The Masked City

‘One should be careful,’ Sterrington said. ‘After all, in a situation like this, they’ll have flooded the area with informers, who will be reporting on any suspicious behaviour.’

‘They being?’ Martha enquired.

‘Whoever is in power,’ Sterrington said calmly. ‘It’s the sensible thing to do.’

‘That assumes that they have lots of informers to flood the area with,’ Zayanna said. ‘Good spies take such a large amount of the budget.’ She held out her glass for another refill. ‘Oh gods, it’s so good to have something to drink other than mushroom wine! I swear that when our master told us about this trip, we were positively assassinating each other for the chance to go on it. I don’t care about spies, dragons or whatever, I just want the chance to be careless for once.’

‘Zayanna,’ Athanais started, reaching out to move the bottle away from her. ‘Perhaps if you took a little less for the moment …’

‘Oh, let her drink,’ Martha said. ‘We’ve only got a couple of days here, from what I heard. We might as well enjoy it while we can.’

‘Is it only a few days?’ Irene asked, trying to sound plausibly ignorant. ‘Even if the auction’s tomorrow, there will still be socializing afterwards. That’s what I was told, at least.’

‘Some people may be staying later,’ Sterrington said. ‘I’m not fully informed. But the Train itself will be leaving in three days. It can only stay that long in any given place. Is your patron going to be travelling back by some other route?’

‘He might be,’ Irene agreed, her stomach falling again. So much for any thoughts of hiding Kai after the auction, then sneaking onto the Train once the metaphorical heat was off. Granted, the auction was the most urgent deadline, but this extra hurdle didn’t help. ‘He doesn’t tell me everything. It makes it hard to organize things.’ She shrugged.

‘I’m surprised that you aren’t with him, if you’re his personal interpreter.’ Sterrington delivered the statement quite casually, but Irene felt the hackles on the back of her neck rise in warning.

She shrugged again, as casually as possible. ‘Oh, he doesn’t need me when he has someone else to meet.’ She stressed the word to add a suggestion of improper liaison and heated affairs. ‘I didn’t want to get a flogging for impertinence, so I took myself elsewhere. As long as I’m back by dawn, I’ll be safe.’

‘Oh, you’re that sort of private secretary,’ Martha said, suddenly sounding extremely prim and disapproving. ‘I hadn’t … realized.’

Athanais rolled his eyes. It was perceptible even behind his scarlet leather mask. He’d stayed with a scarlet theme, to the point where Irene was tempted to ask if he was deliberately impersonating the Red Death, or if he was simply colour-blind. ‘Martha, dear, some of our patrons use a whip as discipline, some use a brand, and some use expense accounts, but let’s not pretend that any of us has that much choice in the matter. If we’d wanted choice, then we wouldn’t have sworn ourselves to a patron. Let’s all just be grateful that we’ve the evening to ourselves. Clarice, do they do food here?’

‘I can smell seafood,’ Irene said, trying to ignore Zayanna’s sagging towards the table, and her muttering that nobody cared anyhow and it was all her patron’s fault and she was going to slice his heart out on the sacrificial altar some day, just wait and see. ‘Let me go and ask.’

Ten minutes later, shrimps with polenta had been negotiated, and the cheerful landlady Maria (who fortunately spoke English) had brought round another bottle for their table. ‘Always good to have new customers in during Carnival,’ she said, with an approving nod towards their masks. ‘We may as well enjoy ourselves before it’s Lent, eh? And I’ll have you know that my little place is good enough to host the Council of Ten themselves—’

Martha was opening her mouth to say something, and Irene feared that it wasn’t to say Yes, please do go on telling us all about your customers, when the tavern door banged open. A man in plain livery entered, bowing as he did so and holding the door wide open for two more figures, a man and a woman in heavy black velvet drapes and matching silver-and-black masks. They entered together in a drift of fog and stood in the doorway, surveying the tavern.

Irene saw the crest on their mantles and was seized by an unpleasant suspicion. A pair of silver gloves, crossed on a black background. Her hands clenched on the table edge. Could the story have turned against her? Was this the part of the narrative where the heroine in disguise is confronted by her arch-enemies - or possibly where the protagonists find and dispose of the villainous spy, all depending on the reader’s viewpoint? And the power of story had been so useful up till now …

‘Now, will you look at that,’ the landlady said. She marched forward, dropping a floor-brushing curtsey. ‘My lord and lady Guantes. Welcome to my tavern!’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘My dear.’ Lord Guantes led Lady Guantes into the room, seating her at one of the larger tables, before turning to the landlady. ‘We always enjoy your establishment, Donata. The usual, if you please.’ His masked gaze swept across the room, taking in Irene’s table. He had a deep voice, bass though not basso profundo, and his English had just a hint of an accent, though Irene couldn’t identify it.

Everyone at Irene’s table was scrambling hastily to their feet to bow in the general direction of the new arrivals. Irene rose with the rest of them, feeling her heart go through the floor.