The Burning Page

by Genevieve Cogman

  ‘Irene!’ Kai shouted, sweeping her off her feet. The two of them tumbled to the ground together, as a spray of cross-bow bolts sliced through the air above them at waist height.

  Irene felt as if her bones were having a temporary holiday and had been replaced by jelly, but the situation couldn’t be postponed until she felt better. ‘Crossbow strings, break!’ she shouted.

  Dust came cascading down over her and Kai. He rolled to his feet, balanced and ready, as the guards approached. Irene coughed and pulled herself upright less elegantly, turning to check on the wall. There was a roughly person-sized gap in it by now, and she could see clear sky on the other side. ‘Time to go!’

  ‘You first!’

  There wasn’t the time to argue. Irene ducked her head and shuffled through the hole – it was about five feet long, suggesting very thick outer walls. On the far side, it came out on the first-floor level of the building, meaning that there was a drop of ten feet to the ground below. People were already gathering and pointing.

  Irene bent down, grabbed the lower edge of the hole and let herself drop, landing safely on the pavement. Those tumbling lessons had definitely been worth it. ‘Kai! Now!’

  He followed her down in a swirl of dust, another spray of crossbow bolts rattling above his head and into the building opposite. They must have restrung in double-quick time. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Just a moment. Dust, gather in a cloud in that hole in the building!’ The eroded rock dust drew together like time-lapsed fog, blowing backwards into the building. ‘All right. Now—’

  Irene looked around, gathering her wits. The street was full of people: pedestrians on the pavement, small carriages and riders in the road, and all of them looking at her and Kai. This seemed like yet another situation that could be resolved by running away.

  It was.

  Two streets later, having outpaced any witnesses, she and Kai slowed their run to a casual stroll – pausing to look in the occasional shop window. The back of Irene’s neck was prickling with paranoia. Even if they’d been miraculously lucky in their escape – mostly because the guards hadn’t expected them to break out, and nobody had foreseen them blowing a hole in the sleigh-port wall – the local police equivalent had to be on their tail by now. Or, worse, the Oprichniki. She expressed this in a murmur to Kai as they stared at a wedding-dress display.

  ‘The Oprichniki?’ Kai frowned. ‘Oh yes, their strangely obvious local secret service.’

  ‘Why strangely obvious?’

  ‘They all wear long black coats,’ Kai said.

  ‘Those are probably just the ones that get mentioned in the newspapers.’ Irene pursed her lips at the dress, as if she was considering herself in white silk. ‘We need to break our trail, we need cover, we need a plan. You know, I should be asking you for more ideas. I am supposed to be mentoring you.’

  ‘But your ideas are usually better than mine,’ Kai shrugged. ‘Why waste time asking me, when we can simply go straight to whatever you have in mind?’

  Irene knew she should probably argue, but it was hardly the moment for a performance-development review. She added Convince Kai to provide more input into planning to her growing list of things to do once we’ve averted the apocalypse. ‘All right. Then give me your thoughts on the magic here. You may have noticed things that I haven’t.’

  ‘We know there’s a government monopoly on its use,’ Kai said. ‘The magically powered flight we came in on was state-owned. The municipal building works that originally drained the land that this city’s built on were magically assisted. And the current walls holding the water back are magically reinforced and state-funded – that was in your notes. It was one of the main stories in the newspapers we read, too, about Slavic countries wanting secession from Russian authority. They were calling for their own magical traditions and industries to be back under their own control. And we haven’t seen any private magical workers in these shops so far.’

  Irene nodded. ‘Yes, I agree with all of that, but do you have any conclusions?’

  ‘We’re going to be in trouble from the government, but not from casual practitioners,’ Kai said. ‘If we want to avoid pursuit, perhaps we should split up . . .’

  He didn’t sound enthusiastic about it, and Irene could guess why. Getting captured by werewolves earlier wasn’t her finest hour. And it would only have strengthened Kai’s conviction that she’d get into trouble the moment she was out of sight. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘We don’t know the local geography and I don’t have any convenient way of finding you. Could you find me? The way you could navigate to Vale’s home world?’

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work inside a world, no. My father or my uncles could do better, but dragons like myself or my brothers are lesser creatures.’

  ‘The word you want is younger, not lesser,’ Irene said firmly. ‘Anyhow, point settled: no splitting up. Next step, when and how to get into the Hermitage. In particular, the Winter Palace.’

  Kai brushed his fingers against his stomach. The packet of documents was lodged inside his shirt, held in place by a couple of bandages. It was safer than carrying them around in an attaché case. ‘You could do what you did to the sleigh-port wall?’

  ‘Probably not. Now we’ve done it once, they’ll know to watch out for anyone trying it. Besides, there are going to be external ground-level patrols. That’s not something you can hide. It said in the papers there was going to be a grand state reception tonight. That means increased security.’ However, a big reception would provide useful cover, if only she and Kai could get in there . . .

  ‘Speaking of ground-level patrols, I think some police just came round the end of the road,’ Kai said urgently.

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ Irene said, leading the way into the bridal shop.

  She had a plan. And it was beginning to come together.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the assistant who’d come bustling up to greet her. ‘My fiancé and I have been invited unexpectedly to a party tonight, but I haven’t a thing to wear. My friend Ludmilla said her friend Greta always recommended your shop. And I know you don’t do evening wear yourself, but could you direct me to somewhere that does?’

  Five minutes later they left, with directions to a tailor a few streets away, who could provide suitable clothing at short notice – and, more importantly, the police had gone past without spotting them.

  ‘Are we going to talk our way into the reception disguised as guests?’ Kai asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Irene said. ‘I can’t forge an invitation without seeing one, and we won’t get to see any. Plus, if I try to alter their perceptions, the guards on the door will realize what’s going on before we get inside, given how badly that tactic’s working here.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’ve seen your uncle call a storm simply by losing his temper,’ Irene said thoughtfully. ‘Can you do that?’

  Kai tilted his head, considering. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, a small one, at least. Why?’

  This was shaping up nicely. It was a drastic plan, yes, and not the sort of operation that could be repeated, but it was manageable. ‘Good,’ Irene replied and smiled. ‘We’re going to come at this from a different direction.’

  INTERLUDE – VALE AND SILVER

  ‘You may tell him that Peregrine Vale is here to see him.’

  The Liechtenstein Embassy was always difficult to penetrate. Of course Vale had entered it before on multiple occasions, but he had generally been in disguise. This time he was present as himself and had barely managed to penetrate the front lounge. The place scarcely did its duty as an embassy for its country. Would-be visitors to Liechtenstein could barely make it through the front door.

  One might even think, he reflected sourly, that they had something to hide.

  ‘And I must inform you that Lord Silver is not available.’ The words came out like honed icicles. Johnson was Lord Silver’s manservant, factotum, and general dogsbody. He’d lasted for five
years now, longer than any previous holders of that position. But, like all of them, he’d developed a fanatical devotion to Silver within a week of signing on.

  Vale inspected the fellow carefully as he spoke. While Johnson’s clothes were cut like an upper-class servant’s, the fabric was unusually high-quality and the shoes shone with a blackness that suggested champagne had been used in the polish. His voice had been neutered of anything resembling an accent – Fae-induced, to make him the ‘perfect servant’, or a deliberate choice on his part? Johnson didn’t have a criminal record, but more suspiciously there wasn’t any record of his past before taking this post. He quite obviously (well, obviously to Vale) wore a concealed pistol beneath his coat.

  Vale raised an eyebrow. ‘Really. Unavailable. I take it that he is unaware of ongoing events, then?’

  That made Johnson pause. He stared back at Vale, as if he could somehow force information out of him just by glaring hard enough.

  Vale could track the calculations behind the man’s eyes: if Vale was bluffing and managed to trick his way into a meeting with Silver, Silver would make Johnson regret it. However, if something important really was going on and Silver missed out on a chance to meddle, he would really make Johnson regret it.

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ Johnson said abruptly. ‘His lordship hasn’t yet risen.’

  ‘I suppose it is barely four o’clock in the afternoon,’ Vale agreed drily. ‘No doubt he needs his sleep.’

  Johnson’s lips pursed to a thin line of suppressed rage. He neatly inclined his head, refusing Vale the courtesy of a bow, and stalked out of the lounge.

  Vale took the opportunity to inspect the room. The carpet and wallpaper were cheap and plain, hardly worthy of an embassy: it was a room to repel callers and persuade them to leave as quickly as possible. The only decoration was the oil painting of the Queen over the fireplace, which was poorly executed and badly dusted. Two chairs, no desk or table. One of the chairs was a comfortable armchair. A thread of silver hair, caught in the antimacassar, betrayed its usual occupant. The other chair was a more rigid specimen, designed to make the sitter uncomfortable. The fireplace hadn’t been cleaned out since last night, and had apparently been used to incinerate a number of handwritten documents. Vale itched to take a closer look.

  The door behind him creaked open, and he turned to see that Silver had indeed arrived – being upright, if not particularly aware. The Fae sagged against the door frame, hands fumbling as he tried to tie the sash of his black silk dressing gown, still in his nightshirt and slippers underneath. His silver hair was tousled from sleep. And though he attempted to narrow his eyes menacingly at Vale, they were blurred and out of focus.

  ‘My dear Vale,’ Silver yawned, ‘I was told you were here. I didn’t think you’d come to rifle through my fireplace.’

  ‘I was curious about what you’ve been burning,’ Vale answered. ‘Far too many mysteries in London have their roots under your roof.’

  ‘Johnson, fetch me some coffee, for the love of God. It seems Mr Vale is going to be witty, rather than actually getting to the point.’ Silver swayed across the room to his chair and collapsed into it with a sigh of relief. ‘You mentioned something about current events, I believe?’

  ‘I suggest you drink your coffee first,’ Vale said. The traces of last night’s dissipation were plain on Silver’s face – and the marks on his neck suggested one or more partners. Although Vale might extract more truth from the Fae while he was still half-asleep, that approach risked missing some vital bit of information.

  ‘You’re unduly concerned for my welfare. I should probably be worried.’ Silver yawned again. ‘I hope you won’t make me regret getting up at this ungodly hour. Amuse me, detective. Tell me something interesting while I’m waiting for my coffee.’

  ‘Very well.’ Vale nodded to the maid standing by the door. ‘The woman over there is one of your private assassins.’

  ‘I have private assassins?’ Silver said, frowning. ‘I’m sure I’d remember if I had such a thing. Though they would be useful.’

  Vale walked over to the maid, who had frozen in position. ‘This woman is apparently low-ranking in the embassy staff, as demonstrated by her ill-fitting cuffs.’ He tapped her wrist. ‘And the concealed darns at her elbows. Higher-ranking servants would have better-fitting clothing and would receive it first-hand, rather than having it passed down. And yet you’ve brought her to a meeting with a guest, rather than keeping her in the kitchen or upstairs. Her tendency to peer and the hunch of her shoulders suggest far-sightedness.’ The words came tumbling out, each link in the chain of evidence clear and certain. For a moment Vale’s malaise lifted and he was able to focus on his deductions. He leaned in more closely to examine her face. ‘The bridge of her nose shows that she does normally wear glasses or pince-nez. When she entered this room, her gait betrayed that she is carrying a gun secured to her left leg, under her skirts. What sort of agent carries a long-barrelled gun, has darns at her elbows from positioning herself to aim her weapon and would have long-sightedness as an asset? A sniper.’

  ‘So why did she take the glasses off?’ Silver asked. ‘Vanity?’

  ‘I confess I am not yet certain.’ He stepped back from the woman. ‘But the fact that this young woman has simply stood here, without moving or objecting to my examination of her, or protesting at my conclusions, is in itself quite suggestive.’

  ‘I have my staff well trained . . . ah, thank you, Johnson.’ Silver took the proffered cup of coffee and drained it with a shuddering gasp. His eyes were more focused when he opened them again. ‘Can I offer you refreshments, detective?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Vale said. He wasn’t eating or drinking anything from a Fae’s hands. They were prone to claiming it as a personal debt and trying to exercise their glamours over the recipient. ‘As to your maid, the matter’s easily settled. Have her expose her ankles in front of a policeman. While the law permits some concealed weapons, it tends to draw the line at unlicensed guns.’

  Silver ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Johnson, I’m going to need a pick-me-up. And take Mary with you, before our great detective can jump to any more conclusions.’

  Vale snorted and turned away, strolling across to the window. As in the rest of the room, smears of dust marred the windowsill and the corners of the panes. ‘I do not jump to conclusions. I deduce, based on evidence.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Silver said soothingly, ‘and very elegant it all is. But you said something about current events. You make a very unlikely angel to wake me from my flowery bed, Vale. Do explain.’

  ‘Very well. Have you heard any recent news about Alberich?’

  The name hung in the air between them. Silver slowly steepled his fingers, watching Vale over them. His expression was hard to define, but it certainly wasn’t surprised. ‘I wonder why Miss Winters isn’t the one here asking that question.’

  ‘Winters is a busy woman,’ Vale said. ‘I thought I’d save her the time and drop by myself.’

  ‘Where is she at the moment?’ Silver’s tone was casual, but his eyes were narrowed in thought.

  ‘Oh, elsewhere.’ Vale waved a hand vaguely. ‘Out and about. She’s remarkably bad at leaving a forwarding address, I find. Is there something you feel you should tell her?’

  ‘Well, I might speculate,’ Silver said. ‘I don’t have a horse in this race myself, but it does seem to be a free-for-all to all comers. From what I’ve heard, at least.’

  Vale dropped into the chair opposite Silver, ignoring its uncompromising design, and focused on the Fae. ‘I’ve yet to come across a situation where you didn’t take one side or the other. It’d be unusual for you to be genuinely neutral.’

  ‘You know me so well.’ A smile of wry amusement flickered across Silver’s face. ‘I should be flattered you spend so much time scrutinizing my habits.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Vale said, his tone as caustic as he could make it. ‘I hardly enjoy the experience. You are one of
the most notorious roués in London.’

  ‘One tries,’ Silver agreed. He reached out to take a glass of hangover remedy, which had been swiftly fetched by the attentive Johnson, and downed the contents with a wince. ‘One tries very, very hard indeed.’

  ‘So how do you see the current situation?’

  ‘Well, what I know is that Alberich’s been looking for assistance.’ Silver set the glass down on its tray, abruptly serious. ‘And before we go any further, detective, I want your word that what I’m about to say will clear any debts – which I may or may not owe you from the Venice business.’

  ‘“May or may not owe me?” ’ Vale said. ‘That sounds remarkably uncertain.’

  ‘I dislike admitting that I owe anyone a debt. I’m sure you can understand that.’

  ‘And so you’re weaselling around your obligations.’

  ‘If owing a favour ever becomes a matter of life or death for you, too, then perhaps you’ll understand,’ Silver snapped. ‘For the moment, you will just have to accept that such things can cause a great deal of trouble. So if I tell you what I know about current goings-on, will you consider our debt cleared?’

  Vale knew that the Fae were bound to keep their given word. It was one of the more useful pieces of information about them, together with the fact that cold iron weakened their powers. He wasn’t going to object to these little advantages: the Fae were irksome, and their glamours were inconvenient, as well as borderline illegal. ‘You have my word that I will consider the debt cleared, in return for you telling me what you know about “current events”. I can’t speak for Winters.’

  ‘Yes, such a pity she’s not here,’ Silver said. ‘I’d be enjoying this discussion a great deal more if I was having it with her.’ While he did not quite lick his lips at the thought, his expression suggested a barely restrained carnality.

  Vale could only be grateful that Winters was elsewhere. Even if she was quite capable of handling Silver, she would certainly not enjoy being exposed to his insinuations. Her behaviour last night, towards Vale himself, was something quite different from this . . . impropriety. ‘You overrate yourself,’ he said briefly.