The Mortal Word

by Genevieve Cogman

  A piece fell into place in his mind. “If Ren Shun’s men investigated and found a higher chaos level than normal,” he said, “it is most intriguing that Lord Silver didn’t think so.”

  “Silver’s already been there?”

  “Winters did assign him to look into theatres,” Vale reminded him. “I pried the details out of him last night. He said that he’d called on the Grand Guignol, but a cursory examination had been fruitless, and he’d gone on to cast his net wider. Curious.”

  “So either he’s lying or he’s blind,” Strongrock declared, leaping ahead of Vale’s reasoning in a sadly unsupported way, “or the chaos level there has gone down since Ren Shun had it checked out.”

  “You know more about such things than I do, Strongrock. How likely is the third possibility?”

  Strongrock frowned. “Well, levels could drop naturally, or the fall could be the result of dragons passing nearby. But I wouldn’t expect this to happen if Fae were still visiting the theatre—and according to those witness statements Irene examined, some Fae had been there.”

  “An anomaly, then,” Vale said with satisfaction. “And in keeping with levels dropping, I would put forward the theory that someone at the Grand Guignol is now attempting to conceal their presence—whether it is the Countess or someone else entirely. These reports of yours from Ren Shun—they are reliable?”

  “Absolutely,” Strongrock said swiftly. Then he paused. “Well, they’re certainly authentic. I’ve seen enough of his handwriting over the last couple of days to be sure of that. Whether or not they’re accurate might be a different issue.”

  Vale nodded. He rose from his chair and began to pace. “This agrees with certain details I have already established. Chlorine purchases—explained as for stage effects. The fact that several of the anarchist assailants were apparently devoted Guignolers—and that one of them mentioned a theatre. It requires investigation. Can your uncle spare you for a few hours?”

  “That’s not a problem,” Strongrock said with slightly too much heartiness. “He told me to go and occupy myself elsewhere for the rest of the day. He doesn’t need me for the moment. I did try to raise the possibility of the Guignol being a Fae base . . . but he dismissed it. He said, why look for additional imaginary enemies when we already have quite enough.” For a moment he caught Ao Ji’s tone and disdain. “He said that he felt I was seeing shadows rather than looking at facts, and that I had clearly been spending too much time with . . . my own imagination.”

  Vale suspected the words had been stronger than that, and more specific, but he was tactful enough not to ask for details. It was, he admitted privately—in an overly sentimental part of his mind—a pity that uncle and nephew didn’t get on better. Instead he nodded. “Very good. Then we can get down to work without interruptions. I suggest we scout around the area, which would allow you to determine if there are any overt signs of chaos.”

  “We might need to approach the theatre more closely, if signs of chaos are hidden,” Strongrock said. “Should we bring in the others?”

  “Winters and Mu Dan are off on some investigation of their own,” Vale said with irritation. He’d returned from a discussion with Inspector Maillon to find Winters had taken off on a scent and Mu Dan had followed her. “And Lord Silver is still hunting bakers and cakes. Besides, I’m not certain that we should bring him in at this stage . . .”

  He and Strongrock exchanged glances. They’d both been present that morning when he’d attempted to blackmail Winters. Even if he wasn’t working for the Countess, his loyalties could not be entirely trusted.

  “And even if Irene was here,” Strongrock said slowly, “it could be better if we find some independent proof of the Countess’s presence, without her being involved. Not everyone believes—that is, there are some people who claim that the whole ‘Countess’ thing is a fabrication.”

  “A fabrication who assembled a bomb, filled a cake with chlorine, organised a kidnap attempt at the Paris Morgue, and sent poisoned apples to the Princess,” Vale said drily. “How much evidence of malicious intent do they want?”

  “He wants evidence that doesn’t depend on Librarian or Fae testimony,” Strongrock muttered. “I’d swear to Irene’s good faith, but he says that my judgement’s suspect.”

  Vale had to agree with the he—Ao Ji, obviously—in that respect. If Winters should ever lie to Strongrock, Strongrock would never doubt her. And doubting factions could use this.

  Fortunately Vale’s own judgement was rather better. And he was certain Winters was telling the truth about what she’d experienced. But he could see the direction of Strongrock’s argument. “We’ll need to keep Winters informed, of course,” he said. “And this is in the nature of a scouting expedition. We must assume that this Countess may recognize us, so a change of appearance is in order.” He glanced at Strongrock’s clothing—proper morning dress, suit and cravat. Rather too obvious. “We will simply wander the streets nearby, and your own metaphysical senses should reveal whether we need to investigate further.”

  “Of course,” Strongrock agreed. “We can fetch the others later. But I wish we knew where Irene and Mu Dan were. If we’re wrong about the Grand Guignol, they may be walking into danger themselves.”

  “I think they are quite capable of doing that, whether or not the Countess is hidden at the Grand Guignol,” Vale said. “I’ll leave a message for Winters . . .”

  * * *

  • • •

  The streets around the Grand Guignol were busy, and Vale was able to blend into the crowd with ease. He and Strongrock were just one more pair of gentlemen strolling out for an evening’s diversion, near anonymous in their hats and battered overcoats. They’d taken care to avoid observation while leaving the hotel, whether by humans or felines. And he was relatively certain that if the Countess or anyone else was present at the theatre, then their approach would be unexpected.

  Since he had no way to observe any metaphysical abnormalities, he left that to Strongrock. Instead he observed the city of Paris and its inhabitants. It had been a year or two since last he visited, in his own world—and it reassured him to discover that despite the lack of certain technologies, and the divergences in history, this Paris and these people were much the same. Similar geography, similar men and women, similar police and criminals. It explained why the Librarians were able to function as an organisation. Whatever the world, human beings were still human beings.

  A two-tone whistle sounded somewhere in the background, behind the noise of revellers and the sounds of music, and Vale concealed a frown. That was far too similar to the sort of communication a gang would use when they’d sighted a target and were signalling to close in. Perhaps he had underestimated the Grand Guignol’s level of security—if this was connected. “Do you notice anything unusual?” he remarked to Strongrock, keeping his tone conversational.

  Strongrock’s eyes swept across their surroundings as if he was doing no more than inspecting the cabarets and entertainment on offer. “That man on the right—the one with the scar on his right cheek—is following us, I think.”

  “Yes,” Vale agreed. “And the one over there on the left, under the black sign, the one with the single glove; he passed us two turnings back. We’re being bracketed.” The realization was unwelcome.

  “Options?”

  “Best to retreat and return in force,” Vale said with regret. “Take the second right turning. If I remember my local geography correctly, we can fall back to one of the main streets.”

  “If we do that, we’re risking her escaping—if she is based at the theatre,” Strongrock pointed out.

  Vale grunted in annoyance. “This is not the time or place for heroics.”

  “My objection’s purely strategic.”

  “If the Countess is here and does evacuate her base, then she’ll be off balance and unlikely to stage any immediate attacks. And she may
leave evidence behind that we can trace.”

  They strolled on together, Vale watching the two men now keeping pace with them on either side of the street. They passed through the crowd like sharks. “Of course, if we are assaulted during our retreat and can take some prisoners, then our little trip would not be entirely wasted,” he added.

  “Excellent,” Strongrock said, brightening. “Oh, did you notice that new pair behind us?”

  “Of course,” Vale said, a little annoyed. He would hardly have missed such obvious followers. Clearly the men had decided to forgo caution and close in. “Turn right here . . .”

  The alley was a narrow one, overhung by the houses on either side, and twisted back on itself before turning towards the main thoroughfare . . .

  With an unpleasant shock, Vale saw that the alley was blocked by a wall that had clearly been there for years. As a difference between this world and his own, it was very minor, but it meant he and Strongrock were blocked. Trapped.

  The two of them exchanged a glance, before turning to face the group of men now slouching into the alleyway, moving towards them.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shortly after, they encountered the Fae member of their team.

  “How nice to see you both again,” Silver said bitterly, as Vale and the unconscious Kai—beaten into unconsciousness and chloroformed to make sure he stayed that way—were chained up in alcoves opposite him.

  CHAPTER 21

  The passage to the Library from the Richelieu Library had been destroyed. That was quite clear. There wasn’t enough left of the room it had been in to support a way through.

  Fortunately, the rest of the building still contained enough books, enabling Irene to create a temporary connection. She found a remote area where she wouldn’t be disturbed by students, guards, or visitors. Then she chose a door and wrote on it in the Language, THIS DOOR OPENS TO THE LIBRARY. The connection would only be stable for half an hour or so before it vanished. Hopefully that would be long enough to get some answers.

  Swaying a little from the drain in her energy, but unwilling to wait long enough for her head to stop swimming, she grasped the handle. “Open to the Library,” she said, and walked through into her true home.

  In the large room beyond, heavy bookcases filled with thick leather-bound volumes filled the walls between pillars of crimson marble, and polar bear skins dotted the dark stone floor like icebergs, their white fur mottled with dust. There was a computer outlet in the room, Irene saw with relief: she wouldn’t have to go searching for one. Ignoring the books on the shelves, she checked the room’s designation and quickly sat down and logged in, composing a hasty email.

  She hadn’t wanted to do this, but she needed to contact Library Security. They were the only people who could answer some of her questions about Prutkov. Assuming that they were willing to do so.

  Melusine,

  I request an urgent consultation, based on my investigation into Ren Shun’s death. I’ve established a temporary link to the Library, so please can you arrange a transfer shift down to Security and back, or come to discuss this with me in person. I can’t afford to lose my passage back to the world where negotiations are taking place. I’m in Antarctic Literature, world B-23.

  Irene

  For a moment she debated signing off with yours sincerely or yours faithfully—or even channel Poe with for the love of God, Montresor! But none of those seemed likely to help. She hit the return key and stared at the screen. How long would Melusine take to read it? Was Melusine even available? What if she was having a half-hour nap and Irene didn’t get a response by the time she had to return . . .

  The computer chimed. Irene checked her incoming email.

  Visual connection set-up in progress. Please hold.

  A new window appeared on the computer screen, expanding to show a webcam view of Melusine’s den. Melusine herself was in her wheelchair, looking much as she had the last time Irene had met her: short-cropped dark blonde hair, battered checked shirt, comparatively young face, centuries-old eyes. Only the rug over her legs had changed, from a weathered tartan specimen to a bilious green one.

  “This is not what I wanted to hear,” she said without preamble. “This is not the sort of call I wanted to be getting. What do you want a consultation about, and why, and why does it have to be with me?”

  Irene didn’t waste time asking about the visual connection. Possibly the Library’s computer system had had an upgrade while she wasn’t there, or this was something exclusive to Melusine’s position. “You know about Ren Shun’s murder,” she said. “Did you know that the blame’s being put on a particular Fae—the Blood Countess—and we’re supposed to be tracking her down?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes. What’s gone wrong?”

  “The Countess is in Paris, and she doesn’t want a peace treaty signed, but I’m not so sure that she’s guilty of killing Ren Shun.” There had been something that had rung very true in Dorotya’s disclosure of how passionately her mistress disliked being falsely accused. “Also . . .” And here was the bit where Irene could possibly shoot herself in the foot. “I need you to check something for me.”

  “What?”

  “I want to know if anyone was entering or leaving the Library from this world last night.”

  “Why?”

  Irene wistfully imagined being able to bark out questions like that and expect an answer, rather than having to dance around the subject and grease it well with flattery. “Because they shouldn’t have been.”

  “Wait.” Melusine pushed her wheelchair back from the computer, moving across to one of the many bookshelves in the background. She could guess what the head of Library Security was checking: the entry and exit logs for that particular portal to the Library. A cold trickle of fear made its way slowly down her back and clenched in her stomach. If her logic was wrong . . .

  But Melusine slammed the book closed. “You’re right,” she said, turning back towards the computer screen. “There’s an entry and exit recorded for Borges. He’s one of the Librarians seconded to assist Prutkov. Eleven thirty local time, just before midnight. Now tell me what’s going on and why this is significant.”

  Just before midnight, the words chimed at the back of Irene’s mind. If it had been just after midnight, then Borges might have been trying to reach the Library to report the explosion, or to check that he could still reach the Library from the Paris where the peace conference was taking place. But just before midnight?

  “Prutkov’s up to something on his own account,” Irene said, getting the words out before nervousness could stop her.

  Melusine’s face shuttered. There was no better word for it. Expression drained out of her eyes, and her mouth became a thin line, giving nothing away. She could have been an old photograph, the sort where the camera required several minutes of exposure, and as a result the subject’s expression was flat and impassive, drained of life. “You know that’s a serious accusation. Explain.”

  “He’s trying to set things up so all sides blame the Countess, to encourage both sides to cooperate. I can understand that, but he also made an approach to me in private. He was trying to sell me the idea that the Library’s future depends on us being essential to both sides, ostensibly as peace brokers—but actually as manipulators behind the scenes. As a faction who’d hold the balance of power.” A fragment of speech brushed her memory again. “And when discussing the Countess’s failed plan to blow up the negotiation hotel, with one of his female agents, the woman called it karmic justice for him.”

  “Why is that last point relevant?” Melusine was still unreadable, but at least she hadn’t immediately called Irene a liar or taken her off the case.

  “The note found in Ren Shun’s pocket mentioned ‘hell’—which is enfer in French—and a set of numbers. And the title of a book—Myths, by Herodotus. You’ll have seen the report.” A fra
ction of a nod from Melusine was confirmation. “And you presumably know the Richelieu Library was bombed last night, breaking our connection to the Library. Which is why I’m on a time limit.”

  “Yes,” Melusine said. “And?”

  Irene leaned forward. “I believe Prutkov was behind the bombing. The Enfer, the part of the library where they kept erotica, was one of the areas bombed. I know we get coincidences where there are Fae around, but that’s too much of a coincidence. Let me theorise here. Someone left that note in Ren Shun’s pocket deliberately. They wanted the investigation to follow the trail to the Enfer and to find Herodotus’s Myths there—just as Ren Shun’s note suggested. Combine that with the rumours that Ren Shun had said he’d heard at least one Librarian making a private deal to get hold of rare books? Suspicion would point right at the Library. So I think Prutkov decided to get rid of all the evidence.”

  “The first part of your theorising holds water,” Melusine said slowly. “If someone wanted to sabotage the negotiations using the Library, and the rare book turned up where the paper on Ren Shun indicated it would be—combined with the overheard conversation—then it would be impossible to prove the Library wasn’t guilty of something. But you haven’t given me any proof that Prutkov’s involved . . .”

  Irene swallowed. Her throat was dry. “The rest of my theory is that Prutkov himself organised that bombing, in order to make us look like victims of the Countess to everyone else—and to hide any evidence that there had ever been a copy of the Myths in the Enfer. But if the book’s so important, as a Librarian, he wouldn’t want to destroy it. But equally he couldn’t risk hiding it here in Paris. If I was him . . .” And how easy it was to imagine the chain of events, the tidy concealment of evidence. “I’d have taken it through to the Library itself. Then I’d have come back to set off the explosives—or have my agents do so, such as Borges—during the middle of the diplomatic state dinner when I’d have a perfect alibi. That’s why Borges made a transit to the Library just before the bombs went off. He’d been organizing all this. But if Prutkov did this, if he did any of this, then he did it without telling me.”