The gondolier crossed himself again, then frantically turned back to his oar, flinching away from the new arrivals. They might have been male or female. It was impossible to tell. They wore black: heavy black doublets and breeches, black scarves around their throats, black tricornes and plain black masks without any ornamentation at all.
Zayanna cuddled sleepily up against Irene’s side, dropping her head in Irene’s lap.
‘We are the black inquisitors,’ the one standing behind her whispered in Italian. The voice could have belonged to either gender. It carried the length of the gondola, before the fogs dampened the sound.
‘The lords of the night,’ the one on her right whispered.
‘The servants of the Council of Ten,’ the one on her left murmured.
‘We come by darkness to put you to the question,’ said the one behind her, with a terrifying lack of inflection in that voice. The boat creaked as he - or she - shifted his weight, bending down towards Irene in a ruffle of heavy cloak. ‘And nobody will ask where you have gone, because they know better than to ask.’
Irene swallowed down panic. Her first thought was, They’re just trying to frighten me - what’s the best way out of this? Her second thought was, There might not be a way out.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said, hastily, non-specifically and untruthfully.
The two dark figures in front of her folded their arms, dark statues at either side of the boat.
A small sound came from the one behind her. It might have been the noise of metal against leather, barely audible over the lapping of the canal. Imagination supplied the image of a knife being drawn. ‘Nevertheless, you will tell us everything you know - here or when we reach our destination.’
Do they know who I am? Or am I just the unlucky tenth tourist who gets threatened by masked secret police? ‘Please tell me what you want to know,’ Irene whispered. She let an artistic wobble come into her voice. ‘I don’t know this city, I only arrived today …’
‘Lord and Lady Guantes entered an establishment.’ A creak as the figure behind her shifted its weight again. The voice, she thought a male voice, seemed closer now. ‘A few minutes later, the two of you left by the back door. Why? We want answers. You’re going to give them to us.’
So these were either servants of the Guantes or somehow connected to the city authorities. But the gondolier’s reaction suggested the latter.
The canal seemed endless. The fog formed curtains on either side of the gondola, hiding drawn knives and muffling possible screams. They were in a little bubble of silence, in the centre of the canal, where nobody would see or hear what happened to them. Irene hadn’t thought it was possible to be so alone in a public place.
‘My friend was drunk,’ Irene said. She felt Zayanna’s muscles tense against her leg. She’s awake. Or waking up. ‘I had to get her out of there.’
The two in front of her shook their masked heads in unison. ‘Not good enough,’ the one behind her crooned. ‘Such a noble lady and gentleman wouldn’t be surprised by a little drunkenness. Let’s hear something better, or you’re for the Prisons.’ He lingered on the word, caressing it with his voice.
She could have tried knocking him backwards, but then she’d have been vulnerable to the two in front; and vice versa, if she’d lunged at them. They had the high ground, and she had nothing except the bottom of the boat to work with. ‘My patron and the Guantes have a feud!’ It didn’t take any effort to sound desperate, and it was almost the truth. ‘Yes, I admit it, I took an excuse to get out of there before they saw me - but they’d have made an example of me, to send a message. I had to run!’
‘Plausible,’ said the one on her right, ‘but not proven.’
‘Notice that she isn’t giving any names,’ said the one on her left. ‘I think she should tell us some names, don’t you?’
‘How about it?’ Again the sound of metal on leather from behind her. ‘Tell us some names, woman. Tell us some secrets.’
Irene weighed the options. If she gave them Silver’s name, then they’d question him, and he’d possibly sell her out to save himself. But if she just made up something at random, they’d probably spot inconsistencies, and she’d be in even deeper.
And she wasn’t convinced they were going to let her go, anyhow. Whatever she told them. However much she confessed. ‘I can’t say,’ she quavered. ‘I’d be punished.’
Zayanna was tense against her thigh, muscles coiled under her cloak.
‘Bah!’ The one behind her kicked Irene square in the back, sending her sprawling in the belly of the gondola, trapping a suddenly squirming Zayanna under her. ‘Get the thongs and sacks—’
Tangled in her cloak, her mask slipping loose, Irene tried to get her hands underneath her, but Zayanna wriggled to one side and knocked her off-balance again. She banged her head against the planking of the gondola and felt the man behind her plant his foot in her back, holding her down.
What she needed was a quick exit. And the only way out … was down.
The struggles, and Zayanna’s thrashing, would cover the noise. ‘Boat planks,’ Irene commanded in a low whisper, her lips against the boarding, ‘separate and come apart now!’
It took more out of her than she expected: energy ran out of her like water gushing through a sudden crack in a dam. She barely had the strength left to take a deep breath, but the results were dramatic. The boat came apart, from front to back, with a sudden expelling of timbers in all directions that made her briefly think of exploded diagrams and cut-out-and-make-your-own-gondola pictures.
Briefly.
Then she was in the water.
Irene had been expecting it, which was more than anyone else had been. She was also facing down and ready to dive, while everyone else was standing or fighting. Her hands went to her throat to unclasp her cloak, and she kicked briskly at the water, diving deeper in an attempt to get away from the turmoil on the surface.
The water was cold - the cold of the open sea, fresh from the ocean that fed the city’s tidal canals, and it was dark and full of silt. She had absolutely no idea which direction she was swimming in, after a few strokes, and could only concentrate on trying to get away.
Then something curled around her ankle.
Irene suppressed a scream, holding her breath, and kicked back at whatever - or whoever - it was, suddenly full of the energy of panic. She was running short on air, and while she was fairly sure she was moving away from the boat, that was where her certainty ended.
The thing - or person - grabbed at her ankle again. At the same moment her left arm hit something solid. She lost her focus, surging up to the surface in a sudden rush, emerging next to a building’s foundations. She took a gulp of air, blinking the water from her eyes.
The scene before her was more audible than visual. The fog hid any pursuers from sight, but despite its dampening effects, she could hear the commotion. The gondolier was screaming threats and prayers, ranging from calling on the Virgin to swearing bloody vengeance on the bitches who had destroyed his gondola, but generally focusing on the loss of his gondola. Irene felt a twinge of guilt.
Zayanna popped up next to her, her head and shoulders emerging from the water like a classical statue. Her hair clung wetly to her cheeks and bare shoulders, and her eyes caught the light and glittered in the darkness, her pupils slitted and inhuman. ‘Now how did you do that, darling?’ she breathed, her voice barely audible.
‘Is this really the time?’ Irene hissed back. ‘Can we just get out of here first and discuss things later?’ Hopefully much later - as in possibly never.
‘It’s you they were questioning,’ Zayanna pointed out. ‘I wasn’t involved …’
‘Oh yes, and they’re really going to believe that, when they’re looking for answers. The only reason they weren’t questioning you yet was because they thought you were asleep—’
There was a loud clunk, and the sound of running footsteps near where the action had been taking place. Irene
broke off and made a vague swimming gesture with her hand.
Zayanna nodded, letting herself slide back down. Together the two of them swam quietly up the canal, keeping low in the water, their heads barely above the surface.
A couple of hundred yards later, they’d crossed two more canals and nearly been run over by a passing cargo boat, and Irene was feeling far more tired than was normal after a quick swim. ‘Stop a moment,’ she wheezed, trying but failing to make a question of it. She’d lost her shoes somewhere way back in the water, and she wished she was wearing a bikini like Zayanna. It’d make swimming so much easier.
‘Just a teensy bit further and we can get up onto the side of the street here,’ Zayanna called back. She easily swung herself up onto the paving stones, sitting on the canalside with her legs dangling in the water, her skin like liquid gold in the lamplight. Her eyes were normal again. ‘You’re not much of a swimmer, are you?’
‘It’s more of an emergency thing,’ Irene panted. ‘At least I don’t drown.’
‘Is that your only criterion?’ Zayanna kicked at the water, splashing it into the fog in glittering droplets.
‘You’d be astonished how many girls back at my old school almost drowned.’ Irene leaned her elbows on the paving stones, not quite ready to pull herself out yet. She was bone-tired. She wasn’t sure whether to blame the exercise, the use of the Language or the stressful circumstances. Possibly all of the above. She needed to sleep. Just for a little while. She couldn’t save Kai if she was collapsing midrescue from lack of sleep. Even the cold water wasn’t being much help. ‘There was someone every summer term who thought she could swim and then found out she couldn’t. Not to mention the ones who fell through the ice. Swimming well enough not to drown was useful.’
Zayanna tilted her head. ‘It sounds too, too dramatic, darling. Did they train heroes there?’
‘Heroines mostly.’ The language teaching had been world-class too. Literally. ‘I wasn’t one of them.’
‘So what’s actually going on?’ Zayanna raised her hands behind her head to wring some of the water out of her hair. ‘And how did you break the boat?’
This was probably not going to end well. ‘You probably heard what those men in black said,’ Irene said cautiously. ‘It’s true that I was trying to get away before Lord and Lady Guantes noticed me. When you passed out, I took the excuse to leave. I admit it.’
Zayanna considered, then shrugged. ‘Well, you were going to take me back to my hotel. I do remember that much. That was sweet of you. It would have been even nicer if you’d gone back for me after dropping us both in the canal - how did you do that again, by the way?’
‘Trade secret,’ Irene said firmly. ‘Sorry.’
Zayanna laughed. ‘I didn’t seriously expect you to tell me! Don’t be so silly. Clarice, this has been a wonderful evening, and as long as I don’t actually get into any trouble for it from the Guantes or anyone else, I think it is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’
The heat of exercise was wearing off, and Irene could feel the chill of the canal water settling into her bones. It made everything feel cold and distant, from her body to Zayanna’s smile. Aftershock, she diagnosed herself. Don’t let it get to you.
‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ she said, pulling herself together. And perhaps it could be true, after this whole business was settled and Kai was safe and everything was sorted out. Perhaps they could find a way to be friends, in spite of everything. But she’s Fae, her common sense hissed at her, as she tried to pull herself together. ‘But here and now we just need to get to the Gritti Palace.’ She heaved herself out onto the side of the canal. She was far less graceful about it than Zayanna had been and she knew that she looked far less attractive too. Her business suit had never been made for this.
‘Do look on the bright side, darling!’ Zayanna squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. ‘We got away! Now all we need to do is break into one of these houses and convince the inhabitants they should escort us to the Gritti Palace. Maybe they’ll even lend us some clothing, while they’re at it.’
All right, Irene thought, I have officially met someone who makes even more reckless plans than I do.
‘This could indeed be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ she agreed, and she couldn’t help smiling.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the end, sheer exhaustion forced Irene to spend what was left of the night in one of the Gritti Palace’s linen-cupboards. She’d had to curl up on a pile of blankets, in a stolen dress, smelling of canal water. It was not the most uncomfortable night she’d ever spent, but it was still far from being an ideal Venice vacation.
The sound of bells woke her. The noise came through the walls of the hotel, even penetrating into the tiny cupboard, and she woke up with a start, banging her head against the lowest shelf and blinking in the darkness. It took a moment for her to orient herself. And the bells were still ringing, settling into their own patterns of speed and tone, somehow harmonic in spite of their lack of unity. She tried to count the strokes, in the hope of guessing what time it was, but there was no way of telling how long she had till midnight and the auction.
By the time she and Zayanna had reached the Gritti Palace, after a couple of minor incidents involving the theft of a pair of dresses, she had been so exhausted that it was difficult not to collapse on the spot. The time had been two or three in the morning, but the hotel was still full of lights and people running to and fro down passages. It had only taken a few screams of ‘Dear God, my husband!’ and ‘Quick, hide behind the curtains!’ for Irene to recognize all the ingredients of bedroom farce. Possibly several bedroom farces, all going on simultaneously. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near Silver’s bedroom under those conditions.
She and Zayanna had separated, ostensibly to find their respective patrons. Irene suspected that Zayanna had been more interested in finding some more alcohol. She couldn’t blame her. She’d have been grateful for a glass or two of brandy herself.
Still. It was apparently morning. Time to sneak out of her little nest and find Silver, and hopefully get some more information out of him.
Once she was out of the linen-cupboard it became clear that, like most depraved aristocrats, these Fae did not rise early. And if there was a literary trope requiring an early start to fit in a full day’s worth of debauchery, Irene had yet to encounter it. The only people up so far were maids, manservants and lower grades of attendant, who were running around carrying trays of food and piles of clothing. This made it very easy for Irene to scoop up a pile of sheets, looking suitably urgent and harried. She blended right in. She felt harried. Her dress was dark and battered, someone’s Sunday second-best, and not even up to the standard of the hotel maids, but her bodice was laced neatly and her hair was finger-combed into a tight braid. She didn’t look anachronistic or otherworldly, and that was the most important thing.
The back-stairs were much the same as in any hotel. They were narrow, cramped and full of overburdened people running as fast as possible. Nobody bothered wearing masks back here.
One woman, blonde hair straggling in rat-tails down her back, grabbed Irene’s arm as she staggered past. ‘Have you seen the sausages?’
‘No,’ Irene said.
‘Merciful Virgin, the cook’s going to kill someone,’ the woman screamed, and ran down the stairs again.
Rich panoply of human experience, drama of a Grand Hotel, et cetera, Irene decided, as she hurried onwards.
She’d noted the servants Silver had brought with him the night before. Enough loitering back-stairs enabled her to spot one, and to follow him to Silver’s suite on the third floor. Irene waited until there was nobody else around, dropped her armload of sheets in a convenient window-seat and knocked on the door.
Johnson opened it, and his eyes widened. He grabbed Irene by the shoulder and pulled her into the highly decorated parlour, slamming the door shut behind her. ‘You’ll get my lord into trouble, coming here in publi
c like this! What do you think you’re playing at?’ he hissed.
‘Johnson?’ Silver’s voice drifted lazily through from the bedroom. ‘Who is it?’
Johnson took a breath and composed his face. He now radiated only mild dislike, as opposed to severe aversion. ‘It’s her, my lord.’
‘Oh! Well, do bring the mouse in here. I have a few comments on her performance.’
Without letting go of her shoulder, as if afraid she’d make a run for it, Johnson marched Irene through into the bedroom. It was a splendid room, even more so than the parlour. The walls were polished white plaster that shone like marble, and the floor was a mosaic of tiny pale wooden tiles. The far wall was all window, opening out onto a balcony that overlooked the canal beneath and the building on the other side. Curtains of thin lace were tied back, and the sun shone in. The fog had gone, and the sky was a clear, beautiful blue. The room itself was dominated by the double bed, which jutted out from the wall into the centre of the room, as if feeling the need to emphasize its presence. Silver sprawled on it amid a tangle of pale-blue counterpane and white silk sheets, draped in a midnight-blue silk dressing gown, which left him barely decent. Given the way he lay there with the gown falling open to his waist, Irene was tempted to downgrade that to not decent at all.
He shook his head, mock-sadly. ‘Dear Miss Winters, I thought that I had lost you.’
‘Rubbish, my lord,’ she said crisply. ‘I’m sure you were very glad to get me off your hands.’
‘The one does not preclude the other.’ He toyed with a plate that held sugared twists of dough, crispy little things. Cinnamon was involved. Irene could smell them across the room, and she tried to stop her stomach rumbling. ‘So - I take it there have been no daring rescues yet?’
The Masked City Page 17
