Kester Grant - The Court of Miracles

“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.”

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