The Masked City (19 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘I’m very sorry,’ Irene said, deciding to play along. The woman had spoken in Arabic, and Irene realized that she had answered in the same language. It was a pity that her accent was so bad, but she hadn’t had any reason to practise it for years.

‘No matter,’ the woman said. ‘Come and sit down. I will be lenient, since you are at least here before the others, but we have little enough time before we reach our destination. Your name, please.’

Irene mentally grabbed for some name that didn’t have any sort of betraying hidden meaning, and seized the first that came to mind. ‘Clarice, madam,’ she answered. ‘I apologize for my poor accent.’ And what did
the others
mean?

The woman waved her impatiently to the seat opposite, hands still hidden in the depths of her sleeves. There were no obvious weapons, no immediate threats or denunciations, and Irene allowed herself to relax a little. Her cover was holding. ‘It is acceptable. You have an Egyptian accent, I think. Was that where you learned the language?’

Irene nodded, taking a seat and folding her hands in her lap. ‘Yes, madam.’ Well,
an
Egypt. Though presumably this woman - a Fae woman - looked at worlds in the same way.
An
Egypt.
A
Venice. No real Platonic ideal, only a thousand different variants.

‘You may address me as Aunt Isra,’ the woman announced. ‘Now, as you are here, we will begin—’

The door slammed open, and half a dozen young men and women tried to get through it at once, babbling apologies. ‘Madam—’ ‘We’re so sorry—’ ‘We had no idea—’ ‘I would have been here earlier, but a baby fell under the train—’

Aunt Isra simply glared at them all till they shut up. The six of them - three men, three women - were a mixed bag of cultures and clothing, with one woman in skimpy black leathers with a whip at her belt, and the second in cowboy gear. Two men were bare-chested in overalls, displaying Stakhanovite muscles - one was paler and one darker-skinned, but both possessed the same heroic profile and shaven-headed style. The final woman was dapper in a perfect black business suit and perfectly polished black shoes, and the last man wore scarlet silks with a lute slung across his back. They all looked embarrassed.

‘Well might you blush,’ she snapped. Then noting some looks of confusion, she shifted to English. ‘You
do
all understand
this
language, I trust? When I agreed to take students for this journey, I expected
intelligent
young individuals, ones who would be able to
follow instructions
and perhaps even
understand
them. Your patrons may be powerful, but you are young, petty, mere observers, barely a step up from human! I did not expect to waste my time on those who would not profit from it. Even the one who came almost upon the hour - ‘ she gestured at Irene, ‘ - was late. I
abhor
lateness. Tardiness is a prime offence against courtesy.’

While she was still staggeringly confused, Irene thought she might just feel the beginnings of solid ground under her metaphorical feet. This was some sort of prearranged class. It was
information
. It was
cover
. It was, in fact, utterly perfect.

Perhaps a little too perfect?

She’d think about that later. This would be a bad moment to try to leave. Aunt Isra didn’t look as if she’d appreciate her students walking out on her. ‘We’re very sorry, Aunt Isra,’ Irene said, bowing her head. ‘We apologize for our lateness.’

The others joined her in quick murmured apologies and excuses. A couple of them threw Irene annoyed glances, of the
Why did you have to get here first and make the rest of us look bad
sort. Irene didn’t care. It meant they thought she was simply one of them, not an intruder. A thread of fear ran through her at the thought of them discovering the truth. That wouldn’t be a happy ending for her at all.

‘Sit down, all of you,’ Aunt Isra snapped. The train began to move out of the station.

They sat, squashed into the seat opposite Aunt Isra. One of the muscular young men in overalls avoided the struggle entirely, by lowering himself gracefully to the floor and folding his legs under himself. Irene was sandwiched between the woman in skimpy black leathers and the one in the business suit. She produced a notebook and silver pen from an inner pocket - and how did she fit that in there, anyhow? Irene wished
she
had a notebook.

‘As a favour to your patrons,’ Aunt Isra began, ‘I have agreed to conduct a small seminar about proper behaviour in spheres of high virtue, such as the one that we are about to visit. Some of you may have heard of me. I am a storyteller by trade and by nature, and I desire nothing better than a tale and an audience. I am often invited to these great events, so that they may be remembered properly after the fact. Perhaps, in the future, I shall remember you.’

Her gaze ran along the group. Irene worried that it delayed a little too long on her.
Paranoia only makes you look suspicious,
she reminded herself. She really,
really
wanted a notebook. This was going to have to go into the files at the Library as soon as she had the chance. It was absolutely vital background information for any close dealings with Fae or visits to high-chaos alternates. Of course you had to be indulging in this sort of hare-brained interaction with Fae in the first place to get this kind of information - which would explain why it wasn’t already there.

And providing such information might even soften any reprimands that could be coming her way. No, that
would
be coming her way.

Assuming she survived to provide the information.

‘I understand that you have all so far been limited to one sphere, or perhaps visited some local ones,’ Aunt Isra went on. ‘Would this be correct?’

General nods and murmurs of, ‘Yes, madam.’

‘You may address me as Aunt Isra,’ she said again. ‘Now, I think it’s likely you will only rarely have mingled with the great among us.’

The man in the red silk raised his hand. His clothing was cut to flatter his body (and did so very well indeed) and his hair hung in blond waves over his shoulders, draping elegantly to conceal one eye. ‘Madam - Aunt Isra - I have been fortunate enough to attend at my patron’s court for many years now, in the more median spheres, and he is a great and mighty lord—’

‘And by saying as much you betray its littleness and his weakness!’ the woman snapped. Her eyes shone like black diamonds. ‘Fool of a boy, have you not felt these spheres shake, as the Rider and his Steed passed through them? So tremble all worlds of lesser virtue when the great move among them. Those spheres will not -
cannot
- endure the power of the mighty. The sphere to which we travel is one of higher virtue and will be able to stand their presence. I say again that you will rarely have encountered the great among us, because the sphere of your nurturing could not have contained them for long. Boy, your name!’

‘Athanais the Scarlet,’ the man murmured. He rose to his feet and swept a bow.

‘Turn and apologize to your brothers and sisters for wasting their time with such a foolish question,’ Aunt Isra ordered him. ‘Think yourself lucky that I do not whip your hands to help you remember the lesson.’

Still standing, Athanais turned to Irene and the others. ‘I apologize for wasting your time with a foolish question,’ he murmured, bowing again. ‘Please forgive me.’

Amid the general embarrassed mutters of
Apology accepted, think nothing of it
, Irene mentally slapped herself. She’d been so preoccupied by Silver’s over-the-top libertine persona that she’d never really bothered to think about Fae who liked
other
sorts of roles when constructing their stories. They might still be the centre of their own narrative, but that didn’t mean they had to be the ‘hero’ or the ‘villain’ of the overarching tale. There were other roles for them to take, roles that were probably quite not so
immediately
destructive to those around them. (Though she’d hate to make a mistake in any class run by Aunt Isra. It looked as if it would be painful.) But she’d been unconsciously assuming that they’d all play out their games in the same way that Silver did his, always casting themselves as the main protagonist.

Aunt Isra was Fae, but she was also a teacher and a storyteller by nature. There had to be a way in which Irene could use this.

Aunt Isra nodded. ‘Be seated again. Well now, as I was saying, you will have had little to do with the great among us, nor will you have spent time in a sphere of high virtue - or so I was told?’ She glanced around the group and, when everyone nodded, Irene joining in, she smiled thinly. ‘Ah, this will be a new threshold for you all!’

The woman in the suit raised her hand. ‘Aunt Isra, may we ask questions?’

‘As long as they are intelligent ones,’ Aunt Isra said, not very helpfully.

The woman nodded. ‘We’ve all lived in the wake of our patrons, Aunt Isra, and followed their paths. We therefore have some understanding of what it is to be caught in the “story” of another of our kind - at least, that was the phrasing my superior used. How much … um, bigger is the effect when facing one of the great—’ She was clearly looking for some diplomatic way to say
how much worse
, and Irene herself dearly wanted to know the answer to this one.

Aunt Isra sniffed. The harsh light now coming in through the windows cast her features into strict lines of contrast and shadow. ‘Certainly you can flee, young woman, and retreat back to whatever sphere you came from. No doubt there will be humans there who will feed you sufficient adoration to keep you alive. But it will be no
more
than living. Once you have tasted the full wine of following in the steps of the great ones, nothing less will content you. Once I -
I myself!
- was but a humble maiden who bore her sword in the service of the great Caliph al-Rashid. All things seemed possible to me then. I will admit that I had lovers - nay, even
friends
- among the humans. I could live within that petty sphere because I did not realize how much was to be had outside it.’

Beyond the window was desert, punctuated by cacti, tumbleweeds and thin stony paths. The sun burned down on it from a cloudless sky.

Aunt Isra’s voice had shifted into the rising and falling patterns of a story. ‘But then I told a tale that set a Djinn free, and I travelled thrice across the shifting sands with friends to answer its questions. I walked the paths that lead from Paradise to Hell, and I made five choices at their doors. I gave a hero the reins to a horse that galloped faster than the wind. I knelt at the feet of an emperor who ruled five worlds, and I told him a story that brought doom on one of them, but saved another. I lay in the arms of the ocean and bore her a child. And once I had done all these things, my children, I saw how little it was worth to be - to be merely a person who had the name that I once had. What are humans, compared to the wine of life, which is found by living as we do? I am what I am, and now I have no desire to be less.

Is ‘less’ really the word?
Irene wondered, then thought
It is for her.

‘Cast aside your uncertainties,’ Aunt Isra went on. ‘Be who you
are
. It is the way forward, my children, the way to power, the way to life. And the greater the virtue of the place where you walk, the easier this will be. I see from your clothing and your habits that you are all well established in your own spheres, which is good. But the great among us can walk in any sphere and will appear in the dress and style appropriate to their nature. They can speak, and they will be understood in any language. They are unchanging, because they have utterly become themselves, and will never be otherwise.’

Irene tentatively raised her hand.

‘Yes?’ Aunt Isra said. She seemed a little less brittle now, more lyrical storyteller than sharp teacher. ‘What have you to say, Clarice?’

‘Aunt Isra,’ Irene said carefully, her stomach clenching at the risk of drawing more attention to herself, ‘when I entered the train, I noticed the driver. But he was difficult to see clearly. I saw many different faces and styles of clothing, but each one was appropriate in its own way. He is one of the great ones, isn’t he?’ Nervousness prickled down her back like an echo of her Library brand, as other people in the carriage looked in her direction.

The train came to a smooth stop. Stagecoaches were waiting outside. From the corner of her eye, Irene could see men in white suits and top hats, and women with parasols and ornate gowns, being helped down from the stagecoaches. They were approaching coaches further down the train.

Aunt Isra nodded. ‘He is the Rider. He and his Horse share a story. Do all here know it?’

Before Irene had to either admit she didn’t or pretend she did, the man in overalls who was sitting on the floor raised his hand. ‘Of course, Aunt Isra. I’m surprised that Clarice here isn’t more fully aware of it.’

Snippy, snippy,
Irene thought.
Just because I was here on time.
But she also felt a pang of apprehension, in case she’d exposed her ignorance.