knock on the door. An accented voice said, ‘Madame?’
‘Come in, Altan.’
Estelle glanced about in panic. Her eyes fell back on the fireplace.
‘No. Don’t be afraid,’ said Carla. ‘I won’t let you come to any harm.’
The door swung open. Altan Savas took in Estelle as he bowed to Carla. His sword was sheathed but he held a dagger tight along his forearm. Estelle bolted for the fireplace. Altan sheathed the dagger as he strode across the room.
‘Your pardon, madame.’
‘Don’t hurt her.’
Estelle was scrambling back up the chimney when Altan seized her by the waist and dragged her down. She struggled. Altan slapped her face. Estelle’s eyes rolled up.
‘Altan, no.’
Altan held the girl’s wrists behind her back in one hand. He wore a thick black moustache in the style of the janissaries, which he smoothed with finger and thumb.
‘I find a man.’ He searched for words and failed. He indicated the roof then raised two wriggling fingers through the air to illustrate someone climbing up, then climbing down. Then Altan flipped his hand down flat, palm upwards.
‘Gobbo fell?’
With the same two fingers Altan mimed the draw and release of a bowstring.
‘He fell, yes.’
Altan jerked Estelle’s arms. He gave her a look that said he would kill her if he deemed it necessary. Estelle understood such looks. She stopped struggling.
‘Is he alive?’ asked Carla.
‘He talks. Now he is dead. More men come.’
‘How many more?’
Altan hesitated.
‘Tell me.’
Altan spread the fingers of his free hand. His palm was smeared with dried blood. On his thumb he wore an ivory ring. Five. Carla felt queasy as he closed and opened the hand again. Altan spread his fingers a third time.
‘Fifteen?’ Carla wondered how he knew, but didn’t ask. ‘Is it true?’
Altan shrugged. ‘I demand many times.’ He mimed cutting with a knife. ‘I say: More? Less? He say, fifteen. Always.’
Carla looked at Estelle. The girl had followed what had passed. She dropped her gaze. Carla took this for confirmation. She turned back to Altan.
‘Where is Madame D’Aubray?’
Altan put the back of his hand to his cheek and tilted his head.
‘We must give them what they want,’ said Carla. ‘We will collect all our valuables and leave them in the street outside.’
Estelle said, ‘You’re the lady from the south.’
Carla felt her scalp prickle. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Grymonde wants you. The lady from the south.’
Carla realised her hands were cradling her child. He was still.
‘Why does he want me?’
‘Grymonde will kill you all. Then he will take everything. The tables, the chairs, the clothes, the food, the candles, and all the gold.’
Again, Estelle seemed to be quoting as if from a speech.
‘Why does Grymonde want me? How does he know about me?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t you?’
‘I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?’
‘Grymonde is the king of thieves, the king of us all. All the Ville is afraid of Grymonde. The police. The assassins. The pigs of the palace. He’s my dragon.’
Carla was seized by another contraction of her womb. She closed her eyes. She used the pain to focus her thoughts. Estelle was infatuated with this criminal, this Grymonde, and no doubt exaggerated his power; yet no doubt he had power enough. She put her hands on her belly and felt her child through the tightened muscles. He gave her strength. The throng passed. She reassured herself that this was not labour. Her waters were intact. It was normal. She looked at Altan.
‘Can we run?’
Estelle answered for him.
‘The rich think these houses belong to them – but not tonight they don’t. And the streets of Paris belong always to us. We can take them whenever we want.’
This, too, sounded like a quotation from a harangue.
Estelle added, ‘Where will you run to?’
‘Then we must hold on here until the
sergents
come to help us.’
‘The
sergents
won’t come. They’re cowards. And
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