Pure adrenaline was running through Irene’s veins. ‘I think of it more as disaster management,’ she answered. I could ask her where the Carceri are. But would she tell me, even if she knew? Even if I threatened to shoot her? It’s not worth revealing what I know. ‘Don’t try to follow me for a few minutes. For both our sakes, if you please.’
Lady Guantes stepped back, signalling surrender. There was a very nasty set to her mouth, and the space between Irene’s shoulder-blades developed a whole new itch as she walked past the Fae. Does she have a knife, and is she about to use it? But there were no knives, no screams of warning and no shots from hidden second guns. However, every step out of the library took minutes off Irene’s life, as she scanned back and forth for pursuit or Fae backup.
Finally she found her way out onto the piazzetta. Fantastically brilliant sunlight sprayed down on her and the crowd as she mingled with it and, just then, the sound of running feet came from the direction of the Doge’s Palace. It was easy to turn and look, since everyone else was turning to look, and she saw a squad of black-uniformed men trotting through the crowd, as bystanders melted out of their path. Walking briskly next to a man in gold-trimmed uniform, presumably their leader, was Sterrington.
Irene sighed as she turned away. Well, clearly she hadn’t been quite as convincing last night as she’d thought. She couldn’t even blame Sterrington: after all, she was here to spy too.
And now I’m trapped, if escaping via the Library isn’t an option … No, she would not let herself despair. She had a job to do, and just because one escape route had been ruled out didn’t mean that others didn’t exist.
The alley rose into a bridge that crossed a small canal, and she looked down the canal towards the open water of the bay. The wide span of glittering water seemed to stretch out forever, but across it lay the black line of the Train and its impossible railway.
I need an escape route. The Rider might not help me … but what about the Horse?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At first Irene had expected that people would be shunning the Train and its platform like a plague ship complete with rats. But as she came closer, she saw that a steady stream of visitors was forming a busy crowd around it.
‘Do you know what it is?’ she asked the middle-aged woman next to her in the crowd. The woman was clutching a tray of lace kerchiefs to her bosom, and her greying hair was pinned back with merciless precision under a cap of the same lace.
The woman shrugged. ‘Some new ship from out down by the Sicilies, I heard. They topped it with metal because of the volcanoes.’
Irene nodded meaninglessly. ‘And all those rich folk on board must have money to spend.’
‘Where are you from?’ the woman asked. Now that she was actually looking at Irene, her eyes were uncomfortably shrewd. ‘You don’t sound local.’
Probably not. Irene had learned her spoken Italian from an Austrian who’d learned the language in Rome. The best she could hope for in terms of Italian accent was ‘unidentifiable’. ‘My brother Roberto and I used to live in Rome,’ she invented.
‘Rome.’ The other woman turned up her nose a little. ‘Well, I suppose people have to live somewhere.’
Irene quickly lost her in the press of the crowd, to her relief. That was the problem with asking questions - people asked them back.
It was easy to mingle with the people moving forward to ogle the Train, and a simple matter to file out onto the platform and join the vendors supplying the crowd of curious townsfolk there. It really did seem to be a bit of a tourist attraction. And the Train itself stood quiet and ominous, the sun gleaming brilliantly on its dark steel body and flashing off the windows.
Irene pushed herself forward, insinuating herself through the mob. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to a man with a tray full of pastries. ‘Pardon me.’ She circled round an elderly gentleman offering a set of supposedly holy relics, and found herself pressed up against one of the Train’s doors.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to nobody in particular, and tried the handle. It turned smoothly, and she stepped up inside the Train with a sigh of relief, quickly closing the door behind her.
It had changed. Now the corridor was all smooth ebony panelling and dark pewter metalwork, and the windows were shaded glass - so dark-toned that it was barely possible to see outside. And all sounds from outside were cut off. The flood of people ebbed and surged silently outside, their faces and hands like pale froth on the surface of a shadowy sea.
Irene took a deep breath. It was time to do something thoroughly reckless. ‘My name is Irene,’ she said in the Language. ‘I am a servant of the Library. I would like to speak with the Horse.’
Her words echoed in the carriage corridor like whip cracks and left a tense silence behind.
Come on, come on - at least be curious enough to find out what’s going on …
With a sound like an exhalation, the door at the far end of the corridor slid open, moving smoothly in its grooves. It was probably the closest thing to an invitation that she was going to get.
Irene began walking down the carriage towards it, but couldn’t reach it. The carriage was longer than it should be - not seemingly longer, but actually longer, stretching out without any clear markers of distance or space. She always seemed the same distance from the door, but never made any progress.
All right. Perhaps this was a test. Was it like every other Fae she’d had to deal with here, wanting to interact with her on its own terms? Through a fictional lens? As a story? But this time she was going to tell the story.