boots. Like the beast he is, the Tiger has gotten the scent of her. I made sure of that. He’ll come for her, and it will be my fault.
What am I going to do?
When we don’t return, they’ll look for me; they’ll know I had a hand in it. She can’t hide in this building forever. Nor can I.
Be useful, Azelma said the day she was taken, be smart, and stay one step ahead of everyone.
And then it comes to me. Breathtaking in its simplicity, really: the only way to protect someone is to give them to the protection of another Guild.
I remember Tomasis’s reaction when I was given to him, and I frown. No Guild will want the Tiger’s prey, for all the Lords fear the Tiger.
Except, perhaps, the Dead Lord.
I sit upright so suddenly that Ettie looks at me, blinking.
“What is it, Nina?”
My mind is racing as I begin to make a new plan, and I am faced with an inconvenient fact: no one has seen the Dead Lord or his Ghosts in weeks. His absence is strange enough to be whispered about in the Court. There is only one person who might know what has become of him.
The thought is so insane it is laughable.
What choice do I have?
“Where are we going?” Ettie asks.
“To find Lady Corday.”
“Who is Lady Corday?”
You don’t want to know.
“The Lady of the Assassins Guild.”
Ettie catches her breath. “Where will we find her?”
Somewhere no one goes—at least, not if they want to walk out alive.
In times past, terrible wars threatened to tear the Miracle Court apart, which is why the Law was created to govern all the Guilds. But even with the Law, the Guilds can’t quite give up the moldering suspicions that make them so distrustful of one another. The location of almost every Guild House is a closely guarded secret, known only to Femi and the People of the Pen. One of the exceptions is this house.
The building is impressive: tall, ancient, built of white marble. Its architecture is spare compared with the extravagant Gothic style of its decaying neighbors.
My mouth goes dry looking at it. They say it used to house the finest undertakers in all of France; some say it still does. We walk up a manicured path of smooth white stone leading to a large terrace. The front door is tall and black; its knocker is a heavy brass skull.
The Assassins don’t need to hide their Guild, because members of the Miracle Court usually aren’t foolish enough to seek them out.
I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the cold brass, and rap on the door. The noise thunders through the house, and an eerie, unnatural silence answers us. I pray that no one opens the door.
No one does.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ettie whispers.
It’s the right place.
No one may enter a Guild if they are not a child of that Guild. It is a Law of the Miracle Court. The punishment for entering a Guild House uninvited varies
by Guild. Thieves like to hang people from the Pont Neuf by their nether regions, which could be why no one ever tries to visit them. There are stories that say entering the front door of the Assassins Guild without an invitation leads to instant decapitation via hidden guillotine. Invitations are scarce. We’ll have to do without one today.
Every nerve in my body is alive with dread as I push the heavy door open. That it’s not locked frightens me more than I can say. I pause for a moment. No guillotine falls.
We stare down a long corridor lit by dim sconces; the floor is a chessboard of black and white marble. There’s a small fountain gurgling delicately at its far end.
Beside me, Ettie is rigid and quiet. My fear is contagious.
“Good hunting,” I call as loudly as I dare, making Ettie jump. My greeting goes unanswered.
“Maybe they’re not home,” Ettie offers. I shake my head.
The Bats are always home.
We walk down the corridor; my heart beats a wild staccato.
This Guild House, like its children, is stark, elegant, and devoid of feeling.
Ettie approaches the fountain. I grab her by the collar to stop her.
“Half the members of this Guild have devoted their lives to concocting deadly poisons. Don’t drink anything.” She nods, and we proceed with small, cautious steps. Ettie runs her fingertips along white markings on the dark walls as we go. I glance at them and my blood runs cold. The marks are carved into the wall. Each group of four is crossed with a fifth line. It’s a running tally.
Ettie is wide-eyed as she inspects the paintings hung on the walls. On the left is a smudged mural of a skeleton dancing with a beautiful young woman: the oldest existing depiction of the danse macabre. On the right is a cluster of portraits: gentlemen and women of varying ethnicities, all dressed in fine black velvet, each holding a goblet filled with what looks like red wine but is actually blood. Rumor has it the portraits are painted in blood too. Each figure either holds a dagger or has a snake wound around their free arm to show which of the two houses of the Guild they belong to: Poisons or Knives.
“Who are they?” Ettie whispers.
“The Lords of this Guild.”
The last portrait depicts a slight woman holding a dagger to show she’s of the House of Knives.
There’s a breeze.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, and every nerve in me screams danger.
“Can I help you?” asks a voice like a dagger point.
Ettie leaps in surprise. Out of nowhere a tall, thin young man has appeared beside us. His hair is black and barely curls. His skin is tanned, showing his Maghreb heritage. He’s dressed from head to toe in varying shades of almost-black. He looks at us with dark, expressionless eyes.
He is Montparnasse of the House of Knives, Master of the Assassins Guild. Children of the Miracle Court are respected for the threat their Guild poses. Montparnasse is one of the highest-ranked Masters of the most dangerous Guild of all.
“Bonjour,” Ettie says politely.
Horrifyingly, slowly, I become aware that the space around us is full of people. An ebony-skinned young man and a Corsican with an eye patch stand on either side of us, watching.
“Master of Knives.” I try to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Nous sommes d’un sang.” We are of one blood. I give the slightest of bows while keeping my eyes firmly on him.
He tilts his head and looks me over, and in a blur, he is inches from me. He raises a hand and I incline my head, a sign of submission, offering my neck for slitting if he sees fit.
Something cold and sharp touches my skin like a whisper, brushing my hair behind my ear, to reveal my diamond tattoo, the mark of my Guild.
Montparnasse is so close I am sure he can taste my fear. I try hard not to shake as he looks at me, close as a lover. I try very hard not to think about the fact that he smells of steel, salt, bone, and blood.
“Thieves Guild,” he whispers, like a caress on my skin.
Do I imagine the tiniest glimmer of surprise in his voice?
Then we’re grabbed from behind, dark sacks thrown over our heads. Ettie cries out through the rough cloth. This is bad. I was mad to have come. No one walks into the Assassins Guild and leaves alive.
I make a noise for Ettie to keep quiet as I feel the point of a blade at my back.
We’re marched through countless corridors, twisting and turning. I won’t remember how to get out of here. There are sounds—doors opening and closing, footsteps echoing on marble. Splinters of light dance through the weave of the sack.
A fire roars somewhere; its crackle and warmth sneak through the cloth. There’s a murmuring of voices.
“Madame,” Montparnasse says.
“Master of Knives,” a woman’s voice answers.
“I’ve brought you a gift.”
“I’m no gift, not even to the Dealers of Death.” My voice is muffled through the sack and doesn’t sound as dangerous as I would like.
I’m pushed to my knees, the hood is removed from my head, and I stare blinking into the sudden candlelight. Ettie is next to me, looking terrified and perplexed.
Seated in front of us is a petite woman in a dark velvet dress. Her thick brown hair is pinned back tight, and she gives an impression of meticulous neatness. My heart drops at the sight of her so close. Charlotte Corday, Lady of the Assassins Guild. The only Assassin ever to come to her office by murdering the previous Lord in a crowded room, without going anywhere near him. Stories are whispered about her: that she came into the world dead, a corpse with skin like marble and cold, hard eyes; that those who have seen her smile rarely live long enough to talk about it; that she has sworn an alliance to the Dead Lord.
At her right stands a pale bald man wearing small spectacles and a waistcoat of dark gray satin. His white shirt collar is starched so stiff at the neck, it looks like it’s trying to stab him. He’s still except for his hands, which are wrapped in kid gloves; I have heard the acid-stained fingers constantly wring themselves together. He is Col-Blanche, Master of Poisons. At Corday’s left stands Montparnasse, who is playing with a long, thin dagger and watching us.
“People don’t usually come to us seeking their own deaths,” Corday says, her voice like ice. “However, I’m sure we can make an exception if you’ve brought appropriate payment. Alternatively, the fee could be waived if you volunteer yourselves to the House of Poisons. Our newest recruits are always in need of fresh subjects on whom to test their concoctions.” She pauses significantly. “Although that option is usually quite painful.”
I blink several times before I realize what she’s saying. “What? No, we’re not here for that….We’re here for your help.” I stumble over my words.
Lady Corday tilts her head. “You wish our aid in matters unrelated to death?”
“Yes.”
Corday’s eyes widen the tiniest fraction and her hands rise from her lap, fingers pressing together as she stares at me with an intensity that makes me feel like she’s looking through me.
“You must forgive my presumption. I assumed you wanted help dispatching yourself from this life, since that is our trade. But then, we Death Dealers are not used to uninvited guests.” And there it is, the threat lacing her measured words. She leans back in her chair, making herself comfortable. “In what way may we be of…help to you?”
We’re probably dead already, so it makes no difference if I tell her the truth.
“My Lady, I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild.”
She watches me.
“I’m looking for a Guild to take Ettie.” Nervousness makes me ineloquent.
“Who is Ettie?” Corday asks.
“I am!” Ettie lifts her head and shakes her golden curls out of her face.
Corday transfers her gaze to Ettie and pauses.
“Very
beautiful.”
Ettie colors beside me. “Thank you.”
Corday raises an eyebrow before returning her attention to me.
“The Thief Lord won’t give her his mark,” I say.
“And I thought Tomasis was always eager for new pets.” Corday runs her fingertips over one another as if she’s testing them for sharpness.
I shake my head. “He won’t, because the Tiger wants her.”
Silence fills the room. The Death Dealers are good at silence. They wield it like a weapon.
“The Thieves won’t take her, but you think I will?” Corday says in a tone of mild amazement.
“N-no,” I stutter. “I would never…That is to say, I am looking for the Dead Lord. He is the only one who might take her despite the Tiger’s interest. But I have heard that his seat at the high table has been empty, and the Ghosts have not been seen in the shadows.” Even I know how stupid that sounds, but I’ve started and I must finish before I am condemned. “I know that you and the Dead Lord are allies of old. I have heard the stories.”
“What stories?”
“That the Dead Lord saved you as a child and brought you to the Dealers of Death.”
“Come here, child.”
Montparnasse is at my side in a second, his fingers burning into my arm as he guides me to my feet. I walk toward Corday, leaving Ettie behind me.
“You would ask the Dead Lord, a Lord of the Miracle Court, to defy the Tiger by giving this child a mark?” she asks.
“Do you know what happened to the last Guild Lord who defied the Tiger?” a voice interjects.
I turn to a fireplace tucked into the farthest corner of the room, before which is seated a plump little brown-skinned woman draped in colorless robes, a sturdy scarf wound around her head, her thick graying hair tied back.
Hers is a face I know well, for she is usually seated at the Lords’ high table when the Miracle Court meets. She peers at me now like an owl through large spectacles that dwarf her face. In the flesh she is not particularly intimidating, but appearances are deceiving, for this is Gayatri Komayd, Lady of the Guild of Letters, Mother of Ink, Keeper of Secrets, Head Auditor of the Miracle Court.
