The Masked City

by Genevieve Cogman

Amid the general embarrassed mutters of Apology accepted, think nothing of it, Irene mentally slapped herself. She’d been so preoccupied by Silver’s over-the-top libertine persona that she’d never really bothered to think about Fae who liked other sorts of roles when constructing their stories. They might still be the centre of their own narrative, but that didn’t mean they had to be the ‘hero’ or the ‘villain’ of the overarching tale. There were other roles for them to take, roles that were probably quite not so immediately destructive to those around them. (Though she’d hate to make a mistake in any class run by Aunt Isra. It looked as if it would be painful.) But she’d been unconsciously assuming that they’d all play out their games in the same way that Silver did his, always casting themselves as the main protagonist.

  Aunt Isra was Fae, but she was also a teacher and a storyteller by nature. There had to be a way in which Irene could use this.

  Aunt Isra nodded. ‘Be seated again. Well now, as I was saying, you will have had little to do with the great among us, nor will you have spent time in a sphere of high virtue - or so I was told?’ She glanced around the group and, when everyone nodded, Irene joining in, she smiled thinly. ‘Ah, this will be a new threshold for you all!’

  The woman in the suit raised her hand. ‘Aunt Isra, may we ask questions?’

  ‘As long as they are intelligent ones,’ Aunt Isra said, not very helpfully.

  The woman nodded. ‘We’ve all lived in the wake of our patrons, Aunt Isra, and followed their paths. We therefore have some understanding of what it is to be caught in the “story” of another of our kind - at least, that was the phrasing my superior used. How much … um, bigger is the effect when facing one of the great—’ She was clearly looking for some diplomatic way to say how much worse, and Irene herself dearly wanted to know the answer to this one.

  Aunt Isra sniffed. The harsh light now coming in through the windows cast her features into strict lines of contrast and shadow. ‘Certainly you can flee, young woman, and retreat back to whatever sphere you came from. No doubt there will be humans there who will feed you sufficient adoration to keep you alive. But it will be no more than living. Once you have tasted the full wine of following in the steps of the great ones, nothing less will content you. Once I - I myself! - was but a humble maiden who bore her sword in the service of the great Caliph al-Rashid. All things seemed possible to me then. I will admit that I had lovers - nay, even friends - among the humans. I could live within that petty sphere because I did not realize how much was to be had outside it.’

  Beyond the window was desert, punctuated by cacti, tumbleweeds and thin stony paths. The sun burned down on it from a cloudless sky.

  Aunt Isra’s voice had shifted into the rising and falling patterns of a story. ‘But then I told a tale that set a Djinn free, and I travelled thrice across the shifting sands with friends to answer its questions. I walked the paths that lead from Paradise to Hell, and I made five choices at their doors. I gave a hero the reins to a horse that galloped faster than the wind. I knelt at the feet of an emperor who ruled five worlds, and I told him a story that brought doom on one of them, but saved another. I lay in the arms of the ocean and bore her a child. And once I had done all these things, my children, I saw how little it was worth to be - to be merely a person who had the name that I once had. What are humans, compared to the wine of life, which is found by living as we do? I am what I am, and now I have no desire to be less.

  Is ‘less’ really the word? Irene wondered, then thought It is for her.

  ‘Cast aside your uncertainties,’ Aunt Isra went on. ‘Be who you are. It is the way forward, my children, the way to power, the way to life. And the greater the virtue of the place where you walk, the easier this will be. I see from your clothing and your habits that you are all well established in your own spheres, which is good. But the great among us can walk in any sphere and will appear in the dress and style appropriate to their nature. They can speak, and they will be understood in any language. They are unchanging, because they have utterly become themselves, and will never be otherwise.’

  Irene tentatively raised her hand.

  ‘Yes?’ Aunt Isra said. She seemed a little less brittle now, more lyrical storyteller than sharp teacher. ‘What have you to say, Clarice?’

  ‘Aunt Isra,’ Irene said carefully, her stomach clenching at the risk of drawing more attention to herself, ‘when I entered the train, I noticed the driver. But he was difficult to see clearly. I saw many different faces and styles of clothing, but each one was appropriate in its own way. He is one of the great ones, isn’t he?’ Nervousness prickled down her back like an echo of her Library brand, as other people in the carriage looked in her direction.

  The train came to a smooth stop. Stagecoaches were waiting outside. From the corner of her eye, Irene could see men in white suits and top hats, and women with parasols and ornate gowns, being helped down from the stagecoaches. They were approaching coaches further down the train.

  Aunt Isra nodded. ‘He is the Rider. He and his Horse share a story. Do all here know it?’

  Before Irene had to either admit she didn’t or pretend she did, the man in overalls who was sitting on the floor raised his hand. ‘Of course, Aunt Isra. I’m surprised that Clarice here isn’t more fully aware of it.’

  Snippy, snippy, Irene thought. Just because I was here on time. But she also felt a pang of apprehension, in case she’d exposed her ignorance.

  ‘Then you may tell the story, young man,’ Aunt Isra said, graciously bestowing the task on him as if it was a prize.

  Looking smugly content, the young man began, ‘Once, in a long-distant state, there was a horse that galloped across land and sea …’

  It was a typical sort of fairytale, even if the hero who eventually captured the horse was a heroic servant of the people rather than the more usual prince or hunter. Irene took care to memorize the details: silver collar wrought from the moon and stars, whip made from the wind, the rider holding on to its mane while it galloped over thrice nine proletarian states. All the usual stuff. And she nodded at the right moments as she repeated it inside her head.

  ‘… and then the steed bowed its head and submitted,’ the young man concluded, ‘and from that day to this, the hero commanded its power and it galloped at his will, swifter than a thousand rainbows. From land to land he rides, from the gates of story to the shores of dream, until the world is changed.’

  Aunt Isra sat there for a while, lost in thought, and the carriage was silent except for the thrumming of the train. There were skyscrapers beyond the windows now, their heights lost in smog. Irene was vaguely aware that there were other people in the carriage, crowding in to fill it - other students, possibly? - but she didn’t dare look away from Aunt Isra.

  ‘Tolerably well performed,’ Aunt Isra said. ‘An acceptable version of the story. I approve. You may attend me later, if you wish, for further teaching.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt Isra,’ the young man said, and bowed at the waist.

  ‘Now what conclusion may we all draw from this?’ Aunt Isra abruptly demanded, her gaze sweeping over the group.

  Irene mentally scrambled to guess what the proper answer might be. Something about how being in archetypal stories made you a powerful Fae, or vice versa? Something about how the same stories persisted across different worlds? Or about how both the horse and the rider were important participants in the story?

  ‘Clearly that both the rider and the horse are necessary to each other,’ the woman in the business suit said, her voice clipped. ‘This may be interpreted as encouragement to be involved with each other, to our mutual benefit.’

  Even if I’d rather be the rider than the horse, Irene thought.

  ‘You are correct, young woman, though you put it very blandly,’ Aunt Isra said. ‘I would not expect you to understand the sheer glory that comes from sharing another’s path, except by experience.’ Her voice dripped with condescension. ‘Certainly one can refuse such things. One can
limit one’s self. But those who choose to do so - well, if they are here, then they are in the wrong place. We are now among the great company who have travelled upon the Horse. Our story has therefore become that much richer, and we are greater because of it. Also, we can see that lesser things within the story have their own strength. The Horse is a mere servant to the Rider, but it is necessary to the tale. No story is ever about the protagonist alone! Other things are remembered - opponents, friends, servants and obstacles.’

  There was something that was nagging at Irene, and she tried to articulate it as a question. ‘Aunt Isra …’ she began.

  ‘Yes, Clarice?’

  ‘You said that the Horse was one of the great ones, as was the Rider,’ Irene went on carefully, hoping that she’d got the terminology right. Her brand was itching again as they moved deeper into chaos with every stop the train - or Train - made. ‘We are currently within the Horse, as it were. Does this mean that we are currently in a sphere of “high virtue”, where the great story forms can flourish?’

  ‘Of course,’ Aunt Isra said. It wasn’t quite a tone of Only an idiot would need to ask such a question, but it was close. ‘That was why you have all found it so easy to reach this seminar. Your paths brought you here.’

  Irene nodded. ‘Thank you, Aunt Isra,’ she murmured, lowering her eyes as she thought. So the interior of this Train was by its nature high-chaos, and being in a high-chaos environment took her to where she ‘needed’ to be for the ‘story’ that she was in. She didn’t need to be paranoid about this all being a giant trap - at least, not yet. But she did need to be paranoid about the possibility of her ‘path’ taking her to a meeting with Lord or Lady Guantes. This would lead to the drama so appealing to the story, but she might be forced to play the victim, not the heroine. Another trap to avoid - if she even could.

  ‘It’s hard for us to make a role for ourselves, when the great ones already hold the most notable paths,’ said an American-accented female voice from somewhere behind her.

  ‘Even the great can die,’ Aunt Isra said calmly. ‘The path is eternal, but we who walk it are rarely so. Do not be in haste to limit yourself, child. Go forth and act in accordance with your nature. Only the weak will limit themselves to thinking in human terms. Pity them, use them, but do not become them. We are what we make ourselves.’

  Greenery outside the window now. The Train seemed to be moving faster and faster all the time, delaying for a shorter period at each stop. Was it just Irene’s perception or were they going more smoothly and more quickly as they went deeper and deeper into chaos?

  Aunt Isra kept on talking, and Irene schooled her expression to deep interest, but inside she was turning over the new facts like cards at a Tarot reading. The more obviously a Fae seemed to be playing a role, the more powerful he or she was. Lord Guantes and Silver must be at about the same level, or presumably Lord Guantes would already have destroyed Silver, given their rivalry. Unless the story demanded that they keep at it for a while longer. So did Lord Guantes have his own competing archetype, path, role or whatever you wanted to call it? And was Lady Guantes less powerful? Silver had said that she didn’t have the power to travel across worlds to the extent that Lord Guantes did, and he’d seemed generally dismissive of her. Then again, how far could Silver’s judgement be trusted?

  A cold thought formed itself. Lady Guantes might be less powerful as a Fae, perhaps, but cunning enough to throw hindrances at Irene and Vale, and to think of innovative ways to do so. She’d even damaged Vale’s links to the official police. The roadblocks she’d thrown in their pursuit had been practical and sensible, rather than dramatic, exotic or the sort of thing that Silver might have tried. (All right, werewolf ambushes weren’t exactly practical and sensible, but they had almost worked.) Perhaps Lady Guantes’ strength was what Aunt Isra was busy decrying at this very moment. What if she thought like a human rather than a Fae, and so wasn’t limited by archetypal patterns of thought? It was only a hypothesis, but it made an uncomfortable amount of sense.

  Another stop. Glowing crystal towers outside the windows. Men and women in billowing silk and velvet veils.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t be able to avoid the Guantes pair. But she could take every precaution to stop them recognizing her. And her priority was to find Kai, rescue Kai and escape. She’d leave the vengeance to Kai’s family. She just had to get there, and if there was to be an auction, Kai’s time was running out fast.

  She fretted as Aunt Isra finished another peroration on the glories of becoming a more powerful Fae - by sacrificing all friendship with ‘common humans’ - and then Irene raised her hand.

  ‘Yes, Clarice?’ Aunt Isra said. ‘Your thoughts on the subject?’

  Irene blushed, as daintily and modestly as she could. ‘Actually, Aunt Isra, I was wondering if I could ask about the ongoing situation at our destination, and its possible implications. As you said, we are all from limited backgrounds, and I would be very grateful to have a wider point of view before we arrive.’

  There was an approving mumble of assent from behind Irene, surprising her by its volume. It sounded as if this was a popular question. It also sounded as if the carriage must have grown a lot larger, to be holding that many people.

  Aunt Isra nodded thoughtfully. The carriage lights now lit the compartment harshly, as outside the window it was dark again - a windswept shuddering ocean of black waters. ‘It is true that most of you will have little grasp of the wider implications. Did you once know that a common toast in some armies was “To a sudden plague and a bloody war”?’

  A general nodding of heads, Irene included.

  ‘Lord Guantes, of the seventh-upon-reticulation sphere, has captured a dragon and put him up for auction. Of course, only the greater among us will be bidding, and you children are merely observers. What you may not realize, children, is that there is a good chance this will lead to open conflict between our kind and the dragons. Everything could change. Certainly Lord Guantes will either find himself raised high or brought down low. So you see, child,’ she smiled at the woman in the business suit next to Irene, and there was nothing in her face but simple pleasure, ‘you need not fret so much. New paths are opening to all of us. At midnight tomorrow, at the La Fenice opera house, the dragon will be sold off to the highest bidder. And whichever way the path leads, assuredly it will be a great and magnificent tale for this storyteller to relate.’

  There was a rustle as people checked their watches or other timepieces. Irene glanced at her own wrist automatically, not wanting to look out of place, but inwardly her heart had frozen. She had a single day to find Kai. And if she failed to rescue him, the result would be war. She could barely breathe. She wasn’t without skills, but how - how was she going to manage this in a strange city, on her own, by midnight tomorrow …

  The Train shuddered, and Aunt Isra glanced out of the window. Beyond the glass there were lights in the distance, spangled across buildings and domes and palaces. Venice. ‘You had best prepare to observe events on the platform, children, or find your patrons. Do not keep them waiting.’

  SECOND INTERLUDE - KAI IN THE TOWER

  Kai woke to the taste of brandy, and swallowed on reflex before the thought of poison crossed his mind.

  The dreadful constant pressure and burn of chaos had gone. For a moment that thought dominated all others. The cold stone and cold metal against his skin were gentle caresses by comparison, and the drag on his arms was unimportant. He was able to think clearly again, to perceive, to reason.

  Someone was supporting him and holding his head up, tilting the flask of brandy against his lips. Kai let his eyes flicker open for a fraction of a second, just long enough to see who it was and where they were.

  It was his kidnapper, the man they’d called Lord Guantes. Sheer fury spiked through Kai, and he wrenched at whatever was holding his wrists, struggling to pull them free so that he could get his hands around the Fae’s neck.

  Guantes stepped back, rising to his f
eet. ‘I take it that means you don’t want any more brandy,’ he said, wiping the neck of the flask with his sleeve. He was in grey silks and velvets now, with a draping mantle over doublet and breeches. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘How dare you ask me that, after laying your hands on me in this way!’ In another place and time Kai’s words would have woken storms, brought rivers and seas rising to his command. But here and now they were only words, and they echoed flatly inside the small grey stone room.

  ‘Oh, please.’ Guantes tucked the flask into his mantle. ‘You were a pitifully easy target. I’d have thought your father or your uncles would have taught you more caution. A shame for you that they didn’t.’

  The insult to his sire and his uncles made Kai bite his lip, rage clouding his vision. He strained at the manacles that held him to the wall, until the blood ran down his wrists. ‘You are going to die for this,’ he snarled.

  ‘Words, words, words. If I’d known that you dragons were so weak, I’d have acted sooner. So tell me, would you like to sue for ransom? I imagine that we could send a letter to your uncle. In fact, hmm.’ Guantes began to pace thoughtfully, distracted by his train of thought. ‘It could be quite interesting to sow suspicion among your uncle’s servants. We’d have to leave a trail suggesting that one of them compromised you, of course, and then I could even incriminate one of your older brothers, or possibly suggest the Library was behind it all, while at the same time selling information to …’

  A man who was standing by the door coughed politely. He was wearing the same sort of clothing as Guantes, but cheaper, and in unobtrusive faded black. ‘My lord, the test?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I quite forgot. You may report to your lords that the dragon shows no sign of breaking free from his chains under severe provocation.’ He turned back to Kai. ‘You must excuse me. I do get distracted so easily. Tell me, who do you think would make the most plausible suspect?’

  ‘For what?’ Kai demanded, confused. He sank back against the wall. There was no point trying to reach Guantes. He could only hope the Fae would come closer again.