“Pathetic, Dupont. Here for six months, and you are just as abysmalas the day you walked in.” Chambon heaved a sigh and turned back to the other apprentices. “Basset, if you would.”
The lesson continued, allowing Nik to retreat. He didn’t look away as Basset worked to restore the boy on the gurney. Long ago, he’d promised to never look away again.
Chambon watched him, searching for weakness. Let him. He could suggest Nik return to the Restes, but it would never hold. Souverain Lafontaine wouldn’t allow it. He’d pulled Nik from the gutter four years ago and made him his direct apprentice, his ward. Nik’s failures were his failures, and Lafontaine refused to be anything less than perfect.
Nik would remain in Arts Humains, and Lafontaine would disappointedly help find him a new apprenticeship, restarting the abysmal process of trying to please him all over again.
He wished it could be different, wished he could be sharper, or at least half the suck-up Basset was.
“Dismissed. Back to your stations.”
About time. If he had to listen to one more—
“Dupont. A word.”
The others filtered away, throwing glances and whispers over their shoulders until there was only Nik, Chambon, and the boy in the center of the room.
“There is one difference between you and this corpse,” Chambon said.
“A pulse?” They were both lucky the quip was all that slipped from Nik.
“Lafontaine.” The Professionnelle’s voice dropped low; beady brown eyes narrowed over the rims of his smudged glasses. “This boy never had Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine in his life to save him from himself. This boy died as all Restes filth should, quietly and alone.”
The words took their time sinking in, syringes digging deeper anddeeper past skin and muscle until they hit something harder than bone.
“How is it,” Chambon continued, “that you managed to give such a fate the slip?”
“My stunning personality, sir.”
The vein that emerged on Chambon’s forehead only when he was particularly flustered appeared.
“Luck,” he clarified. “Luck is the one thing we all seem to lack these days. What makesyoudeserving of it? I wonder. And if that luck runs out…” He sucked his teeth. “You might join our newest test subject here.”
All of Lafontaine’s lessons were to teach Nik that life across the river was… different. Food was plentiful, so he didn’t have to sneak apples in his pocket. Water was always clean, so there was no need to boil it for safe drinking. Deep gashes could be healed with a simple spray. None of these lessons prevented Nik from saving half his meal or sniffing his water, and he always let his cuts heal naturally.
But the most valuable lesson was the one that came to him now, the one that stuck: There were different threats here, and Nik’s enemies would require weapons stronger than his fists. And there was no greater weapon than knowledge.
Nik collected secrets, little details that coalesced into stories—ones people didn’t like getting out. It made him invaluable to the most powerful man in Arts Humains.
It was time to remind Chambon of that.
“No, Professionnelle.” He lifted his chin, extending his body to tower over the squat man who glared up at him. “My luck won’t ever run out. And from what I understand, you’ve run into a bit of luck recently too.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he sputtered.
“Really?” Nik feigned shock, tapping his lips. “Didn’t your familyface ruin a few years ago? Your father lost everything to his gambling debts: the estate, the bank coffers, even your promised future in Arts Humains. Little difficult to make it big here when you don’t havesomethingDirecteurs and Souverains want.”
That vein twitched. The heat rushed from Chambon’s cheeks.
“But your tragedy ended somehow,” Nik continued. “Right about the time you became Professionnelle, the bank was repaid, the house was secured, and you…” He reached out and straightened the lapels of Chambon’s crimson coat. “This is an original Morin, no?Veryexpensive taste.”
Chambon wet his lips.
“I wonder if your luck has anything to do with the inconsistencies in the mortuary’s account books?”
“Now you listen here!”
Nik stepped forward, casting a long shadow over the pitiful man with spittle running down his wobbling chin. Such a child.
