The Dark Archive (The Invisible Library Novel)

by Genevieve Cogman

  “Try it!” Someone shoved a man-sized contraption in her face, and Irene backed away, blinking. The thing was a mechanical model of a human being, on wheels, costumed in heavy gold and red silks with a turban. It held a jar in one clawed hand. The man behind it was in singed evening wear and his coat pockets were heavy with spanners. “You—madam. You’ll do. Go on, give it a go.”

  “Give what a go?” Irene asked nervously.

  “My Automatic Fortune Teller. Put your hand on his forehead and think very hard about your question. It will then produce a paper giving the answer to your current problem!”

  It was probably safe and the crowd was here to sample such curiosities. There weren’t any electrocuted corpses in the device’s wake. A good sign. Irene tentatively put her hand against the mechanism’s porcelain forehead. How do I find Alberich? she wondered, unable to resist the urge to test it properly.

  The device whirred into life, interior clockwork audibly ticking away. Then the automaton’s jar flipped open and its free hand dived in, coming out with a piece of folded paper. It proffered this jerkily in Irene’s general direction.

  “Well?” its inventor demanded, practically bouncing up and down on his toes. An interested group was forming around the two of them.

  Irene took the paper and unfolded it. “‘The gulf will open beneath you,’” she read, “‘and the Pit will swallow you.’”

  Even the inventor could perceive this was a less-than-cheerful message. “Let me guess,” he said hopefully. “You must work in submarines or bathyscaphes. I can see how this would be a really useful answer, right?”

  “No,” Irene said flatly. Even if she absolutely didn’t believe in fortune-telling, destiny, or prophecies . . . it still wasn’t a comforting message to receive this evening. “I think your invention needs more fine-tuning.”

  “The ferrets! The ferrets are loose!” someone screamed in tones of blind panic, and the circle of onlookers shattered in their desire to get away, see what was going on, or both. Irene took advantage of the distraction to return to circulating through the crowd, listening for comments relating to mind control, cerebral controllers, or Dr. Brabasmus.

  It was easy to drift from discussion to discussion. However, after half an hour of this she was beginning to think that the greatest invention of all would be an Automatic Listener, wound up and programmed to record conversation around keywords.

  Then she heard the name Brabasmus over to her right, just a few feet away.

  She nodded in agreement, as her latest cover complained about her funding—or lack thereof. Then she stole a glance to her right. Two men, both elderly, were chatting loudly. One had a German accent and both affected boiler suits and leather harnesses rather than evening dress. One wore a sleek black wig and a mask ornamented in amber and jet. The other was balding, sporting a plain mask and heavy canvas gauntlets. These were ill-considered, as they made it difficult for him to hold his wineglass.

  “Of course they said it was an accident,” Black Wig was saying. “No doubt it was also an accident that someone cornered the market in radium and quap, just a few days before that. Not to mention what happened to Quantrelle.”

  “What about Quantrelle?” That was Gauntlets. “I heard she published something last October. Was she working on programming theory?”

  “Yes, that was the official story,” Black Wig shot back. “But I had it from Pierre Gevenheim—you must know him, he’s at the Sorbonne—that she was focusing on brain patterning. Not programming theory at all. She was basing her work on Brabasmus’s theories. And she went missing last December. Or rather, they said she was hired by a private client.” His snort made it clear what he thought of that.

  “I see you’re admiring my perfectly cyborged Siamese,” someone directly in front of Irene said smugly.

  Irene hastily refocused her attention on the man addressing her, while trying to keep up with the nearby conversation. The cat perched on his shoulder was a beautiful specimen of Siamese cat—or it had been, before someone inlaid wiring into its skull, added steel-tipped claws, and replaced its eyes with gleaming red crystals. “Good heavens,” she said diplomatically. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Exactly.” He offered her one of the glasses of wine he was carrying. “My dear, I could feel your gaze across the room. You must tell me your name.”

  “Whether or not Brabasmus was involved, you’re wrong about Quantrelle,” Gauntlets said firmly. “She’s here tonight—I ran into her earlier, holding court by the ice rink.”

  “Yes, but did you see her scars?” Black Wig demanded. “And her left leg?”

  “She didn’t have a left leg.”

  “Precisely!”

  “Anne Viltred,” Irene said, taking the proffered glass of wine and trying to work out how to get rid of the man. “Timisoara University.”

  “Not the Professor Viltred?” he said in surprise. The light glittered on the mica inlay of his mask. “What a delightful surprise.”

  Irene noted, with the sour recognition of one fake for another, the way that he’d skilfully managed to imply he knew about her and her work without having to say what it was, while also complimenting her with the title of professor. “You’re far too kind,” she parried. “And you are?”

  “Ruthven Davison.” He clinked his glass against her own, the cat perching comfortably on his shoulder, glaring at her with those crystalline eyes. “Bottoms up, my dear! Then you can tell me all about your work.”

  Irene mentally scanned the list of famous scientists which Columbine had provided for tonight. The name didn’t appear. And she had suspicions about the glass she’d been handed. A deliberate attack on her, or opportunistic predatory behaviour towards a young woman on her own? “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never drink wine.”

  Meanwhile Gauntlets had been thinking. “Quantrelle isn’t on the speakers’ list for tonight,” he said, “but Pieters is. And Pieters collaborated with Brabasmus on his cerebral work five years ago. If anyone knows about his work—”

  “Now, don’t give me that,” Ruthven Davison said, leaning in close. It was like being accosted by Lord Silver, but without the charm. “A woman as beautiful as you must be able to manage a glass of wine. And something more, perhaps.” His gaze dipped from her eyes to her bodice.

  Irene’s patience, already somewhat attenuated, snapped. She let herself smile sweetly. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, lowering her voice for his ears only. “My field of research is geriatrics, you know, and I’m actually eighty years old. Would you like to go somewhere more private, so I can share some of my . . . secrets?”

  He boggled at her, his uncertainty visible in spite of his mask. This was, after all, the sort of situation where she might well be speaking the truth. Irene stepped back as he hesitated, retreating with a faint smile towards the conversation she’d been monitoring.

  Annoyingly the men were already moving away, still talking. She turned to pursue them, when a familiar posture caught her eye and she nearly spilled her drink.

  That couldn’t be . . .

  He turned a little, so that Irene could see his profile despite the mask, and she cursed silently. What in the name of sanity was Shan Yuan doing here, stalking through the assembly like a leopard and doing a remarkably bad job of being inconspicuous?

  She reluctantly gave up on her two targets—she’d already gleaned some useful names. Perhaps Vale could follow up on those later. Shan Yuan was now assessing the people around him with a cold and imperious eye and snubbing the few who tried to speak to him.

  “Good evening,” she said, insinuating herself next to him and sliding her arm through his before he could back away. Her mouth was curved in a smile, but her voice was very nearly a snarl as she murmured, “Your Highness, what are you doing here?”

  “Your job, it would seem.” He didn’t try to distance himself
—no doubt because it would have looked undignified to try to shrug her off—but there was clear annoyance in his eyes. “This Brabasmus must be found and the technology investigated. I see no reason why I should not assist you. You may thank me later.”

  If I don’t kill you first. “Have you worked undercover before?” Irene demanded. Somehow the Your Highness failed to materialise.

  His eyes glinted dragon-red. “You aren’t showing an appropriate degree of gratitude.”

  Irene abandoned courtesy for plain speaking—although quietly, as anyone could be listening. “If you’d honestly wanted to assist, you’d have told us rather than sneaking in like this. How did you get inside, anyway?” It wasn’t as if he knew this London, after all.

  For a moment he seemed about to refuse to answer, but then he smirked. “Your apprentice assisted me.”

  “Catherine?” Irene demanded, torn between fury, disbelief, and horror. She’d been so relieved that the Fae girl was safe. If Shan Yuan had dragged her into trouble, being Kai’s brother wouldn’t save him.

  Shan Yuan shrugged elegantly. “She’s here too, hunting for information. She wanted to prove herself to you—which, if you’ll allow me to point out, is a highly laudable goal. You’re doing her no favours by keeping her sheltered.”

  Like you’re trying to do with Kai? hovered on Irene’s lips, but she bit the words back. This was not the time. “You’ve made a mistake,” she said, her voice quiet and deadly. “Catherine doesn’t have the training or experience for a situation like this. If she told you she did, then she was mistaken. Where is she now?”

  Something in her words or tone got through to Shan Yuan. He looked away, choosing not to meet her eyes. “One learns by doing,” he protested. “If you keep her out of work like this, how will she ever learn to do it properly?”

  “Where is she?” Irene repeated, her voice deadly cold.

  “She’s only a—”

  Irene’s hand tightened on his arm. “Your Highness,” she said quietly, “that had better not be ‘She’s only a Fae.’ Not if you want me to have any respect for you at all.”

  “I am the son of His Majesty Ao Guang!” Shan Yuan snarled.

  “Oh, I’ll respect your rank,” Irene said. “I just won’t respect you.”

  “Very well.” His words were nearly a hiss. “We arrived here fifteen minutes ago. She said she was going to the theatre, then planned to check the cellars. That is all I know. I was far more concerned with investigating the artificial intelligence angle—seeing if I could overhear anything useful.”

  “Thank you,” Irene said. She released his arm. “For future reference . . . don’t take advantage of those far younger than yourself. You’ve exposed Catherine to considerable danger.”

  The air was perceptibly warmer around the two of them. Nearby discussion groups fanned themselves absently or complained about the heat. Shan Yuan showed no sign of caring. “This makes me certain that you are no fit companion for my little brother,” he growled. “You have no understanding of priorities. When I tell my father of your bad influence, he’ll see to it that someone else is assigned as dragon treaty representative—someone who won’t be distracted by your childish diversions.”

  Someone like you? Irene wondered. No wonder you want in on all this. Find the crucial new technology, demonstrate your ability, prove Kai’s incompetent, get his position. She could see the game plan. But trying to steal Kai’s job was a petty offence compared to what he’d already managed to do tonight. Driven by fury, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “That girl is my apprentice. She was entrusted to me by her only living relative. It is my job to keep her safe, whatever her birth, whatever her nature. If your father disapproves of that, then so be it, and I’ll answer to him in person.” She met his eyes. “But I’m not required to answer to you.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me.” An attendant bustled by, ignoring their disagreement just as he was ignoring all the other quarrels, arguments, and outright duels. He thrust a paper into Irene’s hand. “Schedule for the evening’s events, new additions marked in red . . .”

  Irene looked at it, and a name caught her eye. Dr. Perchatki, Moscow University. She translated from the Russian automatically. Perchatki—gloves.

  Gloves. Guantes. Was this a coincidence? Irene wasn’t sure she believed in coincidences any more—especially not in a high-chaos world like this one, where Fae abounded and narratives had an unfortunate habit of coming true. Perchatki’s demonstration—it didn’t say what—was due to begin in fifteen minutes in the theatre.

  “We will continue this later,” she said to Shan Yuan. “I need to get to the theatre—now. If you see Kai or Vale, tell them where to find me.”

  There was no time to waste. If Catherine was now in the theatre, she could be in very grave danger—if Irene’s supposition that Perchatki was Lord Guantes was correct. And while she hoped against hope that she wasn’t right, she had a strong feeling that she was . . .

  CHAPTER 19

  I don’t understand,” Shan Yuan complained, trailing behind her. He twitched the programme out of her fingers and scanned it. “None of these names mean anything to me.”

  “I’m interested in Dr. Perchatki. Excuse me.” Irene politely tilted a woman’s arm as she ducked past, so her death ray was pointing at the ceiling and not at Irene. “He’s near the top of the list.”

  “Why him?” Shan Yuan asked in bafflement. Either he didn’t understand Russian, or he wasn’t aware of Fae tendencies to pick appropriate and thematic pseudonyms.

  Irene wasn’t going to shout an explanation while shoving through the crowd—and they were close to the theatre’s entrance now. However, as they neared, she could see it was blocked. A couple of security guards were doing gatekeeper duty, controlling the flow of people and policing the more dangerous pieces of equipment.

  “Ah, Dr. Viltred,” Vale said, materialising at Irene’s elbow. It took a moment for her to accept that it was Vale—despite recognizing his disguise. His make-up and the altered voice were simply that good. Her own attempts at changing her appearance were workmanlike and functional but couldn’t match that level of artifice. “I wasn’t expecting this gentleman,” he said, his eyes shifting to Shan Yuan.

  “Do I know you?” Shan Yuan asked, clearly not recognizing Vale, voice frosted with polite disdain.

  “You do,” Irene confirmed shortly. She noticed that Vale was also carrying a programme. “I take it you’re here for Dr. Perchatki’s demonstration?”

  “Precisely. I had no doubt that you’d notice the name . . .”

  “Wait, what?” Kai said, coming to a halt as he joined the group, his eyes widening at the sight of Shan Yuan. He glanced at Irene, then back to his brother in confusion. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

  “For all the thanks I’ve been getting, I shouldn’t have bothered,” Shan Yuan muttered.

  “Excuse me, coming through!” At the far end of the room, the crowd were being forcibly parted by a group of people carrying various pieces of experimental-looking apparatus—glass domes filled with circuitry, cables, a large console covered with levers and dials, and so on. Then towards the back of the procession . . .

  Irene’s hands tightened into fists and she felt the scars of old lacerations on her palms. Lord Guantes strode at the rear of the group, recognizable in spite of his mask. Beside him, a couple of men in lab coats were carrying the unconscious Catherine. If she’d been wearing a mask, they’d removed it. She was strapped into a stretcher, though the ties binding her had been mostly concealed.

  This Lord Guantes showed no signs of having been shot, being about to crumble into dust, or anything else untoward. He must be the latest personality imprint—and was probably thinking that he was the real Lord Guantes, just as the rest of them had. He was cloaked in an aura of firm determination, every inch the noble scientist striving for the betterment of hi
s fellows. In keeping with this persona, he gave his followers and the crowd the odd nod, wave, or occasional word of encouragement. His eyes moved over the throng, and Irene was grateful for her mask and disguise.

  Kai casually stepped behind Vale, using him for cover. But Kai’s face—what Irene could see of it—had grown cold at the sight of Catherine being carried along helpless. “How did they get hold of her?” he demanded under his breath. “She was safe with Columbine.”

  Fury knotted in Irene’s stomach and she glared at Shan Yuan, locking her hand around his wrist as he began to inch away. “Catherine is here because she wanted to help. Unwise, but she had good intentions. Vale, will claims of kidnapping be any use here?”

  “This is almost certainly an attempt to draw us out, and that would expose us to whatever they have planned. So would any attempt to rescue Catherine.” Vale’s expression was grim, and Kai was nodding.

  “Agreed.” If sheer force of will could kill, Irene’s thoughts would have bored a hole in the back of Lord Guantes’s head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t manage that—but there were other things she could try. “But I can black the whole place out, which will give us a fighting chance at breaking her out. I can’t turn the lights off from here, though—the Language would never be heard over the noise of that crowd. I’ll get to the generators and turn the electricity off at the source. If you wait in the theatre, you can grab Catherine in the chaos.”

  “What about Lord Guantes?”

  “At the moment, I’m more worried about Catherine.” How many times had Irene risked herself to get information? Of course Catherine would run off and do the very same thing. For the first time in a long while, she felt a degree of sympathy for her parents. “If you can grab Lord Guantes as well, then by all means do so.”