The Masked City (The Invisible Library #2)(63)
‘Perhaps I should be the one offering you a job.’ Irene shifted her position again, a little closer. She was almost in range now. ‘After all, Silver said …’ She trailed off invitingly.
‘What did he say?’ Lady Guantes demanded.
‘We discussed you and Lord Guantes. Your power imbalance, that sort of thing.’ Irene spread her hands innocently. ‘He was the one who told me that you were nothing but a tool for your husband—’
‘That piece of vermin doesn’t understand, and could never understand!’ Lady Guantes cut her off. A high flush of anger gave her face colour, as Irene finally hit a nerve. ‘He sees everything through his own perspective. He doesn’t understand that, without me, my husband would never have been able to bring this to fruition. My husband understands that and he values me—’
In one quick movement, Irene slapped the gun barrel aside.
The gun went off. And the bullet thudded into a row of books somewhere behind Irene and to her right.
The next few seconds were an undignified scuffle. Lady Guantes might be an excellent formal shot, but Irene had experience in informal fighting-dirty. She was left with the gun, and Lady Guantes was left nursing a wrenched finger and a stamped-on foot. ‘I could scream,’ she panted grimly.
‘You could,’ Irene said, ‘but that still leaves …’ She glanced down the corridor. No sign of anyone yet. ‘That leaves me holding you hostage. How important are you to the Ten, Lady Guantes?’
Lady Guantes was silent. Not that important, apparently. Finally she said, ‘You’re making a mistake, Miss Winters.’
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.