The Masked City

Irene wondered, through the swimming pain in her head, who the guards thought they were. The Guantes? The Council of Ten? Regular Campanile inspectors here to check for bats in the belfry?

It was very dark inside the Campanile. The narrow windows allowed what moonlight there was into the hollow structure. But its slanting light only fell as far as the walls, leaving the central iron staircase in comparative darkness as it spiralled up the centre of the otherwise empty tower. There were no guards in here.

‘Can you stand?’ Vale asked, releasing her.

Irene wobbled, but stayed upright. ‘I think so,’ she said. She pulled her mask away from her face enough to blot with her sleeve the blood running from her nose. It had pretty much stopped, but the headache remained.

‘Then we had better hurry. That was too easy for my liking.’

You aren’t the one who had to do it, Irene thought, but she had to agree. They had been incredibly lucky to escape Lord Guantes and get here first. That sort of luck didn’t last. Paranoia immediately suggested that it was a trap; but she and Vale headed up the wrought-iron stairs, Vale going first. Each step creaked and rang under their feet, uncomfortably loud in the confines of the bell tower. The stairs were guarded on the outer side by curving panels of thin lacy ironwork, but the steps themselves were reassuringly solid under her feet.

About a hundred and fifty feet off the ground, Vale came to a stop. They both caught their breath for a moment as he pointed upwards. There was a ceiling directly above them, and the staircase spiralled up through it.

Irene listened, but there was no sound from above, and the air had the particular deadness of empty space. While they were both on their guard as they headed upwards, there was nobody in the belfry. But the staircase continued to climb further up above them still, spiralling through the ceiling. Up there, the bells hung above them from the rafters in great terrifying masses of metal. Moonlight fell through the four deep arches in each wall, picking out the detail in the tiles of the belfry floor, so at least they could see better now.

Vale looked around, frowning. ‘Now is it here somewhere, or is it further up? Winters, do you perceive anything of value?’

‘I …’ Irene hunted for words to try to describe what she felt. ‘This whole place feels as if it is a nexus of some sort. I can tell that much, but no more. Can you sense anything?’

‘I’m only human,’ Vale said. He caught the look she was giving him, even through her mask. ‘Frankly, Winters, given our surroundings, I’d think you should be glad of that.’ He stepped through the archway into the small room and began prowling across the floor, casting a professional eye across the tiles. ‘Unfortunately, the bell-ringers have confused any evidence that might have been useful. All I can be sure of is that some people have ascended further up these stairs.’

Something was pricking at Irene’s mind, beyond the place’s general aura of power. She had the feeling that she was missing a connection. She looked down at where Vale was prodding at the tiles, then at her own feet on the iron staircase, and it clicked. ‘Interesting,’ she murmured.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Vale said.

‘The iron.’ She gently tapped one toe on the staircase. ‘Every Fae I’ve met dislikes the substance. Why put a wrought-iron set of stairs as the main entrance to a private prison?’

‘Architectural necessity?’ Vale offered, but his heart wasn’t in it.

‘No.’ She was thinking about the purpose of the prison. ‘This, all of it - the location and the guards, and this iron staircase - it isn’t just meant to stop intruders. It’s meant to stop Fae intruders.’

‘It makes one wonder about the nature of the prisoners.’ Vale stepped back onto the staircase. ‘But I don’t think there is anything more to learn on this level.’

‘I agree,’ Irene said. ‘We’ll have to go on up.’

The staircase passed uncomfortably near the bells as they drew level with them, close enough that she could have reached out and touched the dark bronze. They were both climbing more quietly now, after their earlier fast but noisy pace, trying to keep as silent as they could. There was a light on the level above them, the yellow of lantern-flames. But there was no sound of talking or movement.

Then a shot suddenly rang through the air, cracking against the metal of the staircase. Irene flinched back, looking for cover, except that there wasn’t any.

‘You will place your hands above your head.’ A voice came from above them in Italian. It was tense, the voice of a man who was going to react badly to surprises. ‘You will advance slowly and without making any moves that we might misinterpret. Remain on the staircase and don’t try to step off it. And we know there are two of you, so don’t try to pretend otherwise.’

Vale gave a nod, then raised his hands. ‘We’re coming,’ he called up the staircase. ‘We won’t try anything.’

‘See that you don’t,’ the voice called back.

The small roof-space at the top of the tower was cramped. There was little room for the four guards waiting above them with drawn pistols. Irene, a couple of steps behind Vale and peering around his waist, could see them rather too well. Two lanterns burned on either side of the staircase, hanging from the rafters, and the guards had a good field of fire. They were positioned behind the only exit from the stairway into the roof. And, trapped between the tightly woven iron safety rails, there was no room to hide.