The man came up the path towards her. She had a curious rush of feelings: hope, resentment, desire, shame. The young man was tall and wore black robes. His face was beautifuclass="underline" symmetrical, with high cheekbones and liquid dark eyes. His skin was the colour of gold and it shone. He wore no headgear and his hair fell to his shoulders. He wore a short black beard.
“Who are you?” Shadow said. He touched his brow and she saw a fillet of gold around it. She was sure that this had not been there before.
“I am a prince,” the young man said. His face was grave. He reached out and Shadow stepped back.
“Do not touch me,” she said.
“I know you are a virtuous woman. I mean no disrespect. But I am within you.”
“You’re the spirit who is in my blood?”
“Yes.” He bowed. “I did not intend to possess you. But I have to hide.”
“In me?”
“A human is the best hiding place. They’re surprisingly difficult to see into.”
“What are you hiding from?”
“Everyone.”
“Why?”
The spirit drew his right hand up and in it was a scimitar. It shone in the moonlight, fire-bright.
“I am the scabbard and the blade,” he said, and before Shadow could stop him, or say anything, he raised his arm above his head, reversed the hilt in his hand and plunged the scimitar into his own skull. It vanished and at that moment Shadow understood that both scimitar and man were part of the same thing, just as Gremory was both girl and beast and both, and all demon.
“How do I get rid of you?” she said to the spirit, and he-the Prince of the Air-began to spin, whirling around in a dervish-wheel of dust and air. Then he was gone, winking out. A single drop of blood fell glistening to the desert earth. And Shadow woke up.
Forty-Seven
The disciplinary committee hearing was remarkably tedious, and a waste of valuable time. Eventually, since Mercy herself could not, Nerren took issue with the Elders.
“You don’t have any proof that she was even there. Deed was lying. He said they kept her in a chamber, but there’s no record of it. She’s here now, isn’t she?”
Mercy, sitting in the interrogation chair, forced herself to stop staring out of the window and look helpful.
“Then why undertake such a rigmarole?”
“Because the Court is trying to make trouble. That’s what it does. They’re magicians. They’re tricksters.”
“With the Skein gone”-and you lot dithering-“they’ve seen that there’s a power vacuum and they’re trying to take advantage,” Mercy said.
“But why do they think you were trying to burgle their premises?”
Round and round it went, but in the absence of proof, and with Nerren backing her up, they eventually placed Mercy on a three-day suspension.
Good. Now I can do what I want.
Back in Nerren’s office, the other woman looked at Mercy. “What did you think you were doing?”
“I can’t tell you.” That much was true. She could feel the geas binding her tongue. Presumably it would only be over when she delivered the book. “But it’s to do with that business with Section C.”
Nerren rolled her eyes. “I might have known.”
“And I’d like to say that I know what I’m doing, but I don’t. I wish I did.”
“That’s very reassuring, Mercy.”
“I’m off for three days. That means you won’t have to worry about me.”
A snort. “As if. What are you planning to do?”
“Some light reading,” Mercy said.
Darya’s purloined book was about the disir. It was old, though not nearly as old as the text from which the thing had come, and it was both in English and surprisingly informative. Mercy read it over tea in her office at the Library, paying close attention. She could tell that a lot of it was conjecture, and yet more of it, legend. But the kernels of the story were there, the seeds of truth from which the myths had grown.
The old god, chained.
Poison dripping from a serpent’s mouth.
The Ladies, who came from before the ice.
And a name: Mareritt. The Ladies’ enemy.
All of these things were connected to the disir. What had become of the one who had leaped through a story-gap into the Library, and run out into the city? The one whose hand Shadow had cut off?
Mercy had tried to contact Shadow since then, but without success. The alchemist seemed to have gone to ground. She’d tried again. But Shadow was not there, or was not answering.
Perra, leaf-light, jumped onto the desk.
“Do we go home, tonight?” the ka asked.
“No. It’s not safe. I’ve angered Deed; we’re safer here.”
Safer, if not wholly safe. She did not have total confidence in the Library’s defences, but it would be a lot easier to hide here than in her house. She could sleep on the couch in her office; she’d done it often enough. Nerren had agreed to tell the Elders that she’d gone to a friend’s for the days of her suspension, though she was not banned from the Library’s premises. There were stories of people who lived in the Library, after alclass="underline" hiding out among the stacks, venturing out at night when all was silent. Living off crumbs and flakes of tales, so faint that they were almost ghosts…
As she had told Nerren, Mercy planned to do a little late reading.
When everything was quiet, and the Library had been locked for the night, Mercy ventured out of her office. The slam of the huge main doors was still echoing throughout the building and she caught sight of one of the night staff whisking down a corridor. Mercy waited until the man had gone, then climbed the stairs. The ghostly spirit birds were beginning to flutter down to their invisible roost; she could see the last golden fire of the sun reflected on the tall windows.
She headed for Section C. The sword was at her side, and she had re-applied the sigils on her brow. Pity about the ward bracelets that she’d lost to Deed; she was cross about those. She had another pair, old and in silver, an apprenticeship gift from Sho. She did not like to wear them for everyday use; they were too fine, but on the other hand, these were exceptional circumstances and Mercy felt these bracelets had more power. Fortunately, she kept them in a locked drawer of her desk rather than at home. She had taken them from the black velvet interior of their box as though armouring for battle.
Which in fact, she was. Deed: Game on.
She was looking for one of the translators on the Ninth Floor. She did not think that Mareritt was anyone’s friend but her own, but she’d be interested to see what there was to be found in The Winter Book. When she got to the locked stacks, therefore, she sat down at the translator, put the book under its thick glass panel, and began to turn its brass handle.
Paper spewed out of the other side and Mercy looked at it with interest. It was a book of fairy tales, like The Red Fairy Book and The Green Fairy Book. She found again the story of Jan and the dove. She remembered that in the tale, Mareritt’s sleigh was drawn by swans, not deer; she wondered if it was significant. And another tale, too, of a ship made of ice that sails the northern seas, crewed with the ghosts of drowned sailors. The original had delicate watercolour illustrations behind a thin film of tissue paper. Here was the ship and-yes!-a picture of Mareritt in her sledge, running over the ice. Clouds of mist steamed out of the mouths of her deer and Mareritt’s face was beautiful and cold. The ship was plunging among the floes.