The Key (The Magnificent 12 3)

Yes: they noticed that poop and dead things smelled.

So they built sewers, giant underground tunnels. That way, the fecal matter and dead things that got dumped in the street eventually sloshed down into the sewers, which helpfully carried such things to the river. The same river whose water people drank. So they quickly went from, “Man, the air stinks,” to, “Man, this water tastes awful. Plus, I’m sick now.”

Hey, it was medieval times. It took a while for people to figure stuff out in those days.

Anyway, the sewers are no longer in use much except for when it rains and the water goes rushing through the ancient tunnels. In fact, now you can take a tour of the sewers. People do.

Cost of Paris sewer tour for six kids: 24 euros.27

“We are being followed,” Dietmar said as the Magnificent Five (so far) emerged from the train station weary and worried.

“The guy in the trench coat?” Mack asked. Because Mack had also noticed the person in the trench coat with the hat pulled down low over his brow.

It was night and the city was lit up but not so well lit as to banish all shadows. The trench coat seemed to be staying with those shadows, circling wide around bright-lit cafés and melting into closed-down shop fronts.

“Yes,” Dietmar confirmed. “There is something strange about him.”

“Yeah,” Mack confirmed, feeling a tightening in his throat. “Very strange for a man, not strange at all for a Skirrit. And there’s another one across the street.”

“They’ve spotted us already?” Sylvie asked. “That is bad. I had hoped to take you straight to the sewers.”

“Sewers? I was hoping for a hotel. And a sandwich,” Jarrah said.

“We have a hotel,” Mack said. “The trick will be getting there alive.”

“Surely they wouldn’t attack us right out in the open on a Paris street?” Xiao said.

Sylvie said, “They are not attacking, they are following. They want us to lead them to the others.”

Mack decided that was probably right. It was also probably true that Skirrit—even ones with hats—would be noticed in a brightly lit, crowded place.

“I doubt they can follow us down into the Métro,” Mack said. They were walking on the rue La Fayette, which was not one of the biggest, widest avenues, but a respectably important street. But it was late, and only a few restaurants and cafés were open.

“I have a Métro app,” Sylvie offered. “I don’t live in Paris so I don’t know the system. But there is a stop—Poissonnière. I know we need to get to Alma-Marceau....”

She began thumbing information into the app.

“Okay, then, we take the Seven line and switch to the Nine line,” Sylvie said decisively.

“We’ll follow you.”

Down the narrow, dirty stairs into the station: white tile, cement floor, modern ticket-vending machines. They used the million-dollar credit card to buy six tickets.28 This took a while. And during that while, the Skirrit came down the stairs after them.

As Dietmar handed out tickets, two Skirrit stared and twitched nervously in their weak disguises.

In the unlikely event that you don’t know what a Skirrit is, think grasshopper or maybe praying mantis, but about the height of a moderately short man, and walking erect.

Parisians, being city people, seldom look anyone in the face, so it seemed possible to Mack that the Skirrit might go unnoticed. They might even wait until the crowd had thinned a little and—

“Aaaahhh!” An older woman, built like a fireplug but with an attractive scarf around her throat, pointed in horror at a face that did not belong on anything human.

The Skirrit drew a knife from under its trench coat and seemed ready to go for the woman to silence her.

“Hey!” Mack yelled. “This is between us.”

The Skirrit’s expressionless insect eyes turned to glare at him. The knife wavered. The woman ran. The Skirrit hissed, then turned and quickly ran with his companion up the stairs.

“That was easy,” Jarrah said, sounding slightly disappointed.