He shrugs. “Rubbish ships.” He indicates what looks like a landing zone, a few streets away from the cremation pits, where the trees have been sawn down and removed. And next to the landing zone is a hulking pile of rubbish, flocks of wheeling seagulls, and bent figures crawling over giant mountains of waste. “The Order’s ships carry rubbish from the pyramid to the dump, twice a day. My cousin, Jean-Marc, he is the dump manager.”

“The family success,” I tell him.

Duval grins, leans across and spits again.

I give him the pistol and let go the reins. “Leave,” I tell him. “Don’t look back. I’ll find my own path from here.” I say it confidently and I mean it, but I’m not certain where the confidence ends and the bluster begins. I’m barely holding it together.

But I won’t let anyone see that.

Not now. Not yet.

51

A flash of lightning. Thunder. Rain.

I’m on my own again and even with the sword I feel vulnerable. I pick my way through the sodden campsites of Ile de la Cité—alone. I pull the lapels of the rank-smelling coat to my cheeks. The jacket was a good idea. It’s waterproof, and hides the sword more than the poncho did, allowing me to blend in. I crossed Pont Neuf from the Right Bank and now I’m walking up Quai de l’Horloge, a stone street teeming with people, heads bowed in the deluge. It feels like I’ve stepped back in time. Horse-drawn carriages trample up the cobbled streets and throngs of people, blurred in the grey rain, retreat to their tents and lean-tos and derelict buildings.

Lightning flashes and Notre-Dame is lit up. The black spire, still standing in this world. The gothic gargoyles. The famous flying buttresses.

All in the shadow of the pyramid.

I take a right off the river into Rue d’Arcole, densely tree-lined, roots thrusting up through the stones. The rain is coming down so thick now it’s hard to see more than a few paces. I pass a tavern, spitting drunks out and into the street. A brawl ensues. Bottles swing. Punches fly. A man comes staggering towards me and I reach for the sword, but before I need it, a woman rears up behind him and smashes a bottle over his head. They fall to the road, grappling.

I move on.

Now I stand in an open courtyard facing Notre-Dame. A masterpiece of Gothic architecture. It’s hard not to be awestruck. But I’m no tourist and this is no holiday.