by Kester Grant
The pile of rags moves, stiffly at first, and the figure turns as if its untethered limbs are gathering themselves together. Hands take hold of the bars: the fingers ravaged, scaly. As it gets closer, his terrible features are illuminated in the matchlight: his face looks like it’s melting, the skin peeling and flaking in layers.
Orso, the Dead Lord, Father of the Ghosts of the Beggars Guild, keeper of histories, teller of tales.
“Monseigneur.” I half bow in the darkness in the way of the Wretched, my head tilted to expose the mark at my neck. “I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild.”
“I remember.” His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn’t used it in a while. “The youngest Cat in the history of the Court. You knew the Law by heart.”
I also remember. It’s hard to forget the first time you look upon the ruined face of the Dead Lord. It takes everything in you not to shudder. But I knew the words by heart, and he could find no fault in my knowledge of the Law.
He pauses; then, in a measured voice, offers: “You’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to speak with me, child. As you can see, I’m at your leisure.”
I take a deep breath. “I have a friend,” I say. “I ask you to give her the mark of the Ghosts.”
He looks at me, considering. “And what is so wrong with your friend that you would break into this godforsaken place to ask me to take her?”
“The Tiger wants her.”
He seems to think about it. Then he laughs, which makes his face even more horrible to behold.
“And you alone are not afraid of the Tiger,” I continue.
“The Tiger doesn’t like to be crossed,” he says.
“Perhaps it’s time for a change?”
His withered fingers strangle the metal bars. “If you could get me out of this prison, I’d give you everything you ask, but you must know, little Cat: there’s no way for me to escape.”
“Escape, my Lord? I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild.” I smile in the darkness. “I’m here to steal you.”
* * *
We move like the darkness itself, in the complete silence that only children of the Miracle Court have mastered. The prisoners on each floor hear nothing and see nothing, deep in their nightmare-laden sleep. When we make it to la Gourdaine, I hear a sound: the tiny squeak of a mouse. But it is the rhythm that makes me stop. The squeak comes once, twice, and a third time, in a pattern I know well. It is one of the hundreds of Master Calls. In the darkness, Orso stills, and just when I have convinced myself that I was mistaken, a whisper floats toward us on the darkness.
“Nous sommes d’un sang.”
We can’t afford delays, but Orso makes a gesture with his hand that I should investigate. I glide silently away from the stairs and into la Gourdaine. Cells line my path, and everyone sleeps. Except for a huge shadowy figure whose eyes glint at me through the bars. The man’s bearded face tells me he must have been imprisoned for at least a year. He holds his hands out to me, palms up, so that I see he bears no weapons, but the size of those hands makes me pause—they look strong enough to crush me, should I be so foolish as to go too close.
“Sister,” he says, in a whisper so light it’s as if he did not speak. He tilts his head, exposing his neck. In the darkness, I cannot make out a tattoo, and I dare not light a match here, but if this is indeed a child of the Miracle Court rotting away in these cells, at least I can inform his Guild that he is alive. I reach out, my pulse racing, and gently touch my fingertips to the skin behind his ear, where I feel it.
It is the shape of an X, the mark of the Guild of Letters—the guild of auditors, lawyers, extortionists, forgers, and moneylenders. The guardians of secrets and information, whose spies are said to have infiltrated every position of power in France and abroad.
“Sister, thou art a Cat?” the man whispers.
I nod, swallowing.
“I don’t know how you are aiming to escape, but I can tell you that whatever you have planned won’t work.” He wrinkles his nose. “Although apparently you got in through the privy? Clever. He won’t fit out that way, though.” He motions at Orso, who has silently joined me. “And even if you got out, there are the gendarmes, and among them the Sûreté—”
“I have procured a gendarme’s uniform for Lord Orso,” I interrupt. I grabbed it from the cloakroom of the gendarmerie before I broke in to the Châtelet.
The prisoner pauses, bows his head at Orso in respect. Orso, for his part, eyes the prisoner with curiosity.
“They know the names and faces of every guard,” the prisoner continues. “The number of them and the number of prisoners. The roaches can’t sneeze here without someone noticing.” He rubs a large hand down the side of his face. His eyes narrow cunningly. “But if you get me out of this cell, I’ll show you how all three of us can walk out of here.”
I don’t have time for this. Another rescue, another body, another opportunity for things to go wrong. But then again, he is a son of the Guild of Letters, trained in the art of espionage and subterfuge. If anyone knows how to escape a prison such as the Châtelet, he probably does. Of course, trusting him could be unwise. He is a criminal, after all, locked up for some reason I can only guess. But I have to save the Dead Lord, and we must choose our allies wisely in times of great trial. That, and I’d be a fool to miss the opportunity for the Guild of Letters to owe me a debt for freeing one of their sons.
I sigh and take out my lock-picks.
* * *
On the prisoner’s instruction, I open the locks of every cell in la Gourdaine, moving like a whisper between the iron cages; the inmates don’t even wake as I do my work. The Dead Lord, dressed in the garb of a guard, silently watches me. If something goes wrong, it was my decision to set this son of the Guild of Letters free. The giant, on his release, towered over me like a threat, murmured his quick instructions, told me he would return, and then disappeared, moving surprisingly quietly for a man of his size. A few thumps later he is back, carrying the body of a dead—no, just unconscious—guard. He strips him of his uniform, throws him into the cell, and swaps clothes with him. Some of the prisoners start to awaken. It is a testament to how long they have been there that they simply stare at me without making a sound. They are dumbfounded at my presence.
“Liberté,” I say to them; their eyes travel to the open doors of their cells. Pandemonium ensues.
I make it back to the top floor of the tower at a run. Behind the door, I peer into the courtyard as a cry pierces the night. The Ghosts are wailing. The guards on the tower are confused; half of them rush toward the balcony’s edge to stare down at the commotion, giving me time to dart behind their backs across the courtyard into the garderobe. I unwind a rope I found in one of the guard rooms and attach it to a vicious-looking hook, which I fasten to the stone ledge of the privy. Then I grab the rope and in one fluid movement I dive through the hole, dropping headfirst into the cesspit. The rope stops my fall, tearing at my muscles. The stench chokes me, burning my nose and eyes. I climb down the last few inches and lower my feet into a squelching pile. I tug at the rope until the hook comes free and follows down after me. Then I take a deep breath and lie down in the vile muck, allowing it to cover me completely. I do my best not to gag, or move, or let myself think about what’s happening. I’m already covered in the stuff; a little more can’t hurt. Outside, men yell, doors slam, the Ghosts wail louder, and voices shout at them. I close my eyes in my soft, putrid resting place and wait.
Moments later the clatter commences: the door of the cesspit opens. The night-soil men have arrived right on time to empty the cesspit. They appear unconcerned by the running gendarmes and the wailing Ghosts causing chaos around them. They have one job to do, which hasn’t changed for over a hundred years, and they’re going to do it no matter what. They wedge the door open, allowing glorious night air to rush in, and they return to their wagon to get their s
hovels. I rise, camouflaged by my coating of muck, and dart out the door. Armed with their shovels, they return to the cesspit, and while their backs are turned, I clamber onto their large wagon and hunker down between the foul heaps of excrement.
I lean over and squint between the wagon’s wooden slats toward the light of the gendarmerie, where Ettie and the Ghosts are gathered around a body. Ettie is wailing loudly. The policemen are standing nearby, trying to calm the Ghosts’ hysterical cries of “Murder! Murder!” The slim inspector is there in their midst, barking orders and taking control, her red hair gleaming in the light.
She bends over to study the corpse.
“This victim has been dead for hours,” she says, straightening. She frowns as her eyes wander over the Ghosts. Then she looks up at the tower.
“Something is not right. Check on the inmates,” she says.
My stomach tightens.
“But, Inspector Javert—” a gendarme starts to argue.
“Now!” she barks, and the men hurry away, disappearing inside the Châtelet.
“PRISONERS ESCAPING! PRISONERS ESCAPING!” screams a guard rushing toward them moments later as a frantic bell cleaves the night.
Javert swings sharply around. “Report!”
“Inspector Javert, the prisoners are loose inside the prison! We have been overwhelmed. It is only a matter of time—”
“Gendarmes! Prepare the horses. Not a single inmate is to make it past these gates.”
The gendarmes have barely had time to assemble, when a handful of blue-coated guards come running, fleeing from a swell of prisoners in rags, their eyes mad with hope.
The Châtelet spews forth so many prisoners that even the gendarmes on horseback have to hold tight, rocked by the wave of men flooding the courtyard, scaring the horses.
There’s the sound of gunshot and the acrid smell of grapeshot. The gendarmes have to choose whom to stop, and for each prisoner they manage to restrain, ten more go rushing past, threatening to trample them. Two of the horses buck and lash out, throwing their riders, then rush about in panicked circles. In the total chaos, the Ghosts and their corpse are forgotten. As instructed, they slink away into the night, taking Ettie with them. In the middle of the fray, I see two guards in blue uniforms halt the riderless horses and mount them. I know they are not the same guards who were thrown.
The prisoners have passed the gates, battering them down and flowing into the streets and alleyways. Javert screams at the top of her lungs for the gendarmes on horseback to go after them. They carefully back out of the swell and lead their horses after the prisoners….She has ordered them to go, and so they do—though two of them won’t stop riding till they’re far beyond her reach. And they’re not out of danger yet: there’s time enough for the gendarmes to realize that neither of those riders is one of their own. I fear for the Dead Lord and his new ally. I need to increase their chances of a smooth escape. I need to cause a distraction.
The night-soil cart, now loaded, starts to move toward the river. The workers will carry their fragrant cargo to a soil yard in the south, where they spread it out to dry with used hops from breweries before selling it as fertilizer to the farmers outside the city walls. I wait till the cart is on the bridge before I leap off, rolling as I hit the street. I duck down the alleyway where we left St. Juste and appear out of the darkness before him. Dagger out, arm raised, I register the widening of his eyes as, with a single arc of my blade, I sever the bonds at his hands and feet.
“I don’t have time for explanations. Just do what I say and we’ll all get out of this in one piece,” I order as I remove the gag from his mouth.
He gives a loud sigh, relieved to be free.
“Quick, put this on!” I thrust a garment at him.
He hesitates, considering whether to trust me, as behind us the cacophony of chaos plays like an orchestra. I smile sweetly at him. He frowns and grabs the garment, then throws it over his head, his hands getting caught in the sleeves, which I tied in knots so he wouldn’t have time to lash out at me.
Then I scream, a shrill scream that echoes in the night.
“Escaped prisoner! Escaped prisoner!” I screech, backing away from him.
He has just pulled the garment over his head and stands, chest exposed, fighting to make sense of his sleeves, preparing to defend me from an escaped prisoner. But his cramping muscles betray him and he falls over.
I bend toward him. “Forgive me, St. Juste, but I daresay they won’t hold you for long.”
The look of sheer confusion on his face is a beautiful thing. Raised voices and the thunder of boots on cobblestone ring through the darkness. I turn and flee, running into ten guards. I point at him over my shoulder and put on my best sobbing voice.
“There! One of the prisoners! Mon Dieu, he must have gotten out through the privy, for he reeks! He grabbed me and tried to slit my throat!”
The privy smell thus explained, the guards hurtle toward St. Juste, who has struggled to his feet and is still trying to shrug on the prisoner’s robe that I gave him—making it look as if he might just be an escaped prisoner trying to free himself from the incriminating uniform.
“We have you cornered,” the guard nearest St. Juste crows as I disappear into a shadowy side street and start to scale the wall. I reach the roof in seconds and shelter in the shadow of a gable.
The scene below me would not work in daylight, where the guards might see St. Juste’s clean-shaven skin and the clean but rumpled clothes he wears. But in the darkness, even by torchlight, all these things are made invisible by the guards’ desire to have captured a prisoner.
“Put your hands up and get down on your knees!” they roar at him.
St. Juste’s face is a portrait: comprehension sweeps over him, as well as clarity, anger, and something else. He looks past the guards and searches for me at the roofline, his eyes blazing.
“You are making a mistake,” he says in a voice weak from so many hours of disuse.
“Not another word from you!”
“I am not a prisoner. My name is Enjolras St. Juste.”
“St. Juste?” The guards pause. “We’ve got a stupid one here. Don’t you know all the St. Justes are dead?”
The guard speaks the terrible truth. All the Marats, the Dantons, the Robespierres, the Mirabeaus, the Desmoulins: every man, woman, and child bearing those family names was set dancing by the noose of Montfaucon, where what’s left of their bodies still hangs today.
There’s a strange steely light to St. Juste’s eyes as he answers, his jaw set in a rigid line.
“I know,” he says.
The guard sniffs, unsure how to interpret this but knowing they have a job to do.
“I think I’d rather be a prisoner of the Châtelet than be called by the name St. Juste in this city,” the guard says, shaking his head as his colleagues drag St. Juste away.
As he passes, St. Juste raises his head to the darkness where I have disappeared. He can’t see me, I’m sure of it, and yet I feel the burning of his eyes upon my skin. I swallow down guilt. They won’t keep him, not once they realize he’s not actually an escaped prisoner. At worst, they will rough him up to get out their frustrations, which is better than ending up in the Ghosts’ pot. He should really be thanking me.
I keep moving and pretend it doesn’t bother me at all, that I can’t feel the heat of his glare on me as I let myself down under the shadows of the bridge. The Ghosts and Ettie are waiting for me. We climb into the entrance to the catacombs, drag the metal grate behind us, and flee down the tunnels, hoping desperately that everything has gone according to plan.
* * *
When I hobble into the Halls of the Dead, Loup’s first words are a gracious suggestion that I clean myself. When a Ghost tells you to bathe, you know you must smell bad. Gavroche leads me to a sulfurous pool of steaming wa
ter. Ettie sits by my side and informs me that this is Orso’s favorite pool, a fact I wish I didn’t know.
I’m freshly dry, with tight, clean skin, and I’m wearing the dusty gray cloak of a Ghost, when the Ghosts erupt in loud cries. I run to the Halls of the Dead, knife in hand and Ettie trailing behind me, in time to witness Orso’s entrance on horseback, like a great hero of legend, amid hysterical cheers from the Ghosts, who weep and wail with delight, throwing themselves at him and greatly frightening his stolen mount.
Orso is enveloped in the guard uniform, a scarf at his neck swallowing his face and his hat pulled down low over his brow. He leaps from his horse and is immediately engulfed by a wave of gray figures, some at his feet, others pulling at his arm or face. He laughs and looks around; spotting me, he gives a roar.
“My children, behold: my savior.” He inclines his head at me. I frown and back away as the Ghosts swarm me, batting them away ineffectually. They touch my face with dusty fingertips, whispering and moaning their thanks. It takes another roared order from Orso for them to unhand me, and Ettie stifles a giggle at my expense.
I straighten my robe and turn to Orso. “Monseigneur.” I bow. Beside me, Ettie does the same. She’s getting the hang of this.
Orso has seen Ettie. His eyes narrow, and he crosses the room to inspect her. He tilts her face up to examine it.
“It’s no wonder he wants you.” He releases her. “You’re so very lovely.”
He catches my glare.
“Don’t look so ferocious, little Cat.” His eyes are bright with laughter. “I won’t scar this one. Her face is far more useful to us intact. She’ll be the jewel in our crown. The little Lady of Ghosts. I will give your friend the Ghost’s mark, and that will resolve our debt.”