The Mortal Word

by Genevieve Cogman

  She took a step towards Mu Dan. “I am going to cooperate in every way possible to find out who did commit this murder, and to stop a war happening. But please excuse me if I have a certain . . . natural prejudice . . . about hoping that the Library is innocent.”

  Mu Dan blinked. Her eyelids flickered like a snake’s. “Your parents,” she said. “Forgive me. I will not say that I spoke unjustly, but I did speak harshly. I offer you an unqualified apology.”

  Irene reined in her temper. A genuine apology from a dragon was rare. Dragons did not back down, and especially not to anyone else who wasn’t a dragon. Mu Dan had come halfway to meet her by giving her an unqualified apology. It was Irene’s duty as a Librarian—and an adult—to respond. “I accept your apology,” she said. “I will try to control my prejudice. We all will need to, I think. I hope the Fae member of our team will do the same, when they join us.”

  Mu Dan sniffed, but managed to control her own prejudice and refrained from actually saying anything rude out loud. “When they get round to contacting us.”

  “If we must be fair to whoever it is, we have hardly been easy to find,” Vale said. He put down the last of the coins from the anarchist’s purse. “Our next stop should probably be the Grand Hôtel du Louvre. That is where the Fae delegation is staying, I believe?”

  Mu Dan shifted her weight uncomfortably. “You might have a better reception if you attended without me,” she said. “But on the other hand, I would not like to be derelict in my duty.”

  And on the third hand, Irene reflected, the Grand Hôtel is going to be heavily weighted towards chaos. And as a creature of order you’ll be uncomfortable—at the very least—the moment you walk through the door.

  “This investigation of ours is going to be awkward whatever we do,” she said. “Are we going to leave the Fae representative outside the Ritz if we go back there to question any of the dragon delegation? Or are we going to leave you outside the Grand Hôtel du Louvre whenever we visit the Fae? Just how far are we prepared to go in making concessions? And how far should we go?”

  Vale sat back. “My opinion, Winters, is that we should make absolutely no concessions at all. They have hired me to conduct an investigation. That investigation will be on my terms. And if neither side is prepared to tolerate the presence of the other’s investigator, then I question the ultimate validity of this peace treaty.”

  “You may have a point,” Mu Dan admitted. She changed the subject. “Have you learned anything from the assassin’s possessions?”

  “Very little,” Vale said regretfully. “Certain peculiarities of his teeth, given that he was in the habit of chewing his pocket change. His flick-knife was well-cared-for, and also well-used, suggesting frequent violence. Possibly one of the local street gangs—the Apaches, as they’re called.”

  “Native Americans?” Mu Dan asked. “I haven’t been able to do more than scan this world’s history, but I hadn’t expected to find them here in Paris . . .”

  “The term is used to refer to the entire criminal subculture here,” Vale said. “That at least is the same as my world. Burglars, pickpockets, ruffians, and especially the street gangs. I am not sure of the derivation; no doubt Winters can research the matter if you are curious. In this case, it merely indicates that he is a recognized and violent inhabitant of the Paris streets. Sadly, it is not an indicator to a specific gang. If I may continue?”

  Mu Dan nodded.

  “His cigarettes are a brand that I am not personally familiar with.” That point clearly irritated Vale. “But from the packet I would assume they are local to Paris—to this Paris—and cheap. I will be able to learn more from the bodies when they are brought here for autopsy. The local police may be able to identify them. Incidentally, Winters, should I be concerned about how they died? Are there likely to be awkward questions?”

  “It should come down to physical trauma while attempting murder,” Irene said. “And a heart attack or stroke for the one whose possessions you have there. Any irregularities about body temperature will probably have faded by the time they are examined.” She felt a certain regret (though not quite guilt) that the deaths had occurred at all. Humans drawn into battles between dragons and Fae rarely fared well.

  Irene pulled herself away from brooding. The best way to stop any further deaths—and to keep her parents safe—was to find out what was going on and ensure the peace deal went ahead.

  A half-remembered guide to problem-solving flickered through her head. Write down the problem. Think very hard. Write down the answer. Not very helpful.

  A fist crashed hard on the door—then, without even a pause for reply, the person on the other side shoved it open.

  A bulky gendarme shoved his way in, followed by three of his fellows. They were more neatly dressed than the one who’d guided Irene earlier: the brass buttons on their tunics and the insignia on their caps flashed brightly, and their trousers were creased to perfection. Unfortunately, they also seemed a great deal less friendly than their fellow. “You’re the English detective?” the one in the lead demanded.

  Vale rose to his feet. “I am. I’m working with Inspector Maillon on the murder at Le Meurice.”

  “It’s Inspector Maillon himself who’s sent us to fetch you along for an interview,” the gendarme said. He chewed on his moustache for a moment, his gaze assessing Irene and Mu Dan. “And we’ll bring your little chickens along as well. I imagine he’ll want a word with them too.”

  Mu Dan tilted her head at the vulgarity, her eyes hot with anger. “I arrived in Paris after this murder took place, so there is nothing I can tell Inspector Maillon about it. I am staying at the Ritz. If Inspector Maillon wishes to speak with me, he may call upon me there.”

  The gendarme snorted. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, madam, but Paris is a republic these days. We don’t have time for this sort of high-flown behaviour. If you won’t come along willingly, you’ll be put under arrest.” He turned to his comrade. “Albert, the handcuffs, if you please!”

  Well, that escalated rapidly. Irene would normally have used the Language to convince the gendarmes that they had some sort of signed and sealed permission to leave—but that effect would eventually wear off and only arouse more suspicion in the long run. “I’m sure my friend didn’t mean it in that way,” she said quickly. “There’s no need to take such measures.”

  “I’m in charge here, madam,” the gendarme snarled. “I’ll take whatever measures I consider necessary.” Behind him, his fellow policemen squared their shoulders, and one of them—Albert, presumably—pulled a heavy pair of handcuffs from inside his tunic. “You, madam . . .” he said, pointing at Mu Dan. “Your wrists, now. We do not tolerate disrespect to the police.”

  “That would be quite true,” Vale said, “but there is one point I feel I should mention.”

  “And what is that?” the gendarme demanded.

  “You’re all impostors.” His fist took the gendarme on the point of the jaw, sending the other man staggering backwards, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to regain his balance and his eyes glazed over.

  With a roar the other three gendarmes charged at Vale, drawing their truncheons. Vale caught his cane up from the desk and retreated backwards, stabbing it into one man’s stomach and then cracking a second across the forehead with it. “Winters, we want to question these men!” he called.

  That sounded like an excellent idea. “Uniform caps, cover your wearers’ eyes!” Irene ordered in the Language. “Truncheons, split!”

  The three men cornering Vale were abruptly weaponless, as their truncheons shivered apart in their hands, and inconvenienced by their uniform caps obscuring their vision.

  Mu Dan grabbed the fake gendarme who’d been addressed as “Albert” by the scruff of his neck, her lips drawn back in a snarl, and literally lifted him off his feet before tossing him across the room. He hit the wall with a crash, shaking h
is head as he slid down to sprawl on the floor and his set of handcuffs tinkled to the ground beside him.

  The first gendarme—the commander of this little kidnap squad, Irene assumed—had managed to refocus his eyes. He grabbed a whistle from his belt and blew on it. The resulting squeal tore through the air, loud enough to be audible rooms away. “Assistance!” he shouted. “Criminals! Assault! Anarchists!”

  Heavy feet came trampling down the corridor outside, and more gendarmes burst into the room, looking around for targets, and—naturally—fixed on the non-gendarmes in the room. Time moved with the slowness of panic as Irene backed away towards the wall, holding up her empty hands in an attempt to demonstrate how harmless she was. Although she’d managed to affect this many people’s minds with the Language—with some difficulty, admittedly—she couldn’t do anything too public with the Language here. It might have consequences all the way from getting them arrested to wrecking the entire peace conference.

  Vale shouted something, but it was lost in the confusion and yelling. More gendarmes were closing in on him. Mu Dan had retreated towards the wall, apparently unwilling to engage in fisticuffs with half of the police of Paris, but with no other convenient tools to handle the matter. The first kidnapper had edged over to his unconscious friend and was dragging him upright. Liquid ran out onto the floor from where a bottle in the man’s tunic had broken. Irene could smell it from several paces away. Chloroform.

  A combination of fear and anger ignited in her brain and gave her an idea. She didn’t know the word in the Language for ammonia, but . . . “Gas stink, intensify a dozen times,” she shouted.

  Her words were lost in the general clamour, disregarded by the gendarmes and the kidnappers—but the air heard her. She barely had enough time to pull up her coat to cover her mouth.

  The stink was like acid—it cut through any attempts to ignore it, burning the nasal passages and lungs worse than swallowed salt water. Combatants on both sides stopped fighting, bending over to cough and clutch at their throats.

  The impostors made a break for the door, shoving past choking and confused gendarmes and out into the corridor. Irene cast around for help, but Vale was trapped by the crowd on the other side of the room, and Mu Dan was coughing even worse than the average gendarme, tears streaming down her face. No assistance would be coming from either of them.

  Irene thrust her way through the mob of gendarmes, following the impostors’ trail. “Stop!” she shouted after them, breaking into a run as she made it out into the corridor and the population density shifted from impossibly packed to merely crowded. “Stop there, you impostors! Thieves! Murderers!”

  The still-coughing kidnappers didn’t slow down, and sadly nobody tried to stop the gendarme impersonators on Irene’s behalf. She caught up her skirts and speeded up, dodging a group of students and two more gendarmes who were trying to work out what was going on. “Excuse me,” she gasped as she swerved past the old lady cleaning the morgue corridors, barely avoiding getting tangled up in her mop and bucket. Trampling feet behind her indicated that she was being followed too. Good, additional gendarmerie might be useful. The chase was leading towards the back of the building. Dare she hope that she’d managed to corner the kidnappers?

  Sadly, no. There was a back door. Irene stumbled through it just in time to see the last of the kidnappers vanishing down a narrow stairway a short distance down the road, which seemed to lead into the bowels of the earth. She grabbed one of the gendarmes who’d managed to catch up with her by his sleeve. “Where does that go?” she demanded.

  “To the sewers,” he coughed.

  Irene was prepared to chase armed attackers along the street, but common sense urged her not to go plunging into the unknown sewers of Paris. Especially when the kidnappers might have regrouped and be waiting for her. “Damn,” she muttered.

  “There are regular tours, if madam wishes to see the sewers?” another gendarme piped up hopefully.

  The first one sighed. “Jacques, shut your mouth. Madam, would you kindly accompany us back inside? There are a few questions we would like you to answer.”

  “That will not be necessary,” a new voice said from behind them.

  Irene turned to see Vale and Mu Dan, in the company of a gendarme with significantly more braid on his cap and tunic than the regular variety. His moustache was also notable for its vigour and ferocity, spreading out over his cheeks and into his sideburns like a grey tidal wave.

  “I am Inspector Maillon,” the new arrival said. He clicked his heels together, took Irene’s hand and kissed it in a pro forma sort of way, then turned back to Vale. “Your associate is brave, but most unwise . . . To go chasing after anarchists as though they were a pack of ducklings. We have had too many disappearances of young women lately.”

  “She was overcome by righteous anger,” Vale said soothingly. “I am certain she would never be so reckless normally. Now, about this new anarchist incident at the Ritz—I understand the bodies are being brought straight here for autopsy?”

  Inspector Maillon nodded with enthusiasm. “How fortunate to have you on hand! I was most impressed by your testimonials. Together, I am sure we shall root out this nest of infamy.”

  Vale nodded. “If you will allow me a moment with my colleague here?”

  He drew Irene to one side, together with Mu Dan. “I believe I can be of more immediate use here, where I can examine the bodies and have access to the inspector’s records,” he said quietly. “Madam Bradamant gave me some false identification papers to explain my presence and accredit me as a representative of Scotland Yard. I’ll take your documents to review as well, Winters. In the meantime, I suggest you go on to the Fae hotel, find out what they have to say, and collect their representative. I’ll join you as soon as possible.”

  Mu Dan was already nodding, but Irene shook her head. “I’m not convinced this is a good idea,” she said. “What if this group tries to kidnap you again?”

  “I think it more likely that Mu Dan here was their target,” Vale said. “And forgive me, madam, but you are certainly the most distinctive of the three of us.”

  Mu Dan twitched a shrug, and the diamond-headed pins in her hair flashed. “That may be true, but now they know who you are too. If you’re assaulted when I should have been with you—”

  Vale glared at them both in irritation. “Do the two of you wish to wrap me in cotton wool? It would appear that nowhere in this city is safe. We can hardly go round in a trio all day. I am forewarned now, Winters. I will not be taken by surprise again. And I was not the one attempting to pursue four attackers single-handedly.”

  Irene realized that he wasn’t going to give way on this point. “Very well,” she said. “I suggest we meet up at Le Meurice—it’s neutral ground. You’ll just have to pay your courtesy call to Ao Ji after we’ve discussed the situation.”

  “Agreed,” Vale said, and walked back to Inspector Maillon before Mu Dan could argue the point.

  Irene turned to Mu Dan. “It seems the Grand Hôtel du Louvre is our next stop. I hope they’re ready for us.”

  “Are you taking leadership of this investigation, Irene?” Mu Dan enquired warily.

  “Inasmuch as someone has to,” Irene said, “yes. Yes, I am.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “The traffic is abominable,” Mu Dan complained, looking out of the carriage window. “One would have thought that with such wide boulevards, there would be less congestion. It might have been quicker to walk.”

  The streets were full of a mixture of vehicles: horse-drawn carriages like the one they were sitting in, horse-drawn carts stacked with bales of goods, and even the occasional horse-drawn double-decker omnibus—but also a few very primitive motor cars. And bicycles. Bicycles darted in and out of the rest of the traffic, ridden by both men and women, with the women even daring to wear trousers: minnows in the stream of vehicles, but still moving faster than
the larger fish. The pavements weren’t quite so full, but they were studded with stalls and kiosks, and every second café had tables and chairs spilling out to impede passers-by. Even in the current wintry temperature, there were people sitting around nursing cups of coffee, or glasses of something stronger, and smoking cigarettes.

  “It could be worse,” Irene said. “We could be in New York. I think we must have hit the mid-morning rush hour.” And she had a sneaking suspicion that their driver wasn’t even trying to go fast. He probably thought they were a couple of tourists who’d appreciate a chance to see as much of Paris as possible.

  But at least he wasn’t trying to kidnap them.

  Irene decided to take advantage of the opportunity. This was as close to privacy as they were going to get. “We should talk,” she said. “If we’re going to work together and trust one another, then some information sharing is probably a good idea.”

  Mu Dan turned away from the window to face Irene. “You’re a great deal more businesslike than I’d expected.”

  “I know that one never hears anything good by asking this question—but what did you expect?”

  Mu Dan looked a little embarrassed. “Given the number of exploits on your record, I’d expected someone a little more Fae-like. I apologise for the insult, but given what you’ve managed to achieve, I didn’t think you’d be so practical.”