The Mortal Word

by Genevieve Cogman

  “You’re not the only one with bad news,” Irene said. “According to Ao Ji, Ren Shun heard an interesting conversation the day before he was murdered. A conversation that could be understood to implicate Librarians in a conspiracy to manipulate the talks.”

  Sarashina stared at her for a moment. “I assume there’s no other evidence corroborating this,” she said, “on the grounds that, you know, we’re all still alive.”

  Irene nodded. “Clearly it was an attempt to frame us,” she said firmly.

  “Well, of course!” Sarashina agreed. “How incompetent do they think we are?”

  “Does it sound like something the Fae delegation might be involved in? I haven’t met any of them—yet.” Hopefully they wouldn’t be insulted by her visiting the dragon delegation first. She had to go somewhere first.

  “Definitely not,” Sarashina said. “The Fae Princess is genuinely in favour of a peace treaty. It’s the archetype she’s compelled to follow—you know how Fae are. She couldn’t do anything else and be who she is. I don’t think she could do anything that would hinder the negotiations. As for the Cardinal, he might be up to something . . . actually, he probably is up to something. That’s in his nature. But whatever it is, if it’s him, it would have to be cunning and devious and intelligent.”

  “Oh dear,” Irene said. “One of those.” She’d met a Fae who fell into the scheming archetype before. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience for anyone involved. Not for Kai, who’d been kidnapped; not for Irene, who had been severely endangered; and least of all for the Fae himself, because Irene had killed him.

  “Even so, if he was up to something, it couldn’t be that blatant, as that would be stupid. And he’s not stupid. Hmm. What else do I need to tell you? The Librarians over at their hotel are Blaise and Medea. Do you know either of them?”

  “I think I remember a Medea who was just starting as a student when I went out as a journeyman,” Irene said, racking her brains, “but we never interacted. I only remember her name.”

  “You probably won’t have time to sit down and catch up. Our Librarians will have collected statements at their end, but I’m not sure what more they can add . . .” Sarashina shrugged. “I suppose this is what we’ve hired a detective for. Stand back and let the experts work, I always say.”

  “My life is painfully full of learning experiences where I’ve had to be an expert at short notice,” Irene said. “I look forward to being able to sit down for a few years, at some point, and try to forget them. But you’re right, time is short, I should concentrate on the statements. Very well.” She mentally cracked her knuckles. “You’ve given me your opinion on the current situation—I’m assuming there’s an overview in with the statements?”

  She realized that she was taking charge of the conversation and questioning Sarashina—a more experienced Librarian and an older woman—as if she had the right to do so. But, the thought struck her, she did have that right here. She needed to be able to question everyone. Even other Librarians.

  Sarashina nodded, not choosing or not wanting to challenge Irene’s authority. “Rongomai’s and my thoughts are included, in detail. They’re in the briefcase lining, just in case anyone—such as Duan Zheng—wants to see the statements before you leave the hotel.”

  “What position does Duan Zheng hold?” Irene asked. “He carries himself like the head of security.”

  “You’re right,” Sarashina said. “Except that with Ren Shun out of it, he’s having to fill his position too. Personal secretary, spymaster, right-hand man, sounding-board, et cetera. That’s probably why he’s not making much fuss about Prince Kai showing up—it means that Duan Zheng can avoid the personal secretarial duties, at least. He’s a little stressed at the moment. Don’t push him.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “My comments on everyone else are in my notes.” Sarashina rose and stretched, rubbing the small of her back. “Damn, they never tell you when you’re younger how much you’re going to ache once you get older . . . Good luck, Irene. For all our sakes.”

  “One last question. How secure would you say this hotel is, in terms of spies?”

  “Hopeless,” Sarashina admitted. “Private conversations inside bedrooms are probably safe enough, but anywhere out in a public room or corridor, where a servant could hear you? Or someone disguised as a servant, or another guest? You have to assume it could be compromised. Still, the other hotels have the same problem. Everyone’s in the same boat. The peace conference’s security was supposed to be based on mutual trust—and on nobody else knowing it was happening until everything was signed and sealed.”

  And that trust is melting away like snow in summer, Irene reflected.

  Kai was waiting at the end of the corridor, staring out of a window at the cloud-streaked sky. “Ready to go?” he asked.

  Irene nodded. “Sorry you had to wait out here,” she said, feeling a need to apologise for Sarashina’s behaviour.

  But he just shrugged. “My uncle would understand that she needed to brief you privately. And it’s not as if he expects me to listen at the keyhole.”

  “Of course not,” Irene agreed. “That’s what the servants are for.” She was certain that Ao Ji wouldn’t object to the Librarians being spied on. There was probably some unspoken list of what sort of spying was suitable for each rank in dragon society. Princes attempted to cajole secrets from their acquaintances, bodyguards threatened witnesses and removed the evidence, servants listened at keyholes . . .

  Kai drew her aside just before they reached the hotel’s main entrance hall. “Make sure Vale understands how important this is,” he said quietly. “People liked Ren Shun. A lot of his friends will have a personal issue in finding out what happened. They’ll hold grudges.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Irene said, with a sinking feeling. One more variable to juggle . . . “And be careful yourself. If someone’s trying to sink the peace treaty by killing important people, then you’re a possible target. And I put you here,” she said ruefully.

  Kai smiled. “You think you could have kept me away? You’re not in charge of me any longer, Irene.”

  “Maybe not,” she conceded, “but I still expect you to hit the ground if I shout for you to take cover.”

  “Ah, but that’s not taking orders. That’s just common sense.”

  “And you will be careful?” She saw his growing frown. “Kai, someone’s just tried to assassinate your uncle. In his own rooms. I don’t think we could have much better proof that nowhere’s safe. And it’s not as if you’ll always be by the Seine, with plenty of water to hand and able to summon the spirit of the river for help.” Kai’s personal elemental affinity was for water, as Irene knew from past experience.

  “Paris has an excellent sewer system,” Kai said, “and the water down there is still flowing, even if it’s not exactly pleasant-smelling. I checked. Trust me, Irene. I learned from you.”

  “That’s partly why I’m worried,” Irene admitted ruefully.

  He kissed her hand and escorted her to a cab.

  “Where to, madam?” the driver enquired.

  “The Paris Morgue,” Irene said. “As fast as possible, please.”

  “Don’t worry, madam,” the driver said, directing his horses out into the flow of traffic. “Nobody there’s going to get up and run away.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Irene said.

  After all, dragons and Fae possibly signing a peace treaty was already one impossible thing before breakfast. Why not a few more while she was at it?

  CHAPTER 7

  The Paris Morgue lay behind the great Notre-Dame cathedral on the Île de la Cité, in the middle of the Seine. It was a monument to the secular processes of death, built in the shadow of a cathedral that celebrated the Resurrection and the Life. And that was one of those ironies that occurred in any great city, when space runs out and buildings
are forced to rub inappropriate shoulders. As Irene dismounted from the cab and paid the driver, it was difficult for her to judge whether the streaming crowds were more interested in religion or in gawping at corpses.

  Ogling the dead seemed a very odd sort of attraction to her. Yet gendarmes outside the morgue’s three-arched marble entrance held back the crowd, corralling them into a queue that filed through the leftmost arch, then out again through the rightmost arch; the central door of the three stayed closed. Above it, words gleamed coldly in the morning light, given an extra sparkle by the frost: LIBERTÉ! ÉGALITÉ! FRATERNITÉ! Street vendors serviced the crowds, offering food and newspapers.

  All the classes of society seemed present, from elegant men and women about town in top hats and well-cut overcoats or furs and capes and muffs, to the middle and working classes in more practical—and more patched—clothing. The only similarity was that everyone had bundled themselves up against the cold. The wind snaked viciously along the Seine as if it was following the water, and the people waiting for admission clapped their hands together and shifted from foot to foot, unwilling to stand still in the biting air.

  Irene joined the queue, caution urging her to blend in rather than shove to the front and persuade the gendarme there to let her jump the line. Her clothing was unfashionable—the skirt too full, the jacket too stiffly cut, the waist not tight enough—but not enough to make her dangerously obvious. Especially given the wide cross-section of society waiting to get into the morgue and view the corpses there. So she waited in line and listened to the gossip around her. Nothing particularly unusual—politics, anarchists, the price of bread, the new bicycle fad, an upcoming balloon ascension, the ballet at the Paris Opéra, the new play by Maurey at the Grand Guignol . . .

  When she was waved into the morgue, the mingled smell of ammonia and lye caught at her throat and made her cough. She wasn’t the only visitor doing so. Some were already hurrying over to a stall in the corner of the large room to buy throat pastilles and cigarettes. But most of the crowd were more morbidly interested in the morgue’s main attraction.

  The corpses.

  Personally, Irene would rather spend her time with a good book. But on either side of the large central hall, behind thick glass windows, lay tilted slabs with bodies displayed on them—some naked, with their clothing hung behind them, others still clad. In the dense cold of the building, even harsher than the winter frosts outside, the dead lay still and serene behind glass, their flesh as pale and unchanging as marble. The bystanders stared at them, discussing them, nobody bothering to lower their voices in respect. Parents held up their children to look at the anonymous dead. After all, the theoretical purpose of this display was to identify these bodies—every bystander, young or old, was only doing their civic duty by scrutinising them in detail, by speculating on who they might be and what brought them to this place . . .

  At least Irene could be sure that Ren Shun wouldn’t be on display with these other bodies. He was, after all, an identified corpse.

  She needed to find Vale and Mu Dan: they must be deeper inside the morgue. More gendarmes were guarding the doorways that led beyond the main central hall. She approached one of them hopefully. “Excuse me, monsieur—I am here to see the English detective.”

  Her target looked blank. His companion, on the other hand, brightened. “Ah! You mean the one from Scotland Yard?”

  “The very same,” Irene agreed. After all, it would be straining probability for there to be two English detectives wandering around the morgue at the moment. “Did he tell you that I would be coming?”

  “Indeed, madam. He said that a lady would be joining him shortly.” The gendarme lowered his voice. “Your name, if you please?”

  “Irene Winters,” Irene said quietly. Nobody except the gendarmes seemed to be in earshot, but how could one be sure?

  The gendarme nodded and turned to his colleague. “Yves, I’ll escort this lady—I’ll only be a moment.”

  Further inside the morgue, away from the public display room, the temperature became slightly more tolerable. Other people passed them in the corridors—gendarmes, labourers with heavy aprons, young men carrying textbooks and discussing medicine, an elderly lady with a mop and bucket—but nobody looked twice at them.

  The gendarme led the way up a flight of stairs and paused to glance in an open doorway. Irene looked over his shoulder: it was a small lecture theatre with a marble table in the middle, sited to catch the light from the two large windows. “The hall for dissections, madam,” the gendarme explained. “Ah! We have him.”

  Vale and Mu Dan looked up from their conversation. “Your colleague, monsieur!” the gendarme announced, as though he’d just fetched Irene from the other side of Paris in person.

  “Ah, Winters,” Vale said, not getting up from his seat. “You took your time.”

  “Things happened,” Irene said briefly, “most of which are relevant. Excuse me a moment.” She pressed a coin into the gendarme’s hand with a smile and closed the door on him. “Is this place secure?”

  Mu Dan shrugged. She snapped shut the notebook she was holding and tucked it into her jacket. “I believe so. What has happened?”

  “An attempt to assassinate His Majesty Ao Ji,” Irene said. She put down her briefcase with relief. A hotel’s worth of statements was heavy. “Unsuccessful. Three men, apparently anarchists. Two of them died in the assault, and the third one had a heart attack or stroke or something while Ao Ji was questioning him. Ao Ji said that he was under Fae influence. I have his possessions for you to examine, Vale.” She considered whether to mention Kai and decided to keep her mouth shut until she knew a little more about Mu Dan.

  “We have made some progress,” Vale volunteered. He nodded towards a set of cabinet doors on the opposite wall. “Mu Dan and I have examined Lord Ren Shun’s body. And we concur with the local coroner—he was killed by a knife thrust from behind, directly to the heart. His assailant was approximately the same height as him. There are no signs of drugs in his system, and no head injuries or bruises on his wrists. Or any other injuries at all, which is interesting. I would conclude that he was taken by surprise and had no chance to resist.”

  “As would I,” Mu Dan said firmly. “Though of course one cannot judge what mental effects he may have been subjected to.”

  “Please,” Vale said, with a wave of his hand. “You have been telling me for the last half-hour that only weaker dragons can be affected by Fae manipulation in that way.”

  “There may be exceptions,” Mu Dan said. “And if a truly powerful Fae was involved—”

  This was clearly an ongoing argument that had already been through several iterations. “Perhaps I’d better tell you what happened,” Irene cut in hastily. She fished out the anarchist’s possessions from her purse and deposited them on the desk in front of Vale, as she quickly ran through Ao Ji’s statement and the brawl.

  Both Mu Dan and Vale listened with sharp interest. The room seemed to grow quieter as Irene reached the part about exactly what Ren Shun had heard.

  “Are you certain about this?” Mu Dan finally asked.

  “I’m certain Ao Ji told me that that was what Ren Shun had told him,” Irene replied.

  “Cautious phrasing,” the dragon mused. “Are you a lawyer as well as a Librarian, Miss Winters?”

  “No,” Irene said pleasantly. “I just feel that at the moment, given the possible consequences if anyone jumps to the wrong conclusions, we need to be very clear about the distinction between facts and hearsay. And you can call me Irene, if you like.”

  Mu Dan blinked, a little taken aback. “Thank you. I . . . take your point. I have no wish to trigger a disaster. But if we can’t trust His Majesty’s word, then who can we trust?”

  “I’m not questioning His Majesty’s word,” Irene said quickly. This was a minefield. She didn’t want to say something that would accidentally
insult either Ao Ji or Mu Dan. “I’m just noting for the record that it would be really nice to have some more information about what Ren Shun heard, and from a more direct source.”

  Vale had been quiet, sorting through the anarchist’s possessions and holding them up to examine them. “Actually, Winters, there is something we had not yet shared with you.”

  Irene stiffened. “What?” she demanded.

  “A note from Ren Shun’s inner waistcoat pocket. Mu Dan has it. Unfortunately it is in Greek—apart from one English word, hell—and has been stained by both blood and water. My Greek dates back to schoolroom days, and Mu Dan has none at all, so we have not yet made a great deal of sense of it.”

  “You might have said something earlier,” Irene snapped.

  “The assassination attempt was more urgent,” Mu Dan said soothingly. “One must prioritise. Can you read Greek?”

  “I can,” Irene said, extending her hand hopefully. “And while we’re at it, was Ren Shun killed where he was found, or was the body moved?”

  “Moved,” Vale said. “It was clear enough from the lack of blood in the room. He was deposited there after his death. The stains on his clothing suggest that the body was brought into the hotel during the blizzard that night: snow was trapped in the folds of his coat and shirt and influenced the flow of blood from the wound as it melted.”

  “That does make it look more like an attempt to incriminate the Librarians and damage the negotiations,” Irene said.

  Mu Dan tilted her head thoughtfully. “I suppose some prejudice on your part is only natural.”

  The mixture of worry and anger that had been fermenting inside Irene for several hours finally came to a boil. “Yes,” she said, her hand falling to her side. Her voice was cold. “I suppose it is. After all, I’m only looking at a situation where my organisation, my family, may be accused by both sides of trying to sabotage peace negotiations on a worldwide scale. Is worldwide the right word? Forgive me if I don’t actually have a convenient word for affecting multiple worlds from one end of the universe to the other. I don’t normally deal with situations on this scale. It’s entirely plausible that a mere human like myself might be worried by this sort of thing. And I suppose it’s quite reasonable that I might be swayed by personal emotions in a situation where my parents are currently hostages and could be killed if the Library is blamed for this.”