The Mortal Word

by Genevieve Cogman

  Kai and Vale exchanged glances. “Well,” Kai said, “since we’re on the subject, you could tell us if it’s relevant that the Cabaret de L’Enfer was stinking of chaos and has a witch in its back rooms.”

  “Don’t think you can shock me, princeling. The detective already told me about that.” Silver shrugged elaborately. “And he said that you didn’t think it was significant enough to warrant further investigation. So stop pointing fingers. Given that I arrived in Paris at the same time as everyone else—and I can prove it—I don’t think I should be your prime suspect. But I can certainly try to shake a little more information out of my own kindred, if only to save us from unjust accusations.”

  “Right,” Irene said as firmly as possible, trying to regain control of the situation. “Other immediate trails to follow from last night are the rats and cats, the cake, the apples, the explosives, and the chlorine gas—I’m assuming it wouldn’t be that easy to get hold of explosives and chlorine gas, even in Paris?”

  Silver raised a languid hand. “I’ll take the cake—that is, I’ll investigate the bakers. And of course I’m still looking into the question of theatres, after that anarchist attack on the dragon king. But alas, I have nothing to show, except for a growing set of entertaining nude studies for my private collection. I’m wondering whether or not we really have a connection here. Are the anarchists linked to the Blood Countess? Or do we have two separate enemy factions? And any number of theatres could theoretically be harbouring the Blood Countess in their basements, attics, or somewhere backstage, but . . .” He shook his head. “No evidence.”

  “If there is a link and she was hiding out in one of the theatres, wouldn’t it be saturated in chaos?” Mu Dan asked. “Wouldn’t you be able to recognize such a thing the moment you set foot inside it?”

  “Yes, except for two points. The first is that she would be hiding. I believe she’s muffling her influence in order to go unseen by both sides, otherwise either we or someone else would have found her already. And the second point is that I’m finding Paris rather a mess, to use the vernacular. Have you ever seen one of those weather maps with wavy pressure zone lines all over it?” He waited for Mu Dan’s nod. “It resembles something like that. There have been so many powerful ones of my kind—and your kind—wandering around the city that it’s frankly impossible for any of us to sense her unless we happen to walk directly into her lair. Surely you’ve noted the same thing yourself, while you’ve been making the rounds.”

  “Can you scry for her with the Language, Irene?” Kai asked.

  “I doubt it,” Irene said reluctantly. “The only times I’ve managed to do such a thing in the past, I’ve had a direct connection to the person in question. I’ve used their blood or had their Library name.”

  “Could you use the cats from the cellar?” Mu Dan asked. “Put some sort of metaphysical leash on them?”

  “I don’t know,” Irene admitted. “I’ll investigate. It’s not something I’ve tried before. And it couldn’t be any harder chasing a cat through Paris than it has been tracing some of the people at this conference!”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating,” Kai said.

  “I’m not,” Irene said. “Really, I’m not. You haven’t seen the witness statements, have you? Well, trust me, the concept of ‘work ethic’ seems rather lacking round here. ‘Junket’ would be more appropriate. The principals on both sides are the only ones who are doing any real negotiating or have any say in the eventual result. Everyone else is just here as servants or staff or bodyguards, or simply to bulk out the retinue to the same size as the other group. A dozen of the lower-ranking people from both hotels were sneaking out on the night of the murder to hit the theatres and cabarets, even if they tried to claim otherwise. The testimony from the servants and the hotel staff proves it. At least two of the dragons have been spending their spare time art shopping for their private collections. Green and Purple—or Thompson and Thomson, or whatever they call themselves, from the Fae delegation—apparently want to sign up with the Paris police or the Foreign Legion or anywhere that will send them on interesting jobs. Heaven help anyone who does sign them up. Even the Cardinal admits to hanging out at rare bookshops. A dozen of the witness statements confess to being in someone else’s rooms. Three of them contradict each other. And pretty much every single servant from both sides is refusing to contradict anything their master or mistress says! If we want to find out who killed Ren Shun, we’re going to need something more definite than ‘if my lord says he was in his room, then of course he was in his room.’”

  “An excellent summary, Winters,” Vale agreed unhelpfully. “So what are your thoughts?”

  Irene looked round the room. Two dragons, one Fae, and two humans. In a way, it was a positive omen for any future peace treaty that they could all be in the same room together, planning a cooperative effort. “I’ll look into what my superiors know,” she said, “whether or not they think I ‘need to know.’ And I’ll see if the link from the Richelieu Library to the Library is still there or if it’s been broken. I’ll examine the crime scene there from a Librarian’s perspective too. And I’ll look into chasing cats. Lord Silver, please add the Cabaret de L’Enfer to your list of places to visit. I’d be interested in your opinion.” She waited for his gracious nod before continuing. “Mu Dan, you’ve told us that you’ll investigate Ren Shun’s servants and his research. How are you with chlorine gas and explosives? Or poisoned apples?”

  “Underinformed,” Mu Dan admitted. “I’m used to having the skilled members of my staff perform those analyses. Perhaps that is something Vale should take to Inspector Maillon?”

  Vale nodded. “That I can do, and I’ve been given the equipment for some scientific analysis. I should have some data and a list of addresses of chlorine suppliers by lunch: the inspector is not overly gifted, but his records are sound. We may be able to track down the agents of the Countess by practical methods, if not by metaphysical ones.” The idea clearly pleased him.

  “Excellent,” Irene said. “And what about a connection between the previous assassination of Minister Zhao and Ren Shun’s murder? We’d thought”—well, she’d thought, at least—“that Mei Feng might have useful knowledge, since both she and Minister Zhao served the Queen of the Southern Lands.”

  “I was going to mention that,” Mu Dan said. “Vale, Mei Feng will permit you to interview her at your convenience. She will be glad to discuss the matter with you.”

  Vale’s brows rose. “Interesting. And suggestive.”

  “Of what?” Mu Dan asked, with a trace of irritation. Clearly she’d rather have been the one doing the questioning.

  “Anything out of the ordinary is suggestive,” Vale said blandly. “Rest assured that I will keep you informed.”

  “Kai,” Irene said hastily, “can we call on your assistance, or does your uncle require you today?”

  “My uncle has requested that I attend him as a secretary, and naturally I am glad to oblige,” Kai said, in tones that couldn’t have been faulted by the highest arbiters of etiquette. But regret showed in his eyes: clearly he would much rather have been out and around Paris, contributing to the investigation.

  A memory surfaced at the back of Irene’s mind. “Actually, there is something that you could do for me—and I don’t think it would conflict with your obligations. Could you set up a meeting for me with Li Ming, seeing as he’s your uncle Ao Shun’s courtier?”

  Mu Dan was motionless under her cape, but Irene had the impression that her shoulders had stiffened. If she’d been a cobra she would have flickered nictitating membranes, and possibly even spread her hood in warning.

  “Easy enough,” Kai said. “But why Li Ming in particular?”

  Interesting: clearly Kai didn’t know of any quarrel between Ren Shun and Li Ming, such as Mu Dan had hinted at. And clearly Mu Dan saw no need to share. “I’ve heard of a possible issue between Li
Ming and Ren Shun,” Irene said diplomatically. Let everyone assume it was Librarian gossip if necessary. “I don’t believe Li Ming is the sort of person to go round committing murder—”

  “I assure you he could, my little mouse,” Silver said. “Without a second thought.”

  Irene wondered what caused that reaction. “If you will allow me to finish my sentence,” she said, “I don’t believe he’s the sort of person to go round committing murder, then dumping the body where everyone would find it.”

  Silver tapped a finger against his lips. “Fair point.”

  Kai didn’t actually disagree. Which also said something about Li Ming’s reputation among dragons. “I can tell him you want to speak with him,” he said. “But we have several conference sessions scheduled, and then it’s the opera in the evening. The principals on both sides are attending.”

  “Which opera?” Vale asked.

  “Tannhäuser.”

  “Hmm. The Paris version, or the Vienna version?”

  “The Paris version, I heard,” Silver said, “which should mean we get the full ballet in act one—”

  “Much as I usually like opera,” Irene said through gritted teeth, “at the moment, I’d only take an interest if a masked maniac was about to drop a chandelier on the heads of the audience. Which I hope is not going to happen.”

  “At least it’s not Siegfried,” Kai said. “The whole dragon-killing thing could imply such an insult . . .” He caught the look in Irene’s eye and smiled as he pulled back from his digression. “I should probably be getting back to the Ritz. Irene—Mu Dan, gentlemen—I know that I’m not directly involved in this investigation, but you have my word that I will cooperate in any way possible.”

  The room felt that much colder with him gone, and Irene wished again that everyone else had turned up a few hours later. For just a little while last night she’d been able to forget the pressures of the investigation and everything that was at stake. Now it was crowding back in on her. And she faced the additional issue that someone higher up in the Library could be guilty of anything from concealing information to active malfeasance.

  “We’d better get started,” she said. “I apologise for throwing you out of my bedroom, but I need to put some clothes on . . .”

  “Of course,” Mu Dan said, rising. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something to report.”

  “As will I.” Vale held the door for the dragon. “Be careful, Winters. Of all of us here, you are the one who’s given the Countess personal reason to dislike you. Watch your step.”

  Irene had been trying not to think about that. “Trust me, I will,” she said. “I have no intention of complicating matters even further.”

  Silver was the last to the door, and he paused there for a moment, until Irene was forced to ask, “Is there anything further?”

  “Why, yes.” Silver’s teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Yes, there is, my little mouse.”

  “And that would be?” Irene supposed it would be too much to expect him to apologise for earlier.

  “I’m just musing on the fact that every member of this team is hiding a scandal. Except me, of course. Quite a change from usual.”

  Irene frowned. “We’ve already been through that, haven’t we?”

  “I think we omitted something.” His smile was less pleasant now, and more the curled lip of a man who feels himself in control. “Your friend the detective, for instance.”

  Irene snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Vale’s about the only person here who isn’t hiding something.”

  “Is he? Tell me, Miss Winters . . .” Silver let the moment draw out. “What do you think the dragons would say if they found out the detective had Fae blood somewhere in his family tree?”

  “That is a ridiculous attempt to stir up trouble—” Irene started, knowing that she had to say something, that silence would be an admission of the truth.

  “Neither ridiculous nor an attempt,” Silver contradicted her. “I’m sure if anyone thought to look, they could find proof.”

  Irene weighed her options. Silver had hinted at Vale’s family bloodline before. She’d ignored it—she honestly didn’t care about it. But under the current circumstances, with people eager to take offence, this might indeed raise claims of bias about any evidence Vale found.

  And then two facts clicked together in her mind, answering a previous question. “Now I know why they brought you in as the Fae representative,” she said slowly. “It’s not because you’re an investigator. It’s because they think they can use you to control Vale.”

  Silver tipped his hat to her. “I couldn’t possibly comment. Just remember that I didn’t tell you that. And I’ve grown rather fond of you, Miss Winters, so as the detective said—watch your step. I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The morning was an exercise in slowly growing frustration. Prutkov was in a meeting, or possibly in several meetings (Irene refused to accept that he was capable of splitting himself into multiple Prutkovs; that was not a Librarian ability), or at any rate he was always somewhere else. There were at least four ongoing seminars, meetings, or breakout sessions (that last was Sterrington’s influence; she had apparently internalised too much management literature) going on in different parts of the hotel. Irene was constantly being informed that Prutkov was either unavailable or she’d just missed him.

  She didn’t want to think that he was deliberately avoiding her, but . . .

  Her mood wasn’t improved by the security presence that clogged the corridors, or the mix of chaotic and orderly power that ebbed and fluxed through the hotel—like an ocean tide trying to simultaneously obey two moons. Both Hsien, the dragons’ main human servant, and Erda, his matching number on the Fae side, had nodded to her in passing in a friendly way. But they were clearly preoccupied with their own jobs.

  And the cats had not survived the night, which ruled out any attempt to find the Countess via enchanted feline. Irene still wasn’t exactly sure how she could have done it, but it would have been worth trying.

  Irene was bitterly conscious that her morning so far had been deeply unproductive. It had just passed eleven o’clock, and people were taking temporary pauses from their meetings and mingling in the hotel corridors or sipping coffee and devouring cakes. And there was still no sign of Prutkov. It was as if the man had vanished into thin air.

  Reluctantly she came to a decision. If she couldn’t find him to ask any questions, then she was simply going to have to be a little more proactive.

  Fortunately she already knew where his suite was, so she didn’t need to ask anyone. It was always a good idea to avoid asking questions that might raise suspicion later.

  His room was on the same corridor as those of Kostchei and Coppelia—both of whom were engaged in the talks downstairs. On the negative side this made them both unavailable for consultation too, but on the positive side they wouldn’t interrupt Irene while she was up here. She reassured herself that she wasn’t exactly going to break into Prutkov’s rooms and search them for evidence of treason. She was just checking Prutkov’s room to see if he was here, given that he wasn’t elsewhere.

  But as it turned out, someone else had beaten her to it.

  Irene turned the corner of the corridor, her step silent on the thick carpet, to see a maid kneeling in front of Kostchei’s door, peering at the lock. It wasn’t even the sort of pose that could have been excused as trying to polish up the brasswork, ma’am. It was the sort of assessment that went with judging lockpick size and technique.

  Half a dozen reactions flew through Irene’s mind, from shock to anger to a certain dry amusement that someone else had gotten there first. But the most significant one was jubilation. A lead!

  She walked softly but quickly towards the maid, whose attention was on the lock in front of her. As she advanced down the corridor, she felt chaos prickle agai
nst her skin, deepening like a hive’s angry buzz as she approached the girl. That settled it. This might not be the Countess herself—it would be very out of character for someone of that status to lower herself to dress as a maid and pick locks—but it was certainly one of her servants.

  The girl made a noise of excitement and pulled a hairpin from her neat bun, reaching forward to insert it into the lock.

  “I don’t think so,” Irene said. Her hand closed on the maid’s wrist.

  The maid dropped her hairpin and looked up at Irene in shock. And at that moment Irene realized although she could see the maid, and although the maid was right next to her, she wasn’t exactly sure what the maid looked like. There was hair, certainly. It was tied back in a modest style. There was a face—a beautiful, charming, sweet young face, full of girlish modesty and innocent wilfulness, and generally deserving a bookful of romantic poetry to describe it properly. But as for the precise details . . . it was as if someone had delivered the basic notes for a theatrical role to the back of Irene’s brain—maid, young, pretty, innocent—and left her to decide on the exact details. This wasn’t just one of the hotel maids here, empowered or enchanted or whatever. This woman was a very powerful Fae.

  The maid jerked upright and kicked at Irene’s shins, trying to make a run for it. Irene’s hand stayed clamped shut around the maid’s wrist. Her current prisoner might be about as safe to hang on to as an enraged tiger, but she had also been about to break into Kostchei’s room. And Irene wanted some answers before letting her go. “Please calm down,” she said, as soothingly as she could. “I’m not about to hurt you, but I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “I dropped something and was picking it up?” the maid—the Fae—said hopefully.

  “Plausible reasons, please,” Irene said patiently. “That wouldn’t even have worked when I was eleven years old and still at school.”