CHAPTER 19

Irene brushed flakes of melting snow from her dress in as unconcerned a manner as she could manage. “Lord Li Ming, how nice to see you. I hope that I’m not taking you away from anything important.”

“Only the usual round of meetings,” Li Ming said. “I take it that you haven’t been asked to join any yourself?”

“No,” Irene said, grateful that nobody had tried to corral her. “I’ve been kept busy with this investigation. And as you’ve probably deduced, that’s what I’d like to discuss with you.”

“I’m not really surprised.” Li Ming glanced along the corridor. “Will here do for a little chat, or would you rather take it elsewhere? And do you require witnesses?”

“What I require is information,” Irene said. “I can’t promise that what we discuss will remain secret, but I’ll be as discreet as possible when it comes to sharing it.”

“Then I suggest that we speak in private, and somewhere that we can be reasonably sure we won’t be overheard.”

A few minutes later, Li Ming was taking a seat in Irene’s bedroom. Irene decided not to tell him that it was the same chair Silver had been lounging in earlier. Li Ming had adjusted his clothing to the local fashions but was in his usual light grey, with black cravat and cuff-links. His silver hair stretched down his back in a long braid, every strand perfectly in place. He could have been a moulded statue of marble and silver, if not for the bright focus of his eyes. Irene did wonder for a moment what the local Parisians were making of the fact that this was an apparent woman in a man’s clothing—but then again, extravagant foreign visitors could get away with all sorts of violations of custom.

“I had been told you wanted a meeting with me,” Li Ming said. He folded one hand over another in his lap. “I appreciate your tact in arranging it privately via His Highness, Prince Kai.”

“I see no need to spread rumours unnecessarily,” Irene answered. “But when there are rumours about a possible connection to this murder, we have to investigate them.”

“And you wish to ask me about a rumour?” Li Ming asked politely, as if it was nothing more than a question about how many lumps of sugar he’d like in his tea.

“I think I’d be negligent not to.”

“And the rumour is?”

Irene sighed mentally. Clearly she was going to have to work every step of the way in this conversation. “Concerning the fact that you and Lord Ren Shun may have had a disagreement in the past.”

Li Ming frowned. “Normally I’d ask who told you that, but I suppose under the current circumstances there may have been a queue of people lining up to inform you. Let me be blunt. Am I a suspect?”

“The main suspect is the Blood Countess, as you probably know,” Irene countered. “But it’s our duty to review all possible people with the means, opportunity, and motive.”

“I see,” Li Ming said icily. “And when you’ve finished interviewing half of Paris, what will be your next step?”

Irene shrugged. “Half of Paris doesn’t have any motive at all, unless Lord Ren Shun committed a great many crimes which I haven’t yet heard about. And I have great difficulty imagining any normal human subduing a powerful dragon. I cited means and opportunity first because they significantly lower the number of possible suspects.”

“And you believe that I could do it?”

“In purely physical terms … my lord, you are a close servant of His Majesty Ao Shun. You are not weak. I’ve seen you on the verge of launching a snowstorm across London.” Irene wondered if Li Ming would react to that, given that they’d nearly been in conflict at the time, but he didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash. “So, yes; I believe that you could do it. However, I see no reason why you’d want to derail the peace negotiations. But I’ve been told that if we wish to convict the Blood Countess, we need actual proof. And we don’t have this, yet, so suspicions can be pointed anywhere. I’ll find it much easier to discount you as a suspect if I know why you came under suspicion in the first place.”

Snow hissed against the window outside, and the faint noises of traffic drifted past: horse-drawn carriages and carts, motor vehicles, the murmur of human voices. Finally Li Ming asked, “How much do you know about our families?”

“Not a great deal,” Irene admitted. “I know that they exist as major political forces inside your society.” And she knew she wanted to stay well away from the Winter Forest and Black Mountains families, after certain recent events. Even if they’d been ordered not to hold a grudge against Irene by the Queen of the Southern Lands herself, that didn’t mean they’d be friendly. Although Li Ming served another dragon royal entirely, and they’d had their differences too …

Li Ming remained entirely still. He didn’t move his hands or tilt his head in the way that a human might have done. “I believe Prince Kai has chosen not to talk about certain aspects of our society, and you have chosen not to ask him about them. That was wise of you both. It would have cast a shadow over perceptions of your relationship, if you had appeared to be seducing him for information.”

“Our relationship has always been a careful one,” Irene agreed. And is probably non-existent if things go badly here. Along with a lot of other things, such as my parents’ lives, my liberty, the Library’s future … She restrained herself from glancing towards the bed as she thought of Kai, and wondered just how well-informed Li Ming was. Why delude herself? Part of Li Ming’s job as personal aide to the Dragon King of the North was to know that sort of thing. “Let me be blunt. After all, neither of us wants people asking why we’ve vanished for a long private conversation. What am I missing here?”

“You might say that there are two main axes of power in our society,” Li Ming said carefully. “There are the monarchs, and then there are the families. One is obligated to one’s family. But one is also obligated to one’s king or queen. These mutual obligations can create problems.”

Irene could recognise a Don’t quote me on this, but … speech easily enough. “I’d expect it to be a strictly internal matter, if a dragon finds themselves caught between obligations and duties,” she said. “A dragon certainly wouldn’t mention it to outsiders, who might try to exploit the situation.”

Li Ming’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction at her assurance of discretion. His irises were the same pure silver as his hair and eyebrows, and his pupils were startlingly dark in comparison. Like Kai—like many of the other dragons here—his face could have been a classical line painting, all sharp lines and shadows. “Between the two of us,” he continued, “Prince Kai escapes a great many potential problems because his mother is not from a distinguished family.”

Oh. Irene knew how that could play out in a lot of human societies, and it wasn’t always pretty. Kai was an acknowledged prince, but no doubt there were degrees of authority even among princes. And this might explain why a dragon royal might be allowed to run off and do his own thing, rather than settle down to studies or service. “Would this have anything to do with the way that he was allowed to infiltrate the Library, or his occasional lack of duties?” she asked as delicately as she could.

“It might,” Li Ming agreed. “And while he is dear to his father, not all of his paternal relatives have the same affection for him.”

There was a clear warning in Li Ming’s eyes and tone: Irene tried to translate whatever the dragon didn’t want to say out loud. She knew that Kai’s uncle Ao Shun cared for him, but could the same be said of Ao Ji … “Between the two of us, is there a problem?”

Li Ming’s eyelids flickered. “Well, His Majesty Ao Ji could possibly come to value Prince Kai, for his current hard work and support. But that would certainly be an unexpected turn of events.”

In other words, Kai is going to get the short end of the stick, and don’t hold your breath hoping for anything better. A painful resignation weighed Irene down. It would have been so nice to believe that Kai’s family were wholeheartedly behind him, whatever the circumstances of his birth. Why did they have to be so damned human about it? Kai probably considered it just part of how things were, and he’d avoided telling Irene because he knew she’d be angry on his behalf.

And why should she be angry, anyhow? It was how things worked. History told her as much. Maybe that’s why we need a bit of chaos in our lives, so things can happen against probability and outside logic, where a family can love one another even if one of them is low-born—or adopted …

“Thank you for making that clear to me,” she said flatly.

“It’s blatantly obvious why and how Prince Kai happened to turn up at this particular moment too,” Li Ming added, almost kindly. “But since he is making himself useful, nobody will raise the point.”

So much for even semi-plausible deniability over their relationship. “Our aim is to find the murderer,” Irene said. “And to get the peace treaty signed. I hope that everyone else here has the same priorities.”

“Priorities. Ah yes, the murder. And Ren Shun.” Li Ming glanced towards the window a moment, as though looking for words. It seemed that for him, discussing Ren Shun was more uncomfortable than delivering political warnings. “Both Ren Shun and myself are of the Yellow River family. We share the same father, Lord Shantsu, though he companied with different dragons to bear us.”

Irene sorted through her reactions before replying. Gawping at Li Ming and saying, You’re brothers? would be stupidly rude. Even if it had been her first thought. And why hadn’t Mu Dan told her? Didn’t she know about it? Or had the other dragon assumed it was public knowledge? “I offer you my condolences on the loss of your brother,” she murmured.

“Your courtesy is appreciated,” Li Ming said. “I fear that we had not been on speaking terms for several decades now, after a sadly public disagreement at a family gathering.”

“Oh?” Irene said, as neutrally as she could.

“We had both taken oaths to our respective kings at that point. I felt my younger brother was not serving his lord as well as his oaths demanded. He took issue with my opinion. The disagreement became public. We have scarcely spoken since that time, except at formal occasions or festivals.”

Irene chose her next words carefully. This was important information, but she could sense a simmering slow-flowing resentment and anger beneath Li Ming’s glacial surface, as hot and dangerous as lava. Just because a dragon was polite didn’t mean that a dragon was safe. “I had a bad experience in America with a dragon who was certainly not serving his master as well as his oaths demanded.” In fact, said dragon had cheerfully betrayed his master in the hopes of personal advancement, without a single moment’s hesitation. “I’m sure a brother of yours would have done nothing as drastic, but …”

The air in the room had become cooler. Irene had enough time to wonder if she’d said too much, and whether she might be the next dead body to turn up, before Li Ming answered.

“How do you serve the Library?” he asked. “As it commands, or for its own good?”

“I’d hope that the two aims were aligned,” Irene replied. But she thought of Prutkov’s words from earlier. He thought a dragon and Fae truce would render the Library’s mission obsolete and that they’d have to rebuild their power base some other way. She still served the Library as a keeper of the balance. She was not some sort of power broker.

Li Ming leaned forward, and the cold air swelled around him like an ocean wave. “There are two sorts of servants, Irene Winters: those who are expected to obey without question, and those who are expected to use their intelligence and judgement. Ren Shun would have done anything for Ao Ji. He did not understand that for Ao Ji’s own sake, there are some things which his servants should never do.”

Irene took a deep breath. The air tasted like ice in her mouth. “You think that he might have gone … too far.” The euphemism was petty, but it could cover such a wide area; fraud, blackmail, treason, murder. “And that some action of his might have resulted in his death?”

Li Ming’s eyes flicked shut for a moment, then open again, as quickly as a serpent’s. “If you brought me proof that this Fae, this Blood Countess, murdered my brother in order to start a war, then I would welcome that. It would be a better answer than others which come to mind.”

“I’m sorry.” Honesty was all that Irene could offer. “I’m looking hard for that proof. No—let me be more clear. I’m looking for the truth, and I hope the truth will be that proof.”

“Who told you about our quarrel?”

“I thought you said that you weren’t going to ask,” Irene countered.

Li Ming flicked his fingers casually. “Well, if it was Mu Dan, you might remind her that independence is all well and good, but it carries with it a lack of protection.”

“Are you threatening her?”

Li Ming’s expression was one of mild surprise. “She is already very aware that I think she has burned her bridges. If she goes around reporting private matters, then her family will no doubt want to discuss that with her in private—despite her public lack of affiliation to them. But without a family or a lord, what is she? What authority does she have?”

Irene thought of some of Mu Dan’s earlier comments. “The value of her skill and experience?” she suggested.

“That’s not the same thing, Miss Winters, and you know it. Consider your own position. Your words—your voice—have no power without the Library behind you. You are, and I say this with the greatest admiration for your abilities, only mortal. I respect your choice to bind yourself to the Library. But doesn’t that simply prove that what I’m saying is true?”

Irene knew that there should be an answer to that—something about inherent worth, or individual value, or choice. Unfortunately, from Li Ming’s perspective, he was simply stating facts. “It may be true that organisations give individuals their power,” she answered, “but it’s what those individuals do that makes the organisations strong. Without you as an individual, your family would be weaker.”

“I think we shall have to agree to disagree,” Li Ming said, his smile showing he felt he’d won the argument. “But please be aware that I respect you both as a representative of the Library and as an individual. And that I trust your discretion concerning this little talk.”

His tone hadn’t changed, but there was a flicker of red in his eyes: the true shade of dragon eyes, a sign of emotion or anger. And Irene knew that it was a warning.

“I appreciate your cooperation with the investigation,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

Li Ming hesitated for a moment before rising. “There is one last point,” he said. “You know of Minister Zhao, I believe?”

“From the Queen of the Southern Lands’ court? I wasn’t acquainted with him, but I knew he’d been assassinated recently.” Irene chose her words carefully. “Given that the Queen of the Southern Lands is involved in this peace effort, his death just before this conference makes me wonder if there’s a connection.”

Li Ming nodded approvingly. “Indeed. He was one of the nobles who strongly supported peace. Mei Feng is attending instead of him, on behalf of her queen.”

This news corroborated her suspicions about Minister Zhao’s death. “We wondered whether the Blood Countess might have murdered him too. And Mei Feng has agreed to answer questions from Vale.”

“That is a logical deduction. But it grows more complex when one tries to work out how a Fae could reach so far into our territories.” Li Ming twitched a shrug. “Minister Zhao was poisoned. The fruit that he ate was never traced, so we don’t know who sent it. Mei Feng knows more than I do, as they were part of the same court.”

“Why wouldn’t Mei Feng talk to Mu Dan about it, given that dragons prefer to keep such matters between themselves?” Irene asked.

“For much the same reason that I didn’t talk with my brother,” Li Ming said. “Their mothers were sisters. But they themselves have not been fond of each other for a long while now. It is a pity when such strife arises within a family.”

He gave Irene a small courteous bow. “Until later, Miss Winters. As I said, I trust your discretion.”

• • •

Irene made her way downstairs by a separate route from Li Ming’s: she had no wish to answer awkward questions. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon: she’d lost time somewhere in her confrontation with the Princess. That was an occasional hazard of dealing with powerful Fae.

She needed some fresh air and some time to think. Wrapping herself up in a fur cape (courtesy of Bradamant’s efforts to provide an appropriate wardrobe), Irene stepped outside, under the shelter of a canopy, and looked up at the sky. The snow had eased off to leave grey rolling banks of cloud in sole occupation of the sky, and the wind had calmed to barely a whisper. Drifts of snow filled the crevices of masonry and lay along the windowsills, but the streets and pavements themselves had been kept mostly clear by traffic and pedestrians. Ridges of dirty slush showed here and there, moulded from Paris grime and frozen in place.

She now had almost too much information. Prutkov had his own agents in Paris and was setting Irene and her team up to “discover the evil Countess.” This wasn’t a huge surprise, but it was a depressing confirmation. And did he have anything else going on besides that? The existence of one hidden scheme suggested the possibility of others. The Princess feared there was treachery afoot. Which there probably was. And according to Li Ming, Ren Shun might have done something unethical while following his lord Ao Ji’s orders—or while doing what he thought Ao Ji wanted him to do. Which raised new possible questions about why Ren Shun might have been murdered. Could this have been triggered by the peace conference, by inter-dragon politics, by family matters, or by a combination of the three? Questions had been raised that would involve a lot of research into the dragon’s private life, and probably nobody would be prepared to answer them. Plus there was the business of who killed Minister Zhao and whether there was a link between the two deaths. And Irene and her team wouldn’t be the only ones looking for a connection there: Mei Feng wasn’t stupid. None of the participants in this conference could be described as stupid.

And then there was Herodotus’s Myths. Assuming it actually existed and that it wasn’t just a red herring, a detail dreamed up as part of an elaborate frame job on the Library. If Prutkov was wrong and it was significant enough to bribe a Librarian, then what secrets might it hold? How important could it be?

In addition, Mu Dan was Mei Feng’s cousin, part of her family, and hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. Could their issues have something to do with Mu Dan’s independence from her dragon clan?

Irene stared out at nowhere in particular, as a new possibility fell into place. Li Ming had suggested that dragon monarchs and the great families didn’t always have the same priorities. Were the kings and queens trying to make an end run round the power structure of the families in order to get this treaty in place? Was that why an independent investigator, like Mu Dan, had been brought in? And was Kai an unfortunate low-born son, or a useful independent playing piece—without inconvenient maternal family connections—sired for later advantage?

She regretted getting Vale and Kai into this. No, that wasn’t fair. This sort of situation was Vale’s meat and drink; if she’d tried to talk him out of it, he’d have insisted on coming anyhow. However, it was her fault for bringing Kai into the situation. If anything happened to him …

Instinct made Irene break her chain of thought and pull herself back to the here and now. Someone was watching her.

She let her gaze drift casually across the wide street in front of her, trying to identify the source of her unease. The waiting cab-drivers, perched atop their cabs, warming their hands inside their coats or eating pastries? No, none of them seemed likely. A group of middle-class women hurrying back from lunch to their place of work, their wide-shouldered jackets flapping as they walked briskly, their skirts damp at the hem from snow and slush? No, they were preoccupied with their own business. The newspaper vendor across the street? The gendarme watching the hotel in what he thought was an inconspicuous way?

Or was it the grey cat nearby, sitting like a statuette with her tail tucked around her paws, watching Irene with an unblinking gaze?

Irene weighed the possibilities. Then she turned towards the cat and spread her hand in an open gesture, as if to say, Your move.

The cat unwrapped its tail from its paws and stretched, back arching as if it had discovered a dozen extra joints and meant to use them all. It turned and began to walk away from Irene down the pavement. It had gone a dozen steps before it paused and turned back on itself again, mouth opening in a silent beckoning mew.

This was the sort of situation where operatives who went off on their own deserved everything that happened to them. It might be—no, it probably was—nothing but a lure into a trap. But some traps had to be sprung, just to find out who or what was behind them.

Irene crossed to the gendarme, keeping half an eye on the cat. Fortunately it seemed disposed to wait. She reached into her purse and pulled out a five-franc piece, offering it to him. “Please do me a small service,” she said. “Please have the note I’m about to write taken into Le Meurice and given to the lady Mu Dan—the hotel staff will find her.”

“Of course, madam,” the gendarme agreed. It was good money for the job, and he wouldn’t have to leave his post for more than a moment. “The note?”

Naturally Irene had pencil and paper in her purse. She pulled them out and scribbled hastily, Following a beckoning cat down the rue de Rivoli westwards—will try to leave messages or markers if I change direction. Irene. She folded it and passed it over. “A thousand thanks.”

“A small matter,” the gendarme said gallantly, clicking his heels together as she turned away.

The cat was still there. Irene wondered if its mistress had been able to see everything she’d just done. She also wished she’d been able to call for more backup. But Vale and Silver were both out, Kai was with his uncle … and to be honest, she wasn’t sure that she trusted Prutkov any more. Mu Dan was her best option.

A couple of blocks along, the cat turned right, up the wide rue des Pyramides—then left again, and then right again, picking its way along the street with the same careful precision as a normal cat, but barely pausing. Irene managed to leave a couple of messages with street vendors or gendarmes, but she didn’t have time for more than a scribbled couple of words. The cat was in no mood for delay. And Irene knew enough of the geography of Paris to be certain that the cat was leading her away from the central district of wide streets and broad avenues and frequent gendarmes, towards the rougher back streets and more shadowed alleys.

This was hardly a surprise. But she couldn’t stop now.

All right, technically she could, but then she’d never find out what was going on. Besides, she reassured herself, if the Countess had simply wanted her dead, then there were simpler ways to do it.

Empty clotheslines dangled from the windows of the latest back alley. Not even the most desperate housewife would hang washing outside in the current weather. A group of ragged boys huddled round a can of burning coals, bundled up in multiple layers of tatters and oversized coats: a couple of them called out to Irene as she hurried past, offers to act as a guide or show her the wonders of Paris. She knew that she was out of place here. Her cape, dress, and hat had been intended for the best hotels in Paris, not for this area. This was one of the places where families crowded into the same building, six to a three-storey house, where artists could only afford hired attics, and where even in the middle of winter, the gangs who called themselves Apaches lounged on street corners and sneered. She was an obvious target.

But at least the cat had finally come to a stop. It sat down next to a battered doorway in one of the buildings and began to lick a paw meditatively.

“Thank you,” Irene said politely as she drew level with it, slightly out of breath. “That was quite a walk.”

The cat ignored her.

The building was old—these were parts of Paris that had endured over centuries, and been added to rather than rebuilt. Grey stone bricks and flaking cement showed underneath the slush, and slate and tile roofs gleamed wetly as the snow melted; they had no insulation to keep the heat inside, and the cold seeped in with every breath. A battered sign that might have depicted a wine bottle hung beside the doorway. She could smell tobacco, sweat, black coffee, beer, and wine. A soft buzz of conversation came from inside, barely audible through the worn, knife-marked planks of the door.

She could feel eyes on her, waiting to see what she’d do next. The Apaches on the nearest street corner were watching her, as uniformed as any military force in their striped jerseys, neckerchiefs, and red sashes. The boys around the can of coals stared at her. Even the cat had finished with its paw and had fixed its wide eyes on her.

Carefully Irene opened the door and stepped inside.

A rush of smoky air greeted her and made her blink. The room was sunken, several steps down from street level, and it was full of people. Men, mostly. They crowded around their tables, nursing pipes and glasses, conversing in a low drone of argot French. The few women who were present were curled up against their male companions, with shawls drawn round their bare shoulders, nursing small glasses of spirits. A couple of servers circulated between the tables and the bar at the far end of the room, but otherwise the place was static, as drowsy as a bear’s den in winter. And just as dangerous.

To her left, a cat mewed. Irene glanced across and saw an elderly woman, so wrapped in faded shawls that she was barely more than an outline, seated at a table on her own. A black cat was sprawled on the surface in front of her. There was a single spare chair at the table.

Irene took a moment to review the situation. Allies non-existent, enemy in front of me, potential foes to either side.

But she walked across to the spare seat and set one hand on the rough wooden back. “May I join you?”

“I’ve been hoping that you would,” the old woman croaked. Her face was wizened, dry with age, but there was the sense of something corrupt underneath, and her eyes gleamed like a spider’s. “I have some questions.”