‘And I thought we were going to be civil.’
‘You are the instigator of a dozen conspiracies here in London. You’re running at least one spy ring that I know of out of your embassy. And in the Venice affair you knowingly sent Winters into a situation that might have killed her, or worse, purely to save your own miserable hide. I would say that I’m being remarkably civil.’ Vale leaned back in his chair, as much as it allowed. ‘Would you like me to go on?’
Silver looked up at the ceiling as though demanding patience from some unseen deity. ‘Oh, by all means go on. I’m hardly unaware of your opinion of me. I rather appreciate it. But if you actually want information, then perhaps you should let me speak.’
Vale was forced to concede Silver’s point. ‘Continue,’ he said tersely, mentally saving a few choice insults for a later opportunity.
‘Alberich has a number of allies among the Fae,’ Silver began. ‘To put it bluntly, he’s done favours and he’s owed favours. A couple of months back, shortly after the Venice business, I heard rumours that he’d been looking for . . . collaborators, shall we say. A step up from agents, but far from being equal partners. The sort of Fae who are weaker than I am, but still strong enough to walk between the worlds on their own.’
‘Indeed,’ Vale said neutrally. His mind flashed back to the woman Zayanna and her plausible but unsupported tale. ‘Do go on.’
Silver spread his hands. ‘That’s pretty much all I’ve heard.’
‘Was Lady Guantes one of these Fae?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Silver said. ‘The lady has vanished from sight – and good riddance. I’m sure we’ll have trouble with her again, but it’ll take her a while to build up her power base.’ He was remarkably casual about the subject, Vale felt. ‘But the epilogue to the Alberich business is that some of those who were taking an interest in his offers have since dropped out of circulation. Or so I’m told. Which leads me to wonder why you’re here and asking after him.’
‘But what was he wanting collaborators for?’ Vale asked. ‘Surely there must have been some talk about his ultimate plans? Offers of potential rewards? Even speculation would be useful.’
‘Yes. Yes, you have a very good point there.’ Silver frowned thoughtfully. ‘There has been significantly little detail available. My best guess would be that his offers were vague enough that only the desperate were attracted. Sadly, there are enough of those – people who’ve lost their patrons, who’ve come out as losers in intrigues, and so on. Poor fools.’
‘You’re surprisingly sympathetic.’
‘Not sympathy so much as pity,’ Silver said. ‘Sympathy would imply I might even try to help them. Pity is much safer. It can be delivered from on high without getting involved. I pity them. I sympathize with you, detective.’
‘Me?’ Vale said, surprised.
‘I warned you not to go to Venice.’ Silver’s gaze was very direct now, and there was an odd intimacy to his tone, a suggestion that the two of them shared some sort of connection. ‘I know what sort of effect a high-chaos world has on an unprepared human. I didn’t want to lose you, detective. And I’m still not sure whether I will or not.’
Vale drew back, affronted by Silver’s manner. But if he was to be honest with himself, what truly repelled him was that he somehow understood what Silver meant. It was as if Silver was talking to another of his own kind – another Fae – and the thought of that revolted every atom of his being. The brief enjoyment he’d taken from sparring with Silver faded, and his earlier ennui threatened to sweep over him again. He’d been able to hold it off, convincing himself that his actions would somehow be worthwhile and make a difference. But now it all seemed so shallow once more, and ultimately irrelevant. He hungered for the sheer fire of their earlier conversation, the keen delight of matching wits with Silver. And at the same time he found that desire disturbing.
‘So all you know is that Alberich had a plan in mind,’ he finally said, trying to get back to the subject at hand. Winters needed his help. That much was important. ‘And while some of your kind may be involved, they are currently incommunicado.’
‘Succinct and accurate,’ Silver said, and yawned again. ‘If anything else has happened within the last few days, then I haven’t yet heard. But you must agree that you now know more than you did. My debt is paid.’
Vale was forced to nod in agreement. ‘I accept this. I could only wish, for once, that you knew a little more than you do.’
‘But, my dear Vale, we’re hardly finished.’ Silver leaned forward, his face avid and hungry for information. ‘You haven’t yet told me what you know, or why you came here to ask all these questions. Obviously Alberich’s making his move. Is there nothing I can say or do that would persuade you to share information?’
It was an interesting quandary. Silver would pay dearly for news on Alberich’s attack on the Library, but telling him might put Winters and Strongrock in danger. ‘I’m not sure what you have that I might want . . .’ Vale said.
‘My turn to play detective!’ Silver said gleefully. His lips curved in a smile, much as they usually did when appraising a woman. ‘The fact that you won’t tell me is information in itself. I deduce that Alberich has caused, or is causing, some danger to the Library, which explains Miss Winters’ absence. Naturally you don’t want to tell me that. You’d be far too afraid of what I might do with the information.’
‘You’d be taking quite a gamble if you tried to sell that to other Fae as reliable intelligence,’ Vale said blandly. But he felt his stomach sink. Silver’s speculation was far too accurate, and there was no convenient way to turn aside his guesses without an outright lie.
‘You aren’t denying it,’ Silver pointed out.
‘Our deal doesn’t involve me giving you any further details,’ Vale said. ‘By agreement or by denial.’
Yet . . . was news of the attack really that significant? It seemed to be generally known that Alberich took an interest in the Library. And there was one thing Vale very much wanted to know, and Silver might just be able to tell him. ‘On the other hand . . .’ he said thoughtfully.
Silver’s eyes glittered. ‘Yes?’
‘Have any Fae of moderate power entered London recently? The sort of person whom Alberich was recruiting? Or Lady Guantes herself?’
‘Really, my dear Vale, how do you expect me to know something like that?’ But the smirk on Silver’s lips suggested that he had the answer.
‘You are the spider in the local web,’ Vale said. ‘Any flies entering it would catch your attention. My question stands.’
‘Reasonable. And in return, my question would be: what precisely is going on?’ Silver inspected his fingernails. ‘Do take your time. I’m sure we’re not in a hurry.’
‘Alberich has begun an attack on the Library,’ Vale said. The tension in the room hummed like a violin string as Silver locked eyes with him. He shrugged. ‘As you guessed.’
‘That’s all?’ Silver demanded.
‘It seems quite enough to me.’ And Vale knew that he had far less grasp of the wider implications than Winters or Strongrock. One more demonstration of his insignificance. One more indication of how little power any mere human had, in the greater chess game between warring powers. ‘Now I believe you were going to answer my question.’
Silver scowled petulantly. ‘Very well. No. Nobody with that level of power, or stronger, has come to London within the last month. Or to be fair, if they have, then they’ve been lying remarkably low. And certainly Lady Guantes isn’t here.’
‘I see,’ Vale said. Zayanna claimed to be a refugee from her previous patron and to have just arrived in London. But why should she have avoided Silver, to the extent that he didn’t even know she was present? It was definitely suspicious. He was tempted to ask for Silver’s assistance in locating her, but that would have placed too much information in Silver’s hands.
Vale rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your assistance. Incidentally, I’d recommend gettin
g more discreet guards. If I could notice that sniper, then so could others.’
Silver didn’t bother standing up. ‘Most kind of you to suggest it,’ he said bitterly. ‘Unfortunately, due to certain people stealing my transport a few months back, when I was in Venice, I was forced to leave most of my entourage there.’
The full implications of that statement trickled into Vale’s mind, forming a horrific picture. ‘Your servants, your maids and bodyguards – you left them there? In another world, with no way of returning here?’
‘I could hardly bring them back myself,’ Silver complained. ‘I had enough trouble bringing Johnson and my luggage along. Don’t look at me like that, Vale. I’m sure they’re quite capable of making new lives for themselves. They’re young, strong, healthy . . .’
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Vale said, and slammed the door behind him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was ten o’clock, and the reception should be in full swing. Irene clung to Kai’s scaled back, her oilcloth cloak floating out behind her in the rising wind, as he hovered high above the Winter Palace. The city beneath them was a grid of lit points against the darkness: they were too high for Irene to see any of the buildings clearly at this time of night, but she could make out the street lamps and the glaring illuminations around the larger buildings. The lights on sleighs in flight flickered in regular paths around the sleigh-port. There weren’t any clouds to block her view. Yet.
Kai was concentrating as he glided through the air, which barred conversation on his part and allowed Irene to run through her mental checklist for the operation.
Evening clothes for both of them: obtained. Even if they were ready-made, rather than personally tailored. (Kai had been rather upset that he couldn’t get a military uniform, since that was apparently the thing for young men to wear to balls. But Irene had pointed out everything that might go wrong, such as Kai not knowing the details of his supposed regiment, and he had reluctantly given in.) Map of Winter Palace and theorized location of book: memorized. And all papers had been destroyed. It was now more dangerous than useful to be carrying the Library documents around. Transformation of Kai into dragon, to rouse storm and land on roof: successfully achieved.
The next step was the storm itself. There would of course be sentries on the roof, but very few would be looking up while being hammered by wind and rain. This explained Irene’s heavy hooded oilcloth cape, which would hopefully keep her mostly dry. Enough to pass as a guest when inside, anyway. If she and Kai were subjected to serious scrutiny, then they were already deep in trouble.
‘I hold the winds and am ready to release them,’ Kai said. His words echoed in the thin air, and Irene tightened her grip on his scales. ‘Are you prepared?’
‘Do it,’ Irene said.
The storm gathered as she watched, clouds spinning together into a great dark whorl that hid the city below. Gusts of wind tugged at her, and she plastered herself even tighter to the dragon’s back, drawing her hood around her face. He swung through the air in a tightening spiral, his wings glittering against the darkness on either side of her. Deep in the clouds lightning flashed, and thunder followed without a moment’s pause.
Kai had said this wouldn’t tire him, but she’d insisted that he get a few hours’ sleep earlier. He’d watched through the night while she slept on the sleigh, and she didn’t know how much sleep dragons needed, but she knew they needed some. They’d taken a room in a cheap hotel, where the woman at the desk had leered at them, jumping to obvious conclusions. The break had kept them off the street, too, enabling them to avoid the increasing numbers of police. Kai had slept like the dead, his chest barely moving. Irene sat in the rickety chair and memorized their maps and plans, and wondered from time to time: What would I do without you? It’s been less than a year, and already I rely on you to be there when I need you, I fall asleep on your shoulder . . .
Imminent disaster first, she reminded herself. Personal issues later.
‘The storm’s as heavy as I can make it without risking a gale,’ Kai rumbled. ‘I’m taking us down.’
He dropped like a hawk through the clouds, accelerating as if the laws of gravity and air resistance were optional rather than obligatory. Maybe they were, to him. The bitter chill cut into Irene’s hands, her elegant lace gloves offering no protection, and the wind moulded her cape against her body. Suddenly there was rain all around them, lashing against them, streaming across Kai’s body in thick rivulets and outlining his scales. He kept on descending through it, as gracefully and uncaringly as if navigating a summer breeze. Irene lowered her head and clung on for dear life.
They broke through the cloud and continued falling, like a lift in a high-speed crash. Irene wished she could think of less dramatic similes, but then it became difficult to think at all. The rain slammed down on her and Kai like a waterfall, oozing under her cape and slashing at her face, making it impossible to see clearly.
Kai’s wings spread with a thud of air like a miniature thunderclap, and their descent abruptly slowed. It was probably a contradiction of the natural laws of inertia and force equals mass times acceleration, or whatever the relevant equations were. But if the universe wasn’t paying attention, Irene wasn’t going to raise the issue. He settled gently on a level stretch of roof, his claws grating on the slate surface. If there were guards up here, then they were all sensibly out of the rain and not watching the roof. Good. First objective achieved.
Irene slid from Kai’s back and peered through the pouring rain, getting her bearings. Over to her right she could see the onion-dome of the Palace Church. That must mean that the nearer crosspiece building, between the Winter Palace and the Hermitage proper, was St George’s Hall. The imperial throne was there – though hopefully they wouldn’t be running into Her Imperial Majesty tonight. Further round to her left was the Great Hall, scene of the night’s reception, its windows blazing with light despite the enshrouding rain. So she and Kai should be directly above some of the unoccupied royal apartments. Well, technically they were directly above the servants’ attics, which were directly above said royal apartments, but servants’ attics never made it onto the official maps.
Next to her, Kai shuddered, and the air rippled around him. And then he was standing next to her, also shrouded in an oilcloth cape. ‘There’s a door and stairs over there,’ he said, pointing to a shadow on one of the roof’s exterior crenellations. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’
It was close enough, and Irene nodded. She had to hold his arm to make her way across the wet slate, even barefoot as she was. The door was locked, but opened to the Language, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when they were inside and out of the storm.
As expected, these were the servants’ attics, and therefore utilitarian rather than Models of Great Architecture. Irene pulled her bag from under her coat and carried out emergency repairs to her hair. She dried her feet with the towel she’d been carrying, before pulling on stockings and dancing slippers. Then they bundled capes and towel into a convenient cupboard and headed down the nearest flight of stairs, hopefully looking like lost reception guests. They didn’t pass any servants on the way, though Irene heard the odd soft-shoed scuffle in the background.
When they reached the second floor, the decor abruptly changed to luxurious, but not overdone. The floors and walls of rooms were inlaid marble, the corridors were also of marble, and the furniture featured gilt, carving and velvet cushions. The paintings on the walls had probably been commissioned or collected from famous artists. (Visual arts had never been Irene’s best subject. She could barely tell a Rembrandt from a Raphael without a guidebook.)
Kai looked around with clear approval. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Quite tolerable. Which part are we heading for now?’ He paused to straighten his cravat in one of the mirrors.
Irene shoved a comb back into a wind-tossed section of her hair and looked glumly at her elegant, though slightly damp reflection. It was a nice dress, a pretty light-green silk-
and-tulle affair with puffed sleeves and full skirts (damp around the edges), which left her shoulders and neck bare. She’d accessorized it with arm-length lace gloves and silk slippers and had put up her hair with combs and pins, but despite all that, next to Kai she looked like . . . well, like someone who’d dressed up for the occasion. Kai, in his frock coat, cravat, waistcoat and well-cut trousers, looked like someone who should be at an imperial reception. Even hosting the reception. On him, the clothing looked natural.
She decided it wasn’t worth unpicking that little knot of resentment, and she thrust it aside. ‘Along here and down the staircase at the far end,’ she instructed. ‘Then down two floors. And if we can avoid anyone noticing, so much the better.’ The storm was still crashing down outside, and when she passed the windows she could hear the wind like ripping fabric and the rain rattling against the glass.
They made it to the ground floor without being stopped. As they descended, the architecture became more and more lush, heading towards sheer extravagance, but retaining just enough control to avoid gaudiness. Rich marble sheathed everything, as pale and smooth as cream. Gilt ornamentation gleamed as if it had only been polished within the last hour. The sounds of music drifted very faintly through the corridors.
A servant approached, sleek in his black uniform. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, madam,’ he said, effortlessly identifying the more aristocratic of the two of them and addressing him first. ‘The reception is taking place in the Great Hall. If you require directions . . .’
Kai looked down his nose at the man. ‘You may go about your business,’ he said. ‘The lady and I know our way.’
With a bow, the servant retreated. But Irene knew he’d only be the first in a line of helpful minions trying to herd them towards the other guests. She took Kai’s arm and led him round a corner, into a slightly less-impressive side corridor and through an only moderately impressive doorway, into an unimpressive plain stone staircase leading down.
The Burning Page Page 18