Machiavelli

by Michael Scott

  “So, the only certainty is that someone…”

  “Or something…,” he reminded me.

  “Or something, is kidnapping children. Human, inhuman, monster or legend; something evil has come to Paris.”

  Dagon swept the fish carcass onto the floor and picked up the wax tablets.

  “Rue de Reuilly…,” he muttered, slipping from his own tongue into French, butchering the sound. His mouth was not shaped for any human language. “Reaumur…du Temple…Rue Saint-Jean.” He arranged the tablets on the table, according to their locations north, south, west and east in a cross shape, with a square opening in the middle. A black claw tapped the empty space. “What is here?”

  “La Cour des Miracles,” I answered.

  Dagon looked at me, huge wet eyes wide and unblinking. “The Court of Miracles,” he repeated.

  “Yes,” I said. “And you remember what happened the last time we sent police into the court.”

  “None came out.”

  2

  Paris has always been one of the finest cities in Europe: rich, elegant, sophisticated, a place of culture and learning. But there is not a single city in the world that does not have a dark stain on its map.

  And in Paris, that stain was the Court of Miracles.

  Like every modern city, Paris has beggars aplenty. Throughout history beggars have always been with us, and there is no shame in begging. I was brought up to believe that to give charity to a beggar, to give a little to those who have less, is the right thing to do, and I am not alone in my thinking. The concept of giving is enshrined in all the great religions. Indeed, the legendary alchemyst Nicholas Flamel himself used some of his vast wealth to establish churches, hospitals, and schools in this very city.

  But while there were those genuinely in need, there were others who abused the role of the beggar. Some even considered it a career. And these professional beggars quickly discovered that those with an affliction—missing a limb or their sight, or speckled with skin diseases—earned more than those who were whole in body and mind. So the streets and bridges of Paris were filled with those who appeared to be disabled or blind. One-legged soldiers hobbled alongside mothers with leprous children, while one-armed jugglers performed alongside legless fire-eaters. Kindhearted—and though it pains me to say it, gullible—Parisians gave what they could. And sometimes they were giving to those who did not deserve their charity. Also, I noted that those who had the least always gave the most.

  As each Parisian day drew to a close, the streets teemed with limping, hobbling, faltering vagrants heading home to the slums. But the moment some stepped off the main thoroughfares and slipped into the warren of side streets, arms and legs appeared where there had been none before, rubbed and stretched out to relieve cramps and pins and needles from being bound up all day. The blind could see, the deaf could hear, and a jug of none-too-clean water washed away all manner of skin diseases.

  No wonder the area was called the Court of Miracles.

  3

  “How do I look?”

  Dagon inspected me up and down. Although his fishlike face was incapable of human expression, I had known him long enough to recognize the disappointment and—shall I say it—the fear in his eyes.

  I was wearing overlong blue pantaloons, a striped shirt with mismatched buttons, and a short coat with one sleeve missing. A brown overcoat that reached my ankles completed my costume.

  “You look like you belong in the Court of Miracles,” he said finally. “Except for one thing…” Turning to the chimney, he ran his finger across the stones and then looked back at me. “Open wide.”

  Obediently, I opened my mouth.

  “You do not have the mouth of a beggar.” Dagon wiped the soot across my teeth and then carefully blacked out one of my incisors. It was an actor’s trick. “Better,” he said. “I bought the clothes this morning off the washerwoman on the corner. Although they are ragged, they are clean and lice free.”

  I had wondered about that. The last time I’d gone in disguise into the Court of Miracles, I’d brought home such an infestation of fleas that I’d had to burn my second-best bed, my couch, and all my pillows. I’d itched for a month.

  Dagon held up a pair of wooden shoes. “You really should wear the sabots,” he said. “However, if you have to run, they will be a problem.” He lifted a battered and down-at-heel pair of army boots. “These will not seem out of place. You’ll look like an old soldier fallen on hard times.”

  I pushed my feet into the boots. Naturally, they fit me perfectly. Dagon had a wonderful fish eye for detail.

  Finally I settled a floppy red liberty cap—a bonnet rouge—on my head and arranged it so that the top draped over my left ear.

  “Better.” Dagon nodded approvingly. “And finally,” he added, handing me a battered T-shaped wooden crutch. “Now you are an old soldier with a limp.” He turned the crutch over and showed me two wooden pins. “Pull these out and the crutch will come apart, leaving you with two batons. I drilled a hole in the section that goes under your arm and filled it with liquid lead. It should be hard by now.” He pressed one of the pins and the crutch split in half, leaving me with two sticks—one with a heavy T-shaped head, like a hammer, the other a straight length of wood.

  Dagon lifted a piece of unburnt firewood and held it out at chest height in both hands. “Try it.”

  I swung the lead-filled hammer at the wood. The force of the blow almost dislocated my shoulder, but the wood dissolved into black and white splinters.

  “At least you will not be unarmed,” Dagon said, tossing the broken wood onto the fire.

  I matched the two halves of the crutch together and slotted in the pins. “What would I do without you?” I asked.

  “You would be dead already.” There was no humor in his voice.

  We locked up my rooms and slipped out into the alley that ran along the back of the house. There was no moon, and the alleyway was in gloomy darkness. My enhanced senses allowed me to see more or less clearly at night, and Dagon could see lights and colors invisible to the human eyes. We had determined a long time ago, however, that he could not see the color red. It appeared as shades of gray to him.

  “Let me tell you plainly,” Dagon said in the ancient language of his species. “I am unhappy with you going into the Court of Miracles on your own.”

  “If we send in police or troops, or even undercover officers, word will spread through the tenements in minutes,” I answered. “We’ll probably end up with a riot on our hands, and whoever or whatever is in there will be left to fade into the night. Besides, I will not be on my own. You’ve arranged a guide, yes?”

  “One of my best agents, the Wild Boar, will meet you.”

  “How will I recognize him?” I asked.

  “I’ve given him your description. He will find you.”

  “Is he to be trusted?”

  “He is, first and foremost, a thief. And like all thieves, he can be bought. But I trust him.” Dagon pressed a surprisingly heavy bag into my hand. “Give him this. He gets the other half when you return safely.”

  Two shapes suddenly stepped out of a small side alley, big men with long knives in their hands and scarves wrapped around their faces. Before they could even make their demands, Dagon reached under his long coat and produced a short metal pole. He snapped it, and the pole extended with a click, doubling in size. He shook it again and it sprouted three wickedly hooked spikes at the tip. The two would-be thieves looked at the trident and then retreated without a word. We heard their wooden sabots tapping on the stones and squelching in the mud as they raced away.

  Dagon folded up the trident, sliding the blades into the pole and then pushing the two lengths together until they slotted into place.

  “Did you get a good look at them?” I asked.

  Dagon nodded. “I saw enough to recognize
them. I doubt they have a change of clothing, and their gaits are distinctive. I will find them.”

  “Good. Pick them up in the morning,” I told him. “I don’t want people like that on my streets.”

  “Your streets? Since when did Paris become yours?” he asked.

  “The moment I moved here.”

  “You have become sentimental,” he said.

  “I have become careful,” I corrected him.

  “You were always careful.”

  We walked in silence for a while. I knew by the slow opening and closing of his fingers that he was mulling over a thought, and I knew from experience that it was better not to interrupt him.

  “I read your book,” Dagon said finally.

  “Which one?”

  “De Principatibus. The Prince. There is no sentimentality in it.”

  I shook my head, unsure what he was getting at. Sometimes I forgot that he was older than the city itself, hailing from a time completely alien to me. And he was a fish god.

  “You say in your book that it is much safer to be feared than to be loved.”

  “I said it was best to be both,” I replied.

  “Those are not the words of a sentimental man,” he continued.

  “I was not immortal when I wrote those words,” I reminded him.

  “Do you still believe it?” he asked.

  “Those two ruffians in the alley earlier. Why did they run?” I pressed.

  “Because they were frightened of us.”

  “If we had spoken soft words to them, would they have left us alone?”

  “I doubt it,” he answered. “Bullies feed off weakness. Soft words would have encouraged them.”

  “So they ran because they were fearful,” I said, proving my point. “They knew we are capable of protecting ourselves. Or at least you are.”

  “That is true. I am not sure what that has to do with your theory.”

  “From the moment I came to this city, I claimed it as my own,” I explained. “I determined to protect it, to look after it and keep it as safe as possible. In doing so, of course, I am looking after myself, keeping myself—and you—safe. I did not know that there were immortals in Rome, Florence, or Venice when I lived in those places. Here, I know every immortal in the city, and they know me. They know they can stay here so long as they do not cause trouble for our kind. Do you remember when John Dee came to Paris?”

  “I was in Egypt at that time, looking for that emerald tablet you wanted. The Black Knight nearly took my head,” he reminded me unnecessarily.

  “Dee was spying for the English Queen. And while he spied on us, we watched him. We were not alone: the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Dutch, half a dozen German states, and Rome were spying on him. Although Dee was here on the Queen’s business, he was also in search of Nicholas Flamel’s Codex for himself. He was meeting many people—not all of whom were human. It was only a matter of time before someone saw something odd or unusual, and then…well, you know what happens.”

  Dagon nodded. He’d spent millennia drifting from place to place, keeping to the shadows, always moving on when someone discovered that the shepherd on the mountains, or the old man who lived in the caves, or the hermit on the island, or the wild man in the depths of the woods, never aged. “Mobs and pitchforks. Always pitchforks. And flaming torches. The Humani do like their flaming torches.”

  “My race likes drama,” I admitted.

  “I prefer nonfiction,” Dagon noted. “Truth is strange enough.”

  I had to agree with him. Humans believe that the myths and legends are fictions to entertain, that fairy tales are little more than stories used to educate and frighten children. I used to think that also. But that was before I met mythological gods and legendary goddesses and was hunted by hungry creatures from fairy tales.

  “What happened to Dee?” Dagon asked.

  “I had my men pick him up, and he spent three days in the Bastille. And not in the nice rooms either. Then we blindfolded him, put him on a wagon, and drove him to Calais. I accompanied him every step of the way. I’d used one of the Utukki limnûti spells you taught me to render him mute so he could not cast any spells or cantrips. I sailed with him to Dover before setting him free.”

  “You should have thrown him overboard.”

  “I should have. But I fear he has powerful masters, and I do not want to incur their wrath. I just wanted him out of my city before his behavior shined a…a flaming torch—”

  “Always with the flaming torches,” Dagon muttered.

  “—on us, the immortals and the inhumans,” I continued. “We survive because the Humani do not know of our existence.”

  “And the Humani survive because they do not know about us,” Dagon added. “If it ever came to open warfare, the Humani would not fare well. We have the advantage that they are already fearful of the monsters in the dark.”

  “Humans kill what they fear,” I reminded him.

  We stopped in the shadow of an alleyway and looked across a muddy street toward a stinking lane that led down to the Rue du Caire. What looked like two vagabonds slumped against the greasy wall, but Dagon and I both knew they served as guards and lookouts.

  “There are those amongst the inhuman races who believe that it is their right to rule the world,” Dagon whispered suddenly, his voice leaving sticky bubbles against my ear. “There was a time when the Humani were little more than slaves and food, servants and soldiers. Some wish to return to that Golden Age.”

  “And what better way to start a war with the humans than to kidnap their children,” I said.

  “It is certainly possible; the Elders, Ancients, and Earthlords always used Humani armies, led by inhuman officers. They started training their armies when they were still children,” he added.

  Struck by the same thought, we both looked toward the alleyway again: Was someone—some ancient thing—gathering an army of human children from the slums of Paris?

  Dagon’s claws bit hard enough into my shoulders to leave bruises. “Tell the Wild Boar that if you are not out by sunrise, I’ll be coming to find you,” he said.

  I was unsure if it was a promise or a threat.

  4

  The two guards did not even glance at the old soldier limping across the road. As I slipped into the alleyway, I glanced back over my shoulder. For an instant I thought I saw Dagon’s outline in the shadows across the street, his arm raised in farewell, but that was probably my imagination. He’d never raise his arm; that would show sentimentality.

  The smell hit me as soon as I stepped into the soot-covered darkness.

  Paris, though beautiful, was never especially fragrant. Like most great European cities it had its own particular odor. The air in Rome was always tinged with wax and incense, the scent of Venice was the ever-present mustiness of rot from the canals, and for some reason the air of Florence always smelled of money and fear. Paris smelled of the Seine. And that stench permeated everything. After a while you got used to it, and the other countless noxious aromas that filled the air, so for a scent to be noticeable, it had to be incredibly strong. The stink in that narrow alley was an almost physical thing, made of rotten wood and crumbling stone, mold and rancid food. But there was one odor that dominated: the stench of too many unwashed humans crammed together. Swallowing hard, trying not to breathe through my nose, I pushed through the dark alley and out into the blazing heart of the Court of Miracles.

  Fire and light were everywhere. Fire burned in barrels, blazed from tar-wrapped sticks; sparks spiraled upward from a dozen bonfires. I blinked away sudden tears and coughed with the bite of smoke in my throat. As my eyes cleared, I remembered how this place had once looked, a long time ago, not long after I had first come to Paris. It had been beautiful. A broad square surrounded a tall fountain. On all four sides, elegant, buildings looked over the square,
and I recalled the stalls of of fresh fruit and flowers.

  Now, although everything remained—the square, the fountain, the buildings—nothing was the same. The buildings were crumbling ruins, with gaping holes where there had once been windows and doors, and most of the roof tiles missing to expose the rafters beneath. If there had been a statue on the fountain, it was long gone; only a stump remained, pocked with holes suggesting it had been used for target practice. The ground was a mixture of ankle-deep, squelching mud and rancid filth, scattered with straw.

  Although it was close to midnight, the square was teeming with people. Citizens from what looked like every country in Europe and most of North Africa milled about. Costumes ranged from the outrageous to the ragged. The music of as many nations competed in a not entirely unpleasant cacophony. There were food stalls everywhere; none of the fruits or vegetables looked fresh, and the meat and fish were nearly unrecognizable. Barefooted urchins moved through the crowd carrying trays of bread, scraps of meat on a stick—I suspect it was the two staple meats of the tenements, either pigeon or rat—or selling wine served in stone cups, lest the liquid burn a hole in a metal goblet.

  I stayed away from the crowd as much as possible, leaning back on a gritty, crumbling wall, watching the shifting waves of people. I had been here before and was always struck by the energy in the air. This was not a happy place—I am not one of those who believe there is a joy in hardship, and terrible poverty and hunger were evident everywhere you looked. But I was also conscious that no one here had given up. They went about their lives and in many small ways—not all of them legal—tried to make them better. It was that spirit, that perseverance, that would ensure that the Humani prevailed. The Earthlords, Ancients, and Archons who had come before Dagon would never understand this. Perhaps Dagon himself did not understand it. Those ancient inhuman beings had once ruled the world, but then they had been defeated and had given up. But humans…humans were different. I had seen it many times in my travels across Europe, and I saw it here tonight, in the Court of Miracles. Humans could lose everything, they could be knocked down, but they would never give up.