The Court of Miracles

by Kester Grant

  The feeling of St. Juste’s reproachful eyes still scorches my skin.

  “My Lord, there is a boy who calls himself St. Juste.”

  The Dead Lord stills at the name; he watches me intently.

  “He said you summoned him to our Guild House, Father,” Loup tells him in a voice that demonstrates just how unlikely he finds the story. “That you sent Gray Brother to him with an invitation.”

  “They were going to eat him!” Ettie squeaks.

  “And where is this boy?” Orso asks. “Or has he already been consumed by my children?”

  I clear my throat. “In the Châtelet. He, er, volunteered to aid in your escape by creating a distraction. They won’t hold him long. They’ll realize he isn’t a prisoner, since he insists on proclaiming his birth name to everyone he meets.”

  The Dead Lord scratches the scaly skin on his cheek. I try not to stare. “Well, he won’t live much longer if he continues doing that,” he says.

  Orso turns to Loup. “They will release him at some point. Send some of your brothers to meet him when they do.”

  My heart lurches, but there is nothing I can do. St. Juste knows the location of the Beggars Guild; his days are numbered. And yet he did save me from the Fleshers. True, I saved him in return from the pot, but that was little more than a temporary reprieve from a now-inevitable fate.

  “My Lord, I ask you to spare him,” I say impulsively. “Then your debt will be paid.”

  Orso’s heavy gaze seems to see through me.

  “You have developed feelings for this boy? Even though he is not of our kind?”

  “What? No!”

  “He is very handsome,” Ettie interjects unhelpfully.

  Orso stares at me, and I feel myself start to blush.

  “Is he?” Orso asks with great interest.

  “He is handsome, but—”

  “Is that why you saved him from the pot, Nina? Are you in love with him?” Ettie’s voice is breathy and hopeful.

  I silently curse myself for giving in to her constant begging for stories, especially the romantic ones. I clear my throat. “I— He saved my life. I owe him a bone debt.”

  I could be mistaken, but there is a flash of something that looks like humor in the Dead Lord’s eyes, and his voice is not scolding when he replies.

  “Fear not, little kitten. Your paramour is safe. It was indeed at my invitation that he sought me out. Sadly, I was otherwise occupied and unable to receive him. But we will scoop him up now, and I promise you sincerely that we will not eat him.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Orso.

  “Or maim him,” I add.

  “Or that.”

  “Or pay the Hyènes to beat him, or the Assassins to kill him, or submit him to a Dead Trial.”

  “Indeed!” says Orso. “You have my word that no harm shall come to him under my care. I have plans for him. We will have much use for him in the days to come.”

  Under Orso’s lordship, the Ghosts have flourished and grown to the size of a small army. They say the Great Bear’s mind is always turning. Whatever plans he has for St. Juste, it is probably best that I keep well out of them. I have my own battles to fight.

  “And our other new friend sent a message,” Orso adds under his breath.

  I look up at him; he must mean the son of the Guild of Letters.

  “He bade me carry it to you, as if I were the Messenger.”

  I give a wry smile at the thought of Orso scrambling over the rooftops like Femi.

  “He, too, took a bone oath, pierced his flesh before me, proclaiming that he is in your debt.” He looks at me unblinking, calculating. “It would seem we all are.”

  I nod shortly, as if having Guild Lords and People of the Pen in my debt is an everyday occurrence and I expect no less. Orso seems to find this funny and laughs as he gathers his children around him like a king in his court. They flock to his side, pressing into him.

  The Ghosts cry out enthusiastically to hear the tale of how he escaped. And Orso’s laughter rumbles through the caverns and echoes off the walls over his excitable children’s cries.

  Every story I’ve ever heard was lifted from Orso’s mouth. It was from his lips that Femi heard the tales, and from the Messenger that they were whispered in Azelma’s ear so that she could weave them, a net in the darkness, around me, to keep me safe and warm on cold nights.

  Orso’s ruined face splits into a wry smile.

  “Il était une fois…”

  * * *

  When the last tale fades away, I see that Ettie looks stiff and pale. Loup notices and leads us to a side cavern, a small room with delicate frescoes of bone animals.

  We collapse in a heap on the floor.

  “Nina, what’s wrong with the Dead Lord?”

  “A disease of the skin. It’s not contagious.”

  She shivers violently, winding her fingers around the edge of her cloak; her eyes flit nervously to the ivory-encrusted walls. The bones were taken from the dead of the Cimetière des Innocents, where the ground swelled so full with bodies that they broke through into the cellars of houses, poisoning the air with fumes potent enough to kill.

  “It’s been a long night,” I say wearily. “You need to sleep.”

  “Yes,” she murmurs, curling against my back. Little Gavroche appears silently, as is his way, and sets himself down beside her, leans his head on her, knots his tiny hands in her cloak.

  I turn over, close my eyes, and try to think of all that has happened.

  I visited the Assassins and survived. I visited the Ghosts and rescued St. Juste. I broke into the Châtelet and stole the Dead Lord. I freed a member of the Guild of Letters. I kept Ettie safe. I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild, and these are the things I have done. I won’t think about anything else. I won’t.

  “Nina!”

  Ettie’s voice wakes me from a deep sleep. Like a good Cat, I leap instinctively to my feet, dagger in hand before my eyes are fully open.

  Ettie is sitting up, staring at me. She giggles.

  I blink, taking in our surroundings. Sulfur and bone, we’re still in the Halls of the Dead. I lower my dagger.

  “How long have I been sleeping?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I just woke up myself.”

  There’s a smell of food in the air. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

  My things have been cleaned and left in a small pile beside me. I grab for them as I sit down. My lock-picks, climbing claws, tin of matches, rope, and hooks. I’m naked without them. I tuck them into various pockets of the gray robe. Ettie’s scarf is still slightly damp. I also pocket a tin cup I stole from the prison, with the emblem of the Châtelet stamped into it. A gift for Tomasis.

  “They left these.” Ettie points to two bowls of brown stew. My stomach growls. I grab a bowl, tip it to my lips, sip, and swallow.

  Ettie is pulling bits of brown meat out of hers and inspecting them.

  “Do you remember them threatening to feed us to the pot?” she asks worriedly.

  I laugh. “Do you remember the horse Orso rode in on last night?” I ask.

  Ettie goes slightly green.

  “Better eat fast,” says a voice. Loup is at the entrance of our cavern holding a candle; its wavering light casts horrifying shadows on his face and the hole where his nose should be.

  I finish a last gulp of stew, put down my bowl, and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

  At the entrance of the cavern a parade of lights dances past us. The Ghosts are on the move.

  “Eat up,” I tell Ettie. “It’s time to go.”

  Ettie finishes her bowl, and I pull her to her feet. We grab candle stubs and slip into the sea of moving Ghosts. The sea parts and there’s Orso, freshly clad in a massive gray robe, his scarred face alight with a crooked smile. He
’s carrying Gavroche on his shoulders. A chain of silver is draped around his neck with six dusty signet rings hanging from it. Ghosts are not given to wearing jewelry or anything distinguishable, so I’ve always wondered what the rings signify. In all the years I’ve known of him, he’s never added to their number. Perhaps they belonged to the previous Lords of the Dead.

  Around us the Ghosts are buzzing and bouncing with excitement, pulling at one another and cavorting like puppies.

  “It is time we were off,” the Dead Lord says. “Are you ready, little ones?”

  His children’s agreement echoes off the walls.

  “Where are we going?” Ettie asks.

  “To Court,” Orso says, and motions for us to walk beside him.

  The Miracle Court gathers at unpredictable intervals. Summonses to the Court are whispered from the Messenger to the ear of each Guild Lord. They pass the call through the Masters to their children, and so the Wretched come.

  * * *

  The Dead look like a gray worm winding through the catacombs and up dark stairways to the street. Through the city we go, until we come to the ruins of a neighborhood so broken that even the poorest have long since fled. When the Ghosts go marching, the people of Paris know to close their windows and doors and not look out for fear of what might look back.

  There are entrances all over the neighborhood. Through a hole in the wall, a broken doorway, the Wretched squeeze, climb, and clamber. The Cats dance on rooftops and swing from chimney to chimney on long ropes. The Assassins prefer to use windows, and therefore no one else does. Inside, the buildings are falling apart. Ettie watches her feet; the floorboards are rotten, and one false step could send her crashing to the story below. Orso, in front of us, moves like a spirit, gliding through the broken corridors of peeling paint.

  “Welcome,” Orso whispers to Ettie at the threshold of a great room, “to the Court of Miracles.”

  Tonight’s Court is held in an ancient theater long abandoned by Those Who Walk by Day. Its ruined elegance is lit by candlelight reflecting off a crystal chandelier. The Wretched pour in from every door, holding their candles aloft. The shining light is meant to remind the Court of the long darkness in which it was born.

  The Court is a great rookery of crime, the haunt of Death Dealers, Thieves, Mercenaries, and Beggars, as well as a nest of immigrants: Lombard, Jew, Romani, Maghreb, Corsican, African, Qing, Edo, Mughal. We all come to the Miracle Court as equals. The Court recognizes no race, no religion, no marriage or tie of blood. The Wretched have only one Father, their Guild Lord; one family, their Guild; and one Law.

  Tonight, the Wretched spill in, filling the hundreds of dusty seats that line the mezzanine and the galleries above. Music comes from the pit, where an out-of-tune piano is being played. There’s laughter, talking, murmuring, whispering.

  The Ghosts enter last, slowly flooding the auditorium. The other Wretched pay them no heed as they begin their silent vigil. Orso grasps Ettie by the hand, and I watch her face as she takes in the stage, the backdrop a giant oil painting of wolves roaming an ancient forest, the set framed by dark velvet curtains.

  On the stage, candelabras brighten a long table. Around it are nine seats, one for each of the Lords of the Court; eight are occupied. Standing at the edge of the stage are the Masters of the Guilds.

  Orso steps with us out of the darkness and starts the long procession to the stage. I swallow hard. It’s against the Law to address a Lord at the high table without invitation. Following Orso like his shadow, I feel the weight of what we’re doing.

  Conversations come to a stop. Orso’s name is spoken and then hushed. People crane their necks to see my face or Ettie’s, but we keep going, our heads held high, a sea of Ghosts behind us.

  The Lords at the table are talking to each other. Lady Corday looks up first. Somewhere behind her is the shadow of Montparnasse.

  Tomasis’s sharp eyes spot me, and he raises his eyebrows. Doubtless Thénardier is lurking nearby.

  And seated right in the middle of the table is the Tiger. All the hairs on the back of my neck go up, and my fingers curl into fists.

  Orso has reached the stage and climbs the steps with us trailing behind him. Gavroche has appeared beside Ettie and is clinging to her gray robes, half hiding her.

  “Nous sommes d’un sang,” Orso says with a reverential bow of his head. Then he raises his hands in greeting. “Good hunting, my Lords.” Orso is the keeper of knowledge for the Miracle Court, the teacher of the Law. When he speaks, everyone listens.

  The Lords bow their heads in recognition, murmuring their answered greeting. All save the Tiger. His mouth is closed in a tight line, and his yellow eyes don’t leave Orso’s face.

  “I see you’ve started without me,” Orso says as he takes his seat. “What a pity. It’s almost as if you thought I wouldn’t be present.”

  Ocan Maloni, Lord of the Guild of Chance, speaks up. “My Lord Orso, we heard you had disappeared and no one knew where you were.”

  “We heard you were never coming back,” says Rime Temam, Lord of the Guild of Mercenaries, glancing sidelong at the Tiger.

  “I wonder where you heard such vicious rumors.” Orso’s chin dips.

  “How did you get out?” the Tiger asks bluntly, betraying that he knows where the Dead Lord was.

  Orso smiles. “My dear Kaplan, I’m the Father of Ghosts. I’m not like the mortals of flesh and blood. There’s nowhere that can hold me.”

  “You lie like Ysengrim.” The Tiger spits on the floor.

  “And yet here I stand.” Though Orso is smiling, his eyes are as hard as nails. “And while we’re on the subject of my absence: Do you know, Kaplan, that my last memory before I was, er, misplaced is of five men ambushing me, two of whom bore marks of the Guild of Flesh?”

  “You accuse me of having a hand in your imprisonment?”

  “I tell you only what I saw. Do you doubt the word of a Lord?” Orso’s voice is like steel.

  The Tiger grimaces. He crosses his arms and gives a short whistle. His Master appears at his shoulder. Lenoir sees out of only one eye: when he took the mark of his Guild, a single blow from the tail of the Tiger’s cat-o’-nine-tails struck his face. The Tiger murmurs something in Lenoir’s ear, and he nods, rushes off. Seconds later, two burly Fleshers are brought forward.

  “On your knees,” the Tiger says.

  The men’s faces darken, but they obey. No one defies Lord Kaplan. Lenoir hands him a pistol. He takes it and, without ceremony, points it at the first kneeling man. The Flesher barely has time to raise his hands before the pistol cracks: Kaplan shoots him straight through the heart. I flinch. His body falls slowly, in a cloud of gunpowder. I look away as the second man lowers his head. He knows there’s no getting out of it. I’ve never liked watching deaths. I hear the thump as he hits the floor a heartbeat later.

  “Two men bearing the mark of my Guild,” the Tiger says to Orso. “Consider the accusation met.”

  “You are all goodness and deference, my dear Kaplan.” Orso bows as Lenoir drags the bodies away. Then he smiles. “But enough death and retribution. Let us celebrate our reunion. I want to share with you a moment of great joy.” He draws Ettie out of his shadow and gently moves her forward.

  Seeing her, the Tiger half rises from his seat and turns to Thénardier, who has materialized beside Tomasis. Thénardier is staring at me, his lip curled in anger.

  “A new mortal is passing through the gates of the living and into the kingdom of the dead,” Orso says.

  The Tiger gives Thénardier a glance laced with significance.

  Thénardier steps forward, red-faced and flustered. “Monseigneur Orso.” His voice is like treacle. “You seem to have both my ward and my daughter in your care.”

  Orso looks at him as if he’s a worm.

  “Do you address me without invitation
, Thénardier?” Orso asks in an icy tone. “You are only a Master and have no voice at the high table.”

  Thénardier hesitates, glancing at Lord Kaplan. “But they’re my children….”

  Orso’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “This one is a child of the Thieves. Tomasis is her Father. Is that not what the Law says?”

  What does the Law say? the Ghosts echo behind us, hundreds of voices raised, till the question bounces off the walls and thrums through my entire body.

  Tomasis’s eyes burn into me. I meet his gaze squarely. I’m probably in a world of trouble.

  “And this one has asked for the mark of the Ghosts.” He puts a hand on Ettie’s shoulder. “It will be given to her, in your illustrious presences.”

  Lord Kaplan makes a sound of fury and stands, a finger pointed at Orso. “You wouldn’t dare, you old bear! She’s mine!”

  I see Ettie shiver in Orso’s grasp.

  “Yours? I see no stripe upon her, my brother.”

  I look at Thénardier. His face is contorted and pale.

  “Thus, she’s free, and has a voice to ask to join the Dead. Is that not the Law?” Orso continues.

  It’s the Law! It’s the Law! the Ghosts whisper in a frenzy.

  The Tiger looks around the table, and the other Lords remain silent. Grim. Voiceless.

  “Do you defy the Law, my Lord?” Orso asks coolly. “Or do you think to twist it to suit you, as you once did before?” Orso tilts his head, addressing the table of the Lords. “How far can the Law be bent before it breaks upon our backs, destroying us all?”

  The Lords look uncomfortable, except Corday. She seems amused, though only slightly.

  The Tiger sits back down at Orso’s words, trembling with ire.

  The Dead Lord stands and pointedly turns his back on the table of his peers. He looks out over the spectators of the Miracle Court, who are watching with hushed attention.