“So I heard. But I’m going regardless. I’m looking for one of my kind. His name’s Malik Habib. He might’ve been travelling with a psychopath assassin called Rodolfo Graziani. These names mean anything to you?”

He shakes his head. “This Malik,” he says. “Is he your man?”

“Look, are you gonna help me, or not?”

“Ça depend. What is in it for me?”

“Not dying, for starters.” I draw the sword, slowly, and turn it so he sees the sun glint off the blade.

“Some weapon,” he says.

“Help me or don’t,” I say. “Your choice.”

He makes his choice.

He reaches for his ancient pistol. A premeditated move, announced with a flick of his eyes and, before he can draw breath—let alone shift his weapon—I’ve moved. I’m at his side now and the cutting edge of my blade lies against the artery of his thigh.

He looks at me in blank shock. I’ve bought myself a ride.

50

We travel a day and a night, sharing the horse, riding through Northern France—in Venetia. The woods are dense and crowd the path. The Gizzards follow us for a while, chattering, hurling fruit, then fall back. The forest leaps with sounds. Featherless birds flash lizard-like through the velvet green, and hairy, frenzied bugs scatter into the roots under the grey’s trampling hooves. The only people we see are either solitary opportunists, or shady groups travelling in packs. We avoid them all, swinging wide arcs around them, staying downwind, hidden in the trees.

It rains. Spitting cold, ice-needle thin. Duval is surly and says little in the downpour. We pass the night in silence, huddled at a smoking fire under his tarpaulin. I tie him with his own rope to a tree before falling asleep.

The night is dark. The sky, starless.

On day two the rain stops. We arrive at the banks of a sluggish, mud-coloured river, carrying an assortment of steamboats. We watch them from the treeline. Then we move on, flanking the banks of the River Seine. We come to a lone hill and ride to the top. I drop from the horse, holding the reins, and step forward, sword in hand, taking care to keep Duval in my peripheral vision.

When I see where he’s led me, and what lies before us, my hand drops a fraction and I let the tip of the sword rest on the ground.

“That dung-pile there?” Duval says behind me. “That is Paris Nouveau.”