The Masked City

by Genevieve Cogman

  The humming of the engine steadied into a regular shook-a-shook, a trembling eagerness to depart. Maybe in this story the princess had to free the steed on her own. She’d trusted it so far - she’d just have to keep on trusting it.

  With a hopefully reassuring gesture through the window, Irene headed down the corridor.

  The door at the end of the passage led into darkness. Not the kind of darkness where you could just about see your way, but total pitch-darkness of the sort that suggested underground abysses or hidden cellars. She didn’t think a demand to turn the lights on would be much help.

  With an inward sigh, Irene stepped through.

  She was abruptly in the Train’s engine car, which was dark too, but she could now see a little further. It was filled with complex dials and levers, a coal-powered boiler to supply steam and a lot of gleaming oily pistons. She looked around for any obvious clues to take things forward.

  There. A heavy silver padlock and chain were fastened around one of the largest levers, holding it in an upright position. It looked more ornamental than functional, something that anyone could easily lift off the handle and remove. But, she reminded herself, the symbolism might be important here. The memory of another chain months ago, and the trap that had been woven into it, made her hesitate. That time she’d been infected with raw chaos, and she’d only survived because Kai had broken her free. He wasn’t here now.

  The machinery hummed around her. Then another scream was ripped from the steam whistle, as if - no, she was sure of it - the Train was impatient with the delay. But how was she supposed to protect herself in a high-chaos environment, when anything she might do could infect her with the stuff?

  Well, perhaps she might try protecting herself in advance this time …

  She scooped up a fingerful of oily grease and hastily scribbled her own name in the Language on the palm of her left hand, then repeated the process on the right. Hopefully defining herself in this way would help keep the chaos out. It had better: she was out of ideas.

  ‘And the princess saw the horse’s bridle and reins,’ she pronounced, flexing her fingers. The words hummed in her mouth and echoed in the engine car as she spoke them. ‘And she said to the horse, “Now I shall free you from your captivity, and you in turn will help me and those with me to escape.”’

  The hum around her rose, throbbing loud enough to hurt her ears. ‘And the princess took the bridle and reins …’ She was having to shout now to hear herself over the sound of the engine. The Language tore at her throat and weighed on her lungs. Her body was moving as she spoke, and she could not, even for the sake of her sanity, be sure if she was moving of her own volition or because the Language was forcing the movements from her.

  Her hands closed on the chain, and the bracelets that Silver had given her shattered, flying into fragments and cascading to the floor in a scatter of links. The mask covering her face dissolved, crumbling into dust that clung to her wet skin. She could feel her own name in the Language burning into her skin, but the metal of the chain itself was cold and as normal as anything here could be. ‘And she drew it from the horse’s neck …’ Her arms rose upwards, dragging the chain from where it hung over the metal handle like a noose. For a long moment it seemed to cling to the top of the lever, dragging against it as if unwilling to be released.

  She set her teeth. ‘And it came free!’ she shouted.

  The small metal ting of the chain coming loose rang through the cabin, even louder than the pulsing of the engines. The metal links were slick against her palms now, like oil made solid. They snaked around her hands, curling about her wrists almost affectionately.

  The Train shuddered lengthwise, the movement jerking along the carriage like the crack of a whip. Irene lost her balance, falling to her knees. And as if it had been waiting for its moment, the chain lunged for her neck. She cried out in shock, holding her now tightly bound hands as far away from her as she could, clinging desperately to the chain to stop it getting any closer. The chain’s ends brushed coldly against her skin, trying to get nearer to her throat.

  Suddenly it slipped between her fingers, freeing her wrists, but flinging itself around her neck. She managed to get her fingers between the chain and her skin, but it tightened against them, cutting into her flesh in a vicious, deliberate attempt at murder. Her pulse rang in her ears even louder than the screaming of the Train’s whistle.

  She shut her eyes, forcing back panic, holding on to a last thread of consciousness. There was still air in her lungs. ‘Chain, slacken,’ she wheezed, the words coming out in a barely audible whisper. ‘Slacken enough for me to breathe.’

  The chain relaxed its stranglehold, and the flashing lights in front of her eyes receded. It shifted and flexed against her fingers, writhing around her neck as if trying to find a new avenue for attack. If it was somehow alive, then the Language wouldn’t have a lasting effect on it. She could throw it out of the window, perhaps? Or, better still, destroy it? Tell it to come to pieces? But what if it re-joined itself?

  The boiler door drew her eye, and she staggered across to it and threw the door open. Heat came rushing out, searing her face and making her choke again. The chain tightened as if in response, grinding the fingers of her other hand against her neck and dragging her head back.

  ‘Fae silver chain,’ she gritted out, being as precise as she could, ‘loosen! Be quiescent! HOLD STILL!’

  The chain went slack enough for her to wrench it over her head and get a firm hold of it with both hands. She balled it up and flung it into the furnace, and it clattered and twisted as it left her hands, trying to move and lunge at her. She slammed the boiler door on it, her hands aching from the scorching heat. It hammered at the door, but after a few seconds its last desperate clangs died away.

  Then the great lever came down of its own volition.

  The steam whistle screamed, but this was a cry of joyous liberation, wild freedom finally allowed to run loose. The whole engine car shook, and the Train began to move.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  For a long moment all Irene could do was lean over, rest her hands on her thighs and breathe. The wet fabric of her skirts soothed her scoured palms, and there was a great aching numbness in her mind. She’d done it. The Train was moving. All three of them were safely on board.

  They’d done it.

  Outside the window she could see nothing but dark water, shivering and tossing, with distant lights catching the foam-caps. Hopefully it would be a quicker journey back to Vale’s London than it had been to get here in the first place. The atmosphere on the Train must be nearly as toxic to Kai as Venice was.

  She opened the engine car door, then hesitated. The carriage beyond was not the one that she had just left. The Train must somehow have readjusted itself, to bring her so quickly to this end of its structure. ‘Ah …’ she started, feeling a bit foolish addressing the Train in so conversational a way. ‘Please can you return me to the carriage containing my companions?’

  The carriage was silent.

  All right. That was probably a ‘no’, so she had a walk ahead of her. Shouting at the Train would be a waste of time - but slamming the door did make her feel better.

  Just as before, each carriage was different and displayed new heights of luxury. The only shoddy element here was her. And as she travelled the length of the Train it seemed to be moving more erratically than before, with the juddering and shaking of a regular steam train. Each step had Irene swaying in order to keep her balance.

  The sixth compartment also seemed empty, until she spotted someone lounging on a black velvet sofa with a glass of pale-green liquor. It just wasn’t the person she’d been expecting to see.

  ‘Zayanna?’ she said blankly.

  ‘Clarice!’ Zayanna attempted to hide the glass of liquor under the sofa, but some of it spilled, and the scattered drops left hissing marks in the carpeting. She was back in her bikini, her long bronzed limbs artfully displayed against the sofa’s darkness, hair
tumbling down over one shoulder. ‘I was just about to get back to searching …’ She frowned. ‘Wait a moment. It was you that I was supposed to be searching for?’

  ‘It was?’ Irene tried to think of a plausible lie. ‘Well, you’ve found me now, so you don’t have to worry about it—’

  Then her brain cut in. Zayanna was on the Train, apparently searching for her. Which meant that others would be seeking her too. And Vale and Kai … Her stomach dropped.

  ‘Why were you looking for me?’ She desperately wanted any answer except the one she expected.

  ‘Well.’ Zayanna was absently twisting a tendril of hair, but she was also watching Irene closely from under lowered eyelashes. ‘There was this rumour that you’d rescued the dragon and were escaping with him. Darling. And we were with you earlier, so we were tagged as potential conspirators - until we agreed to help with the search, just to prove how non-involved and non-traitorous we are. Darling.’

  Irene spread her arms wide. ‘Do I look as if I’ve got a dragon hidden anywhere?’

  ‘No,’ Zayanna said readily. ‘That’d be because he’s now being held further down the Train.’

  Irene took a deep breath. ‘Well then,’ she said, and was surprised at how normal her voice sounded. Where was the utter stomach-churning, headache-inducing exasperation - no, fury - at yet one more obstacle in her way, one more damned interference by the damned Guantes? ‘I’ll just have to do something about that.’

  Zayanna frowned. ‘Are you absolutely sure you should be telling me that, Clarice?’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Irene said. Her hand sought the butt of the gun that was still somehow concealed in her soggy skirts. The gunpowder would be thoroughly soaked by now, but Zayanna didn’t know that. ‘Is it really in your best interests to get into a confrontation with an armed, dangerous, dragon-rescuing type like me? Seriously, Zayanna, I thought you were complaining earlier because you never managed to interact with heroes.’

  ‘I was complaining that I never got to seduce heroes, darling,’ Zayanna smiled. She twirled her hair again, her teeth gleaming and more than a little pointed. ‘But it’s very sweet that you were actually listening.’

  ‘Hand me over to the Guantes and you won’t even get that chance,’ Irene said, mentally resigning herself to a potential inconvenient seduction routine. Still, if Zayanna was anything like Silver, she’d probably get just as much out of Irene turning her down - as long as it was melodramatic enough. But first she had an escape to organize. ‘Is anyone in the next carriage?’

  ‘Atrox Ferox and Athanais,’ Zayanna said. She frowned. ‘Are we talking a serious seduction here? A really truly thing of passion?’

  ‘A sporting chance at one, if we get out of this alive,’ Irene said. She might be laying it on a bit thick, but Zayanna seemed to be buying it. But how far could she push the other woman? ‘Do you know if Atrox Ferox or Athanais have patrons who are inclined to stability, or to war with the dragons? And what of your own?’

  ‘The Lord Judge is Atrox Ferox’s patron, and he’s inclined to stability,’ Zayanna offered without hesitation. ‘So Atrox Ferox is here to report on events, rather than because of any alliance with the warmongering Guantes. No question, darling, the Lord Judge is one of those known quantities you can depend upon. But I don’t know about Athanais. Or his patron. If he has one.’

  ‘And what of yours?’ Irene pushed. She had no idea who the Lord Judge was, but his neutrality sounded encouraging.

  Zayanna sighed and the droop of her shoulders looked entirely genuine. ‘Darling, he doesn’t care. That’s why he sent someone like me along, rather than one of the proxies he actually trusts. He’ll just end up going with the majority, as usual. Of course he doesn’t want me compromising his interests, so I don’t want to be caught doing anything I shouldn’t, but otherwise he couldn’t care less.’

  Which meant no opportunity for Zayanna to advance … unless Irene offered her a chance to play a role. ‘From what you’re saying, he’s not interested in losers,’ she said casually. ‘If the Guantes should fail, then he wouldn’t want to know them - he’d deny ever even knowing them in the first place.’

  ‘Well, naturally,’ Zayanna said. Her eyes narrowed again. ‘Wouldn’t anyone?’

  ‘Right,’ Irene said, conscious of the enormity of the risk. But if it paid off, she’d actually have a chance. She hauled the wet gun out from her dripping skirts and offered it to Zayanna, butt-first. ‘I need your help, Zayanna. As my ally. As my friend. I want you to stand behind me and use my body to hide the gun while I’m talking. And if the talking doesn’t work, then I’m going to need you to threaten people with it.’ Perhaps a slight hint at emotional involvement might be a good idea. ‘Please?‘ she added hopefully, batting her eyelashes in what she hoped was an appealing fashion.

  Zayanna’s eyes widened. ‘You want me to stand behind you with a loaded weapon?’

  ‘Yes,’ Irene said firmly.

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Zayanna threw herself against Irene, nestling her head against her chest and wrapping her arms around her, ignoring Irene’s wet rags. ‘Nobody’s ever said anything so romantic to me in all my life.’

  Irene gently prised her off, somewhat inconvenienced by the gun in her hand. ‘Let’s do this,’ she said, mentally crossing her fingers that Zayanna was right about Atrox Ferox’s neutrality. He was, after all, the other one with a gun.

  He and Athanais were standing in the corridor of the next carriage when Irene opened the door, and he immediately raised his gun. It looked futuristic, sleek and unnaturally large - though that might have been due to it being pointed at her.

  She raised her hands above her shoulders, conscious of Zayanna right behind her. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Clarice.’ Atrox Ferox eyed her levelly, his dark eyes narrowed. ‘Or would some other name be more appropriate?’

  Marvellous, I’m being typecast as a master spy in this story. I think I preferred being underestimated. ‘My real name is unimportant,’ she said, aiming for a note of authority. ‘What matters is why I’m here.’

  ‘A matter of grand treason, I heard,’ Athanais put in. He was wearing a lute slung across his body, and his hands tensed above the strings as if it was a weapon too. ‘Is there another way of seeing it?’

  Irene lowered her hands slowly. Atrox Ferox wasn’t making any move to shoot her, and it was tiring to hold them up. ‘Personally, I’d call it trying to stop a war. Whether or not you’d call that grand treason probably depends on your politics.’

  ‘Clarification would be useful,’ Atrox Ferox said. He wasn’t lowering his gun, but Irene decided to count the lack of gunfire as promising. ‘Truthful explanation even more so.’

  ‘Kidnapping a dragon king’s son to auction him off to the highest bidder is an audacious move, I’ll give them that,’ Irene said. She turned to face Athanais, but kept Atrox Ferox just within sight. ‘It could start a war. It might even start a war you could win. Though let’s not go into the consequences for ordinary humans throughout the spheres, shall we? That would just be depressing. But kidnapping a dragon king’s son and then managing to lose him in the middle of Venice, in the Ten’s personal territory? And allowing him to escape? I’m not terribly impressed with Lord and Lady Guantes, not impressed at all. If someone was going to start a war, I’d hope it was someone a bit more efficient. Truly great leaders shouldn’t be so easily foiled. If I were you, Athanais, I wouldn’t call interfering with their schemes “grand treason”. I’d call it a minor action that will save you a great deal of trouble further down the line.’

  ‘I’m not interested in winning or losing a war,’ Athanais said. His fingers drifted lower, brushing the strings. ‘Maybe just being involved is enough? For the fame, for the story … So I’m not sure that I really care about your argument. It’s a nice effort, I’ll give you that. But it’s not enough to save you.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t,’ came Zayanna’s voice from behind Irene, befo
re Irene could work out a new line of reasoning. ‘But this is. If you play a single note, then I will shoot you.’

  Athanais swallowed. ‘Atrox! She’s gone traitor too - shoot her!’

  ‘Shoot her,’ Irene said blandly, ‘and you’ll bring her patron into this as well. Do you really want that?’

  ‘She’s the one pointing the gun at me, not the other way around,’ Athanais snapped. ‘And as for you - we don’t even know who or what you are. For all we know, you’re another dragon in disguise.’

  ‘I’m just incognito,’ Irene said, wondering how long she had until Athanais called for reinforcements. If there were guards in the next carriage, it might only take a single shout. ‘This isn’t worth your time. The best thing you can do is step aside and stay well out of the Guantes’ failure. People remember fame and stories, Athanais, but they remember failure too. Get out while you can.’

  She saw Atrox Ferox tense, and she braced herself to duck, but he moved in the opposite direction, bringing his gun round to slam the butt into Athanais’ head in a whirl of black steel and leather. The other man slumped, his eyes rolling up in his head, and the lute fell against his body in a squawk of jangled strings.

  Irene took a deep breath before saying, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your argument is sound,’ Atrox Ferox said crisply. He gathered Athanais under his left arm, holding the unconscious man against his body. ‘Why expend energy on a lost cause? Even now, if the prisoner were returned, too much power has been lost. The name of Guantes is no longer what it was.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Zayanna agreed. ‘He jumped out of his opera box, was washed halfway across the Piazza and had to run to catch the Train - it’s not what one expects of a patron. They ought to be above such things.’ She paused. ‘Clarice, did you have anything to do with any of that?’

  ‘A little bit,’ Irene admitted as casually as she could, enjoying the image of Lord Guantes being flushed across the Piazza like a wet rag.