Kester Grant - The Court of Miracles

The Lord of Thieves 3. The Lord of Thieves 4. She Who Sleeps 5. The Claws of the Hawk PART TWO: The Dead Wolf The Fox Rennart’s Revenge 6. The Tiger 7. The Black Cat’s Choice 8. The Dealers of Death 9. The Dead 10. La Vallée de Misère 11. The Dead Lord 12. Les Oubliettes 13. The Miracle Court 14. The Master’s Hand PART THREE: The Bread Price The Tale of the Six Little Mice 15. The Fountain 16. The Dead Trial 17. The Pont Neuf 18. Of Drownings 19. The Dauphin of France 20. Ettie’s Tale 21. The Sisters 22. The Mesmerist 23. Les Diamants de la Couronne 24. The Bread Price 25. The Stripes of the Cat PART FOUR: The Black Cat’s Hunting How the Tiger Got His Stripes 26. The Société des Droits de l’Homme 27. Gray Brother 28. Master of Knives 29. Of Paper and Rats 30. What the Lords Said 31. The Dead Lord’s Word 32. She Who Was Lost 33. The Ruined Flesh 34. The Truth 35. Inspector Javert 36. A Little Fall of Rain 37. The Courier 38. The Tiger’s Lair 39. The Black Cat’s Father 40. The Death Song 41. The End of the Tale Les milles remerciements—en ordre chronologique About the Publisher

“Fret not, little one. Thénardier is not here tonight.”

I shiver at the sound of my father’s name, but Femi nudges me gently on the shoulder.

“Look up.”

He points overhead, and I crane my neck to see. The vaulted ceiling glimmers like a net of pure shimmering light.

“The true beauty of the Thieves Guild lies there,” Femi says. “Once a year, during the feast of l’évêque Myriel, patron saint of Thieves, each member of the Guild offers a stone, a crystal, or a shining gold coin. Each Cat of the Guild is given a share, and they race up the walls and climb ropes thrown from high windows. The Cat that reaches the top first has the honor of embedding the gift in the ceiling.”

Our mother the City is draped in a coat of fog and smoke so thick that I have never seen the stars in the night sky—but I imagine that this is what they look like. Something inside my chest thrills to the beauty of it. But there’s not much time to admire before Femi is steering me away. I blink and take in the noisy chaos of the hall.

It’s like a palace, if a palace had no organization and great treasures were left all over the place. It’s a chaos of graceful statues of white marble and ancient blackened gargoyles that must have come from Notre-Dame herself. The floors are covered with overlapping carpets of thick colored silks no doubt taken from the best houses in the city. Every inch of wall is hung with gilt-framed paintings large and small, depicting battles, ships at sea, landscapes, romantic images of myths, religious icons, and portraits.

The hall shimmers and buzzes with wine, heat, and ribald conversation. Beneath it all, a strange current of danger pulses. The place is alive—teeming with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes, of all skin colors and dress. I see sharp-eyed faces, old women swathed in layers, and merchant-class men in stiff cloaks, as well as the odd priest.

“There are no family names in the Miracle Court. There is no race or religion,” Femi says to me. “Faith, caste, blood—these are not bonds that tie the Wretched together, for that is how the world sees us, as wretched. And thus, Wretched is the name given to all children of the Miracle Court. What binds us is our Guild. It is a bond stronger than family, thicker than blood. All you see here are brothers and sisters of the Thieves Guild.”

Femi indicates a horde of ragged, barefoot boys and girls only a few years older than me.

“Those are the Dogs: Thieves who conduct their business at street level. There are also Horses—highwaymen—though there are only two left in the entire Guild, since the Gentleman no longer rides.”

For any of the Wretched who appear to be everyday persons from the city streets, there are ten others wearing impossibly bright clothing, jewels that glimmer and shine. Men and women with diamonds and rubies dripping from their necks, noses, wrists, ears, fingers, and toes, every knuckle coated in shining stones.

“Those are the Cats,” Femi mutters, indicating the brightly clad figures. “Burglars that prefer to sneak along rooftops and slip through windows and chimneys.”

His eyes narrow at a particularly rotund gentleman garbed in purple, gold, and pink. Every part of him is shining with jewels so weighty it must be impossible for him to lift his hands.

“Cats are always showing off.”

Along one side of the hall is a long, crooked line of people. Femi gestures toward them.

“All Thieves hand their take to the People of the Pen—clerks, on rent from the Guild of Letters. They serve as accountants, lawyers, and auditors to all nine Guilds of the Miracle Court.”

I squint at the row of pale, expressionless men and women seated behind a long table, wearing robes of indistinct color. Their heads are bent; they are all taking copious notes, barely saying a word.

“The People of the Pen are obsessive with information,” Femi whispers. “Their devotion to order and detail is stronger than their will to be corrupted. They’re both feared and respected by all the Wretched, for there’s nothing about us they don’t know. The location of each Guild House is a strictly kept secret, except to myself, as Messenger to all the Guilds, and to the Guild of Letters. When the People of the Pen come knocking at the door for an audit, even the most fearsome of Guild Lords lets them enter.”

Once the takes are noted and signed for, they are handed to clerks with magnifying glasses and monocles that give them the strange appearance of owls. They inspect each item, testing silver and gold, setting things alight, striking them with hammers, even biting them before announcing their findings, which are sometimes met with laughter at the Thieves’ expense, or murmurs of jealousy at some of their better takes.

In the center of the room is an intricately carved black chair. Hanging from its high, pointed back are piles of sparkling necklaces, a glittering diadem or two, and several fine embroidered tapestries. Sitting in the thronelike chair is a man a little older than my father. He has the same copper-brown skin and cunning golden eyes as Femi.

They must be kin, I think.

He is dressed more modestly than many of the Thieves around him, in a well-cut coat and shirt of unexceptional color. In fact, nothing about him is exceptional except for two chains of varying lengths that encircle his neck: one a shimmering rope of pure diamonds, another a collar of rubies gleaming in the light of a hundred burning candelabras.

“Tomasis, the Lord of Thieves,” Femi says, nodding toward the man.

Standing beside the Lord’s chair is an older gentleman. His face is a map of heavily powdered wrinkles, his hair is hidden under a wig, and he is shod in the worn, gilt-edged finery of a noble gone to seed.

Femi inclines his head toward the powdered man. “There are only three Merveilles—Wonders—still living in the Court. They are criminals of such fame and notoriety they’ve become living legends. The most any child of the Court can hope for after their death is that their songs will be sung, their stories told over and over again. But the Merveilles—their exploits are recounted to every child of the Court while they still draw breath. The three remaining Merveilles are le Maire, the Fisherman, and the Gentleman. Le Maire is a member of the Guild of Letters, and he’s been missing for more than a decade. The Fisherman is Nihuang, the Lady of the Smugglers Guild. The last Merveille is the man standing beside the Lord of Thieves. ‘Gentleman’ George, infamous highwayman. And if you earn his favor, there is much that he can teach you.”

The Gentleman spots us and inclines his head to whisper something in the ear of Tomasis, the Lord of Thieves, who turns to glance lazily in our direction. Femi squeezes my arm.