The Masked City

by Genevieve Cogman

  Lady Guantes snapped her fingers, the sound unnaturally loud. The werewolf took a step back, then another, bowing his head. He and the others limped back towards Lady Guantes, supporting the ones who were having problems walking.

  Silver’s servants moved just as quickly, without any obvious signal from Silver. Irene stepped across to offer the other maid her arm, and she took it with a nod of thanks, her breath coming in little gasps, which suggested a broken rib. ‘Wondered why his nibs hired you,’ she whispered as Irene helped her back into the formation of servants. ‘Let’s have a talk later, right?’

  Irene nodded, while inwardly resolving to avoid such a thing if at all possible, and slid the umbrella back into its packing. It was hardly bloodied at all. And damn Silver for not warning me this might happen.

  Suddenly a distant boom shook the station. The glass panes in the high roof creaked and trembled in their setting and the ether-lamps shook, their glare focusing and then fading again. Screams rippled across the concourse as people backed away from the railway tracks.

  A low thrumming filled the station. Another boom, closer now.

  Silver and Lady Guantes turned to face outwards at the same moment, without a second’s hesitation. Several of the others waiting nearby did the same a fraction later. Without needing to be told, the less-injured servants bent to pick up their bags and Irene mirrored them.

  A third boom, and then abruptly there was a glaring light in the darkness as a train came hurtling into the station. The furious beam of its searchlight outshone the actinic white of the ceiling lamps, burning into the eyes. The ferocious churning of its wheels drowned out the screams of the crowd as they pressed backwards.

  The train decelerated fast - too fast, faster than should have been physically possible - and drew up gently next to the platform. It was sleek and black, with a sequence of dark-windowed carriages that stretched out past the platform and into the night. And although the front of the train was clearly an engine car, there was no obvious power source. There was a pause, just long enough to set nerves on edge, and then a door in the engine car swung open and a figure stepped out.

  Irene squinted until tears came into the corners of her eyes. The figure was a man. Mostly. His - or her - image shifted like a film reel jarring between images so fast that the eye couldn’t follow them, leaving her with a set of impressions, but no definite fixed conclusion. Most of the images were male. A rider with tricorne hat, greatcoat and high boots. A train conductor, in dark uniform and cap. A biplane pilot, in flying helmet and sheepskin jacket. A motorcycle rider, in black leathers and helmet.

  The image finally stabilized on the train conductor, in a uniform that glittered darkly with ebony braid and buttons. The man stepped forward, and Silver and Lady Guantes both moved to greet him.

  Silver bowed as Lady Guantes curtseyed, and the man made a small gesture with one hand. It somehow reminded Irene of Ao Shun’s casual acceptance of her formality hours ago. He then turned to re-enter the train. Doors in the carriages further down from the engine swung open and the train began to softly thrum again, as though building up some infernal head of steam.

  ‘Move it, the lot of you, now!’ Johnson hissed. The servants all shuffled forward quickly as Silver and Lady Guantes chose carriages. Lady Guantes stepped up into the closest one, and Silver strolled down the platform to the next one along, as casually as if he’d always had that one in mind. The small group of lesser Fae and hangers-on tumbled into the carriages after them, leaving Irene and the other servants to hastily cram in and drag the bags, with the growing throb of the engine as a terrifying counterpoint.

  The inside of the train was pure luxury. Irene had a moment to take it in, before she had to drag another suitcase up into the carriage, through the narrow corridor and into the closed compartment beyond. It was all plush black velvet, leather and silver. A curtained bed-sized alcove was at the far end of the compartment, with the heavy brocade curtains drawn tactfully closed. Silver had thrown himself down in one of the long seats, and Johnson had opened a case to find a bottle of brandy and a glass.

  With a heave, the last case was dragged on board. The engine thrum was louder now, heavy enough to hum uncomfortably in Irene’s teeth and bones. Johnson placed the full glass of brandy in Silver’s hand, then quickly strode across and slammed the carriage door shut as the train began to move. It didn’t jerk into motion, like lesser forms of transport, but simply slid forward in a cool organic flow.

  He’s travelled this way before, Irene noted, but she was on edge, her main focus on blending in with the other maids. She just hoped they were too busy to dwell on the fact that she was a total stranger.

  ‘That will do,’ Silver said, waving a negligent hand. ‘Into the corridor, the lot of you. There should be another compartment where you can all wait. Johnson will fetch you if I need you.’

  Irene watched to see if he had any particular signal for her, but there was no little gesture suggesting she should stay behind. She shuffled out with the rest of the servants, crowding together in the corridor as they looked around for the designated compartment.

  Irene quietly slipped off in the opposite direction while they were talking and seeing to injuries. It was time to change her clothing and establish an alibi elsewhere in the train - as a newly arrived Fae from some other world. She just needed to thoroughly avoid Lady Guantes’ carriage.

  She paused for a moment to look out of the window, tensing against some sanity-destroying view into alternate worlds. But there was nothing to see: only shadowy fields and distant lights and the quiet of the unbroken night.

  Nothing to see at all? she wondered, the impossibility of it dawning on her. No travellers on nearby roads? No other trains? Nobody out late at night? None of the other stations near London? You’ve been on the rails only a few minutes now, and there’s nobody at all out there? The words uncharted night drifted through her mind, and she suppressed a shudder, preparing to open the door into the next carriage. She tensed herself for a confrontation, but there was no need. The next carriage held just an empty corridor, running alongside an empty compartment.

  Was this too convenient? Irene considered, paranoia prodding at her. It was easy for a lurid imagination to conjure up invisible Fae - if they could turn invisible? She didn’t know. She’d never heard of any that could. But in any case, she had to change her appearance fast. If she kept the maid outfit on, she’d have problems passing as a Fae from a futuristic alternate. She would just have to trust to luck.

  Irene hated trusting to luck. It was no substitute for good planning and careful preparation.

  She ducked into the compartment, slamming the door behind her and pulling the privacy shade down over the door window. Quickly she shucked off the disguise and shoved it under a seat. The business suit still looked reasonably smart, and a gleam of gold shone at her wrists. These were Silver’s bracelets, which he’d promised would show traces of his magic if anyone checked them. So now she had Fae bracelets around her wrists and a dragon’s token round her neck. The symbolism of belonging to either order or chaos was unappealing, and she was surprised that her Library brand wasn’t itching …

  Oh. She reached over her shoulders to rub at it. It was smarting painfully, and had been for some time - she’d just had other things to worry about. A bad sign.

  The itch on her back suddenly seemed to symbolize all the things that she was trying not to think about. Top of the list was Kai’s real and present danger. Her fingers brushed the pendant at her throat. If only she could read his health from it, in the way that Ao Shun had done. Her own dubious situation was next in line: running out on her assigned role and going to high-chaos worlds without permission was liable to get her a reprimand at the very least, and it might well lead to even worse. Removed from your position as Librarian-in-Residence, her innermost self whispered. Knocked down to journeyman again. Kept in the Library for the next fifty years. Even stripped of your Librarianship …

  But worrying
wouldn’t solve anything. So she viciously stamped down on her fears, forcing them to the back of her mind. Kai would not be saved by fretting over him like a maudlin romantic, or by panicking like a Gothic heroine in a trailing nightgown. He would, by god, be saved by her going out there and actually saving him - and her position be damned!

  Time to get moving. She began to work her way down the train.

  The next carriage was decorated in brassy gold and deep brown. The corridor was empty, but the privacy shades were all drawn on the private compartment. She could hear the sound of flutes and distant singing through the wall. Better leave well enough alone.

  The next carriage - this had to be the third one that she’d come to, with Lady Guantes further behind all the time - was decorated in cream and ivory. The privacy shades were half-drawn, and through the small slice of window she could see pale tangled bodies in the private compartment. She kept on walking.

  Abruptly the train shivered, beginning to slow. Irene looked through the outer window and saw that the view had changed. Instead of night-time countryside, she now saw … underwater. It was still dark, as they seemed to be far below the surface, but the lights of a sunken city glared on the approaching horizon. Something large and finned drifted past in the gloom on the other side of the window. Irene couldn’t see much of it, except for the single flash of teeth.

  The train was almost at the sunken city now, and she had a thought. What if someone opened the outer door and flooded the corridor? What might happen?

  Panicking, she ran through into the next carriage. She turned to the compartment window and it looked unoccupied. So as the train slowed, drawing into the station, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  There was a cough.

  Irene spun round with a gasp. Sometimes even a Librarian could be surprised.

  A woman was sitting at the far end of the compartment. She was tall, sitting razor-straight against the padded black leather seat, and was swathed in heavy deep-blue silks. A shawl was wound around her head and neck, covering her hair, but baring her face in the style that Irene had seen referred to as a khimar in some alternates. The lines of her stern face were as uncompromising as her posture, and there wasn’t the least ounce of softness in her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. Her lips were thin lines, drawn together in disapproval, and while the whole of her face was beautiful, it was a stern and judgemental beauty, the sort pictured in illustrations of scholarly angels and last judgements.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said, as the train stopped and fell silent.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Irene said, deciding to play along. The woman had spoken in Arabic, and Irene realized that she had answered in the same language. It was a pity that her accent was so bad, but she hadn’t had any reason to practise it for years.

  ‘No matter,’ the woman said. ‘Come and sit down. I will be lenient, since you are at least here before the others, but we have little enough time before we reach our destination. Your name, please.’

  Irene mentally grabbed for some name that didn’t have any sort of betraying hidden meaning, and seized the first that came to mind. ‘Clarice, madam,’ she answered. ‘I apologize for my poor accent.’ And what did the others mean?

  The woman waved her impatiently to the seat opposite, hands still hidden in the depths of her sleeves. There were no obvious weapons, no immediate threats or denunciations, and Irene allowed herself to relax a little. Her cover was holding. ‘It is acceptable. You have an Egyptian accent, I think. Was that where you learned the language?’

  Irene nodded, taking a seat and folding her hands in her lap. ‘Yes, madam.’ Well, an Egypt. Though presumably this woman - a Fae woman - looked at worlds in the same way. An Egypt. A Venice. No real Platonic ideal, only a thousand different variants.

  ‘You may address me as Aunt Isra,’ the woman announced. ‘Now, as you are here, we will begin—’

  The door slammed open, and half a dozen young men and women tried to get through it at once, babbling apologies. ‘Madam—’ ‘We’re so sorry—’ ‘We had no idea—’ ‘I would have been here earlier, but a baby fell under the train—’

  Aunt Isra simply glared at them all till they shut up. The six of them - three men, three women - were a mixed bag of cultures and clothing, with one woman in skimpy black leathers with a whip at her belt, and the second in cowboy gear. Two men were bare-chested in overalls, displaying Stakhanovite muscles - one was paler and one darker-skinned, but both possessed the same heroic profile and shaven-headed style. The final woman was dapper in a perfect black business suit and perfectly polished black shoes, and the last man wore scarlet silks with a lute slung across his back. They all looked embarrassed.

  ‘Well might you blush,’ she snapped. Then noting some looks of confusion, she shifted to English. ‘You do all understand this language, I trust? When I agreed to take students for this journey, I expected intelligent young individuals, ones who would be able to follow instructions and perhaps even understand them. Your patrons may be powerful, but you are young, petty, mere observers, barely a step up from human! I did not expect to waste my time on those who would not profit from it. Even the one who came almost upon the hour - ‘ she gestured at Irene, ‘ - was late. I abhor lateness. Tardiness is a prime offence against courtesy.’

  While she was still staggeringly confused, Irene thought she might just feel the beginnings of solid ground under her metaphorical feet. This was some sort of prearranged class. It was information. It was cover. It was, in fact, utterly perfect.

  Perhaps a little too perfect?

  She’d think about that later. This would be a bad moment to try to leave. Aunt Isra didn’t look as if she’d appreciate her students walking out on her. ‘We’re very sorry, Aunt Isra,’ Irene said, bowing her head. ‘We apologize for our lateness.’

  The others joined her in quick murmured apologies and excuses. A couple of them threw Irene annoyed glances, of the Why did you have to get here first and make the rest of us look bad sort. Irene didn’t care. It meant they thought she was simply one of them, not an intruder. A thread of fear ran through her at the thought of them discovering the truth. That wouldn’t be a happy ending for her at all.

  ‘Sit down, all of you,’ Aunt Isra snapped. The train began to move out of the station.

  They sat, squashed into the seat opposite Aunt Isra. One of the muscular young men in overalls avoided the struggle entirely, by lowering himself gracefully to the floor and folding his legs under himself. Irene was sandwiched between the woman in skimpy black leathers and the one in the business suit. She produced a notebook and silver pen from an inner pocket - and how did she fit that in there, anyhow? Irene wished she had a notebook.

  ‘As a favour to your patrons,’ Aunt Isra began, ‘I have agreed to conduct a small seminar about proper behaviour in spheres of high virtue, such as the one that we are about to visit. Some of you may have heard of me. I am a storyteller by trade and by nature, and I desire nothing better than a tale and an audience. I am often invited to these great events, so that they may be remembered properly after the fact. Perhaps, in the future, I shall remember you.’

  Her gaze ran along the group. Irene worried that it delayed a little too long on her. Paranoia only makes you look suspicious, she reminded herself. She really, really wanted a notebook. This was going to have to go into the files at the Library as soon as she had the chance. It was absolutely vital background information for any close dealings with Fae or visits to high-chaos alternates. Of course you had to be indulging in this sort of hare-brained interaction with Fae in the first place to get this kind of information - which would explain why it wasn’t already there.

  And providing such information might even soften any reprimands that could be coming her way. No, that would be coming her way.

  Assuming she survived to provide the information.

  ‘I understand that you have all so far been limited to one sphere, or perhaps visited some local
ones,’ Aunt Isra went on. ‘Would this be correct?’

  General nods and murmurs of, ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘You may address me as Aunt Isra,’ she said again. ‘Now, I think it’s likely you will only rarely have mingled with the great among us.’

  The man in the red silk raised his hand. His clothing was cut to flatter his body (and did so very well indeed) and his hair hung in blond waves over his shoulders, draping elegantly to conceal one eye. ‘Madam - Aunt Isra - I have been fortunate enough to attend at my patron’s court for many years now, in the more median spheres, and he is a great and mighty lord—’

  ‘And by saying as much you betray its littleness and his weakness!’ the woman snapped. Her eyes shone like black diamonds. ‘Fool of a boy, have you not felt these spheres shake, as the Rider and his Steed passed through them? So tremble all worlds of lesser virtue when the great move among them. Those spheres will not - cannot - endure the power of the mighty. The sphere to which we travel is one of higher virtue and will be able to stand their presence. I say again that you will rarely have encountered the great among us, because the sphere of your nurturing could not have contained them for long. Boy, your name!’

  ‘Athanais the Scarlet,’ the man murmured. He rose to his feet and swept a bow.

  ‘Turn and apologize to your brothers and sisters for wasting their time with such a foolish question,’ Aunt Isra ordered him. ‘Think yourself lucky that I do not whip your hands to help you remember the lesson.’

  Still standing, Athanais turned to Irene and the others. ‘I apologize for wasting your time with a foolish question,’ he murmured, bowing again. ‘Please forgive me.’