The Mortal Word

by Genevieve Cogman

  “If my comfort is irrelevant, then what is your concern?” she asked, dragging herself away from that unwelcome thought.

  “Helping you,” Bradamant said. “Solving this murder. Stopping a war. I can provide you with a list if you’ve forgotten. Since I’ve been assigned to help you.” This time there was no doubt about her annoyance; her words had a sting to them.

  Irene cast around for some way to soothe the other Librarian’s temper. Damn Prutkov. I didn’t want this. “Look,” she said, “we’ve known each other for a few years now. I know you don’t have the world’s highest opinion of me—” She held up a hand to stop Bradamant before any witty remarks could be hammered into the conversation. “But really, do you think I have the political ability or interest to try to deliberately engineer any of this? Be reasonable. I’m out of touch with other Librarians, I’m not interested in the Library power structure, I’m not trying to raise my position. I’m happy being a Librarian-in-Residence.”

  “With fringe benefits,” Bradamant put in slyly. But a frown was ghosting across her features. “I’ll admit . . . you may have a point. I could accuse you of a lot of things, but trying to play the system isn’t one of them.”

  “When you’ve quite finished damning me with faint praise . . .” Irene muttered. She very much wanted to ask Bradamant for her opinion of Prutkov. But now she found herself beset by a brand-new emotion—paranoia. How might Prutkov react if that sort of question were reported back to him? He hadn’t actually done anything wrong, after all. Merely having personal opinions on the future of the Library wasn’t itself a crime.

  Irene would have liked to curse. She had enough things to worry about, without adding paranoia to the list. “Let’s go down,” she said. “If Vale’s arrived, I’d like the chance to speak to him before we’re all seated.”

  With a nod of agreement, Bradamant followed her out into the corridor and down the stairs. Irene felt the metaphysical confusion in the air around her, the mixture of order and chaos from the presence of the two delegations, and shivered with a sensation that had nothing to do with the cold.

  The dinner had been hastily relocated from the Salon Pompadour to the Salon Tuileries, on the grounds that it would be asking a bit much of the dragon delegation to socialise in the room where Ren Shun’s body had been found. (In fact, for all Irene knew, they still hadn’t managed to clean the outline of the body off the floor.) It was sensible, but it also complicated an already complex occasion. Dragons and Fae were being encouraged in as soon as they arrived, but the corridors were still full of people taking the opportunity to exchange a few words—and, Irene suspected, not wanting to have to go into the Salon Tuileries and endure both sides staring at each other. Human servants from both sides swirled and eddied, valets and maids and bodyguards, trying to avoid being banished too far from the presence of their superiors.

  “Please move along, if you don’t mind—oh, it’s you.” Irene turned to see the Librarian Sarashina just behind her. Unlike when Irene had last seen her, in the dragon hotel, she looked smartly formal in a black kimono whose starkness was relieved only by five small white family crests and a patterned gold brocade obi. “Will you help me clear the corridor? The hotel’s made a couple of reception rooms available for everyone who’s not actually dining. And they’re both packed. Gods help us if there’s a fire alarm.”

  “Do you have to be so pessimistic?” Bradamant muttered. She clearly knew the other woman. “And if you’re here, is Ao Ji here already?”

  “No such luck. I think he and the Princess are engaged in an unofficial game of Who Can Show They’re More Important by Arriving Last, not that either of them would admit it.” Sarashina turned to Irene. “Your friend Vale is here—he went into the Salon Pompadour to check something.”

  “Thank you,” Irene said gratefully, and escaped before she could be drafted into crowd control.

  The Salon Pompadour was hushed, insulated from the hubbub in the corridors by the thick doors and the heavy curtains. Vale was on his knees, examining the outline on the floor—it was still there—and he’d turned on all the lights for maximum illumination. “Anything new, Winters?” he commented as she closed the door behind her.

  “No new attempts at murder or kidnapping, if that’s what you mean,” Irene said drily. “And I see you’ve survived His Majesty’s attention.”

  “He had very little time for me,” Vale said. “Fortunately I had very little to ask him—for the moment, at any rate. I may have more questions later.”

  Irene stood there, looking down at him. “I wish I could be more help,” she finally said.

  That was the very least of it. When she’d been younger, she’d loved detective fiction, and she’d imagined herself assisting great detectives at their work—providing the crucial piece of evidence or making the vital deduction. And now here she was, in the middle of a murder investigation, and unable to do more than stand around and talk politics while Vale did the actual work.

  It was a bitter pill to swallow; all the more so because a childish part of her was whining that Irene was missing out on the good bits. Sometimes Irene wished that she could edit out the pettier parts of her personality. And this was not some sort of game. It was deadly serious.

  “Don’t denigrate yourself, Winters,” Vale advised. “At the moment, you’re doing precisely what I need.”

  “Which is?”

  “What was that phrase Strongrock uses? Ah yes, running interference.” Vale straightened and rose, brushing dust off his knees. Someone had provided him with immaculate evening dress: he’d blend in perfectly with all the other gentlemen in black and white. “I would find it impossible to conduct an investigation with dignitaries from both sides constantly demanding attention and answers. You are absolutely vital to this situation in which we find ourselves. Furthermore, you have a degree of authority over Lord Silver and Lady Mu Dan which I lack. Don’t criticise yourself for the lack of faculties which you have never possessed.”

  Irene had just begun to congratulate herself on doing something useful and doing it well, when the last sentence punctured her self-esteem. “We should get ready to go in to dinner,” she said flatly. “The principals will be arriving at any minute.”

  “I look forward to observing them. Oh, for your information, Strongrock and I investigated that Cabaret de L’Enfer place earlier this evening, following up on that note in Ren Shun’s pocket.”

  “Why didn’t you take me?” Irene demanded, feeling rather left out.

  “You were analysing the statements,” Vale said blandly. “And too large a group would have attracted attention. Have no fear, Winters, you missed nothing. Strongrock reported a higher-than-usual level of chaos, and apparently an elderly fortune-teller had been frequenting the place of late, claiming to be a witch, but there was nothing more to find. No secret cellars. No murders. Nothing except some rather poorly costumed gentlemen in red velvet, and highly priced drinks. Strongrock was rather disappointed.”

  “Even so,” Irene muttered. She had a sneaking suspicion that the men had been trying to protect her by avoiding taking her along. She was not the person round here who needed protection. But if she tried to raise the point, they’d only deny it. Reluctantly she decided to let it go. “One last thing, Vale . . .”

  “Yes?” he asked, offering her his arm.

  “Be careful with Prutkov,” Irene said, taking it. “I’m not saying that he’s unreliable, but I think he sees personal advantage in this whole business.”

  “I hardly needed a warning to be aware of that,” Vale commented, making Irene wonder what Prutkov had already said to him. But then they were out of the Salon Pompadour and in the mass of people flooding into the Salon Tuileries, and there was no more time for private talk.

  The Salon Tuileries was another fantasia in gold and crystal and white: the multiple chandeliers sparkled too brightly for comfortable viewing
. Reflections in the mirrors filled the room to the bursting point with elegant strangers, and groups of small tables stretched the length of the room. It didn’t surprise Irene to see that the Librarians were filling out the central section, with dragons on one side and Fae on the other. The peace conference might be moving forward, but it was difficult to imagine it going so well that Fae and dragons were willing to sit at the same tables.

  The air was thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t just the heat and tension of several dozen people in the same room, or even the mixture of scents—perfumes, tobacco, and hints of the forthcoming dinner—but the sensation of mingled power, as heavy and close as a steam-room. It was, Irene found herself imagining, like being in a bathtub with hot water coming in from one side and ice-cold water from the other in a hundred tiny jets. Her Library brand tingled with the sting of power. But at the same time, there was something stimulating about being in the middle of it all. It was like a microcosm of the universe, with order at one end and chaos at the other, but confined to a single room.

  She glanced under her eyelashes at Vale to see how he was holding up—he was, after all, human. Possibly the only non-Librarian human in the room, other than the waiters and servants. Certainly the only mortal who had any chance of affecting the outcome of this conference. “Are you all right?” she murmured.

  “Nothing to signify,” Vale answered, which from him probably meant that he had a pounding headache but could cope with it. “Tell me, is there likely to be any risk from this dinner?”

  “There are people from all three groups in the kitchens checking the food,” Irene said. She and Vale found their seats—they were both at the lower end of the central group of tables, conveniently next to each other—and sat down. The room was full of quiet conversations. They would not be overheard. “I don’t think there’s a risk of poison.”

  “Not so much that: I was considering risks from the sort of thing you call metaphysics.” Vale’s gaze roved across the people present—the dragons, as perfect in their human forms as statues, and the Fae, like illustrations in a story she had yet to read. And the Librarians in the middle, far more ordinary than either side, unmistakably human, ageing, and imperfect. Different skin tones and hair colours among the guests made the whole affair seem highly multiracial and multicultural—which it was, Irene reflected. Though not in the way that a local Parisian onlooker might have guessed. “Given what you’ve said in the past about chaos and order—is it safe to have so many people from both ends of the compass in close proximity?”

  “Precautions have been taken,” Irene said. “This whole hotel’s been seeded with writings from the Language that affirm stability and balance. They’re helping defuse any possible build-up of power or any untoward reactions. Bradamant told me. We couldn’t go round actively writing the Language on the walls, of course. The hotel staff would complain. But we could write it on pieces of paper and hide them everywhere. This hotel is probably the most stable spot in Paris at the moment. Possibly in this entire world.”

  “What would happen if one were to place such things around Lord Silver’s home in my own world?” Vale asked thoughtfully. “Purely out of scientific interest, of course.”

  “He’d probably just have a servant remove or deface them,” Irene said regretfully. “What is written can be erased, alas.”

  Then there was a murmur from the doors at both ends of the room, and abruptly everyone was silent and rising to their feet. The tension twisted another notch higher in Irene’s stomach as power came walking into the room on human feet, from both doors at the same time. Everyone sank into curtseys and bows as if moving to the directions of an unseen conductor. Cold air washed around Irene’s shoulders from her right—from where Ao Ji had entered the room, she didn’t need to look to check—but on her left the air seemed to grow softer and warmer, as if touched by spring and modulating into summer.

  She didn’t try to look directly at the new arrivals. Instead she glanced at one of the mirrors opposite. Curiosity made her try to see the Princess first, and she wondered—just a little—if what was in the mirror was a true reflection of reality. Because the reflection was difficult enough to endure.

  The Princess shone, even in the bright room, like a diamond among mere crystals, or the sun among stars. It wasn’t a visible brightness—she was that much more intensely there. Everyone else seemed to fade into the background in comparison. Getting a clear visual impression of her was even harder than seeing the Cardinal clearly. Her hair might have been any colour from blonde to raven-black to ice-white or flame-red, and her skin any shade from spotless ebony to rosy-cheeked or snow pale. The only clear thing about the Princess was her beauty and—Irene hated to admit it, but it came washing over her in waves—the genuine niceness of the Fae woman. She was sweet, she was innocent, she was heartfelt, she was sincere, and it was all true. She was the sort of maiden who would stop to help old women without a second thought. She’d probably spend seven years keeping her mouth shut and spinning nettles in order to save her brothers—as the fairy tale went—or any other relative. Any toads coming near her would turn into roses and diamonds on the spot.

  Irene dragged her mind away from such vagaries and forced herself to take a mental and emotional step back and to look around the Princess as well as directly at her. She was being escorted by the Cardinal, in plain black robes that were a stark contrast to her gorgeous dress—as bright as the moon and stars, Irene’s mind filled in from old stories, even if she wasn’t quite clear what colour or style it was.

  At the other end of the room, Ao Ji stalked across to his seat. He was in full ceremonial dress of the sort that Irene had seen once before on his brother, robes of embroidered white brocade sashed and cuffed in scarlet that matched his eyes. Kai was a step behind him, in Parisian evening dress, head lowered and clearly present as an attendant rather than any sort of equal family member. The cold gust of wind that followed them left ice crystals on the mirrors and raised goose bumps on the naked shoulders of women.

  The dragon king and the Fae Princess reached their seats at the same moment. Both seated themselves simultaneously.

  In a rustle of skirts and tail-coats, the assembled guests followed suit. Waiters circulated silently, filling glasses with champagne. The bubble of liquid was for a moment the only sound in the room.

  Then Kostchei rose to his feet. “Most noble guests,” he began, his voice rough, human, and old. “We have come together at this time . . .”

  Irene mentally tuned him out as she surveyed the room, free for the moment from the twin lenses of power. The two other Librarians at her table were her age or younger—she recognized one of them from this morning, Rongomai, Sarashina’s assistant, and she guessed that the other might be his matching number from the Fae hotel. She could see Sterrington among the Fae across the room, in long gloves that concealed her hands and arms, and Green and Purple (she had to try to find out their names at some point) were near her, with Silver charming the woman next to him. On the dragon side, Duan Zheng was seated conveniently close to Ao Ji’s table—for security purposes, probably—and at the same table as Mu Dan. Both Li Ming and Mei Feng were actually at Ao Ji’s table. Li Ming was in male dress, matching his chosen gender, while Mei Feng was in an amethyst gown that draped her in clouds of deep purple silk. Kostchei, Coppelia, and Prutkov were all together at what must be the head Librarian table in the centre of the room.

  Everything seemed to be under control. She tried not to phrase the thought too clearly to herself, afraid that it might somehow invite disaster, but for the moment nothing was actually going wrong . . .

  Kostchei came to the end of his speech—a bland peroration on the virtues of peace, and praise for everyone present, presumably censored for content due to the local waiters—and there was applause. There was quite a lot of applause. As the clapping of hands rang through the room, Irene wondered if the problem was that nobody wanted to be the
first person to stop applauding.

  Thankfully the waiters settled the matter by moving in with plates and bowls. As Irene lowered her hands and reached for her champagne, she turned to the woman at the table whom she didn’t know. Her vivid red hair—dyed?—was up in a high knot, contrasting with the plain grey-blue of her dress and gloves. “I’m sorry that we haven’t been introduced yet,” Irene started.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” the woman said. “My name’s Medea. I’m currently working under Blaise—he’s the Library liaison at the Fae hotel, but you probably worked that out already—and he said that if I saw you before he did, I was to thank you.”

  “Why?”

  “You saved him from yet another chess game with the Cardinal by coming in when you did. It’s not that he dislikes chess, quite the contrary—but with the Cardinal?” Medea shuddered and adjusted her gold-framed glasses. “Games with him are so meaningful. I’m glad to be beneath his notice.”

  “I wish I was,” Irene muttered. But a bowl of soup with a very appealing smell had been slid in front of her, and practical considerations of hunger were overtaking metaphysical worries about Fae influence. “Have you and Rongomai met Vale yet?”

  “I’ve interviewed Mr. Rongomai, but I haven’t had the chance to question Madam Medea here yet,” Vale said. “Since we’re seated at the same table, I am glad to have the opportunity. Unless there are any more speeches, of course.”

  “Ten to one that we have a speech after each course,” Rongomai said, “and twenty to one that everyone makes a speech over coffee and brandy.”

  Irene picked up her spoon. “There are worse things in life than enduring after-dinner speeches. I’m fairly sure even the Fae couldn’t weaponise them.”

  A waiter materialised at her shoulder. “Miss Winters?” he murmured.

  “Yes, that would be me,” Irene said, putting her spoon down. “May I help you?”

  “A minor issue outside, if you would be so kind.”