Two women danced while a whisperer played an air on a fiddle. In the middle of one cluster of people, a hydromancer stirred a pail of murky water, watched with interest by several amaurotics. Everyone seemed to be getting on like wick and flame.
“This isn’t the syndicate,” I muttered to Arcturus. “Not enough voyants.”
Still, it was worth taking a look around this place. Nobody protested as we picked our way through the slum. We had no valuables on show. A few people eyed Arcturus, intrigued by his appearance or his aura.
Definitely not the syndicate. Outsiders would have been challenged by now.
The sound of a lullaby caught my attention. It came from one of the few voyants here—a seer, hunched and shivering. A shew stone glinted in her lap. Her cheeks were windburned, her hands almost swallowed by heathered arm-warmers, and she sang to a newborn in the crook of her arm:
“J’ai fait un rêve horrible, mon cher,
Lorsque je fus dans l’ancien jardin de mon père.
Je rêvais qu’il y eut une ancre sur la tour,
Et que des tyrans envahirent notre cour.”
I stepped close enough to draw her attention. She took one look at Arcturus and screamed. Shock jerked my hand to my knife, though I just stopped myself drawing it. The seer scrambled into her shelter, the baby and the stone clasped to her chest.
“It’s him, it’s him!” She stabbed a finger at Arcturus. A tiny cry split the air. “L’Homme au Masque de Fer. Il est venu m’enlever—”
“Ta gueule,” a woman barked at her. “Enough of your raving, Katell. And shut your brat up, before I drown it.”
There were muttered agreements before everyone returned to what they had been doing, but glances kept darting back to us, some hooded with suspicion. We needed to be gone before they got too interested.
I crouched in front of the seer. She peeked at me from behind a tuft of black curls, showing a bruise on her cheekbone, stark against her light brown skin.
Katell was a Breton name. Even though the people of Brittany had never mounted any major rebellions against Scion, all Celtic regions had been tarred with the same brush as Ireland. With that name, this woman had probably never been able to secure full-time work.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Katell,” I said. “Neither is my friend. I think you might have mistaken him for someone else.”
Her face was careworn, gnawed by hunger, but I thought she was about my age. She stared up at Arcturus, who seemed to sense that getting any closer would spook her.
“Yes,” she finally said. “This man is taller, I think.”
“L’Homme au Masque de Fer,” I said. “That’s who you thought he was. Who is that, Katell?” When she retreated farther into her lean-to, I lowered my voice a little more. “Maybe we can help each other. I need information. If you can provide it, there’s coin in it for you.”
Katell shushed her grizzling baby and glanced over her shoulder. Her collarbone jutted.
“Not here,” she said, so only we could hear. “I will meet you in Rue de Ponceau. You know it?”
Arcturus gave me a subtle nod. “Yes,” I said.
As I stood, I made a point of pursing my lips, as if I’d tried and failed to wring something from Katell. Arcturus led me straight out of the slum.
“Interesting development,” I said.
“Indeed. Do you intend to investigate?”
“Naturally.”
A short walk brought us to Rue de Ponceau. It was a foul-smelling alley, starved of sunlight and paved with cobblestones. Katell soon came, her baby asleep and tucked into a sling.
“Hello, Katell,” I said.
She gave Arcturus a wary look. “What is it you want to know?” she asked me.
“A few things,” I said, “but first, tell me about this . . . Man in the Iron Mask. You piqued our curiosity.”
It was starting to snow again. Katell wrapped some of her shawl around her baby.
“He took my spouse, Paul Caron,” she said. “I saw the mask he wore—made of metal, with bars over the eyes. Others have seen the same figure. I have heard whispers of his name.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks.”
“And he took Paul?”
“He and his followers. I ran after them, but they hit me with something, and when I woke, they had disappeared. No one believes me.” Katell stepped forward then and clasped my hand. “Madelle, do you work for Le Chevalier des Deniers? Have you come to help me find Paul?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I gently broke her grip. “Is Le Chevalier des Deniers your . . . boss?”
Disappointment stiffened her face.
“Yes. The patron of this district,” she said, her voice flat. “Le Chevalier des Deniers rules the Court of Miracles. We give him our earnings. In return, he keeps us fed and safe. Or so he claims.”
Katell was describing a mime-lord, or something akin to one. She was our first link in the chain.
“I suppose he reports to someone else,” I said.
“The grands ducs.” Katell stepped back. “You must be new to the district. To the citadel, perhaps.”
“I’d like to introduce myself to the grands ducs. Any idea where I might find them?”
A frown pinched her brow. “No one sees our leaders without invitation. If I wished to see them, I would ask Le Chevalier des Deniers, and he would—he might—petition for me.”
“They’ll want to see me.”
“Madelle, they will never receive you unless you petition. Save yourself a wasted journey.”
“A name or a place. That’s all I need.”
Fresh hope jumped into her eyes. I had dredged my words with false impatience. Impatience pointed to desperation, and desperation pointed to need. This woman knew those refrains.
“Our leaders hold court in les carrières,” she said under her breath. “For a price, I can give you a name. An old friend who knows the way inside.” She held out a hand. “Two hundred.”
I almost let her fleece me, just to throw her a bone. “No name in Paris is worth that much coin, as you well know,” I said. Her cracked lips pressed together. “Since I’m feeling generous today, I’ll forgive you for trying to rip me off. Fifty.”
“I cannot risk my life for fifty. If anyone finds out I have shared information about the carrières with a stranger, I will leave my child an orphan.” Her hand trembled. “Ninety.”
“Seventy, Katell, or I walk. I’m sure someone else around here could use the money.”
I kept my nerve until hers failed. When she gave a stiff nod, Arcturus took the right amount from his coat. Katell snatched the notes from him and stuffed them into her skirt pocket. She beckoned me close and whispered into my ear: “Montparnasse. Find Mélusine.”
“Where in Montparnasse?”
“She could be anywhere in that district.”
“Do you have unregistered cabs in Paris, the sort that will take voyants without questions?”
“Anormales, or anormaux,” Katell corrected. “That is what we call ourselves here.” She took a step back. “The cabs have blue paint over the wheels. Look for them beside any triumphal monument. The nearest is the Porte Nord.” Another step. “Please, ask no more of me.”