Page 185 of The Mask Falling

I was grateful, then, for the frozen lips of my own mask. They covered the tremor in mine.

Ducos came to my side. I melted into the back of the crowd with her, while Le Vieux Orphelin ascended a creaking set of stairs and stepped onto a platform, where everyone could see him. Léandre stood behind him.

“Friends,” Le Vieux Orphelin called, “good evening. It has been some time since I last set foot on this island.”

Absolute silence descended on the hall.

“How good it is to see you again,” he said. “How long it has been since we gathered like this. We grands ducs spend much of our time among the bones, concealed from Scion. Not all of you can afford to hide with us in the dark. You have mouths to feed. You have coin to earn, often in the face of extraordinary danger. Or perhaps you wish to live in the sun. Not the shadows.”

Every face was raised, every gaze intent.

“We, your leaders, may seem complacent and distant to you. You may even have asked yourselves if we notice the hardships of life in the Republic of Scion France. My friends, I have noticed. I have seen. I have walked among you as often as I can, and I have witnessed the need for justice. Since I was a child, I have fought back against our enemy. And I have waited for the opportune moment to turn that fight into a war.” He paced his stage. “I have summoned you here to what I believe will be the cradle of that war.”

Mutters.

“First, however, it falls to me to turn the knife inward. Though it hurts me, I must reveal the enemy within. Only then can we turn to those who threaten us without,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “Four years ago, you elected me one of your grands ducs, and I vowed that I would never leave Paris; that I would never abandon the anormaux of this citadel. I vowed that I would always work for their good, for their betterment—and to do that, I had to live alongside them.” His forefinger snapped up. “This year, I was forced to break that vow.”

“What is he talking about?” someone whispered near me.

“He has gone mad.”

From her expression, Ducos agreed. Nonetheless, she was listening.

“I have seen many wrongs in my time in Paris. But never had I thought that it was possible for this family—ourfamily—to turn against itself,” Le Vieux Orphelin went on. “For several long weeks, I was a prisoner of Scion.” The whispers turned to mutters. “Because I was betrayed. Betrayed by the very people who swore to protect you from the anchor. Instead, they sacrificed you to it.”

He had their attention. Fortunate, because a cluster of dreamscapes was approaching, two of them familiar.

“Tonight, I would like you to help me bring them to justice,” Le Vieux Orphelin said, “by bearing witness to a trial.” He looked toward the doors and raised a gloved hand. “Bring them in.”

Two voyants heaved the doors open again. Beside me, Ducos drew in a long breath.

“Is this likely to end in bloodshed?” she said to me in an undertone.

I watched the doors. “Not if they accept the charges.”

Footsteps broke the tense silence. Several flashlightes flicked toward the doors just as Le Latronpuche stepped through them.

His wig was tied back with ribbon and covered by a buckled hat, and a fur-lined cape swept from his shoulders. Beside him, La Reine des Thunes had abandoned her musty gown in favor of a frock coat. Eight armed voyants flanked them.

At the sight of the vast gathering, both of them stopped dead. Some of their voyants reached for their weapons, only for La Reine des Thunes to still them with a small motion.

“Beloved siblings-in-chaos,” Le Vieux Orphelin greeted, his tone pleasant. “Welcome.”

“How did—” Le Latronpuche stared up at him, open-mouthed, a startled trout. A moment later, he slapped a smile over his disbelief. “My dear brother! What a great relief to see you alive.”

“Indeed,” La Reine des Thunes agreed, clearly just as stricken. “An immense relief.” Even in this gloom, her diamonds glistened. “We . . . feared we would never see you again.”

“Doubtless,” Le Vieux Orphelin agreed. The doors squeaked closed, and a voyant secured them. “I am so glad you could both accept my invitation to this little gathering.” Pause. “Or were you under the impression that you were meeting someone else tonight?”

La Reine des Thunes said nothing more. One of her hands strayed toward the pocket of her coat.

“You have heard of the Man in the Iron Mask, the spectre of the slums,” Le Vieux Orphelin said to his audience. “Some of you may have lost friends and family to him. I tell you now that Le Latronpuche struck a bargain with this monster. I was a victim of that bargain, as were eight others. Paul Caron, whose songs brought joy to our darkest streets, who leaves behind a spouse and child. His crime was to sing a ballad that mocked Le Latronpuche.

“Sylvie Lambriquet, the most gifted pickpocket in Grenelle, who dared to sell her prizes without paying tax to the grands ducs. Simon Cleutin, who insulted Le Latronpuche by asking him for a little coin to save his family from starvation.” The muttering again, like a kicked hive. “How gravely he suffered for that mistake. He was a burden, you see. They were betrayed, sold, and left to the mercy of Scion, while Le Latronpuche pocketed a handsome fee.”

“This is absurd. The ravings of a power-hungry fool,” Le Latronpuche snapped. “What is this—a court of piepowders, to try us on the spur of the moment?” He raised his voice. “Treachery and avarice. I have maintained for years that he wants Le Nouveau Régime for himself, and here is the proof !”

The crowd rippled. Le Latronpuche took a bold step forward.

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