Читать книгу The Court of Miracles - Kester Grant - Страница 20

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.

I do my best not to frown, confused by her presence here at the Assassins Guild. I’m so distracted, I almost miss Corday nodding to Montparnasse.

I swing around in horror to find that he has Ettie on her feet, his blade at her cheek. Ettie’s eyes are wide with terror, the razor-sharp dagger pressed into her skin.

“Please!” I cry.

“You’re daring, Black Cat of the Thieves Guild.” Corday’s face is a picture of calm. “And for that I’ll give you some free counsel.” Her eyes flicker back to Ettie. “Slice up her pretty face, and perhaps the Tiger won’t want her anymore.”

“Please. Don’t!” I plead.

“I doubt Kaplan would be put off by a disfigurement at this stage. You know what he’s like when he wants something,” says Col-Blanche.

“It’s true he doesn’t like being defied,” Corday agrees.

She glances again at Montparnasse, and at the merest blink of her eyes he lets go of Ettie and puts his blade away. Ettie breathes out in a long, loud sound.

I dare not even go to her. I try to still my trembling hands and keep my eyes on Corday, who seems to be measuring me up for something. I hope it’s not a coffin.

“You’re very small.”

I nod.

“And you’re a Cat.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“You must be very good at getting into hard-to-reach places.” Her eyes flicker toward the fireplace at Komayd.

“Nina can break into anywhere,” Ettie pipes up from behind me. “She once broke into the Tuileries!”

I could kick myself for having told her about my burglaries, but Ettie so loves stories.

Corday looks at Ettie in amusement. “Did she? Well, that’s very good, because everyone else has failed.”

I frown. Failed at what?

Corday’s and Komayd’s eyes meet; they’re having some sort of silent conversation.

“The Cat speaks truth: there’s only one Lord mad enough to openly defy the Tiger,” Komayd responds. “Only Orso.”

The Dead Lord.

Corday agrees with a tilt of her head. “So you are right, little Cat, to seek an audience with him.”

She motions to Montparnasse, and the bonds at our wrists are sliced with the whistle of a sharp blade.

“You must find the Ghosts,” Corday says. “They are incomprehensible at the best of times, and I hear the absence of their Father makes them … even worse. I wish you both the best of luck. Shall we drink to your endeavor?”

I’m left with the feeling I’ve missed a fundamental part of the conversation. Did we just walk into the Assassins Guild looking for clues about the Dead Lord, only to be sent to find the Ghosts? Nobody has seen them in weeks. Was this some sort of test?

Col-Blanche moves to a small side table and pours sparkling white wine into two cut-crystal glasses. He carries them over on a tray and offers them to us.

I hesitate. The Master of Poisons is offering me a drink. A drink no one else in the room is drinking. This is definitely a test.

“I thank you, sir, but I’m afraid we can’t accept your generosity,” I say.

Corday smiles, showing her even white teeth. The sight fills me with dread.

“Wise, little kitten.” She pulls a gold pocket watch out of a fold in her dress. It’s a small, intricate thing hanging on a long chain, with a brass serpent twisted around its face.

“Now, if you could both look closely at this.” Corday’s tone indicates we have little choice.

I squint at the tiny gilt thing; it has Roman numerals of black, and hands like knives behind its glass face.

As the watch moves back and forth, the numbers blur together. I try to focus on them, but my thoughts seem to slow and the room grows wider, stranger; the crackling of the fire is loud in my ears.

Behind me, Ettie gives an odd sigh.

I try to turn to her, but my feet won’t obey. My fingers scrabble uselessly at my coat, trying to grab for my dagger, but I can’t seem to lift them. A wave of dizziness overcomes me. Have the Death Dealers given me some drug after all?

With a thud, Ettie crumples to the floor.

“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” Corday says to me, her voice seeming to come from far away. “That’s good.”

“We came for your help.” My words catch on my tongue and trip at my teeth.

I slump to my knees.

“It doesn’t work on everyone. Some can fight it. Few are immune. The trick, little Cat, is not to look.”

The last thing I see are Corday’s eyes, wide and bright, drowning me inside them.

I hear a sound like someone clapping their hands together.

“Nous sommes d’un sang, little Cat. I hope we meet again soon.”