The Masked City (18 page)

Of course that left Irene and the others facing five werewolves between them. The maid spun forward in a whirl of legs, kicking high at one werewolf’s face. He raised his arm to take the blow and her spur left a trail of blood down his arm. He recoiled with a strangled growl, quite out of proportion to the size of the injury. Her spurs must have been silvered.

One of the thugs came at Irene, hands gnarled in partial transformation, fur bursting from his cuffs. She went into a fencing lunge, probing at his face with the point of the umbrella, and he recoiled, sidling to the left. The others were keeping their own opponents busy, and while they were dealing the odd blow, her side’s principle of ‘gang up on them one at a time and take them out of the fight’ was working better than the thugs’ own penchant for one-on-one brawls.

Not really the pack behaviour one would expect from werewolves,
Irene reflected as she snaked the umbrella into another lunge at her opponent, and danced back from his return blow.
Perhaps it’s because there’s nobody actually leading them in this fight.

She was humming with adrenaline, and it was a relief to have an enemy to fight, even if it didn’t do anything immediate to help Kai. She jabbed the umbrella point into the werewolf’s stomach, then flipped the umbrella in the air as he bent over, catching it by the point end, and whacked the weighted handle hard into his skull. He went down with a thud.

When she looked around, four of the other werewolves were down, but so were one of the heavyweights and one of the knuckleduster-users on her side. The razor-wielder and the maid with spurs were engaging the remaining werewolf, while the other servants stood guard over their downed opponents. The maid was carrying one arm close to her chest, but both her spurs dripped blood as she spun and kicked.

But this time she was too slow. The werewolf grabbed her foot as it came at him, and twisted. She left the ground, spinning through the air in a fluid ripple of skirts, and landed with a tumble. Her spurs screeched as they scraped against the floor tiles. With a grunt, the werewolf lunged for the razor-wielder.

I don’t think so.
Irene threw herself forward, the umbrella still ready in her hand, and brought it down in an overhand swing. The handle slammed into the thug’s wrist with an audible crack. For a moment Irene wasn’t sure if she’d shattered bone or umbrella, but the man’s choked scream told its own story. He recoiled, clutching his arm against his belly, his other hand coming up in defence.

Lady Guantes snapped her fingers, the sound unnaturally loud. The werewolf took a step back, then another, bowing his head. He and the others limped back towards Lady Guantes, supporting the ones who were having problems walking.

Silver’s servants moved just as quickly, without any obvious signal from Silver. Irene stepped across to offer the other maid her arm, and she took it with a nod of thanks, her breath coming in little gasps, which suggested a broken rib. ‘Wondered why his nibs hired you,’ she whispered as Irene helped her back into the formation of servants. ‘Let’s have a talk later, right?’

Irene nodded, while inwardly resolving to avoid such a thing if at all possible, and slid the umbrella back into its packing. It was hardly bloodied at all.
And damn Silver for not warning me this might happen.

Suddenly a distant boom shook the station. The glass panes in the high roof creaked and trembled in their setting and the ether-lamps shook, their glare focusing and then fading again. Screams rippled across the concourse as people backed away from the railway tracks.

A low thrumming filled the station. Another boom, closer now.

Silver and Lady Guantes turned to face outwards at the same moment, without a second’s hesitation. Several of the others waiting nearby did the same a fraction later. Without needing to be told, the less-injured servants bent to pick up their bags and Irene mirrored them.

A third boom, and then abruptly there was a glaring light in the darkness as a train came hurtling into the station. The furious beam of its searchlight outshone the actinic white of the ceiling lamps, burning into the eyes. The ferocious churning of its wheels drowned out the screams of the crowd as they pressed backwards.

The train decelerated fast - too fast, faster than should have been physically possible - and drew up gently next to the platform. It was sleek and black, with a sequence of dark-windowed carriages that stretched out past the platform and into the night. And although the front of the train was clearly an engine car, there was no obvious power source. There was a pause, just long enough to set nerves on edge, and then a door in the engine car swung open and a figure stepped out.

Irene squinted until tears came into the corners of her eyes. The figure was a man. Mostly. His - or her - image shifted like a film reel jarring between images so fast that the eye couldn’t follow them, leaving her with a set of impressions, but no definite fixed conclusion. Most of the images were male. A rider with tricorne hat, greatcoat and high boots. A train conductor, in dark uniform and cap. A biplane pilot, in flying helmet and sheepskin jacket. A motorcycle rider, in black leathers and helmet.

The image finally stabilized on the train conductor, in a uniform that glittered darkly with ebony braid and buttons. The man stepped forward, and Silver and Lady Guantes both moved to greet him.

Silver bowed as Lady Guantes curtseyed, and the man made a small gesture with one hand. It somehow reminded Irene of Ao Shun’s casual acceptance of her formality hours ago. He then turned to re-enter the train. Doors in the carriages further down from the engine swung open and the train began to softly thrum again, as though building up some infernal head of steam.

‘Move it, the lot of you, now!’ Johnson hissed. The servants all shuffled forward quickly as Silver and Lady Guantes chose carriages. Lady Guantes stepped up into the closest one, and Silver strolled down the platform to the next one along, as casually as if he’d always had that one in mind. The small group of lesser Fae and hangers-on tumbled into the carriages after them, leaving Irene and the other servants to hastily cram in and drag the bags, with the growing throb of the engine as a terrifying counterpoint.

The inside of the train was pure luxury. Irene had a moment to take it in, before she had to drag another suitcase up into the carriage, through the narrow corridor and into the closed compartment beyond. It was all plush black velvet, leather and silver. A curtained bed-sized alcove was at the far end of the compartment, with the heavy brocade curtains drawn tactfully closed. Silver had thrown himself down in one of the long seats, and Johnson had opened a case to find a bottle of brandy and a glass.

With a heave, the last case was dragged on board. The engine thrum was louder now, heavy enough to hum uncomfortably in Irene’s teeth and bones. Johnson placed the full glass of brandy in Silver’s hand, then quickly strode across and slammed the carriage door shut as the train began to move. It didn’t jerk into motion, like lesser forms of transport, but simply slid forward in a cool organic flow.

He’s travelled this way before,
Irene noted, but she was on edge, her main focus on blending in with the other maids. She just hoped they were too busy to dwell on the fact that she was a total stranger.

‘That will do,’ Silver said, waving a negligent hand. ‘Into the corridor, the lot of you. There should be another compartment where you can all wait. Johnson will fetch you if I need you.’

Irene watched to see if he had any particular signal for her, but there was no little gesture suggesting she should stay behind. She shuffled out with the rest of the servants, crowding together in the corridor as they looked around for the designated compartment.

Irene quietly slipped off in the opposite direction while they were talking and seeing to injuries. It was time to change her clothing and establish an alibi elsewhere in the train - as a newly arrived Fae from some other world. She just needed to thoroughly avoid Lady Guantes’ carriage.

She paused for a moment to look out of the window, tensing against some sanity-destroying view into alternate worlds. But there was nothing to see: only shadowy fields and distant lights and the quiet of the unbroken night.

Nothing to see at all?
she wondered, the impossibility of it dawning on her.
No travellers on nearby roads? No other trains? Nobody out late at night? None of the other stations near London? You’ve been on the rails only a few minutes now, and there’s nobody at all out there?
The words
uncharted night
drifted through her mind, and she suppressed a shudder, preparing to open the door into the next carriage. She tensed herself for a confrontation, but there was no need. The next carriage held just an empty corridor, running alongside an empty compartment.

Was this too convenient?
Irene considered, paranoia prodding at her. It was easy for a lurid imagination to conjure up invisible Fae - if they could turn invisible? She didn’t know. She’d never heard of any that could. But in any case, she had to change her appearance fast. If she kept the maid outfit on, she’d have problems passing as a Fae from a futuristic alternate. She would just have to trust to luck.

Irene hated trusting to luck. It was no substitute for good planning and careful preparation.

She ducked into the compartment, slamming the door behind her and pulling the privacy shade down over the door window. Quickly she shucked off the disguise and shoved it under a seat. The business suit still looked reasonably smart, and a gleam of gold shone at her wrists. These were Silver’s bracelets, which he’d promised would show traces of his magic if anyone checked them. So now she had Fae bracelets around her wrists and a dragon’s token round her neck. The symbolism of belonging to either order or chaos was unappealing, and she was surprised that her Library brand wasn’t itching …

Oh. She reached over her shoulders to rub at it. It was smarting painfully, and had been for some time - she’d just had other things to worry about. A bad sign.

The itch on her back suddenly seemed to symbolize all the things that she was trying not to think about. Top of the list was Kai’s real and present danger. Her fingers brushed the pendant at her throat. If only she could read his health from it, in the way that Ao Shun had done. Her own dubious situation was next in line: running out on her assigned role and going to high-chaos worlds without permission was liable to get her a reprimand at the very least, and it might well lead to even worse.
Removed from your position as Librarian-in-Residence,
her innermost self whispered.
Knocked down to journeyman again. Kept in the Library for the next fifty years. Even stripped of your Librarianship …

But worrying wouldn’t solve anything. So she viciously stamped down on her fears, forcing them to the back of her mind. Kai would not be saved by fretting over him like a maudlin romantic, or by panicking like a Gothic heroine in a trailing nightgown. He would, by god, be saved by her going out there and actually
saving
him - and her position be damned!

Time to get moving. She began to work her way down the train.

The next carriage was decorated in brassy gold and deep brown. The corridor was empty, but the privacy shades were all drawn on the private compartment. She could hear the sound of flutes and distant singing through the wall. Better leave well enough alone.

The next carriage - this had to be the third one that she’d come to, with Lady Guantes further behind all the time - was decorated in cream and ivory. The privacy shades were half-drawn, and through the small slice of window she could see pale tangled bodies in the private compartment. She kept on walking.

Abruptly the train shivered, beginning to slow. Irene looked through the outer window and saw that the view had changed. Instead of night-time countryside, she now saw … underwater. It was still dark, as they seemed to be far below the surface, but the lights of a sunken city glared on the approaching horizon. Something large and finned drifted past in the gloom on the other side of the window. Irene couldn’t see much of it, except for the single flash of teeth.

The train was almost at the sunken city now, and she had a thought. What if someone opened the outer door and flooded the corridor? What might happen?

Panicking, she ran through into the next carriage. She turned to the compartment window and it looked unoccupied. So as the train slowed, drawing into the station, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

There was a cough.

Irene spun round with a gasp. Sometimes even a Librarian could be surprised.

A woman was sitting at the far end of the compartment. She was tall, sitting razor-straight against the padded black leather seat, and was swathed in heavy deep-blue silks. A shawl was wound around her head and neck, covering her hair, but baring her face in the style that Irene had seen referred to as a
khimar
in some alternates. The lines of her stern face were as uncompromising as her posture, and there wasn’t the least ounce of softness in her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. Her lips were thin lines, drawn together in disapproval, and while the whole of her face was beautiful, it was a stern and judgemental beauty, the sort pictured in illustrations of scholarly angels and last judgements.

‘You’re late,’ she said, as the train stopped and fell silent.