Kai sniffed. ‘I can smell food,’ he murmured.
‘The kitchens are down here, in the basements,’ Irene replied. It was a narrow staircase, and she had to pull in her skirts so that they wouldn’t brush the walls. ‘They should be over, um—’ She consulted her mental map. ‘West and north-west-ish. Thataway. We need to go north-east from here, heading under the church.’ broke through the cloud and continued falling, like a lift in a high-speed crash. Irene wished she could think of less dramatic similes, but then it became difficult to think at all. The rain slammed down on her and Kai like a waterfall, oozing under her cape and slashing at her face, making it impossible to see clearly.
Kai’s wings spread with a thud of air like a miniature thunderclap, and their descent abruptly slowed. It was probably a contradiction of the natural laws of inertia and force equals mass times acceleration, or whatever the relevant equations were. But if the universe wasn’t paying attention, Irene wasn’t going to raise the issue. He settled gently on a level stretch of roof, his claws grating on the slate surface. If there were guards up here, then they were all sensibly out of the rain and not watching the roof. Good. First objective achieved.
Irene slid from Kai’s back and peered through the pouring rain, getting her bearings. Over to her right she could see the onion-dome of the Palace Church. That must mean that the nearer crosspiece building, between the Winter Palace and the Hermitage proper, was St George’s Hall. The imperial throne was there – though hopefully they wouldn’t be running into Her Imperial Majesty tonight. Further round to her left was the Great Hall, scene of the night’s reception, its windows blazing with light despite the enshrouding rain. So she and Kai should be directly above some of the unoccupied royal apartments. Well, technically they were directly above the servants’ attics, which were directly above said royal apartments, but servants’ attics never made it onto the official maps.
Next to her, Kai shuddered, and the air rippled around him. And then he was standing next to her, also shrouded in an oilcloth cape. ‘There’s a door and stairs over there,’ he said, pointing to a shadow on one of the roof’s exterior crenellations. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’
It was close enough, and Irene nodded. She had to hold his arm to make her way across the wet slate, even barefoot as she was. The door was locked, but opened to the Language, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when they were inside and out of the storm.
As expected, these were the servants’ attics, and therefore utilitarian rather than Models of Great Architecture. Irene pulled her bag from under her coat and carried out emergency repairs to her hair. She dried her feet with the towel she’d been carrying, before pulling on stockings and dancing slippers. Then they bundled capes and towel into a convenient cupboard and headed down the nearest flight of stairs, hopefully looking like lost reception guests. They didn’t pass any servants on the way, though Irene heard the odd soft-shoed scuffle in the background.
When they reached the second floor, the decor abruptly changed to luxurious, but not overdone. The floors and walls of rooms were inlaid marble, the corridors were also of marble, and the furniture featured gilt, carving and velvet cushions. The paintings on the walls had probably been commissioned or collected from famous artists. (Visual arts had never been Irene’s best subject. She could barely tell a Rembrandt from a Raphael without a guidebook.)
Kai looked around with clear approval. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Quite tolerable. Which part are we heading for now?’ He paused to straighten his cravat in one of the mirrors.
Irene shoved a comb back into a wind-tossed section of her hair and looked glumly at her elegant, though slightly damp reflection. It was a nice dress, a pretty light-green silk-and-tulle affair with puffed sleeves and full skirts (damp around the edges), which left her shoulders and neck bare. She’d accessorized it with arm-length lace gloves and silk slippers and had put up her hair with combs and pins, but despite all that, next to Kai she looked like . . . well, like someone who’d dressed up for the occasion. Kai, in his frock coat, cravat, waistcoat and well-cut trousers, looked like someone who should be at an imperial reception. Even hosting the reception. On him, the clothing looked natural.
She decided it wasn’t worth unpicking that little knot of resentment, and she thrust it aside. ‘Along here and down the staircase at the far end,’ she instructed. ‘Then down two floors. And if we can avoid anyone noticing, so much the better.’ The storm was still crashing down outside, and when she passed the windows she could hear the wind like ripping fabric and the rain rattling against the glass.
They made it to the ground floor without being stopped. As they descended, the architecture became more and more lush, heading towards sheer extravagance, but retaining just enough control to avoid gaudiness. Rich marble sheathed everything, as pale and smooth as cream. Gilt ornamentation gleamed as if it had only been polished within the last hour. The sounds of music drifted very faintly through the corridors.
A servant approached, sleek in his black uniform. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, madam,’ he said, effortlessly identifying the more aristocratic of the two of them and addressing him first. ‘The reception is taking place in the Great Hall. If you require directions . . .’
Kai looked down his nose at the man. ‘You may go about your business,’ he said. ‘The lady and I know our way.’
With a bow, the servant retreated. But Irene knew he’d only be the first in a line of helpful minions trying to herd them towards the other guests. She took Kai’s arm and led him round a corner, into a slightly less-impressive side corridor and through an only moderately impressive doorway, into an unimpressive plain stone staircase leading down.
Kai sniffed. ‘I can smell food,’ he murmured.
‘The kitchens are down here, in the basements,’ Irene replied. It was a narrow staircase, and she had to pull in her skirts so that they wouldn’t brush the walls. ‘They should be over, um—’ She consulted her mental map. ‘West and north-west-ish. Thataway. We need to go north-east from here, heading under the church.’ As they hurried down the dark corridor, Irene pondered the likelihood of them getting stopped by guards. She was astonished they’d come as far as they had. True, the Winter Palace must be afflicted by the usual security blind spot, as in ‘the outer walls are well guarded, so anyone inside must belong there’. But even so, given the rumours of rebellion and secession, and the government crackdowns, shouldn’t there be a bit more security inside the palace? The further they went, the more nervous she became. She started to worry that they were actually being lured into some vast trap, and were being drawn well inside so that they’d have no chance of escape . . .
‘Stop right there!’ came an order.
It was almost a relief. Irene obediently stayed where she was, one hand on Kai’s sleeve. Only three guards defended the archive’s doorway, their ultimate goal – good heavens, what on earth were they thinking? Though to be fair, the door behind them did look heavily locked and barred.
‘Approach and identify yourself!’ came the next order.
Perfect. Irene walked forward. Even better, she could see which of the guards was clearly in command. She slipped a hand into her bodice, then withdrew it and showed it to the lead guard, as though she’d just pulled something out that only he should see. ‘You perceive that this is full identification, and that we are authorized to view the contents of this archive,’ she said.
The guard snapped into a terrified salute, his back straight with the rigidity of panic. The other two guards followed suit a moment later. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said quickly. ‘Absolutely, ma’am!’
‘You may open the door and assist me,’ Irene said briskly, wondering exactly who he thought she was. Probably Oprichniki. Only secret police get that sort of reaction. ‘Your men will remain outside. There’s no need for them to hear this.’
He nodded and pulled a key from his belt, which he quickly turned in the lock. There was a small noise, almost a sigh, from the door as he pulled it open. Irene suspected there had been some sort of magic alarm on it. Now, just so long as the guard stayed confused until they were inside . . .
They were into the next room, and Kai had closed the door behind them, before the guard shook his head and frowned. But Kai had been expecting that, and had him in a chokehold before he could raise the alarm. Irene left him to throttle the fellow into unconsciousness – there was no need to kill him, after all – and looked around. They were in a small anteroom, with another heavily barred door on the far side. All right, so the security wasn’t that laughable. There were rows of ledgers in bookshelves to one side, presumably with lists of items held in the repository beyond. And there was a little desk, with a woman in heavy robes trying to hide under it.
Irene walked over and leaned on the desk. ‘That’s not actually working, you know,’ she said gently.
The woman pulled herself upright, flinching back against the wall. ‘I won’t help you. I will defend this place with my life!’
Irene nodded understandingly. ‘That’s quite understandable,’ she agreed. ‘But you now perceive that I am someone who has a right to be here, and a right to be given the location of a particular item.’ Her head was starting to ache.
‘Oh.’ The woman stayed pressed against the wall. But she looked a little calmer now, as if Irene was a known and understandable threat, rather than something completely unpredictable. ‘Ah, what item would your excellency wish to see?’
‘A book,’ Irene said, daring to hope. ‘It’s called The Manuscript Found in Saragossa, and it’s by Jan Potocki. Where is it?’