The Masked City (14 page)

Irene’s first impulse was to freeze. She didn’t have the reflexes for action-hero moves - at least, not without preparation. Also, dramatic action heroes were usually taller, fitter and more athletic than their adversaries. She, on the other hand, was five foot nine in her socks and not overly muscular - unlike her five well-built new adversaries.

Although they were all pointing guns at her, cluttering up the room and backing into display cases, they didn’t look as if they’d actually expected her to emerge from the cupboard. Maybe she could use that to her advantage.

One of the men snorted in surprise, choking off a laugh behind his hand. ‘So here she is, after all. No wonder someone had this bunny tucked away in his cupboard,’ he grunted. His gun wavered as he looked her up and down, taking in her anachronistic, inappropriate, short-skirted clothing. ‘Ain’t hard to guess what all them professors round here like keeping under their desks, innit?’

Irene let herself sag back against the wall, lowering her eyes tremulously, trying to guess what was going on. They’d clearly been waiting for her, and there were only two people in this alternate who knew about the Library entrance. Vale. And Silver. No, make that Silver and any Fae he’d told. And she could assume that Vale wouldn’t be sending cheap thugs after her …

‘Now don’t you make any trouble for us, duckie, and you won’t get hurt,’ another of the men said. Like the rest of them, he had thick brows, hairy palms and unsettlingly yellow eyes. Wonderful. Yet more werewolves. ‘We’re just going to take you for a little walk. There’s a gentleman as wants you to stay out of his affairs for a few days. You behave yourself, keep quiet, and nothing bad’s going to happen to you.’

Irene mentally cringed at the dialogue, lifted straight from Plots Involving Heroines Too Stupid to Live, Unless Saved by the Hero. She must have looked unconvinced, as the man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t want us to do this the hard way, duckie,’ he snarled.

‘No,’ she said, attempting helpless meekness. ‘I’ll behave … please don’t hurt me.’

‘And no saying none of them spells,’ another said. ‘We’ve been told as how you can do sorcery.’

Ah, so clearly they’d been warned about the Language, in a way that would make sense to them. But it looked as if she could get away with some speech. Irene let her lower lip wobble pitifully, blinked in a way that suggested imminent tears and did her best to look helpless. The men relaxed. Unfortunately, they didn’t stop pointing their guns at her. What a pity. She could think of half a dozen ways to use the Language, but didn’t want to compete with a speeding bullet.

But she was still clutching the handbag containing the electronic tablet. Making it look as casual as possible, she shifted her grip, bringing it up to her chest in a mock-terrified cower. Her fingers slid past the clasp of the handbag and inside. She could feel the edge of the tablet, the power-on switch.

‘Drop the bag,’ the evident leader demanded. ‘No trying to pull a gun on us, dearie.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ she quavered. Flicking the tablet’s power on, she let the bag slip from her fingers to the ground. It landed with a soft thump. The men’s eyes followed it, before looking back to her.

Three, two, one …

The power-on chime sounded bright and clear through the thin fabric of the bag.

The tablet was a lovely piece of technology, set to look instantly for local wireless communications and check for messages. In a world where there were no wireless communications, and where instead broadcast radio signals attracted demonic interference, it had absolutely no chance. A garbled squeal came from the bag, rising abruptly to a roar of inhuman voices shouting something in a language that Irene was grateful she didn’t recognize.

The men reacted as she had hoped. All the guns swivelled away from her to point at the bag at her feet, and a succession of bullets thudded into it. There was a muffled explosion from inside, and smoke came pouring out.

Perfect.
Irene was already moving, dodging behind the nearest display case.
‘Smoke, increase to fill the room, and stink!’
she shouted in the Language.

The smoke obeyed even faster than she had expected. The small column of fumes bloomed into a thick white cloud, swelling out in all directions till it touched the walls and ceiling, and carrying an odour of burning plastic that brought tears to Irene’s eyes. And she wasn’t even a werewolf. The sudden chorus of swearing made her smile viciously. A couple of the men were shouting for her to come back - how stupid did they think she was? But the rest, with their superior sense of smell, were really suffering from the odour, if their swearing was any indication.

Irene sidled quickly through the gloom towards the exit, so familiar with the layout that she could have done this blindfold - which was pretty much what she was doing now.

Unfortunately, the smoke that hid her from the thugs also hid them from her. Five steps from the door she collided with one, surprising both her and the werewolf. He recovered slightly faster than she did, and she felt his hand fumbling at her shoulder.

She didn’t have
time
for this. Irene stepped in closer and brought her right hand forward in a straight-palm strike to where his throat should be. She felt something crunch under her hand as he groaned in pain, and brought her knee up hard into his groin. His grip loosened and she wrenched herself free, dashing the remaining few steps towards the door.

Behind her, the mauled werewolf found the voice to yell, ‘The bitch is over here!’

Fortunately the thugs hadn’t locked the door. She dragged it open and stumbled into the clear air of the corridor beyond, as unseen feet thundered towards her. Voice raw from the smoke, she snapped,
‘Door close and lock!’

All the open doors within earshot slammed shut with echoing booms. Locks clicked shut, spinning their tumblers into place. And from beyond the heavy wooden door behind her she could hear yells and howls, and the crashes of large men throwing themselves against it.

The doors in the British Library were solid, but she didn’t plan to wait and see how well they held up against a group of enraged werewolves. Questioning them might have been useful, but comparing notes with Vale came first. Brushing herself off, Irene started down the corridor towards the exit.

A man came running up the stairs, but stopped as he saw her. ‘Good god, Winters!’ he exclaimed. ‘What happened to you?’

Irene blinked. The voice was Vale’s. The face wasn’t. It was different and more heavily lined, and he was in shabbier clothing than usual. But the voice was definitely his. ‘Vale? Is that you?’ She’d always thought people coming out with that sort of line were idiots, but she now realized it was a perfectly sensible response to being addressed by name by a total stranger.

‘Obviously,’ Vale said drily. ‘You must forgive my appearance. There are a number of people looking for me.’ He tilted his head, catching the racket coming from the room Irene had just left, and seeing the smoke oozing under the door. ‘Do I take it that you’ve encountered some inconvenience?’

Irene shrugged. ‘Dealt with already. Werewolves - half a dozen - sent to take me prisoner. Do you think we’d gain anything by questioning them?’

‘No time, and in any case I doubt we’d discover anything that I haven’t already learned.’ His gaze took in Irene again - with the shock of a Victorian anthropologist, just discovering that foreign costumes could reveal a great deal more than just the ankle. ‘We should continue this conversation elsewhere. I’ll drop a word to the police on the way out.’

Irene nodded. ‘Probably a good idea. My discoveries are urgent.’

Vale nodded. ‘I feared they might be. I’ll borrow a coat to hide your - ‘ he didn’t quite say
scandalous
, but the thought was clearly there, ‘ - outfit, and we’ll be on our way.’

Twenty minutes later they were sitting together in a small cafe. Irene was safely muffled in a spare greatcoat from the British Museum’s lost-and-found cupboard, which mostly hid her anachronistic clothing. It was early evening by now, and she felt that they were losing time. But Vale had insisted on a short cab ride to break their trail, and had refused to discuss anything further until they were at the cafe. He’d taken the opportunity to remove some of his make-up in the cab and looked more like the man she knew. They’d ordered tea, and Irene warmed her hands on her cup.

‘I reached Kai’s uncle,’ Irene said.

Vale leaned forward impatiently. ‘And? What did the gentleman have to say?’

‘He is extremely displeased,’ Irene said. Her fingers drifted to her breastbone, to touch the pendant under her clothing. ‘He was able to tell that Kai is in distress, and that he is in a world much more chaotic than this one. I believe he will be making his own investigations, but he can’t reach such a world - it would be inimical to his nature, and for a dragon king to go there would be treated as an act of war.’

‘Winters, kindly give me a
little
more detail,’ Vale said acerbically. ‘I cannot work without more information, and you have given me nothing but the bare bones of the matter.’

Irene ran through a more precise description of the meeting, as Vale listened. His focus was, in a way, as unnerving as the dragon king’s own scrutiny. ‘Can you show me the pictures you saw, of those two people?’ he demanded.

Irene shook her head. ‘I have no way of doing so. And no, I can’t draw, so please don’t ask me to try.’

Vale snorted, and gestured for her to go on. When she finished, he sat back in his seat with a sigh. ‘I fear that agrees with my own findings. Whatever is going on, the people involved are active here and now, in my … world.’

‘There were werewolves waiting for me. That can’t be just a coincidence,’ Irene agreed.

‘More than that.’ He looked strangely uncomfortable, unusual for a man who could normally be at ease in the middle of chaos. ‘I have been personally inconvenienced. The police are actually looking for
me
. Complaints have been levelled against me, raised with the police and through legal channels. Singh has also had trouble himself - there are accusations of him abusing his position - so it’s a good thing you didn’t try going to see him. It’s probably due to his association with me. Someone is trying to hamper our investigations by disrupting official channels. I came to the British Library in the hope of intercepting you.’

Irene raised a curious eyebrow. Inspector Singh had seemed extremely scrupulous on previous encounters.

‘Certain, ah, internal-affairs charges have been raked up against him, as a result of those accusations, so I cannot count on his assistance in this matter. I have contacted his superior, but she informs me that it would be preferable for me to avoid any overt dealings with him for the moment. It will simply make matters worse. The police will be no use in this matter.’ Vale tapped one thin finger on the table surface, frowned at it, then scientifically scratched at the layers of scrubbed-in dirt that gave it such a unique patina. ‘And the other reason I came to find you was because I found your lodgings under observation, as I’d anticipated.’

Something clenched in Irene’s throat. It had been quite a day, and she wasn’t used to being so personally targeted. ‘Ah. Thank you.’

‘You are quite welcome, Winters. I do not think they actually intended to kill you, but …’ He shrugged. It was not the most comforting of shrugs. ‘I felt it better not to take the risk.’

Irene took a sip of her tea. It was just as bad as she’d expected. ‘The two individuals Kai’s uncle spotted are an obvious avenue of investigation. And if this is all connected - is there any chance that they’re the Guantes?’

Vale was already nodding, with a slight air of impatience. ‘Yes, that is the logical inference, and your description does seem to fit them. So we have the possible presence of Lord Guantes at Strongrock’s kidnapping, together with an unknown woman. I’ve also confirmed that Lady Guantes was absent from the Embassy last night, and that she’s been known to wear a scarf pin of the sort your assailant mentioned. A pity we weren’t able to question those werewolves who attacked you just now, but it would have been too risky to remain there.’ He leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-closing, fingers steepled. It was a customary pose for him, signalling intense thought.

She took another sip of the tea. Yes, absolutely disgusting. The ether-lights flickered in their niches, and from outside came the screech and rattle of cab wheels. Conversations at the other tables were low and discreet, and the general atmosphere was one of quietly illegal under-the-table paranoia. Vale was probably a regular here, she decided.

Vale threw off his lethargy and leaned forward again. ‘Let me summarize my own investigations, Winters. To give you a full explanation - since I can hardly do less than you - your description of those two characters is almost identical to that of two recent arrivals at the Liechtenstein Embassy. Two Fae.’ He put his usual dry distaste into the word. ‘Though naturally they were properly clad for this time and place.’

Something about the cant of Vale’s head made Irene remember she was in rather inappropriate clothing under her coat. Surely someone like him would be above judging by appearances, if anyone was. If he could ignore the fact that she was from another world, it was surprising that he couldn’t ignore the length of her skirt. ‘And what did you find out about them?’ she prompted hastily.

‘The gentleman is known as Lord Guantes. The lady is his wife, or so she says. They claim that he is a marquis, but evidence is lacking. They - or at least he - are recently arrived from Liechtenstein via zeppelin from Barcelona.’

‘Are they Spanish?’ Irene asked. It was the language that the Guantes alias came from, after all.

‘No,’ Vale said, ‘but he, at least, enjoys playing the part of a grandee. If I may continue?’

Irene shut her mouth and nodded.

‘Lord Guantes has been present in London for perhaps two weeks,’ Vale went on. ‘I have … a contact who keeps abreast of such things. Lady Guantes may have arrived at the same time, but she lacks the customary flamboyance of her kind. It is clear to everyone that Guantes and Silver are conducting some manner of power struggle, which corroborates your own investigation. They hold their parties separately, and snub each other in public. Heaven only knows what they may do in private.’