The Dark Archive (The Invisible Library Novel) Page 8

“Let’s say I think you should reconsider,” Sterrington said. “Firstly, necromancy may be practiced in some worlds, but it doesn’t work on my kind. Secondly, you definitely killed Lord Guantes. I should know. I spent over an hour sitting in the same train carriage as his dead body. Thirdly, I believe you think you’re speaking the truth. Therefore—lastly—you’ve been deceived in some way. Perfectly understandable, of course. But you haven’t told anyone else . . . have you?”

  Irene clicked her tongue. “Really, Sterrington, give me credit for not being entirely lacking in sense.”

  Sterrington flushed. “I should have known better,” she said, neatly avoiding an actual apology. Fae didn’t like admitting error any more than humans. “It’s just the Cardinal wouldn’t like such rumours. It upsets the political balance. I don’t suppose you have any evidence to back up your wild claim?”

  “I do, actually, but it’s with Kai for analysis.” Trusting anyone was a gamble, and Sterrington had worked for Lord Guantes before. But Sterrington’s current patron, the Cardinal, was in favour of the peace treaty. As a result, they might even count on his and Sterrington’s aid. She ran through the details and saw doubt drift across Sterrington’s face like a shadow crossing the moon. “So you see,” she finished, “I have valid evidence—”

  “Of something, certainly,” Sterrington cut in. “I wish you’d given me that laptop. We have our own expert analysts, you know.”

  “Did the world I described sound familiar to you?” Irene asked, dodging the subject.

  Sterrington looked thoughtful, turning her pen over and over between gloved fingers. “Not specifically. It sounds like a world with a high degree of technology, and chaos, but there are so many of those. However, I find your description of that door into it rather worrying.”

  “Why worrying?”

  “Because of what it implies.”

  “Sterrington, I’ve seen Fae travel between worlds on their own, or through the agency of a more powerful Fae. It wasn’t treated as in any way unusual. And dragons can move between realms too . . . Is a permanent door between two worlds something new?”

  Sterrington took several seconds to answer. Finally she said, “It’s new in my experience, and yes, troubling. There are legends that it is possible, but . . . different spheres”—she used the Fae term for alternate worlds—“aren’t meant to be tied so closely together. It’s very bad for both realms.”

  “That’s not encouraging.”

  “No, it isn’t. I may need to report this.” Sterrington pulled herself together. “I still don’t think you saw Lord Guantes, though. Whoever threatened you is an impostor, or a clone, or a brainwashed minion . . . or something else set up to confuse you. You want to be looking for the person you didn’t see.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Lady Guantes,” Sterrington said. “She’s trying to taunt you, using her dead husband. It makes perfect sense that she’s behind the recent attacks upon you and your friends. And that she’s trying to kill me because I failed them, then took a new patron.”

  “But how could they predict that I’d even be there with Vale, never mind that I’d find—and open—that door? Then see Lord Guantes waiting there . . .”

  “May I be frank?” Sterrington asked.

  Irene sighed. This was always the sign of a fast-approaching insult. “Do go on,” she said drily.

  “With the utmost respect, anyone who knows you would expect you to investigate a potentially dangerous door while already facing a life-or-death situation.”

  Irene liked to think of herself as sensible. But she couldn’t deny she’d gone through the door. “I viewed it as a rational step in an urgent investigation,” she said with dignity.

  But there was a nagging feeling at the back of Irene’s mind. It suggested that any hypothesis that fitted the data so conveniently was by nature unreliable. “But why?” she said. “What good does it do Lady Guantes to kill us? And why now, after all this time?”

  “Vengeance. What else?” Sterrington said.

  “Still . . .” Irene picked her words carefully. “She’s a pragmatic woman, from what I remember of her. Pursuing personal vengeance, for its own sake, doesn’t feel like her style.”

  “Just because we don’t know why she’s doing it doesn’t invalidate the hypothesis that it’s her,” Sterrington persisted.

  But Irene hadn’t finished. “Could Lady Guantes be targeting the peace treaty instead, with a sweetener of personal vengeance on the side? Killing all three representatives would cause havoc. And she and her husband did try to trigger a dragon-Fae war before, to benefit from the chaos that war brings. That was the whole point of kidnapping Kai.”

  Sterrington nodded slowly. “It makes sense.”

  “I just wish we knew more about her,” Irene said in frustration. “Lord Guantes was always the more flamboyant one. Or do you know something that I don’t?”

  Sterrington shook her head. “It seems she liked operating in the shadows. The very opposite to her husband’s archetype. I don’t even know her original name.”

  Irene nodded, a thought occurring. “But doesn’t the Cardinal have files on everyone?”

  “He certainly has files on Lord Guantes . . . although as we said, the lady is secretive,” Sterrington added.

  “Could you share them?”

  “I suppose I could put in a request,” she said grudgingly.

  “Thank you.”

  “In the meantime, there’s the question of Silver’s niece,” Sterrington said, her tone a little too casual. “Now you’re a target, you could leave her with me. I’ll guarantee her safety. Then you can hunt down Lady Guantes—you and Prince Kai—without worrying about her.” Sterrington’s barely hidden enthusiasm was disconcerting.

  And give you full access to a Fae who might become a Librarian, a girl who is currently nervous, impressionable, and off balance, Irene thought. I really don’t think so.

  Irene knew Sterrington could see the denial in her eyes. However, the Fae just shrugged. “The offer’s open. I’d keep her safe. It might be safer for you too.”

  “In what way?”

  “Catherine has come out of nowhere—no references but Lord Silver, no backing, no personal recommendations, no previous employment records.” Sterrington paused. “Who can be sure about her background? And who might she be talking to behind your back? People have been trying to shoot all of us, but not her.”

  Irene wanted to write all this off as spite, because she wouldn’t hand the girl over . . . but it did mirror some of her earlier suspicions about Catherine. “Given the savagery of Fae politics, I can see why Silver would keep young family members hidden,” she said. “And so far she’s proven herself trustworthy. Also, they did try to poison her too in Guernsey.”

  “Oh, quite, quite.” Sterrington leaned forward. “But I hope you’re maintaining proper objectivity. Sometimes I think you have a tendency to become . . . emotionally attached to your junior co-workers.”

  Irene met Sterrington’s stare with her own best blank face. “I’m only interested in books,” she said, and wished it were true.

  There was a rap at the office door; then a young man burst in. The room must have been soundproofed, as Irene could only now hear screams and running in the corridors.

  “Madam,” the man said, flinching at Sterrington’s glare, “forgive me, we need to evacuate. The building’s on fire.”

  CHAPTER 7

  An accident or deliberate?” Sterrington demanded. The screams were getting louder and Irene could smell smoke.

  “I don’t know, madam . . . but the fire alarms didn’t go off.”

  “Where’s the nearest fire escape?” Irene asked.

  The man looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, madam, but we discovered it was badly damaged. The lifts are down for maintenance and the fire has made the stairs impassabl
e. We’ll need to get to the roof and take one of the Zeppelins instead.” He looked pale and his jacket was singed.

  Sterrington quickly retrieved a few small objects from a desk drawer. “Come on, let’s move. No fire alarms, and the fire escape damaged? Clearly arson. Lead the way, Wickson.”

  “Where is everyone?” Irene asked, following her into the now noticeably empty corridor. It had been bustling when she was ushered in but now just a few people were visible, disappearing at some speed down a corridor.

  “It’s lunchtime,” said Wickson as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. Lunch-break was a sacred institution in these times.

  Sterrington refused to catch Irene’s eye. “My personal assistant doesn’t need a lunch hour,” she said in an almost defensive tone.

  They turned a corner. The fire escape door swung open, offering a view of a black iron staircase, a few stragglers climbing to safety, and the opposite city block thirty yards away. Thick smoke curled between them and distant safety.

  “Isn’t the fire escape damaged?” snapped Sterrington.

  Flinching, Wickson said, “Yes, madam, but only that section below. We can still get to the roof.” It seemed the rickety rungs were their only hope.

  “To the Zeppelins, then,” Sterrington proclaimed, flinging herself out of the door and onto the stairs.

  Of course Irene looked down, just for a moment. Ten storeys below, fire wreathed the building—and the blaze was at least three storeys high. Smoke billowed upwards, increasing with every passing moment, and the air was hot as she breathed it in. Through the windows of the building opposite she saw horrified faces. If only it were close enough to jump.

  The metal steps rang beneath her feet as she hurried to the roof, following the fire escape in its zigzag up the side of the building. She could hear people panicking above her.

  Then there was a crash from above that shook the whole building. The stairs shuddered against the wall as though they were about to rip free, tossing them against the flimsy rail. Irene fell to her knees, clinging to the bare metal steps as they shivered under her. When she looked up, she could see that Wickson and Sterrington were braced against the wall.

  Irene clawed to her feet again, and they all scrambled up the final section to the roof. There Irene paused, taking in the scope of the disaster.

  One of the Zeppelins had crashed in the middle of the landing space. The other, still anchored to the roof by a tether, was tilting in mid-air, the fans on one side working double-time while the other side faltered. The glass window at the front was shattered—and Irene caught a glimpse of a prone body inside. It began to lose height, also careening towards the landing area. The people on the roof screamed, scattering towards the edge.

  “No fire alarms, and the fire escape damaged? Clearly arson,” Sterrington had said. And now the Zeppelins were down too.

  Irene pulled herself to her feet, assessing the possibilities. The building nearest to the fire escape was impossible to reach. The remains of the Zeppelins were now piled up like a child’s discarded toys, gasbags deflated and girders bent, ropes flapping loose and their canvas torn. The Zeppelins’ mooring gear lay uselessly beside them, cables still neatly coiled.

  Cables.

  The closest building was to the west. Irene ran that way, shouldering her way through the crowd, to see if there was a chance of achieving what she had in mind. The neighbouring offices’ roof also featured a flat platform surrounded by railings, in exactly the same style as Sterrington’s office block. Perfect.

  In the street below, the fire engines had finally turned up and were pumping water into the flames. But it wasn’t going to be enough. Smoke was already beginning to rise through the higher windows in the block, making the trapped mob around her cough and choke.

  Sterrington’s expression lightened as she saw Irene approaching. “Have you found a way out of here?” she asked.

  “I have, but I’ll need your help,” Irene said, saving a snippy Do you think I can work miracles? for another day. She lowered her voice. “I need rope—the mooring cables from those Zeppelins will do. We need to drag it over to the west side there. I’m going to make a bridge to the next building.”

  Wickson coughed—admonitory, rather than smoke-induced. “Madam, we can’t throw ropes of that weight with any accuracy across that distance. And how would we tie them at the other end?”

  Sterrington silenced him with a gesture. “If she says she can do it, she can. Get her the ropes. Irene, do you seriously plan to have us tightrope-walk across?”

  But Wickson didn’t give up his lack of hope easily. “The mooring cables will be attached to the centre of the platform, madam.”

  “Don’t worry,” Irene said. “I’ll detach them. Be ready to carry them.”

  After a bit of applied Language to detach the four cables from their mooring points, she was in position on the west side. Two of Sterrington’s men had dragged the heavy cables over, while others kept the panicking crowd back while she worked. Everyone seemed to assume that ropes somehow equalled safety, rather than realizing that thirty yards of rope wouldn’t get them to the ground. She had to work fast, before she was overrun.

  She touched one of the cables and put her hand on one of the vertical railings. “Rope which I’m touching, bind one end around the base of the railing I’m holding.”

  She repeated the process with the next mooring line, setting it a couple of feet above the first. The cables coiled like pythons, knotting themselves firmly in place. Good. This would work. This had to work.

  She took a deep breath, ignoring the hot air that rippled her skirts, the sweat that ran down her back, the shouting behind her, and the rising smoke. Then she touched the knotted cable before her and pointed to the adjacent building. “Rope which I’m touching, bind your free end around the railing directly opposite belonging to the building I’m indicating with my finger.”

  Nobody ever said the Language was elegant. Especially when its wielder was almost on fire. She did the same with the next rope, again commanding it to fasten above the first. The cables were several inches thick, strong enough to hold an airship, but far too heavy to throw. Yet under the force of the Language each rose in turn, spearing across the twenty-yard gap and grappling around the railings on the far side.

  It wasn’t much of a bridge. One line was strung above the other, so an escapee could shuffle sideways along one—while holding a guide rope at waist height to avoid plunging to their death. The hawsers were each about six inches in diameter, but it would still have required an acrobat to walk across them without something to hold. It would be terrifying. But it was a way off the top of this burning edifice.

  “Right,” Irene said, leaning on the rail to catch her breath. The smoke made her cough. “Sterrington, have your people keep this orderly . . .”

  “On it already,” Sterrington said, passing her a hip flask, which proved to contain brandy.

  Irene took a reviving swallow, ignoring her growing headache, and repeated her words in the Language with the other two cables, setting up a second bridge. Sterrington was scanning the nearby buildings with a careful eye.

  “Something I missed?” Irene asked.

  “Those Zeppelins were shot down,” Sterrington said quietly. People were being shepherded—or shoved—onto the cable “bridges” and struggling across to the next building with varying degrees of grace. Nobody had fallen off. So far, anyway. “Snipers. They must be nearby.” She jerked her chin towards the higher buildings, unwilling to point obviously. “The question is whether they’ve gone, or whether they’re waiting to make sure their targets don’t get away. Whoever they may be.” She flicked a glance to Irene, then the remaining roof dwellers.

  Irene followed her gaze. “Just how many people in this building are there who might have assassins coming after them?”

  Sterrington shrugged. “We
have the Mafia, or a holding company representing the Mumbai underworld. Also some dubious businessmen from Germany, plus shell companies for the Seventh Hell Brotherhood and the Cathedral of Reason. Both of the latter are secret societies, so you didn’t hear that from me, by the way. I didn’t pick this place by accident, you know. I wanted somewhere where the highly elite—and enormously wealthy—based their offices.”

  “And the highly illegal,” Irene muttered.

  Sterrington shrugged. “The highly effective.”

  Irene coughed and held her sleeve to her mouth to block the smoke. “So if the snipers are still here . . . are you waiting to see if they shoot people as well as Zeppelins?”

  “Why else do you think I’m standing here, rather than escaping?”

  “Yes, that did seem rather unusual,” Irene admitted. “So you do think this is aimed at you.”

  “Why say that?”

  “Because otherwise you’d be out of here and to hell with the snipers.”

  Sterrington looked as if she was about to object, then gave up. “The Guantes duo were famous for the well-laid trap. They could be very useful, in fact. Sometimes I really regret they went out of business.”

  Irene sighed. “Come on,” she said. “Snipers or no snipers, we need to get off the roof—now. The smoke’s getting too thick for safety.”

  Most people had fled to safety over her bridges, but Sterrington’s men were still waiting. Irene ignored the itch on the back of her neck at the thought of a sniper taking aim, and concentrated. She tucked up her skirt and clambered over the railings, trying not to look down. Her feet found the lower rope and she began to inch sideways across the drop, clutching the guide rope with sweating hands.

  The street below was dizzyingly far away—and busy. Through the smoke she could make out the uniforms of police and firemen, the black and grey of other office workers, and the more colourful clothing of ordinary people drawn by the excitement. Some of them seemed to be shouting and waving at her. She felt no urge to wave back. The flames were at the sixth or seventh floor now, and still rising, roaring, unstoppable. She could feel the incredible heat. Black smoke streamed upwards, building a pillar in the sky higher than any of the surrounding office blocks.