The Mortal Word Page 7

  This new revelation lay like a lump of ice in Irene’s stomach. She felt very detached from the room around her. “Spare me the theatrics,” she said. “Of course I’ll do the job. And thank you”—she emphasised the words bitterly—“for giving me that to worry about as well as everything else.”

  “Better that you hear it from us than from someone else,” Coppelia said quietly.

  There was a hard rap on the door. “Are you ready to accompany us, Miss Winters?” came Duan Zheng’s voice.

  “Come back for another briefing later,” Coppelia said quickly, as Prutkov moved across to pass Irene a heavy purse. “That’s for expenses. And, Irene . . .” She hesitated. “This peace conference was kept quiet because we were afraid some Librarians couldn’t be trusted with the information. The murder could prove that we might have been right. Be very careful.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The sky was stained with red as they arrived at the Ritz hotel: it was dawn, and Paris was already fully awake. The streets, previously so quiet and atmospheric, were now full of traffic, with new-style motor cars jostling for space with both horse-drawn carriages and bicycles. Even in the refined surroundings of the Ritz hotel, the noises of morning Paris drifted through the windows and faintly insinuated themselves through the walls. The shrill parping of motor horns, the clatter of hooves and creak of wheels on stone, the sound of voices . . .

  Irene stared at a closed door, flanked by Duan Zheng’s bodyguards, and pondered the universal human—and apparently draconic too—constant of hurry up and wait. She’d been rushed here the moment that she stepped out of her conference with the elder Librarians, but now she could only sit and wait for the dragon king to have time to see her. At least she’d been allowed to sit. It gave her time to brood over exactly what she’d say to her parents when she saw them again.

  Finally—finally—the door opened, and a human servant appeared. He bowed to Duan Zheng, then (rather to Irene’s surprise) to Irene herself, and said, “His Majesty will receive the Librarian now.”

  Cold air brushed Irene’s bare skin as she entered the suite. It was like the first moment of walking outside on a snowy morning, before one has had time to get used to the briskness of the air: it caught in her throat and burned against her cheeks. She tried not to shiver too obviously. Instead she curtseyed to the dragon in the centre of the room, giving him a full measure of respect, and took advantage of the moment to steady herself.

  As with other dragon monarchs, the room was full of his power. It was as still as a frozen lake, as ominous as the dark of the moon: Irene felt the Library brand across her shoulders blaze up in response, in a burn that was almost comforting.

  “You may rise and address me,” Ao Ji said. His light tenor voice might almost have been friendly, but Irene could hear the ice beneath it. “You are the Librarian who calls herself Irene Winters?”

  “I am, Your Majesty,” Irene said, drawing herself upright.

  Ao Ji was wrapped in a heavy white silk robe that matched his skin, hair, and scales: although he was in humanoid form, he had not bothered to conceal his draconic nature. His eyes were vivid ruby, as bright as blood, and the claws on his fingers glittered like diamonds. Scale-patterns traced across his skin like ferns or frost, more intricate than the embroideries on his robe. His hair was the same snow-white as his skin, caught back in a long braid that bared the two small horns on his forehead. Only his eyes and mouth were a dash of colour against the white. He was paler than the elegant gold-framed white panelling on the walls, but he made it look cheap by comparison: the suite was impossibly luxurious, but next to him, it seemed barely fit for use.

  He considered Irene with those unnerving red eyes and took a sip of tea from the cup he held in his right hand. Steam coiled up from it in the cold air. “Where is the detective whom you were to bring with you?”

  “He is examining the scene of the crime, Your Majesty,” Irene said. Had Ao Ji never been faced with a murder like this? Possibly not. Possibly he didn’t even read crime fiction. “He felt it his duty to do so as soon as possible.”

  “I would have brought him too, Your Majesty, but Mu Dan said I should let him finish,” Duan Zheng said from behind Irene’s shoulder. “If she instructed me wrongly—”

  Ao Ji shook his head, cutting Duan Zheng off. “Mu Dan is an acclaimed investigator. If she says it is the proper procedure, then we may trust her. You, however, Irene Winters, have little to recommend you.”

  Irene weighed proper courtesy, and the urgent need to keep Ao Ji in a good mood, against what she thought she could get away with. “Then may I ask why Your Majesty has accepted me as an investigator in this case?”

  Ao Ji’s expression didn’t change. “The other Librarians have even less to commend them. You are a petty and venal crew, barely aware of your obligations, untrustworthy and unreliable.”

  He seemed to want some sort of answer to that. “I regret that we have displeased Your Majesty,” Irene murmured.

  “You at least have a proper sense of filial duty to your parents,” Ao Ji went on. Was that approval in his voice? “I am told that you are obedient to your superiors and that you have risked your life to protect my nephew from his own foolishness.”

  Is this all because Kai’s been saying nice things about me? No, that can’t be right. Ao Ji had already approved me as the Library representative before Kai could have reached him. “I am honoured by Your Majesty’s words,” Irene replied. “I hope that I can serve both the Library and you in this matter by finding out who committed this terrible murder.”

  The liquid in Ao Ji’s cup froze with an audible crack as the temperature dropped. “Yes,” Ao Ji said, his voice suddenly harsh, bitter with personal grief. “You do well to remind me of our priorities. Ren Shun’s murderer must be found and brought to judgement. All those who are involved in this crime will pay for it. You will seek out the murderer, however well they are hidden and however highly they may be placed.” His eyes were frozen rubies fixed on her face. The cold swell of his power hung over her like a glacier. “Even if it is the Fae delegation. Even if one of your fellow Librarians is to blame. I will not suffer the truth to be hidden from me.”

  Irene breathed deeply. The icy air bit at her lungs. She took that pain and used it, forcing herself to remain standing rather than curtsey or fall to her knees, making herself return his gaze rather than look down like a servant. “Your Majesty,” she said, hearing her own words sound thin and shallow against Ao Ji’s power, “the Library wants peace. We are sincere in supporting this peace conference. We are the enemy of whoever has committed this crime, wherever they may be. I speak with the full support of my superiors. We will find the truth.”

  I hope, she thought in the silence of her mind, where Ao Ji couldn’t hear her.

  Slowly the chill ebbed away. Ao Ji put his teacup down on a side table and nodded. “I will hold you to your word,” he said. “Now. Tell me what your next steps will be.”

  “The first steps in an investigation of this nature are to examine the body of the deceased and the scene of the crime,” Irene said. “We will also need to know the victim’s actions on the night he was murdered, and what everybody else was doing at that time. I would be grateful if you could tell me what you know about Lord Ren Shun’s actions and motivations that night, Your Majesty.”

  Ao Ji folded his hands in his lap. “The two of us, and others of my retinue, had dined together here at this hotel in the early evening. I had noticed that he was troubled, and when we were alone I asked him what disturbed him.”

  Irene nodded encouragingly.

  Ao Ji looked away from Irene, towards one of the huge windows, as if he could stare into the past. “You must understand that Ren Shun often heard things that I did not. One of his functions was to bring these pieces of information to me.”

  Spymaster. Right. “I understand, Your Majesty,” Irene said.

&nbs
p; “He told me that he had overheard two people speaking at the neutral hotel. He could not be certain of their identity, but they had agreed that the negotiations were proceeding as they desired. One of them used the phrase . . .” He paused, recollecting. “Everything is playing out as we wanted. Yes. That was it. And the other had said that when it was all done, would they get the book? And the first one said yes. They said that the peace conference wasn’t truly important—that the really significant thing was the book.”

  Irene swallowed. She had to admit that wording of that nature did rather point to Librarians. “I can see why a statement like that would have troubled him, Your Majesty,” she agreed. A thought struck her. “But he didn’t recognize either of the speakers?”

  “No,” Ao Ji said. “Though he did say that they were whispering; he could have failed to recognize a voice he would have known under normal circumstances. He was not certain of their gender, either.”

  Irene nodded. “And after he had told you this, Your Majesty?”

  “I was disturbed.” A veil of cloud was building across the sky outside the window: thin, shredding wisps slowly melding together into dark cumulus masses. But was it an echo of Ao Ji’s mood and power, or just coincidence? “It was a new factor in the deliberations. I had expected treachery from the Fae, of course, but not from the Library.”

  “Given that he didn’t recognize the speakers, is it possible that the whole business was a fake, meant to incriminate the Library?” Irene offered.

  There was an echoing silence. Ao Ji extended his hand. Without a word, one of his servants placed a fresh teacup in it.

  It seemed that idea wasn’t going anywhere—until and unless Irene could get some evidence to back it up. “Do you know what he did next, Your Majesty?”

  “Sadly not.” The clouds outside drew together, shadowing the Parisian square beyond the window. “He said that he would make further investigations later. I retired for the night. He must have left the hotel . . . but I do not know when. Our last conversation ended shortly after eleven o’clock—I recall that the clock in his rooms struck the hour while we were speaking.”

  Irene nodded. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I appreciate the information. We will need to check with the other possible witnesses in this hotel to find out when he left it.”

  Ao Ji frowned, but he didn’t actually contradict her. “Duan Zheng,” he said. “How should this be arranged?”

  Duan Zheng bowed. “My lord, I believe the two Librarians assigned to you have already been taking statements from members of your retinue, their servants, and from the hotel staff here. That should suffice.”

  “Thank you very much,” Irene said. She gave Duan Zheng her most charming smile. “That will make it much easier for us to know who to ask for more information.”

  “Why should you need more information than that?” Duan Zheng demanded. “The murder took place at Le Meurice, not here.”

  Irene wasn’t sure whether he was genuinely that ignorant about criminal investigations or simply being obstructive on general principles. “If it did take place at Le Meurice,” she said, “then it may be relevant what time he left here, and when he could have arrived there. It’s too late now to be certain how long the body was dead before it was found—”

  The temperature dipped. She felt cold air clutch at her throat like a hand. Ao Ji’s expression drew into lines of anger.

  “Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect,” she said quickly. “No insult was intended to Lord Ren Shun’s memory. It’s just that certain vocabulary is commonly used in these cases.”

  “Maybe,” Ao Ji grated, “but this is not a common case. You will remember that.”

  “As Your Majesty says,” Irene said. This was not the time or place to moralise about there being thousands of other murder victims, questioning what made this one special, et cetera. This was the time and place to say yes, sir and avoid being thrown off the investigation. Or frozen to death. “But I hope you can see why we may need to establish exactly when Lord Ren Shun left this hotel, and if anyone knows where he went after that.”

  “To Le Meurice, surely,” Duan Zheng said, “since he was killed there.”

  Irene thought back to that outline on the floor. There had been blood, but had there been enough blood? Could Ren Shun have been killed somewhere else and then moved there? It would be easier to move a dead body than manhandle a living dragon. Come to think of it, there were certain other things that might happen if one attacked a dragon . . . “Your Majesty,” she said, “may I ask a question?”

  “Of course,” Ao Ji said.

  “I’ve noticed that many dragons have some sort of elemental affinity,” Irene said. She’d also found out that some of them—weaker ones—didn’t, and were rather touchy on the subject. So she needed to phrase this carefully until she knew which type Duan Zheng, right behind her, was. “And they can call their element to support them if they are fighting—floods, for example, or earthquakes. Did Lord Ren Shun have a power of that type?”

  Ao Ji fixed her with his gaze again. “His nature was rain and water. But he was stabbed in the back. He was murdered by treachery. He would have had no time to resist.”

  Irene made a mental note to see if there had been any unexpected surges in the Seine that night, and nodded. “Thank you, Your Majesty. That may be relevant.”

  There was a knock at the suite door. One of the human servants who stood silently and anonymously around the suite moved to answer it. He returned with a tray on which lay a couple of notes. “Your Majesty, there is a message for you, and one for Miss Winters.”

  Ao Ji put down his teacup to rip the envelope open and extract the letter inside. “It is from Mu Dan,” he said after a moment. “She is escorting the detective to examine Ren Shun’s remains, and will bring him here as soon as possible afterwards.”

  Duan Zheng snorted. “Her grasp of priorities leaves something to be desired, my lord.”

  “She has reasons.” The clouds beyond the window drew in again, massing darkly above Paris. “She fears there may be Fae interference. I imagine she is correct. Their malice and insanity are habitual. They will seize whatever advantage they can gain.”

  Irene ripped open her own envelope: she’d recognized Vale’s handwriting on the front. Winters, her letter ran, I’ve gone to the Paris Morgue with Mu Dan to examine the corpse. Kindly join us as soon as possible, and bring any witness statements that you’ve obtained. Make my excuses to the dragon king in whatever language you think he’ll find least objectionable: I’ll question him later when I have the time. Vale.

  “Is your letter relevant?” Ao Ji enquired.

  “Vale presents his apologies, Your Majesty,” Irene embroidered. “He hopes to attend on you as soon as possible, but he felt that it was a matter of urgency to investigate the deceased first. He asks that I join him.”

  “Then I will release you to do so,” Ao Ji said. “I will expect you to report soon.”

  As Irene murmured polite agreement, there was another knock at the door. A servant checked and reported, “Your breakfast has arrived, Your Majesty.”

  Ao Ji frowned slightly. His body shimmered, and then with hardly a breath’s pause, a normal human was sitting in his chair. Well, relatively normal—his hair and skin were still bone-white, his eyes were red, and his face was still inhumanly perfect. But the scales and the horns were gone, and his fingernails were no more than normal human length. He might draw glances for his coloration, but he wouldn’t do so for any non-human abnormalities. “They may enter,” he said.

  The door clicked open. Two hotel staff, their uniforms freshly pressed and their brass buttons shining, came in with trays, while a third behind them pushed a trolley weighed down with covered dishes and fringed with linen drapes. Irene moved out of their way, tucking Vale’s note into her handbag. She could smell some of the dishes—fresh bread, some sort of fish ri
sotto, bacon, cinnamon, coffee—and her stomach clenched, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since last night. Perhaps she could grab something on the way out of the hotel . . .

  “Wait,” Duan Zheng said suddenly. He stepped forward to grasp the arm of one of the two tray carriers. “Who are you and what is your purpose here?”

  The question hung in the air for a moment. Then both men dropped their trays, reaching into their jackets and pulling out guns.

  The third man grabbed a heavy pistol from under a linen drape and levelled it at Ao Ji. “Death to the bourgeoisie!” he shouted, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Irene tackled him.

  It was a very inelegant action, but it worked. His shot went wild, hitting something solid—not a person, she thought, there hadn’t been a scream—and the two of them went rolling across the floor together. A gust of air like the dead of winter given physical form shrieked across the room above them, and there was a sound like breaking wood, and the crash of a door being thrown open. Irene ignored it, focusing on subduing the man beneath her. He hadn’t been expecting to fight a woman, and at first he tried to simply throw her off by superior force.

  That was the only mistake he had time to make. She elbowed him in the side of the throat, then forced him face-down and got her knee in the small of his back, twisting his arms behind him while he was gasping for breath.

  When she had a moment to look up and around, the two other men had both been downed. In fact, they were lying on the floor with their limbs and necks at angles that suggested they would never be moving again.

  “This one too?” Duan Zheng said, indicating Irene’s prisoner with the toe of a well-polished shoe.

  Irene realized what permission he was asking for from Ao Ji. “No, wait!” she said. “We need answers.”

  Then she realized that Kai was in the room as well.