The House of Shattered Wings

FOUR. MARKET OF BETRAYALS

PHILIPPE found Aragon in his office, reading a file yellowed by age. How old was Aragon, really? All he had told Philippe was that he owed Morningstar a debt, and this was the reason why he gave part of his time to Silverspires, taking away from his valuable practice — it had no small value, to be an independent doctor in a polarized city.

Aragon’s office was a small room that looked like a cross between church stalls and hospital: the lower half of the walls was covered with wooden panels, while the upper half bore a thick layer of white paint, over which Aragon had aligned pictures and paintings. The room had a faint, unpleasant smell — a remnant of bleach or some other chemical, mingling with the heady one of wood varnish.

Beside Aragon was Emmanuelle, who gave him an embarrassed smile. “Selene told me to report on the exam.” She, too, had a file in her hands. She didn’t sound altogether happy, or approving.

Aragon nodded, curtly, at Philippe. They’d been observing each other warily in the weeks that had preceded, and had had a few desultory exchanges, nothing particularly deep or meaningful.

“Sit here,” Aragon said, pointing to an examination table covered with a white sheet. “I will come in a moment.”

Emmanuelle pulled her chair away into the farthest corner, staring at the images of human bodies on the wall — there was a cross section of lungs, accompanied by information on magical rot and on the nonexistent ways to prevent it; a detailed anatomy of a Fallen, compared point by point to a human, with peculiar emphasis on the muscles of the back — paying particular attention to the muscle pairs that had been used for lifting and pulling down wings; and a detailed map of Paris, charting the points of greatest magical pollution.

After a while, Aragon closed the file. “So,” he said. “A complete exam. Selene seems to think I have time to waste.”

“You certainly took your time humoring her,” Emmanuelle said, with a tight smile. “It’s been weeks.”

“I had other things to do,” Aragon said, stiffly.

Emmanuelle shrugged. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

Aragon didn’t deign to answer.

“She doesn’t like insolence. Or mysteries.”

That last was clearly directed at Philippe. Mysteries. As if he were a thing, to be prodded and analyzed; and then he realized that, to Selene, he might well be.

The arrogance of her…

No. No anger. He couldn’t afford that. Not here, not now. He had been in a House army once; had kept his face a blank through the orders that sent him into the fray to buy a plot of land with blood and death. He could do it again here; it wasn’t so hard.

The Jade Emperor had said it was vital to maintain dignity in all things; what advice would he have had, if he’d seen Philippe in Silverspires, imprisoned by Fallen magic? Perhaps he would have been glad; after all, he was ruler of Heaven; he had exiled Philippe from the company of Immortals — so he could learn humility and decorum. He’d probably never dreamed that foreigners would sweep in with Fallen magic, seizing Philippe when he was still weakened from his exile; sending him to a land where his status meant almost nothing. Perhaps he’d have viewed it as a fitting punishment.

Humility and decorum. What a joke.

Aragon unhooked his stethoscope from the wall, and came closer to Philippe. “Open your mouth, please.”

After a while, Philippe found it easier to tune out and let his body take over the simple exercises — Heaven knew what Aragon had been asked, or how he’d chosen to interpret it, but he was performing a simple medical exam.

The khi currents in the room — as elsewhere in the House — were slow and lazy, as if everything had been severely depleted. Water was the strongest one, because of the proximity of the Seine and the general stagnation of the place; wood was the weakest one, because nothing had grown fast and vigorous in the House for years now. They swirled around Aragon’s feet — metal, for harvest, for collecting — around Emmanuelle’s still face — water, for stillness, for withdrawal into one’s self — but of course all of it had deeper meanings, insights he couldn’t read or draw on anymore.

And there was darkness, too; but there always was — ever since he had touched the mirror. It lay like a shadow across everything he looked at; and sometimes in his dreams he would meet Morningstar’s pale gaze, and stand transfixed, like a deer before a hound or a hunter — and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, both terribly afraid and terribly awed. There was… something infinitely seductive about Morningstar, the promise that he’d be welcomed as a Fallen, reshaped until he was part of Silverspires — tied to the House in ten thousand ways, each stronger and more durable than the ties of families — until he finally became worthy of Morningstar’s regard…

But Morningstar was dead; or gone; or beyond communication. Surely that was just an illusion; a side effect of whatever curse had been laid on the House — of the summoning that he’d felt when touching the mirror, but could no longer trace?

All you hold dear will be shattered; all that you built will fall into dust; all that you gathered will be borne away by the storm…

“Does the House have enemies?” he asked; and was startled to see Emmanuelle’s pleasant expression darken.

“Anything powerful and old always has enemies,” Emmanuelle said — her eyes on the posters on the walls. “And Silverspires is oldest of the Houses. Much diminished, to be sure; but that is when the wolves and carrion birds see their opportunity.”

“I see,” Philippe said.

“You’ll want to know what you’ve gotten into,” Emmanuelle said, not unkindly. “The other Houses are our enemies, mostly. The gang lords are numerous and weak; and the Houses make sure they stay that way.”

“I know,” Philippe said, curtly, as Aragon fussed around him with a stethoscope. “I was a gang member.” He was surprised how easily the past tense came to him; but truly there had been no future for him with the Red Mambas. “What about the Houses?”

Emmanuelle shrugged. “Lazarus is our ally for the time being. Harrier is… neutral.” She rattled off, effortlessly, a dozen other names that meant less to Philippe; presumably on the other end of the city, where he’d never set foot. “And, of course, there’s Hawthorn.”

“Hawthorn?” The word meant nothing to him, but the way Emmanuelle said it…

“In the southwest,” Emmanuelle said, pursing her lips. “Surely you’ve heard of them? If Silverspires is on the wane, they’re on the rise.” There was almost… venom in her voice, which, coming from the quiet and good-natured archivist, was as disturbing as being savaged by a fawn. “They protect their own, and have no scruples beyond that — they grow rich on selling angel essence, and angel breath, and God knows what else they can get their hands on.”

And Silverspires was no doubt a model of morality — he held on to the thought, did not voice it, because he knew that it would not please his captors — because Emmanuelle was on Selene’s side, in the end, and it would do him good not to forget.

“I see,” he said. But none of those enemies, surely, could have reached that deep inside the cathedral and planted the curse? “And the House is… united?” he asked.

Emmanuelle’s face closed. “Of course it is. We’re not Hawthorn, as I said. Selene rules as Morningstar’s heir, and there is neither question of her legitimacy, nor attempts to unseat her.”

He felt more than saw Aragon wince in the middle of prodding at his shoulder blades. There was more to it than that; but the time to ask was not now.

“And now,” Aragon said, “let us see some magic.”

“No,” Philippe said, recoiling instinctively from the suggestion. Magic was not cheap, to be thrown around like fireworks; or wasted on pointless demonstrations of might; or, worse, shown to Selene, whose sentence of death was only held in abeyance until she understood everything that made and moved him.

“You will find,” Aragon said, with a tight smile, “that you have no choice in the matter.” His face was as severe as ever, but he raised his gaze; and Philippe saw the hint of a smile in the dark eyes. Aragon was right: he might breathe fire, summon dragons from the depths of the Seine, transport himself to the other end of Paris — and still, neither Emmanuelle nor Selene would even begin to understand what he was and what he drew on — because his magic was as alien to them as his customs; because he was far from home, an exile in the midst of this broken, decadent city; a foreigner even among his own people, trapped in the ruins of a wrecked city.

No anger. No sorrow. He couldn’t afford them.

He’d already observed where the khi currents in the room were; it was but a simple matter to call up fire, even as diminished and as weak as it was, here in Silverspires; to cradle the living flame in the palm of his hand, feeling the warmth of it travel through his veins — through his shoulder and straight into his heart.

Through the light of the flame, he saw Emmanuelle’s shocked face — the dilated pupils, the dark features frozen in shock, the gaze trained on him, frantically trying to see a trace of magic and finding none.

Good. Not everything in the world was subject to the Fallen.

Gently, slowly, he closed his hand around the flame; let the magic dissolve in the midst of the khi currents and of his body until no trace of it was left. As he did so, for a bare moment, something else connected to the khi currents: water, but not the stale water within the House — something bubbling and simmering, almost youthful in its enthusiasm. Something he’d felt once before in Annam; but no, this was impossible. There were no dragon kingdoms here — no spirits of the rain and rivers, not under the polluted clouds that rained acid; not in the blackened waters of the Seine; not in the wells that had long since run dry.

But he’d felt this, once before — in the ruined cathedral — much fainter, almost spent, but still…

Impossible. Nostalgia and the fancies of a prisoner, that was all it was.

“Satisfied?” he asked, shaking his head to dismiss the odd feeling.

Emmanuelle grimaced, but she nodded. “As much as one can be, I guess.”

Aragon returned to his desk, put down his stethoscope with an audible thump. “I trust that is the end of the examination.” His face was severe; his opinion of the entire affair all too clear — a waste of time.

Philippe said nothing. At length, Emmanuelle got up, closing the file she held in her hands. “I will report this to Selene,” she said; and left the room.

Aragon waited until her footsteps vanished from hearing; and they were well and truly alone. “You surprise me.”

Philippe raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Aragon’s smile was terrible to behold. “You are still here.”

“Not by choice,” Philippe said, stiffly. He tried, every night, to untangle Selene’s spell on him; stood on the border of the House, feeling the resistance in the air and wondering if he dared test himself against it. But that spell was a vast maw; something larger than anything he had seen. “Believe me, if I could undo Selene’s spell—”

“Yes? Do tell me.” Aragon put down the paper he was holding. “What would you do? Go back to your games with the gangs and the misery of the streets?”

“Careful, old man,” Philippe said.

But Aragon went on, relentless. “Or will you go home instead? Surely you have to realize it’s a dream you can’t go back to?”

The rest of Europe was ashes as well: the Great War had spilled outward from Paris, engulfing every region and every department — and reaching across borders through the alliances struck between Houses, a network of mutual support that had turned into tinder for a continent-wide conflagration — English Houses against French Houses; and then, as governments collapsed and the circle of conflicts tightened, each House for itself. Outside Paris, ruins dotted the landscape — the minor, provincial Houses in other cities shattered, their Fallen and human dependents dead in their hundreds, and the manors of the countryside fastnesses in the midst of wastelands. The travelers from Madrid or London arrived with delegations as large and as armed as a battalion, after a grueling journey that had taken them months to complete. And the boats for Annam and the colonies were few, the exclusive province of the favored of Houses: an impossibility for such as him. He’d tried, numerous times, to sneak into convoys bound for Marseilles and Saigon; but the security was too tight, the spells too powerful. He’d have to be a dependent to get on board; and he wasn’t ever going to sell himself into servitude to a House — his return wasn’t worth the degradation.

Aragon was right: he would never see Annam again — he would never smell the green papayas, freshly cut open; or the garlic and the fish sauce; never climb into the mountains of the west and see them shrouded in bluish clouds; never hear the chants of worshippers at the ancestral altars… “I know,” Philippe said, in a whisper.

Aragon’s gaze was piercing. “If you’ll forgive me for meddling where I shouldn’t — it’s long past the time where you should make a life for yourself here.”

“As a pampered captive on reprieve from a death sentence? No.” Philippe clenched his fists. “And you are meddling, aren’t you?”

Aragon smiled; this time more gently. “Because I believe in helping my own kin. All Fallen, not just those of the House you belong to.”

“I’m not Fallen,” Philippe pointed out — he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand Aragon. Bodhisattva ethics, perhaps; saving everyone whether they’d asked for it or not; sacrificing himself and his good reputation by helping wounded and sick Fallen, whatever their House. Or his Hippocratic oath, perhaps, though Philippe laid no claim to understanding that peculiarity.

“You’re not Fallen,” Aragon said, at last. “But you still should be free to choose. It’s not right, what Selene did to you. I already asked her, but she won’t lift the spell; and she holds it together with the entire strength of the House. It’s not right.”

Neither was what he had done to Isabelle, but Philippe clamped his mouth shut on that response before it could doom him.

Aragon drummed his fingers on his desk. “I don’t meddle,” he said, more to himself than to Philippe. “I don’t take sides — that was the bargain I struck. But they have to keep their side of it; and they’re not.” He looked up; as if genuinely surprised to still see Philippe there. “There is someone who could help you, but it will not come cheap.”

“Do I look like I have money?” Philippe said.

“No,” Aragon said. “It’s what they’ll ask for that preoccupies me, in fact.” He drummed his fingers on the desk again, staring at Philippe as if he could dissect him. “You’re a decent being, underneath. Can you promise you’ll follow your own heart in this?”

“I can promise,” Philippe said, “but—”

“Then do so.”

“Fine, fine,” Philippe said. It didn’t seem to be much, in any case. “I promise.”

Aragon sighed. “The next Great Market is in two days. Wait in the courtyard near the Préfecture’s former entrance — you know where that is? I’ll show you on a map. Midday, I suspect, is the time he’ll prefer, but I’ll confirm with you. Oh, and naturally do keep my name out of this.”

“I don’t understand—” Philippe started, but he did understand — that somewhere, somehow, there was a person who could effortlessly shatter Selene’s spell; who could make him free.

And wasn’t that all that mattered, ultimately? That, and not the bleak maw of the future that Aragon had described so well; the closed doors to an Annam he couldn’t return to, to a pale, bloodless life with Ninon and Baptiste and the rest of the Red Mambas; or to the cessation of life itself, the supreme attainment of the Buddhists, the thought of which scared him sick in his belly?

* * *

PHILIPPE went to see Isabelle, afterward — to check up on her, ensure that she was still around. He wasn’t sure why, but the interview — and Aragon’s promise — had left him shaken, no longer sure of what he ought to do.

He found her in the kitchens, stubbornly trying to handle a wet, sticky dough under the amused gaze of Laure. “She’s getting better at this,” Laure said to Philippe when he arrived. Her husband, Gauthier, was nearby, showing two junior cooks how to prepare flaky pastry for bouchées à la reine. “Though still a bit of a disaster, if you ask me.”

Philippe forced a smile he didn’t feel. Laure was kind, and he couldn’t fault her; but right now he couldn’t handle another House dependent — except for Isabelle.

Isabelle was kneading the dough as if it had personally offended her — bits and pieces of it were clinging to her fingers, the work surface — and even her hair.

“I take it the lesson with Choérine didn’t go well,” Philippe said. He didn’t really need to see the state of the dough; this close, he could feel her frustration through the link — strong enough that it drowned everything.

Isabelle snorted. “Just tiring,” she said. “She wanted me to hold a spell for a long time — and it’s hard.”

“You’ll get it, eventually.” The small things were always harder — especially for a Fallen whose raw power was too strong, too uncontrolled.

“Of course. Choérine said it could take time, with… young Fallen. How did the exam with Aragon go?”

Philippe shrugged, with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Not as bad as it could have gone.”

She looked at him for a while. “Performing like a circus animal? Did that make you happy?”

Again, that odd mixture of naïveté and shrewdness — thrown around with the subtlety of a club. “I suppose not.”

Isabelle tore the dough back from the wooden table, stared at it for a while. “Laure says there’ll be financiers for dessert tonight. With real almonds. I can beg some if you want.”

Philippe suppressed a smile. “Trying to distract me with food?”

“Trying to distract both of us,” Isabelle said, sharply — clearly still unhappy about the lesson with Choérine. “What do you think?”

“Of course,” Philippe said. He was never quite sure of what to tell her — already, she moved in a world different from his — a world of magic lessons and etiquette courses, while he got taken apart by Aragon and Emmanuelle — observed, to see what he could do; what his value as a weapon was.

But it wasn’t going to last, not if Aragon kept his word.

“Do you miss home?” Isabelle asked.

He shrugged again. From her — from her face, and the faint link between them — only concern. “It was a long time ago.”

“Liar.”

He couldn’t put it into words. “I can’t return,” he said, at last, and that was true.

“Because of the Fallen?” Isabelle asked.

Because… “Because of the Houses, yes. Because there are no boats left, except for dependents. Because, even if I did get on board one, the Jade Emperor — you would call him God, I suppose, if God was in Annam — wouldn’t accept me back.” He left it at that; didn’t mention offenses that were never forgiven — what was the point? It was, as he had told her, a long time ago in another land.

“The Jade Emperor.” She rolled the name on her tongue, as if it were some foreign, exotic ingredient. “Does he rule over Annam?”

“No, of course not,” Philippe said, bitterly. “That would be the Fallen.”

“I mean, before the Fallen.”

“He… is the guardian of Heaven,” Philippe said. “The keeper of Heaven’s will and its closest personification. But no, he doesn’t rule over mortals. Just over spirits. The mountain spirits, the dragons, the village protectors… they all bow down to him.”

“But you’re not a spirit,” Isabelle said. “So you could come back. Just not in his court.”

“I wanted to,” Philippe said. “Even if I didn’t really know what kind of life I’d have, back there.” He hadn’t really had time to get adjusted to his exile from court before the Fallen swooped in — but he’d had a life as a mortal, once — had tasted rice and fish sauce and all the sweetness of banquets; had once known contentment as he’d rounded the bluff and seen his home, with the smell of jasmine wafting from the door. He was still Immortal enough that his body didn’t age, that his powers didn’t fade; but… “I suppose I could,” he said, finally. “Do something else, be different from what I was — before.” It was an absurd, childish idea, but Isabelle’s matter-of-fact tone made it all seem real.

Isabelle watched him for a while. “You should,” she said fiercely. “There will be boats. Maybe not today, but tomorrow or in five years, or in a decade, and you’ll find one you can board.”

“There—” Philippe opened his mouth, and then shut it. It was hard to argue, in the face of her faith — as pure and as incandescent as a falling star. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, slowly. It was a lie, a mad dream; but it was in his belly like warm rice; like a comfort he’d forgotten, years and years ago.

Isabelle said, as if utterly oblivious of the struggle within him, “I asked Selene.”

“About what?”

“Lifting the spell.”

“You—” He was going to say she was insane, and then measured the import of what she’d said. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Isabelle shrugged. “She wouldn’t listen. She smiled and patted me on the head, as if I were a child.”

You are a child, Philippe thought — but he could feel her in his mind; could feel her anger — that pure, sharp rage of the young at injustice. His heart twinged, in his chest, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what he could tell her.

“That’s not what I meant.” And, because he owed her something, anything, in return, even if it was worthless fancies, he added, “I get those flashes, sometimes. Those traces of something familiar, almost as if I only had to turn a corner to be home. It’s… not a pleasant feeling.” The cathedral; Aragon’s office — impossible dreams that he should be adult enough to set aside.

Isabelle’s gaze was disturbingly shrewd. “Sometimes, dreams are true things.”

“Not these ones,” Philippe said; and thought of the other ones; the suffocating nightmares about the darkness; his waking drenched in sweat, breathing hard, as if he’d run ahead of a tiger in its own territory.

These ones, too, had to be false—please, Heaven, let them be false.

* * *

“SELENE?”

Emmanuelle came into Selene’s office, carrying a stack of books — one that was so large it threatened to dwarf her.

“Oh dear,” Selene said. “What are those?” She got up from behind her desk, helped Emmanuelle divest herself of some of the books, before the whole precariously balanced pile fell down.

“Lady Selene?”

“Oh.” Behind Emmanuelle — equally dwarfed by a pile of books, although in this case it was a much shorter one — was Caroline, the six-year-old daughter of two dependents of the House. “Here, let me help.”

Caroline shook her head. “I can do it,” she said, walking slowly but with determination to the desk — where she attempted to put the entire pile of books in one go, with predictable results.

The noise the books made when they tumbled onto the parquet must have woken up the entire House. “Sorry.” Caroline shook her head and picked up the books, one by one — standing on tiptoe to reach the desk and lining them all up one by one.

Emmanuelle watched her, trying very hard to suppress a smile. “She insisted on helping.”

“I see.” Selene considered the books while Caroline continued her ever-widening invasion of her desk. “My Three Years in Annam by Gabrielle Vasseur, Annamite Myths and Legends by Antony Landes. You’ve been busy, I see.”

“I thought I’d keep you busy,” Emmanuelle said. “Since the examination was unsuccessful…” She didn’t sound altogether grieved about that. Selene wasn’t sure why she gave so much leeway to Philippe — had she forgotten what the young man had done, so readily?

She was right, however: Aragon’s examination had been singularly unsuccessful. Philippe’s blood, examined under Aragon’s microscopes, appeared nothing more than human. His lungs were quite free of the rot she associated with angel essence (she hadn’t thought he was an essence addict, but one never knew); in fact, they were surprisingly healthy, even for a young man — Aragon’s face had been creased into something almost like surprise when he gave her the results. All that remained was this strong, unexplained magic that he seemed to wield as easily as he breathed.

“All done!” Caroline stood, proudly. Behind her, the desk was covered in books — she’d been too small to make piles of more than two or three, and had had to expand to either side — a good thing Selene hadn’t yet sorted out the paperwork on her desk, because Caroline had pushed things left and right to fit the books where she could, heedless of whether that disturbed anything.

“Very good,” Emmanuelle said, while Selene made a deliberate effort not to step forward and pile everything properly. “Now go find Choérine, will you?”

“Thank you,” Selene said gravely to the little girl.

Caroline nodded. “I’ll tell all my friends I helped you with House business, Lady Selene!”

To which Selene had no answer; except watching the little girl rush away while Emmanuelle struggled not to laugh. “She means well.”

“I know.” Selene smiled, then gathered all the books into a pile, which she slid onto one corner of her desk, atop the older reports, the ones she always put off reading. “I presume you didn’t come just to deliver books.”

“Of course not,” Emmanuelle said. “Knowing you…” She pulled a chair, and sat down. “Consider they come with a reading guide. You asked about Annam, and what it was like.”

“Yes,” Selene said. If Philippe wouldn’t talk, and if she couldn’t analyze his magic, she’d find another way to discover what he was. “Tell me.”

Emmanuelle closed her eyes — gathering her thoughts for a recitation. When she opened them again, she spoke without hesitation. “What do you know of the beings who ruled the world before the Fallen?”

Beyond Europe, before the mad rush to colonize other countries and bring their wealth back to the motherland, there had been — other beings, other Houses: the nahual shape-shifters of Mexico, the jinn of Arab countries, the Jewish shedim and nephilim—and once, a long time ago, the demigods and heroes of ancient Greece and ancient Rome — long since vanished and crushed by newer magics, their creatures cannibalized to form the constructs of the war, or buried so deeply in the earth they required a painstaking and dangerous summoning that no Fallen would dare undertake. The other beings in other lands, too, had either yielded to Fallen rule, or been killed. “Much. But not about Annam.”

“Annam… is a land of spirits,” Emmanuelle said. “Magic is tied to the land — there’s a spirit for each village, for each household — for mountains and rivers and rain.”

“Rain,” Selene said. “Really.”

“Don’t laugh,” Emmanuelle said. She held up one of the books, where an engraving of a huge, serpentine animal circled text — all the way to the maw, which was huge and fanged, like that of tigers. It had a mane, too; like a lion’s, and deerlike antlers — and it looked… wrong, as if bits and pieces of animals had been jumbled together by a creator with little common sense. “They call them rong. Dragons. They live in clouds, or at the bottom of rivers and seas.”

Not the dragons of Western lore, then — not that anyone had summoned one in centuries, too dangerous…. Even the one on House Draken’s arms had been a fiction; a mere statement of power without substance. “I take it they’re not friendly.”

“No.” Emmanuelle laid the book back on the desk. “But they’ve withdrawn now. According to the books, they haven’t been seen in several decades.”

“Mmm,” Selene said. “And you think… Philippe is a dragon?”

Emmanuelle laughed. “No, of course not. They can take human form, but they always have scales somewhere — or a pearl below their chin, in some of the more… dramatic drawings.”

“I see,” Selene said. She didn’t; or, more accurately, she felt she knew more, but not enough to help her. “Was there anything else?”

“There are other spirits,” Emmanuelle said. “Flower fairies”—she raised a hand to forestall Selene’s objections—“they’re not cute and small, trust me. Also, fox spirits, in Tonkin; and Immortals, though no one has ever seen these. Apparently they all live in something called the Court of the Jade Emperor — who rules over all the other spirits — and they never come down to Earth.”

That didn’t sound very promising, either. And she had other preoccupations, too — with the market coming to Silverspires, there were things she needed to go over with Javier and Diane, the head of security for the House….

She was about to dismiss Emmanuelle and go back to her reports, when something else happened. At the back of her mind — where the dependents of the House were all lined up like lit candles — a light flickered, and went out.

“Selene?”

Selene closed her eyes; felt for the shape and heft of the missing dependent. Théodore Ganimard; one of the informants who kept her apprised of what was happening in other Houses, and in the rest of the city. “Someone just died.”

“Oh.” Emmanuelle said. “Is it… bad?”

Selene shook her head. Being an informant was a dangerous business; and in a bad year she would lose half a dozen men and women. But still… it was odd, that she’d never even felt that Théodore Ganimard was in danger — as if he’d died so quickly and brutally that it had never had time to register with the House’s protections. Like many dependents of Silverspires, he had a tracker disk; but all it told her was that he had been out in the south of Paris, near the ruins of Hell’s Toll.

The market was arriving the next day, and there were other things requiring her attention; but she wasn’t about to let the death of one of her dependents slide past.

“I don’t know how bad it is. Can you get me Javier? I’ll ask him to look into this.”

* * *

A month after Philippe and Isabelle’s arrival, the Great Market came to Silverspires — or rather, just outside the House, in the vast square that had once been the parvis of Notre-Dame. During the Belle Epoque, it had been held in the same place week after week — Les Halles, the belly of the city, the exuberant display of abundance of an empire that had believed itself immortal against all the evidence of history. But the squat, majestic pavilions of glass and iron had been destroyed in the war; and the fragile magical balance that had followed led to an arrangement where the Great Market rotated between the major Houses.

Madeleine took Oris, Philippe and Isabelle with her while she went shopping for magical supplies; keeping a wary eye on Philippe as Selene had instructed. But, other than his being moody and brooding, there seemed to be nothing extraordinary about the young man.

Isabelle, on the other hand, looked at everything and everyone — fascinated by the bright, colored jewelry on a stall; by the vast array of cheeses and hams in the food section, from blue-veined Roquefort to the large, heavy whole rounds of Emmental, their interior peppered with holes like a thousand bubbles; from the glass bottles and mirrors that alchemists used to trap Fallen magic, to trinkets that shone with nothing more than glitter and cheap crystal.

Madeleine watched Isabelle, not sure whether to be amused or affected. She was so young; so careless — like Madeleine in another lifetime, when she’d still been a child in Hawthorn, running wild in the market under the indulgent gaze of her teachers. Back then, she’d never even dreamed of Silverspires or of another House: her duty had been to her family and to Hawthorn, and to nothing or no one else. And now, of course, she was older — she wished she could say wiser, but her wasted lungs and life on the knife’s edge of fear told her otherwise. Her parents were a distant memory — she had been barely talking to them before Asmodeus’s coup; and, of course, after the coup, even the thought of sending a message back had made her sick — that roiling fear that Asmodeus would intercept it — that he would remember her existence, remember that she was still worth claiming; and come to Silverspires with his mocking smile, to kill her as he had killed Elphon…

With an effort, she shook off the past, and focused on the present.

The crowd was colorful and variegated: delegations from other Houses; gang lords in leather, swaggering through the market with their entourages; and a host of grimier, poorer people who congregated in the food sections, haggling for basic necessities. There was not much danger in the crowd, as long as they remained together: the Great Market was a place of truce (which, of course, didn’t mean their purses were safe from opportunistic thieves). Children chased one another, laughing, under the wary eyes of their parents or their minders.

As they stood before one of the stalls, waiting for Oris to complete a purchase of a small mother-of-pearl container, Philippe spoke up.

“It was bigger during the war,” he said.

“Wasn’t everything?” Madeleine said. She hadn’t been born when the city was devastated; those days, you pretty much had to be Fallen to have survived. Sixty years was long in human lifetimes, and most of those who had breathed in the air of Paris in the aftermath had not recovered well. But he wasn’t Fallen, and still he remembered. Odd.

“They had entire stalls like these,” Philippe said, fingering a lacquered box with a pattern of flowers. “Exotic woods from the Orient, and incense, and all the rubber you could ever want, for manufacturing car tires for the front.” His voice was lightly ironic.

“We still have those. But they’re mostly from our existing stock. More expensive,” Madeleine said, unsure of what to answer. He was a native, of course; he would disapprove of the empire, if there was still such a thing after the war — with communications and travel so difficult, the colonies had all but become independent kingdoms by now, with the French colonists still in charge. She… she didn’t like the idea of invading countries, but she was no fool: the empire had made them rich and powerful, and even its bare, pathetic remnants after the war brought them riches and standards of living far above those of the street gangs or other Houseless. Sometimes, you did what you had to, in order to survive.

He gave no sign of noticing her hesitation: he nodded, gravely. “It was another age.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Madeleine said.

His face closed, as if a cloud had darkened it. “Through no fault of my own,” he said, bitterly, and wouldn’t speak up again.

“Madeleine!” A voice made her look up as they approached the eastern area of the parvis.

It was Claire, the head of House Lazarus; surrounded, as usual, by a gaggle of unruly children. Lazarus, among all the Houses, was the only one ruled by a human; Claire had been its head for thirty years, and Madeleine had known her for about half of that. She was small and plump, the image of a gray-haired, kindly grandmother; though of course one did not get to be the head of a House through kindness alone. Claire was ruthless, and many of her tactics would have put a Fallen to shame.

“I see you’ve grown an entourage of your own,” Claire said, wryly. Her gaze took in Isabelle and Oris, and stopped at Philippe.

“They belong to the House,” Madeleine said, acutely embarrassed.

“You surprise me.” Claire smiled. “I never thought you would get Philippe to join a House of his own free will.”

She knew him? Madeleine waited for him to protest; or to acknowledge the fact that he was bound to the House by far less than his free will, but he merely scowled at Claire. “There is a time to try everything, I guess,” he said, darkly. “How have you been, Lady Claire?”

“Well enough,” Claire said. Without missing a beat, she caught a boy’s hand and held it away from the bracelet he was trying to grasp. “No touching, I said.”

Madeleine made a mental note to talk to Claire away from Philippe, or to tell Selene to do so. There was even more to the young man they didn’t know, it seemed. “We had Philippe for a while,” Claire said. “A long time ago, though, and we couldn’t hold him.”

Philippe wasn’t meeting her gaze; though now that Madeleine thought of it, he seldom met anyone’s gaze but Isabelle’s. “None of your fault,” he said at last, inclining his head in a practiced gesture. “You know that.”

“Of course.” Claire shook her head, as if to clear away a persistent thought; and her gaze focused on Isabelle. “You haven’t been here long,” she said.

Isabelle hesitated, clearly reluctant to say much of anything. Madeleine stepped in. “She’s too young for the advanced inquisition, Claire. Or for your power plays with Silverspires.”

“Power plays?” Claire smiled again. “I don’t play them much, as you well know.”

No, Madeleine thought. But when you do play them, you leave us all in the dust. She did not relish the idea that Silverspires was bound to find itself on the opposite camp of House Lazarus one day. Claire might be human, but that merely meant she was ten times the strategist that most Fallen were; and ten times as ruthless when it came to downing her enemies. “If I were playing such games, though…” Claire’s face was thoughtful. “If I were playing, I would congratulate you on sheltering so young a Fallen, who will do honor to her House.”

“A weapon, you mean.” Philippe’s hiss of anger was all too audible, even in the din of merchants offering their wares.

“I see you haven’t changed,” Claire said. “Ideals will betray you in the end. You should know this.”

Philippe said nothing — perhaps he’d finally understood that all Claire did was to goad him, in the hopes of getting information. “You didn’t stop me simply to exchange pleasantries,” Madeleine said, going for the blunt approach.

Claire’s pale blue eyes focused on her. “Did I?” But in the end, as Madeleine had known all along, she couldn’t resist. “If you see Selene, you might want to suggest she show an interest in doings outside the House.”

“What things do you think she would not have seen?” Madeleine said, keeping her voice low and pleasant.

Claire’s face darkened, and she hesitated for a while. “As I said, I don’t play your little power games. I’m not Harrier or Hawthorn, or Silverspires, indeed. But there is word, in the city, of something abroad.”

“Something?” Madeleine couldn’t help the bark of laughter. “There’s always something abroad in Paris. It’s not like it’s a safe place.” She couldn’t help remembering the shadow; the touch on her thoughts, the fist tightening in her innards as the wings unfolded, always just out of sight, always just out of reach — until they weren’t.

“Something that kills,” Claire said darkly. “Something that leaves multiple bite marks on its victims and takes their blood.”

“Fallen blood is power,” Philippe said. He kept his gaze away from Isabelle, but Madeleine saw the way the young Fallen flinched. “But not much power.”

“Did I say the victims were Fallen?” Claire shook her head.

Oh, of course. Word would have spread much faster, if there had been Fallen dead. “What are you suggesting?” Madeleine asked.

“I don’t know. I never said I had the answer. But I would suggest you tread even more carefully than usual at night.” Claire’s face was utterly serious; and there was a hint of something in her eyes — fear?

Claire went on, with a tight smile. “The victims are human. Five of them, none who would be missed — low in gang hierarchies, grimy and ill-fed, too insignificant to be worth a House’s regard.” There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. Among other things, Lazarus ran charity kitchens, hospitals, and hostels, where, regardless of your allegiance or your past, you would be made welcome for a few nights.

“Which gangs?” Philippe asked sharply.

Claire gave him an appraising look. “None of the Red Mambas, though I would guess your… friends will be worried as well.”

“Those deaths don’t really concern the House,” Madeleine said, though she didn’t know, not really. It was dark out there, in the devastated streets of the city; and if one crazy person had got into his head to play serial killer, she wasn’t really sure what Silverspires could have to do with it. “I’ll tell Selene, but you know I can’t guarantee anything.”

“No, of course not.” Claire inclined her head. “But it’ll be something. Good-bye.”

It was only after she and her entourage had gone, when Isabelle looked up and asked, “But surely she could tell Lady Selene herself?” that Madeleine thought back on what Claire had said. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t like it. There’s a sting in here somewhere for Silverspires, but I don’t know what it is yet.”

“She wanted something out of us,” Philippe said. “And I’m not sure if she didn’t get it.”

“How do you know her?” Madeleine asked.

Philippe looked straight at her; and suddenly she understood why he rarely met people’s gazes, because there was something disturbingly intense about him, a coiled strength that made her feel as though her ribs were being compressed against her lungs, as though some icy hand were squeezing her heart. “I was in one of her hospitals for a while,” Philippe said at last. “Not for long, and not with an entirely satisfactory resolution, but that’s another story.”

And that seemed to be the end of it; his gaze, boring into her, dared her to question him further; she had no desire to do so.

They were all uncannily silent as they walked through the rest of the market; even though Oris, who hadn’t said anything in Claire’s presence, attempted to maintain a one-sided patter, oblivious to the yawning maw of heavy silence that his words fell into. Isabelle was the only one seemingly unaffected by it, staring wide-eyed at the bead necklaces and crystal bracelets on the stalls they walked by.

What had Claire wanted? Information? She’d sounded as though she believed Selene would have information on the dead humans — but surely that was a trivial affair, some madman in a mad city; unfortunate, but surely not worth mentioning?

Except that Claire seldom mentioned things just for the pleasure of it; and she certainly wouldn’t have bothered to lean so much on it if she’d thought it insignificant. Madeleine would have to find someone in Lazarus; perhaps Aragon had contacts there who’d know what was going on.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost bumped into Philippe — who had come to a dead stop at an intersection on the edge of the market, mere meters from the ruined entrance of Notre-Dame. “What—” she asked; and then saw the procession.

It was coming up Pont-au-Double, the small cast-iron bridge that stopped at the edge of the parvis. There were a good twenty people with the gray-and-silver uniform of House Hawthorn, the same one Madeleine had once worn. They walked slowly, leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world, as though they weren’t standing close to the river, close enough for a spinning arm of water to snatch them over the parapet, or for a toothy creature to rise and attack them. Few people in Paris were mad enough to linger near the Seine, nowadays; only God knew what kind of power the accretion of war magic had released in the blackened waters.

Madeleine’s gaze, sweeping over the procession, caught a glimpse of familiar faces: Sare the alchemist; Samariel, ever as achingly young and innocent; Pierre-François, older and grayer but still every bit the consummate bodyguard — she remembered that night, when the noise had erupted, and he had simply reached for a knife and a gun, and rushed out of the room without any further words.

And, at their head…

He hadn’t changed, not one bit; but of course Fallen seldom did. He was tall and thin, with horn-rimmed, rectangular glasses — his particular affectation, since all Fallen had perfect eyesight — his hair dark, save for a touch of gray at the temples; his hands with the thin, long fingers of a pianist, even though the instruments he played on did not make music — unless one counted cries of pain and ecstasy as music, as Madeleine knew he did.

“Who is he?” Isabelle asked in a whisper, and it was Oris who answered her, with the barest hint of pity in his voice.

“Asmodeus. Head of House Hawthorn.”

He hadn’t changed. He still leaned on the same ivory cane with the ease of a gentleman who had no need for it; still had the same sharp, pointed smile of predators, the one he’d worn in the House — how could Uphir not see it, not feel the naked ambition burning that would one day depose him? How could Elphon not have seen it — not suspected anything, until the thugs’ swords slid home into his chest and blood spouted over her — a split second before they sent Madeleine to her knees, struggling to breathe through the pain of shattered ribs?

Asmodeus’s entourage had almost cleared the bridge: they had finished negotiating with the guards at the booth that guarded Pont-au-Double. He saw her then, bowed gravely, without a trace of irony, and turned right into the heart of the food market. Madeleine was surprised to realize her fingers had clenched into fists.

Breathe. She had to breathe. He had seen her, and turned away. She had nothing to fear from him: it was just her memories of that time that wouldn’t be banished. He had no interest in her, no grudge: she had been among the lowliest of the low in Hawthorn, and he must have been barely aware that she existed. And then, with a feeling of dread that pulled her bowels into knots, she remembered that he did know who she was. Else why would he have bowed to her?

Surely he—

Her gaze, roaming through the market — somewhere, anywhere she wouldn’t have to look at him again — fell on the rear of the procession, where three of the escort had stopped for a moment while one of them readjusted the straps on a large basket; which, judging from the movements from inside, probably contained some large, live animal. The first two were the kind of pale, faded women Asmodeus enjoyed having around; the third one, head bent over the basket, was a brown-haired man….

No.

There was something — something in the tilt of his head, something in the bearing of his body…

And, having finished with his work, he raised his head, and she saw.

He, too, hadn’t changed much: he was perhaps younger, less hardened, with the particular mix of innocence and agelessness of newly manifested Fallen. But the face — she would have known that anywhere.

Elphon. Oh God, Elphon.

It was impossible. Elphon was dead. She had seen him die; had felt his heart stutter and stop, seen the radiance fade from his translucent skin until there was nothing left but dead meat. Then, weeping, she had started the long crawl that would lead her to Silverspires and Morningstar’s arms.

Surely it was another Fallen; surely…

He rose, precariously balancing the basket against his waist, and smiled at his two companions, in a way that was engraved into her memory.

No. That wasn’t possible. The dead did not walk the earth again; not even dead Fallen.

“Wait here,” she said to the others, and elbowed her way through the crowd of Pont-au-Double, struggling to reach the little group before they moved away from her. By the time she caught up with them in front of a fowler’s stall, her ruined lungs were protesting; and, at the worst possible moment — when she stood in front of them — a bout of coughing racked her body and left her, wrung, to stand in their path.

“Excuse me,” she said.

They looked at her, puzzled. The older woman pinched her lips as if noting the unkempt state of Madeleine’s dress, or her hoarse voice, or both. “You’re the alchemist for Silverspires?” the woman said at last. “What can we do for you?”

“Can I speak to your friend?” Madeleine asked, pointing to the Fallen who looked like Elphon.

The woman shrugged. “If you want. Elphon?”

Madeleine’s heart skipped a beat; seemed to remain suspended in her chest in an agony of stillness. But when Elphon looked up, there was nothing but mild interest in his eyes. “Good morning,” Elphon said, looking at her with puzzlement. “What can I do for you?”

Show some hint of recognition. Something, anything that would explain why he was there — why he still bore the same name, still behaved the same, but he didn’t recognize her. “How long have you been in Hawthorn?”

Elphon shrugged; and even that gesture was heartbreakingly familiar, a dim but treasured memory from the depths of the past. “A few months,” he said. “Lord Asmodeus found me near Les Halles.”

A few months? That was impossible. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Elphon’s voice was mild, but it was clear he was wondering about her sanity. So was Madeleine. This conversation could in no way be described as sane. “Are you trying to recruit me to Silverspires? I assure you I’m already spoken for.”

“No, of course not,” Madeleine said, feeling the blush start somewhere in her cheeks and climb, burning, to her forehead. “I wouldn’t dare. It’s just… I knew someone very much like you, once.”

“Some Fallen look very much alike to mortals,” Elphon said, with a tight smile. He hefted his basket, and made to rejoin his companions. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… Lord Asmodeus will be expecting us, and he has little patience for tardiness.”

“I have no doubt.” Asmodeus had little patience for anything. He’d chafed enough, in what he viewed as an inferior position in Hawthorn; had waited just long enough to be certain of his coup. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Madeleine said. “It seems I was mistaken.”

Elphon bowed — low, old-fashioned, the same bow he’d used to make to her, all those years ago, half in mockery, half in earnest. “There’s no harm in it. Good-bye, my lady.”

She watched him retreat, the basket shifting with each movement of his body. Whatever he said, it was him. It had to be him; another Fallen, especially a young one, could have mimicked his appearance for a while, but not the gestures. Not the expressions.

But, if it was him, if he had somehow been resurrected by some mystery she could not comprehend — then why did he not remember her? Was it something Asmodeus had done? Surely he had to know that the “young” Fallen he had rescued was one of the loyalists who’d opposed his coup twenty years ago?

Surely—

Lost as she was in her thoughts, it was a while before she realized that, in the place where she’d left the others, there was no trace of them whatsoever.

At first, she wasn’t unduly worried; they were adults, and the market was as safe a place as there could be in Paris. She looked for them, desultorily, amid the brightly colored stalls, sure that she would meet them at the House if she couldn’t find them.

A scream — terror and agony, rising through her mind — no, not hers, someone bound to House Silverspires was in mortal danger.

She ran, but she knew even before she started to run that she would be too late.