8

The Dealers of Death

In times past, terrible wars threatened to tear the Miracle Court apart, which is why the Law was created to govern all the Guilds. But even with the Law, the Guilds can’t quite give up the moldering suspicions that make them so distrustful of one another. The location of almost every Guild House is a closely guarded secret, known only to Femi and the People of the Pen. One of the exceptions is this house.

The building is impressive: tall, ancient, built of white marble. Its architecture is spare compared with the extravagant Gothic style of its decaying neighbors.

My mouth goes dry looking at it. They say it used to house the finest undertakers in all of France; some say it still does. We walk up a manicured path of smooth white stone leading to a large terrace. The front door is tall and black; its knocker is a heavy brass skull.

The Assassins don’t need to hide their Guild, because members of the Miracle Court usually aren’t foolish enough to seek them out.

I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the cold brass, and rap on the door. The noise thunders through the house, and an eerie, unnatural silence answers us. I pray that no one opens the door.

No one does.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ettie whispers.

It’s the right place.

No one may enter a Guild if they are not a child of that Guild. It is a Law of the Miracle Court. The punishment for entering a Guild House uninvited varies by Guild. Thieves like to hang people from the Pont Neuf by their nether regions, which could be why no one ever tries to visit them. There are stories that say entering the front door of the Assassins Guild without an invitation leads to instant decapitation via hidden guillotine. Invitations are scarce. We’ll have to do without one today.

Every nerve in my body is alive with dread as I push the heavy door open. That it’s not locked frightens me more than I can say. I pause for a moment. No guillotine falls.

We stare down a long corridor lit by dim sconces; the floor is a chessboard of black and white marble. There’s a small fountain gurgling delicately at its far end.

Beside me, Ettie is rigid and quiet. My fear is contagious.

“Good hunting,” I call as loudly as I dare, making Ettie jump. My greeting goes unanswered.

“Maybe they’re not home,” Ettie offers. I shake my head.

The Bats are always home.

We walk down the corridor; my heart beats a wild staccato.

This Guild House, like its children, is stark, elegant, and devoid of feeling.

Ettie approaches the fountain. I grab her by the collar to stop her.

“Half the members of this Guild have devoted their lives to concocting deadly poisons. Don’t drink anything.” She nods, and we proceed with small, cautious steps. Ettie runs her fingertips along white markings on the dark walls as we go. I glance at them and my blood runs cold. The marks are carved into the wall. Each group of four is crossed with a fifth line. It’s a running tally.