The Dark Archive (The Invisible Library Novel)

by Genevieve Cogman

  However, he no longer had a choice.

  “What would you like me to do next?” Singh asked quietly.

  “Keep a watchful eye for signs of the Professor’s influence,” Vale directed. “If Madame Sterrington is apprehended, I’d appreciate it if she didn’t suffer any mysterious accidents. Either in the cells or, as they say, while trying to escape.”

  Singh would clearly have liked to refute that insinuation as a slander against the police, but he chewed his moustache and nodded. “And you?”

  “Send any messages to me via my sister. My lodgings are unsafe at present; I’ve already discovered some dynamite wired up in my cellar.”

  “And did you trouble yourself to inform the police?” Singh asked rhetorically.

  Vale shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure it was connected to this case. You know the company I keep, Singh. A fair number of my ‘acquaintances’ would leave dynamite if they thought they could get away with it.”

  “We’re working on a different scale entirely here, if you’re right.” The if hung in the air between them. “Get me some evidence, Vale. This can’t go on.”

  “Certainly it cannot,” Vale agreed. He tried to ignore the surge in his blood at the thought of the pursuit ahead and the thrill of challenging such an enemy. He would need all the cold logic at his command to track his adversary successfully.

  Assuming the Professor didn’t find him first.

  CHAPTER 13

  On the other side of London the air was also thick with fog. Morning might have broken, but there were no rays of sunshine to rouse sleepers. And Irene had it on good authority that London’s starlings had long since given up on the dawn chorus. Instead they were hungry scavengers, as vicious as piranhas when they saw a chance at someone’s breakfast.

  She shook Catherine by the shoulder. “Wake up,” she suggested.

  Catherine grunted and tried to hide under the sheets.

  While Irene sympathized, this was going to be a busy day and she had no time for other people’s laziness. She pulled off the sheets and blankets, leaving Catherine shivering in her borrowed nightdress. “Rise and shine, O would-be librarian. We’ve got a lot to do.”

  Catherine was clearly about to complain. Then she took in Irene’s expression and shut her mouth, setting about the business of washing and dressing instead. Irene rewarded her with a mug of coffee.

  “All right,” she said, once Catherine was in a fit condition to listen. “It’s eight o’clock and we need to get moving. Given the many attempts to either kill or kidnap us, we have to assume we’ll be in danger as soon as our enemies locate us. And before we go any further, I want to be absolutely clear about this—if you continue to work with me, you’re going to be in danger.” She was very grateful that Kai was out of London and that Vale was—well, Vale. “You’d be much safer if you left London and stayed undercover until the current threat’s blown over. I promise I’ll still consider you as my apprentice and try to get you into the Library.”

  Catherine glared at her. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do, although I don’t think you trust me. Besides, if something bad does happen, maybe it’ll give you the crucial insight you need to get me into the Library.”

  “You can’t depend on the power of an ideal narrative,” Irene said wearily. “Sometimes life gives you a dramatic tragedy instead. In fact, the more you depend on a storybook outcome . . .” She saw the look in Catherine’s eyes and gave up. “Very well. You’re sticking with me, then. In that case, we might as well retrieve the Vie de Merlin and get it to the Library. I have to report in on the current situation in any case. Where is it?”

  Catherine visibly weighed whether or not she wanted to give up her leverage, then said, “Waterloo.”

  “Good. Let me see. Thinking of nearby libraries . . . there’s Methyll Street, St. John the Beheaded, the Fosdyke Sanatorium, and the Guest Collection. Also a couple of small ones that serve the local parishes.” She considered the likelihood that hostile forces might have staked them all out and might be waiting for them to show up. After all, their enemies—Lord Guantes or otherwise—knew Irene was a Librarian. They would be expecting her to make a run for the Library. But surely they couldn’t watch every library in London. “We’ll try the Guest Collection. They own some valuable books, so they have better security measures than most; that should keep you safe while I access the Library.”

  “Will you try to get me in while you’re there?” Catherine asked eagerly.

  “I haven’t thought of anything new since last time,” Irene admitted. “And we both know that nothing’s worked yet. And I don’t want to keep on hurting you until I can come up with a better idea. It does hurt, doesn’t it?”

  Catherine didn’t respond, but the way that she looked aside was answer enough. “Maybe if I really was an archetypal proper librarian, it would let me in,” she suggested.

  “Have you considered settling down somewhere—somewhere other than here—and just working as a librarian for a few years? Somewhere safe?”

  “My uncle won’t let me do what I want, unless I do something useful for him—like finding out how a Fae can access the Library. This is my chance and you’re my ticket in. I’m not letting go of you.”

  “How nice to be valued for my true worth.” Irene took the coffee mug out of Catherine’s hand. “In that case, the next step is clothing and make-up. I know you don’t want to train as a spy, but in the interests of keeping you alive today, you’re going to be my co-researcher from France, and you need to look the part . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  The Guest Collection had originally displayed a gleaming white marble façade, but the London weather had taken it down a peg or two since. While its mock-baroque spires still towered above the neighbouring buildings, they were stained grey from the constant smog and acid rain. Any smears of white were due to visiting pigeons, rather than the underlying stone. The current owners had spent their money on security, not redecoration, and the elegant windows were firmly iron-barred. But stylised stone hawks still ornamented the building’s columns and brooded above the main door—retaining an air of classical menace. Their hooded eyes seemed to watch Irene and Catherine as they entered.

  Irene hadn’t spotted any followers—but she wasn’t about to take any risks. Posing as a French researcher whose application to visit the Collection had been lost in the post, she complained loudly (in French) before signing a one-day visiting application. She also handed over a large deposit for handling their books. Conveniently, the receptionists were more interested in making a profit from a visiting foreigner than looking too closely at her credentials. As the junior researcher, Catherine carried the small suitcase containing the Vie de Merlin. They’d had no problem collecting it from Waterloo station’s Left Luggage department. Irene could only hope their luck would hold.

  The building was devoted to the folklore of the British Isles. Irene had scoped it out once before and noted that the Scottish-folklore rooms on the top floor were the most convenient for quiet working—and avoiding attention. She ignored Catherine’s muttering as the younger woman hefted the case up the stairs, waiting until she was sure they were alone. Fortunately, the Collection tended to fill up later in the day. They should be undisturbed for a while—and an hour was all Irene wanted.

  “Sit here and look as if you’re studying,” she directed. “If security shows up and asks where I am—”

  “I know, you’re in another room,” Catherine said. She wandered along the shelves pulling books down, her fingers lingering on their spines. “Can I say I’m studying ‘redcaps’? They seem to be Scottish goblins.”

  “As long as you can sound convincing about it.” Irene picked up the case. “Now, if anything goes wrong while I’m away, go back to our overnight lodgings. If that’s impossible or if you’re
being followed, take a hotel room somewhere and stay there. Put a message for me in the agony column of the Times under the name Melodia Agnes.” A stupid name, but memorable—and no worse than the other pseudonyms there. “And be careful.”

  It was dangerous to leave Catherine alone—but Irene had to get into the Library. And without Kai to watch over Catherine, what else could she do?

  She suppressed her growing unease. Kai should be the safest of them all. He was visiting family—well, other dragons, at least—and was well away from all this mess. If he was taking longer than expected, hopefully that was because there was plenty of information on that laptop. The fact that she personally missed him—very much—was beside the point.

  Catherine already had her head in her selection of books. With an unnoticed wave, Irene went looking for a door.

  The Collection was built in an old style, with a warren of rooms opening onto one another rather than being accessible from a central corridor, but they all encircled the central staircase. Inside the building the marble of the floors and walls was still white and luminous, and the shelved books were a finer decoration than any painting or panelling. In Irene’s opinion, anyway. She passed deeper into the silent rooms of the Scottish-folklore section until she found an unobtrusive cupboard. A quick look revealed cleaning supplies.

  She closed the door and scribbled on it This door opens to the Library in the Language, using an anachronistic biro she carried for emergencies. She felt the drain of energy as the connection established itself. The portal would remain open for half an hour at most—hopefully long enough for her to report and ask for help.

  Then she opened the door and stepped through.

  Instead of revealing more pale marble and high windows, the room on the other side was low-ceilinged and timber-floored. The heavy door that led farther into the Library was closed, and the single lamp that hung from the ceiling burned fitfully, making the whole room feel like an underground shelter. The shelves were packed with carefully organised and preserved scrolls; their ends seemed to lean towards Irene, as if tempting her to unroll one.

  Fortunately this was one of the rooms containing computers, so Irene wouldn’t have to waste time searching for one. She booted up a terminal and logged on, trying not to get too impatient at every second that slipped away.

  Irene’s first email was to Central Processing, before she’d even checked her own account, asking for someone to collect the Malory book from this room. She didn’t have time to find a deposit point, so just this once she’d delegate. Then she looked at her messages.

  And she swore.

  The email at the very top was a bulletin to all Coppelia’s students. Coppelia was an elder Librarian, Irene’s own mentor, and the very person she’d been going to ask for advice. It read:

  The Librarian Coppelia is seriously ill with pneumonia and is not available for lessons or assistance. She is currently receiving the best possible medical care. Presents for her may be left with Musaka. No grapes.

  It wasn’t just self-interest that made Irene blaspheme. Coppelia had been her teacher and friend for over a decade. Irene had known that the older woman was ill, ever since the last winter in Paris, but Coppelia had sworn she was getting over it. Irene should have pushed harder for her to have a check-up, she should have made her listen . . .

  You’re wasting time, the unwelcome voice of pragmatism said at the back of her mind. Focus on what’s important.

  But Coppelia was important. And the Library was important. All at once a rush of nostalgia came over Irene, a swell of despair at how everything kept on going wrong. She felt a desperate wish to just come back here, come back home, and let everything outside go to hell in its own way. What was the point of trying to support this damn truce if the people she loved here were at risk? Why had she ever wanted anything outside the closed circle of stealing and reading books? What was it ultimately going to get her? Catherine had the right idea. Irene should be working with the books she loved, the people she loved, rather than playing politics.

  Except that wasn’t an option.

  The Library wasn’t just about collecting and preserving stories. It was also dedicated to protecting the worlds where those stories were written. And it wasn’t a charity. Librarians paid for their use of the Language, their ability to travel between worlds via the Library, and their access to all its books. They paid with the coin of service. Once you were sealed to the Library and had its brand on your back, as Irene did, your life was no longer entirely your own. You followed orders—to collect books, or help maintain a peace treaty. Although you might have some discretion about how you followed those orders, refusal was not an option.

  Irene could imagine Coppelia scolding her for the imprecision of that statement. No, refusal is an option. It’s just that refusal comes with consequences. If you make a choice, then you’re responsible for the consequences of that choice.

  For a moment Irene allowed herself to look around the room, at the tantalizing shelves, the scrolls, the door that would lead deeper into the Library—where she could crawl into a corner and never come out again . . .

  All right, now she was just being ridiculous.

  She took a deep breath and scanned down the list of emails. Book request, book request, coffee request, nothing from her parents—but no news was good news; she didn’t want to worry about them as well as everything else. Towards the bottom, she saw a system notification that had come in a couple of days ago. It was a routine mailing, giving details of ongoing hazards in alternate worlds. She skimmed it idly, skipping over references to civil wars, manhunts, and volcanic eruptions, but came to an abrupt halt when she saw the designation of her own world—where she was Librarian-in-Residence—the one she’d just come from.

  Warning to all concerned: the alternate world B-395 is suffering from an irregular and unstable level of chaos, cycling from moderate to high. We don’t yet know the reason for this. As it’s only been happening for the last week and a half, it may be only a temporary issue. Visitors to the world should be particularly vigilant.

  “This particular visitor has quite enough to worry about already,” Irene muttered to herself, and began to compose an urgent email to Melusine—the Library’s head of Internal Security. In the absence of Coppelia and without any other formal superior, Melusine would have to do. She described the current situation, the new assassination attempts, the previous ones, and the problem with Catherine’s recently discovered ambitions, and added an urgent request that no other Librarians visit B-395 unless they were actually coming to help.

  Then she sat back and thought. Was this fluctuating high-chaos level in B-395 due to the interdimensional door she’d found—leading to the world where she’d encountered Lord Guantes? The creation of such a door was so far beyond her that she could only speculate about its metaphysics. Perhaps, when such a door was created, the two worlds tried to equalize their respective levels of chaos? That could explain sudden rises and subsequent falls.

  But if so, that implied the door had been opened multiple times, or—worse still—that there were multiple doors . . .

  She began to type another email.

  * * *

  * * *

  Irene stepped back through the door into the Guest Collection. Melusine hadn’t responded, and she couldn’t afford to wait. If Irene had stayed, the link she’d created to the Guest Collection would have worn out and collapsed, and she’d have had to take a far longer route back.

  This was clearly going to be one of those days when all possible choices were bad choices.

  The back of her neck crawled. Though the room was empty, she felt that someone was watching her. Or more precisely . . . looking for her. It was like being in the path of a searchlight as it swept across a landscape by night. A glaring eye raking through the darkness—in search of a target it knew was there. Irene found herself holding her breath involuntarily, her sho
ulders hunching into a crouch as defensive as Catherine’s own. As if that could somehow help her hide . . .

  She’d only felt something like this once before, when Alberich had been searching for her, but this was different. It didn’t have the same flavour of chaos and malignity to it, exactly. Though she couldn’t put her feeling into words that would have satisfied Vale.

  Her nervousness kept her steps quiet and slow, which was why she heard noises from the ground floor. They didn’t match the usual library whisper of rustling pages and hushed conversations.

  She hurried to the central stairwell, dropping to her knees to peer through the banisters without risking observation. From that perspective she could see two receptionists and a security guard remonstrating with a group that must have just entered—a dozen men in dark overcoats. They didn’t look like researchers. It was hard to catch what they were saying from three floors up, but she caught the odd word. “Urgent . . . no warrant . . . immediate search . . .”

  Right. Time to leave. She backed away and was straightening to her feet, when for some reason a small cloud of dust motes caught her eye. They’d glinted in the light from the overhead lamps as they fell. Some instinct for danger made her look upwards, and she caught sight of a shadowy figure on the other side of the stairwell. It was silently moving downwards towards her, and she didn’t know if she’d been seen.

  There was at least one other person up there too, their movements as stealthy as Irene’s own. When Irene had signed in, she’d taken a glance at the visitors’ book, and she and Catherine had been the only ones present at that point. Were the men in overcoats and these shadowy watchers unconnected . . . or was this a deliberate pincer movement? If so, Irene and Catherine might be caught in the middle.