“The dismemberment would’ve been real enough.”
Séverin only grinned. “See you in a bit,” he said, and slipped out the door.
Enrique lingered to give Séverin a head start.
In the dark, he felt the presence of the Order’s treasure like the eyes of the dead. Hate shivered through him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the looming,salvagedpiles. He might help Séverin steal, but the greatest thief of all was the Order of Babel, for they stole more than just objects… They stole histories, swallowed cultures whole, smuggled evidence of illustrious antiquity onto large ships and spirited them into indifferent lands.
“Indifferent lands,” mused Enrique. “That’s a good line for later.”
He could use it in the next article he submitted to the Spanish newspaper dedicated to Filipino nationalism. So far he didn’t have the connections that made anyone think his thoughts were worth listening to. This acquisition could change that.
But first he had to finish the job.
Enrique counted down the thirty seconds. Then, he straightened the borrowed servant’s outfit, adjusted his mask, and stepped into the darkened hall. Between the gaps of the marble pillars, he could make out the flutter of fans stabbing the air.
Right on time for his meeting, the Vietnamese diplomat VuVanÐinh rounded the corner. A falsified letter poked out of his sleeve. Though he had hated doing it, Tristan was exceptionally good at faking people’s handwriting. That of the diplomat’s mistress was no exception.
Last week, Enrique and the diplomat had shared a drink at L’Eden. While the diplomat was distracted, Laila had fished out themistress’s letter fromÐinh’s jacket, and Tristan had copied her penmanship to orchestrate this very meeting.
Enrique eyedÐinh’s clothes. Like so many diplomats from colonized countries, he had outwardly allied with the Order. Once, there had been versions of the Order all over the world, each dedicated to their country’s source of Forging power—although not all of them called the artistry Forging and not all of them credited its power to the Babel Fragments. But those versions no longer existed. Now, their treasures had been taken to different lands; their artistry changed; and their ancient guilds given two choices: ally or die.
Enrique straightened his false suit and bowed. “May I assist you with anything, sir?”
He extended his hand. Fresh panic reared inside him. SurelyÐinh would look. Surely he wouldknowit was him. The very tips of his fingers brushedÐinh’s sleeves.
“Indeed you may not,” saidÐinh coldly, drawing away his arm.
Not once did he look him in the eye.
“Very well, sir.”
He bowed. WithÐinh still waiting on a meeting that would never take place, Enrique walked to the back of the ballroom. He dragged his fingers down his face and neck. A slight prickling sensation rolled down the skin he’d touched, and a thin film of color floated above his skin and clothes, swirling to match the appearance and apparel of Ambassador VuVanÐinh.
Thanks to the mirror powder dusting his fingertips, he now looked identical to the ambassador.
Long ago, mirror powder had been banned and confiscated, and so the Order had not bothered to ward their meetings against it. They hadn’t counted on Séverin being friendly with the officer of customs and immigrations.
Enrique moved quickly through the crowd. The mirror powder might be effective, but long-lasting it was not.
Enrique jogged down the main staircase. At the base was a Tezcat door that seemed to date back to a time when the Fallen House had not yet been ousted from the French faction of the Order of Babel, for its borders held the symbols of the original four Houses of France. A crescent moon for House Nyx. Thorns for House Kore. A snake biting its own tail for House Vanth. A six-pointed star for the Fallen House. Of them, only Nyx and Kore still existed. Vanth’s bloodline had legally been declared dead. And the Fallen House had… fallen. Supposedly, its leaders found the West’s Babel Fragment and tried to use it to rebuild the biblical Tower of Babel, thinking it might give them more than just a sliver of God’s power… but the actual power of God. Had they succeeded in removing the West’s Babel Fragment, they might have destroyed the known civilization. Séverin always said that was a rubbish rumor and believed the Order had destroyed the Fallen House as a power grab. Enrique wasn’t so sure. Of the four Houses, the Fallen House was said to be the most advanced. Even the Tezcat doors Forged by the Fallen House did more than just camouflage an entrance. Rumor went that they were capable of bridging actual distances. Like a portal. But whatever the House had once possessed, no one knew. For years, the Order had tried to discover what had become of the Fallen House’s ring and massive treasure, but none had been able to find it.
Today, thought Enrique, that might change.
Through the Tezcat, Enrique could see glittering corridors, a handsomely dressed crowd, and the glint of far-off chandeliers. It always unnerved him that though he could see the people on the other side, all they would see was a slim, polished mirror. He felt strangely like a god in exile, filled with a kind of hollow omniscience. As much as he could see the world, it would not see him.
Enrique stepped through the Tezcat and emerged in one of the opulent halls of the Palais Garnier, the most famous opera house in all of Europe.
One man looked up, stunned. He stared at the mirror, then Enrique, before scrutinizing his champagne flute.
Around Enrique, the crowd milled about obliviously. They had no idea about the Forged ballroom the Order kept secret. Then again, everything about the Order was kept secret. Even their invitations only opened at the drop of an approved guest’s blood. Anyone else who accidentally received one would see nothing but blank paper.
To the public, the Order of Babel was nothing more than France’s research arm tasked with historical preservation. They knew nothing of the auctions, the treasures buried deep beneath the ground. Half the public didn’t even believe the Babel Fragment was a physical object, but rather a dressed-up biblical metaphor.
Enrique strode through the crowd, tugging his lapel as he walked. His servant costume shifted, the threads unraveling and embroidering simultaneously until he was dressed in a fashionable evening jacket. He flicked his watch, and the slim band of Forged leather burst into a silk top hat that he promptly spun onto his head.
Right before he stepped outside, Enrique hesitated before the verit stone bust. The verit bust wasn’t a decorative piece, but a detection device used to reveal hidden weapons. One ounce of verit rivaled a kilo of diamonds, and only palaces or banks could afford the stone. Enrique double-checked that he’d left his knife behind, and then stepped over the threshold.
Outside, Paris was a touch humid for April. Night had sweated off its stars, and across the street, a black hansom glinted dully. Enrique got inside, and Séverin flashed him a wry grin.
