Finally, he stops, and I nearly whimper in relief, overcome by the journey, my ears ringing with the instructions he has given me. In the silvery dawn, I see that we are on the outskirts of an abandoned neighborhood, its buildings ravaged by time. We scramble down the side of a crumbling edifice, push past a half-open gate, dwarfed by the shadow of a ruined church. A pair of heavy doors awaits, our arrival upsetting a murder of crows nesting in the roof. Inside, what hasn’t decayed has long since been scavenged: the benches, altars, and stained-glass windows are dark open wounds along the crumbling walls.
“L’église de l’évêque Myriel,” Femi says, his low voice echoing into the ruin. “They say it’s haunted by the ghost of its founder, a man violently converted from a life of nefarious crime.” He reaches out to me, drawing me into the darkness after him.
“And there are others who say that l’évêque Myriel never gave up his criminal ways. Becoming a ‘man of God’ was the perfect cover for his illustrious career.”
Femi gently pulls me toward a small side door that must once have led to a vestry. We enter and step through another decomposing room and down a dark staircase. He slows a little for me, pointing out which stones are likely to shift beneath our feet. At the bottom of the staircase in the meager half-light is a monster of a door, darker even than the darkness of this lightless place. Femi places a hand on it, and I follow. It is cold beneath my touch. Iron, which does not rot, or burn, or fade…
The giant door swings open before us. A blaze of light blinds me.
“Welcome to the Guild of Thieves,” Femi murmurs.
“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.