But the cold wind seized the water and froze it mid-fall; it became ice, crashing down in a thousand shards, splintering across the width of the road and spraying in all directions. The rush of snow and wind beat on through the remnants of the water, laying ice across the hole ripped in the pavement as it rushed towards them. Irene felt the bite of the air like fire against her skin. She flung up an arm to shield her eyes and heard Kai cry out.
But he’d bought her the moments she needed. Four words were enough. She put all her will and power behind them, all her anger, all her fear for her friends, her parents, her Library—everything that she had. “Paris,” she shouted, her voice carrying over the howl of the wind and the smashing of the ice, “stop Ao Ji!”
What were the requirements for using the Language? That the Librarian using it should be able to name and describe what they wanted to happen, and that the Librarian should have the strength to compel reality to change itself. And that the universe could hear her words.
Paris had a name. Paris had been named by human beings, thousands of years ago—not Fae, not dragons, but mortals living and dying there. There was no question that Paris knew what it was. And Paris heard her. In this world, with the powers of chaos and order contending against each other like two opposing tidal waves, she could seize that strength and bridle it for just a moment. She could use it.
Buildings shuddered and the street trembled. The huge grinding of stone against stone drowned out the shattering of ice and the shrieks of human beings across Paris who felt their city shaking. Irene fell to her knees, struggling for the energy to breathe, as strength drained out of her. She felt heat across her back and smelled burning cloth, and she realized—dimly, on another layer of perception—that her Library brand was scorching through her clothing.
The road rose around Ao Ji, stone taking on life of its own and shouldering aside snow and ice to clench around him like a fist. The frontages of buildings—old, expensive, heavy buildings that had survived Napoléon and the Commune and the Revolution—shook loose their tiles and came cascading down. Ice and snow and wind raved against them, shattering rock to powder and grinding masonry to dust, turning glass to splinters and fragmenting lampposts.
Irene coughed. Blood was in her mouth. She kept coughing, unable to stop herself, spitting out blood onto the ice-crusted pavement in front of her, her body shaking with every breath of bitter air, the cold reaching round her hands and up her arms, pressing against her heart. It was almost gentle against the racking inhalations and coughing that convulsed her; it was an offer to stop, to give up, to let it go. Perhaps this was all just a nightmare—the storm, the earthquake, Kai lying unmoving in front of her, the blood dark against the snow. Perhaps she was still simply lying there in the hotel room, having one last painful hallucination as she slipped towards death. Perhaps none of this was real. She just had to accept that and give in. She was only human. There was only so much she could do. There was no shame in losing.
Her hands clenched. There might be no shame in losing, but there was shame in surrendering with so much at stake. She was not going to . . .
More blood. Her throat was raw.
Not . . .
Her eyes had closed. She forced them open. There was nothing to see except whiteness, nothing to hear except the sounds of stone and wind. The only things that defined her were her pain and her will, her choice to hold on, to keep pouring her strength into her words, to throw what was left of herself into the storm.
And then there was silence. Snow kept on falling. It drifted across her blood on the ground, melting as it touched it, letting the dark stain spread. But the wind had hushed; the fury behind it had dissipated. For a moment, quiet lay across Paris like an eiderdown, and nobody dared move or break the stillness.
There was a mound of stone and snow in the street ahead of her. Somewhere under that . . .
“Winters?” That was Vale’s voice from behind her. Good. He was alive.
“Check on Kai,” she said. Her voice cracked as she spoke—it was a hoarse whisper, barely audible, and dear gods, her throat hurt. “Then help me. Please. We need to see what’s become of Ao Ji.”
Vale lumbered into her line of sight, staggering through the snow with difficulty. Streaks of blood marked his hands and cheeks where they had been scored by the snow or fragments of stone, and his clothing was ripped and torn. He went down on one knee next to Kai, checking his pulse. “Alive but unconscious,” he reported, and she could hear the relief in his voice. “But he could do with medical attention.”
Irene tried not to laugh. It hurt too much. “So could we all.”
“Don’t waste your breath on trivialities,” Vale advised her. He got an arm round her and helped her to her feet, assisting her along. There was no thought or energy left to claim a strength she didn’t have. There was no way she could have walked on her own. She wasn’t even sure if she could have crawled.
Ao Ji was sprawled under a pile of masonry. He was unconscious, but a twitch from one outstretched hand suggested that he was still alive. Cuts and scratches marred his white skin. His hair had come undone from its braid and flowed out across the stone like a drift of snow.
“We need to . . .” Irene tried to think what to do next. Her mind was empty. She was exhausted beyond words. “If we . . .”
“You need do no more, Miss Winters,” said the Cardinal from behind her. “You have completed your task.”
Vale and Irene turned. The Cardinal was there, unmarked, untouched, though the group of human servants and lesser Fae behind him showed the signs of battle, limping, wounded, and bloodied. “Have no fear,” he went on. “Your friend the prince is unharmed. He will be taken to safety.”
“And what about Ao Ji?” Irene pressed her hand against her throat, trying to control another coughing fit.
“He was found dead,” the Cardinal said. The moonlight began filtering through the clouds again, pooling his shadow darkly around his feet. “It is as simple as that.”
At first Irene wanted to agree. It would be so simple, so easy: Li Ming and Mei Feng had heard the evidence and could attest to it, and everyone in Paris had witnessed the storm. But then . . . what about Ao Ji’s family? His brothers? Whatever he’d done, if he died like this, would they ever accept the peace treaty or forgive the Library for his death? It wasn’t just her life that would be at stake for killing him. It would be everyone connected with her. Vale, her parents, the Library . . .
“You’re mistaken, Your Eminence,” she said. Her voice was a thin thread in the cold air. “He was found alive and taken into custody.”
The Cardinal shook his head gently. “You are overwrought, Miss Winters. You will be taken back to the hotel where you can rest. Peregrine Vale, assist her.”
“We can both testify that Ao Ji was alive and well when we left him,” Vale said sharply. “Unless you wish to add us both to the tally of deceased.”
“Certainly an option,” the Cardinal agreed, “though hardly my preference. Surely you must see that this is the easiest way out? Wouldn’t your family and your world agree?”
If Irene had been able—or willing—she could have given the Cardinal some helpful advice. Attempting to blackmail Vale would only set him more firmly on his chosen course. But advice wouldn’t save their lives here and now.
Blackmail, she thought, and a card at the back of her mind turned itself over.
“Your Eminence,” she croaked, “you aren’t in full possession of the facts.”
“Oh?” He paused. “Is this where you reveal a note in my handwriting, saying that what you have done was for the good of the state and on my orders?”
“Not exactly.” She coughed again and noted the blood that spattered onto her hand. I hope that’s not too serious. Assuming I survive the next couple of minutes. “Would you—please—have your people step back a moment?”
The Cardinal
glanced over his shoulder and nodded. His followers backed away. “You had better have a very good reason to prevent what needs to happen here,” he said quietly. “What have you to say that can convince me to change my mind?”
Irene supported herself on Vale. “You deliberately lured the Countess here, to create a mutual enemy against which everyone could unite. And I can prove it—if you insist on this course of action.”
“You can?”
“A letter.”
Irene saw the cold decision in his eyes. “Then it is a very great pity that neither of you survived this battle.”
Irene held up one shaking hand before he could give any orders. “I don’t have it.”
“Oh?” The Cardinal’s voice was calm and unshaken, but there was just a fragment of uncertainty behind it. “Then who does? The prince? Peregrine Vale?”
“Neither of them.” Irene bared her teeth in a smile. “I gave it to Silver. And I don’t think . . .” She coughed again, her body shaking. “I don’t think he likes you very much. I think he’d love the excuse to give that letter to the Princess. And when she finds out that you were prepared to endanger her, at the hands of the Countess? What then?”
Seconds ticked away. Irene watched the snow falling around the Cardinal as he stood there, contemplating, considering, a model for an ecclesiastical statue, weighing her words like playing pieces and judging their worth. Each breath came with more pain and the taste of blood. She was afraid that she was going to start coughing again and that she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Finally the Cardinal spoke. “Well played, Milady. I look forward to future games.” He raised his voice. “Erda! Have someone fetch one of the dragons from the hotel. His Majesty Ao Ji is alive, and we require witnesses while we take him into custody.”
CHAPTER 28
The treaty signing took place in the middle of the Jardin des Tuileries, next to a large pond surrounded by statues. It was past three o’clock in the morning, but the snow was still falling. The group—Fae, dragons, humans—had moved far enough away from the rue de Rivoli to avoid the rescue efforts and repair work that were still going on there. The Cardinal had had a pleasant “little chat” with Inspector Maillon, and Inspector Maillon was now utterly convinced of everyone’s innocence in the recent anarchist disruptions. Certainly the crater spanning the street and the shattered surrounding buildings were more reminiscent of bombs than anything else. Such as a dragon attack.
Irene would have felt guiltier about the widespread destruction they’d brought to Paris if she’d had any energy left to do it with. She was running on caffeine and brandy, and even though she’d been wrapped in borrowed coats and had her frostbite bandaged, the cold had settled into her bones. Unfortunately, given the presence of royalty on both sides, only the very elderly or badly injured got to sit down, and she didn’t quite rate that level of consideration. The fatigue-stupid part of her brain almost wished that she had been injured enough to deserve a chair, but common sense strangled that train of thought. The area buzzed with the same mixture of order and chaos that had filled the dining room last night, but it didn’t feel quite as claustrophobic or condensed. Yet it was still a tingle in the air, a frisson on the nerves.
Ao Ji had been removed by a group of dragons, led by his royal brother Ao Guang, who had arrived shortly after all the fighting was over. The official story was that the Countess had poisoned Ao Ji, resulting in temporary insanity. The fact that absolutely nobody believed this didn’t stop it from being a good story. The Countess had vanished, but nobody was trying to hunt her down; they were all too busy with immediate emergencies. Irene had reported the full story to Kostchei and Coppelia—as far as she knew it—with Vale’s assistance. And it was amazing how smoothly final negotiations had gone, with both sides being culpable of something and wanting to smooth it over.
Kai’s father Ao Guang was . . . impressive. He had the same colouring as Kai—and Irene suspected that he was blue in his dragon form as well, but she hadn’t had a chance to see that. He possessed a bearing and power that came with age and with the knowledge that, if he really wanted to, he could take the world apart. Very much like Ao Ji, in fact. Irene had been doing her best to find other people to stand behind, whenever she was anywhere near him. It probably didn’t do much good, but it made her feel slightly better.
Vale was standing near her now. He occasionally offered an elbow when she looked as if she was starting to sway. Irene wasn’t too proud to take it. She was counting the seconds till this was done.
And then it was. Ao Guang signed. The Princess signed. Coppelia and Kostchei signed as witnesses. Li Ming brushed snow off the documents—three copies, one for each group—and rolled them up to slide them into scroll tubes, his motions still slow and pained. Irene breathed a sigh of relief: very carefully, through her nose, so as not to hurt her throat any further. She still had difficulty speaking.
There were mutual gestures of courtesy and formal speeches, which Irene mostly tuned out while keeping a vague awareness of the situation. Kai remained at his father’s side at all times, and he was far too aware of scrutiny to even glance at Irene, just as she was far too politically sensible to spend her time gazing at him. Official neutrality. Right. She had no idea what his father would say to him once they were alone. Determined optimism let her hope that there were some prospects for them both, for the future. They were all still alive, after all. That was better than things had looked a few hours ago. She would just have to get on with her job and wait till his father let him go his own way again . . .
And if it’s decades? At least we had one night together. At least I’ll know he’s safe and well.
“And we have one more decision to announce,” Coppelia wound up her speech. “Step forward, Irene.”
Irene’s stomach dropped as everyone’s eyes turned to her. Being noticed at events like this was rarely good news. She pasted a polite smile on her face and tried to step forward gracefully but staggered, and Vale had to catch her.
“Kindly forgive Miss Winters,” Vale said. “She was injured.”
“Her service has been noted,” Ao Guang said. “What is your decision, Madam Librarian?”
It was too much to hope for a reward, Irene decided. This wasn’t the sort of school prize-giving where one was handed a book and an improving homily about hard work. A pity. She’d have liked a book. But she didn’t think that she’d done anything deserving punishment—or at least, she hadn’t been caught doing it officially. She tried to slow her pulse and act as if she knew what was going on.
Coppelia leaned forward in her chair. A thin crust of snow covered her shoulders and dusted the folds of her skirt. The moonlight brought out all the lines of her face. “The Library has decided to create an official embassy. It will be a clearing-house, if you like, for peaceful questions and complaints from all treaty signatories. Naturally this requires a younger Librarian who is capable of living outside the Library and who is on good terms with both Your Majesty’s kindred and the Fae.”
She paused, possibly to allow objections. Nobody made any.
“We have therefore decided to appoint Irene, also known as Miss Winters, currently Librarian-in-Residence to B-395 by our classification, to this position. Miss Winters will maintain her current job, though of course without infringing on the rights of any treaty signatories. We hope this is acceptable to all parties.”
Irene fixed her gaze at a point somewhere over Coppelia’s shoulder and struggled to keep her breathing even and not have a coughing fit. Actually, would a coughing fit get her invalided out of this presumptive position? Tempting thought. This job she was being offered—no, assigned—was not remotely safe. She was going to be a public target for anyone with a grudge against the Library or the peace treaty.
I’m doomed.
“We entirely approve,” Ao Guang said.
They probably all set this up beforehand.
<
br /> “As do we,” the Princess agreed.
Sheer panic took over. I wonder if my budget will extend to building fortifications and machine-gun emplacements?
“And you, Irene?” Coppelia queried. “If you honestly feel that you are not suited to this task, then we will assign someone else.”
Irene took a deep breath. “I hardly feel competent,” she said honestly. “I’m still very young and inexperienced compared to other Librarians.” Though, really, was she that inexperienced? Choosing to avoid responsibility by labelling herself as unworthy might be the easy choice . . . but was it the right choice?
She met Coppelia’s eyes. “But I will do my best to serve the Library in this position,” she finished.
“A wise choice,” Ao Guang said. He didn’t comment on whose choice. “And in order to facilitate these lines of communication, I will assign one of my own sons to the same task. Kai, this will be a duty for you. You will share the embassy with Miss Winters here. As will the eventual Fae representative.”
Kai went down to one knee in the snow and pressed a fist to his shoulder. “As my lord and father commands,” he said. His manner was perfectly appropriate, but Irene knew him well enough to hear the suppressed undertone of eagerness in his voice.
“And of course we will assign some loyal servant of our own for a similar purpose,” the Princess said. Her eyes were practically glowing with sweet harmony and love for all living things. Birds would have been singing if it wasn’t snowing and the middle of winter. “But for the moment, let us say our farewells. I truly feel that we have achieved something great today.”
And when she said it, her words really sounded true. Irene could actually believe in . . . happy endings?
We have a peace treaty. The Library’s safe. My parents are safe.
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