“Can’t we?” The boy swings his ax again. Josse and Desgrez narrowly dodge the bit, but I’m far enough away to notice how the boy’s voice cracks when he laughs. The way he winces when he returns the ax to his shoulder.
I look at him more closely. His eyes are sallow, his neck swollen, and his skin is slick and wan. Behind his cocky grin, his breath is shallow and rattling.
Scrofula fever.
And his bandmates are no better off, sweating and coughing, their skin riddled with scabs.
“You will let us pass,” Desgrez hollers. “Or—”
I rush forward and place a hand on Josse’s arm. He recoils with a hiss, as if burned by my touch. “What do you want?” he says without meeting my gaze.
I remove my hand and swallow hard. “T-they’re ill,” I whisper. “And I can help them.”
Josse says nothing, but the accusation in his eyes hurtles through the silence:The same way youhelpedmy father? Why should I believe a word out of your deceitful mouth?
“If we help them, we might be able to recruit them to our cause… .”
Josse bristles, and I’m certain he’s about to inform me there is no cause, but at last he gives me a curt nod, snags the back of Desgrez’s brown robe, and hauls him away from the boy before their argument can come to blows.
Taking a deep breath, I skirt around Josse and Desgrez and approach the children as I would injured animals, holding out my hands for all to see. “When did you start coughing?”
The boy’s eyes narrow and the children behind him regard me with suspicion.
I press on. “How many days ago did the pustules appear? It’s important you remember exactly.”
Still the boy says nothing, but several of his bandmates glance down and tug their tunics.
“I can help you, but I need to know how far the sickness has progressed.”
Two children grunt and poke the boy in the back. The straw-haired boy glares at me, stone-faced. “The first of us noticed the sores last week.”
“There’s still time, then. I haven’t a curative with me, but—”
“You know the remedy?”
“I do. I can distill it and bring it to you later tonight.”
The boy shakes his head. “You’ll do it now. Under our watch.” He gestures down the road with his ax, like a gaoler marching prisoners to the stocks. I suppress a smile. This boy is unflinching. Exactly the sort of ally we need.
“I’ve one condition,” I begin, but Josse clears his throat and steps in front of me.
He points at the hulking shell of the smoke beast. “That was an impressive feat.”
The boy shrugs, but a satisfied smile teases his lips. “That’s the third one we’ve killed this week. We used to rob carriages and carts coming to and from Les Halles, but after the beasties burned the riverbank, people are willing to pay dearly for protection.”
“Very clever,” Josse says.
“Aye.” The boy pulls back his bony shoulders. “We behead the monsters and harry the masked patrols. And before the king’s death, the Paris Police trembled at the mere mention of us.”
Josse studies the boy as if they are long-lost brothers. “What’s your name?”
“Gavril.”
“What would you say to a partnership of sorts, Gavril?”
“Depends what you’re offering.”
“Why would we offer them anything?” Desgrez cuts in. “They’re a group of feral brats.”
