The Masked City

As she walked towards the entrance she couldn’t banish the image of herself as a tiny beetle walking across a human’s exposed skin. Learning how far the Ten’s power extended throughout the city had given her an extra sense of paranoia. And indeed, as greater Fae, they might perceive her through the very pavements of the city. How sensitive are the Ten anyway, and can they sense me? Would they care about me, or am I instant anathema to them? Do I itch, and would they scratch?

Irene shuffled up a huge staircase of gilt and stucco, just behind a group of young scholars loudly discussing Petrarch. She walked past marble pillars and windows that looked out onto the Piazza below.

Here and there people sat at desks, carefully turning the pages of manuscripts, or unrolling scrolls and making notes. It comforted her. This is a place built to store books, by people who wanted to preserve books, and used by people who want to read those books. I am not alone.

She finally stepped out into a large reading room. The sudden sensation of space and emptiness made her pause, and she looked up to see the ceiling more than two floors above. On the two higher floors, open galleries surrounded the space, fronted with balustrades. But behind these she could see bookshelves and doors leading further into the depths of the building. That was what she wanted.

Fifteen minutes later she had finally managed to find a way up to a quiet section amongst those stacks. And to a storeroom. That would do nicely. This was a library, that was a door - all she needed, to open an entrance to the Library proper.

She took a relieved breath, forced herself to relax and focus and said in the Language, ‘Open to the Library.’

And nothing happened.

Her first reaction was the basic annoyance that accompanies something as simple as sauce not coming out of a bottle, or a website not loading on the first attempt.

‘Open to the Library,’ she said again, focusing on each individual word.

Her voice fell into nothingness. There was no feeling of change, of connection.

This time panic curdled in her stomach. She’d never been in an alternate where she couldn’t reach the Library. She hadn’t thought it possible to be in an alternate where she couldn’t reach the Library.

Except that she’d never ventured so far into chaos before. And in the Library itself, she belatedly recalled, doorways to high-chaos alternates were sectioned off and chained. Access was barred because these were simply too dangerous. And if they were blocked at the Library end, did that mean they were inaccessible from this side too?

‘Open to the Library!’ Irene snapped, her voice sharp with terror.

There was no answer.

She clung to one of the shelves on her right and her fingers bit into the wood hard enough to hurt. I’m trapped here, she thought. This wasn’t a fear that she’d even considered before. It was new and horrifying, an abyss suddenly opening right in front of her feet.

Someone coughed from behind her. ‘This is an astonishing place,’ a woman’s voice said, ‘but I do think that you’re neglecting the more interesting parts.’

Irene’s fingers dug even harder into the shelf as she turned to see who had spoken.

Lady Guantes was standing there, serene in a deep-green gown, her hands gloved in white. She had Irene covered with a pistol. Like most guns that had been pointed at her, it looked far too large. It was turning out to be one of those days, after all. Lady Guantes was holding it in what looked unpromisingly like a professional grip, with both hands on the stock.

Should I pretend to be an innocent local? It might be worth a try.

‘I should point out that I said that in English,’ Lady Guantes said. ‘Any attempt to convince me that you’re an innocent local should take that into account, Miss Winters.’

Irene had always felt that one of the most important strategic virtues was knowing when to concede a loss. ‘I just can’t stay away from a good library,’ she said, keeping to English. ‘It’s an addiction with me. Do you have the same problem?’

‘Please don’t try to be funny. It was only logical that you’d come to the biggest local library to look for help.’ The gun didn’t waver. ‘And if you try to say anything that sounds peculiar, rest assured that I will shoot.’

Which meant that using the word ‘gun’ in any context would probably result in immediate injury. A pity. Saying something along the lines of May your gun explode in your hand sorted out so many of life’s little problems.

There was a pause.

‘It’s difficult for me to speak freely when you might shoot me at any moment,’ Irene pointed out. ‘But I assume you don’t want to shoot me, or you would have done so already.’

‘You’re very casual about your safety,’ Lady Guantes said. She still had that gracious air of approachability and common sense that Irene remembered from the railway station, but there was something new. Nervousness? Could she be nervous? Of me?

‘There are degrees of danger,’ Irene said. If she kept talking, perhaps she could figure a way out. Silver had described Lady Guantes as weaker than Lord Guantes. How did that stack up against a Librarian? ‘There’s immediate peril of death, which is one thing, and then there’s immediate peril of a fate worse than death, which is something else again. And then there’s the less immediate fear of potential death. And all scenarios should be handled on a case-by-case basis. I’d rather talk than do something irretrievable. Do you feel the same way?’

‘You’re a Librarian.’ Lady Guantes put the same delicate disgust into the word that someone else might have used for mercenaries, colonoscopy or mad dogs and Englishmen. ‘Letting you do so much as talk is dangerous.’