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A nagging twitch of guilt lurked at the back of her mind. Yes, she had to admit it, she had enjoyed working with Vale. It wasn’t just a case of her Great Detective fixation. (She’d always loved the Holmes stories. And the Watson stories. And even the Moriarty stories.) But there was more to Vale than just being a Great Detective. There was the prickly man who’d confessed to his split with his family, but who was still ready to help them when they asked. There was his surprising generosity and courtesy. There was even the humanizing touch that he’d lent Kai his dressing-gown, and she’d found them sitting over breakfast discussing airships.
She wasn’t a child looking for a role. She was a Librarian with a job to do, and sharing information with Vale and Singh had resulted in things getting done.
Letting herself be immobilized by guilt would be as poisonous as Bradamant’s curare, and as harmful.
There was something deeper to this, though. As she struggled to stay alert, as her mind fought not to follow her body into lassitude, she tried to think it through. She had nothing better to do, after all. Librarians didn’t betray other Librarians like this. Bradamant had been playing the part thoroughly but, just once or twice, she’d seen that Bradamant had been afraid. She’d taken up someone else’s mission – something which was, if not actively forbidden, at least a serious breach of convention. She’d already tried and failed once to get the book. Now she’d assaulted Irene and left her in danger in order to reach the book first. Who could have pushed her that far?
Irene felt chilled. Some of the older Librarians had . . . unsavoury reputations. A lifetime among books didn’t cultivate depravity or debauchery, as much as a love of mind games and politics. And those games could turn dark. Even Coppelia could have her own objectives. Look at Kai, for instance. He’d been planted on Irene in the middle of a mission involving Alberich. What precisely was going on there? How many people had guessed the truth about him?
Her mind felt as if it was stuffed with marshmallows, clogged at the edges and fuzzy in the middle. It must be the drug. But she had to think: she had to work this out. She had the facts. She just needed to apply them.
Compared with Coppelia, there were people like Kostchei, Bradamant’s patron. He was reclusive and exacting. Nobody dared argue with his messengers when he ‘requested’ a specific book. Rumour had it that he had a great deal of influence among the older Librarians, when he cared to use it. The fact that he’d chosen Bradamant as a protégée was interesting in itself. The fact that she would assault other Librarians and steal their work in order to avoid disappointing him . . . was even more so.
Irene was abruptly filled with a burning desire to read the damned elusive book, if it was so very important. (She was aware that this sort of logic had landed people in trouble before. Screw logic. She was furious.)
Was that her finger twitching? Please let it be her finger twitching.
She tried to cough. Something resembling coherent noise came out.
She was so going to have Bradamant’s ass for this. Metaphorically speaking.
The door handle rattled. She could hear the murmur of voices outside, but nothing distinct. She struggled to call out intelligibly, but only a ragged gurgle emerged. In desperation she jerked her leg, kicking out at the desk. There was a thud as her shoe banged into the hollow side.
Another brief exchange of conversation. A pause.
The door swung open with a bang. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Vale and Kai standing there, Vale refolding something about the size of a wallet and sliding it into his pocket. Both of them looked mildly battered and unkempt, but not lethally so.
‘Irene!’ Kai exclaimed, rushing into the room. ‘Are you all right?’
No, I’m currently suffering from curare poisoning, she attempted to communicate. A gargle came out of her mouth.
Kai’s eyes went to the scratch on her neck. ‘Heaven and earth!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s poisoned! Silver must have got here before us! I’m going to kill him—’ ‘Excuse me,’ Vale said, and picked up Irene’s hand where it lay limply on the arm of the chair. He slid back her cuff and checked her pulse. ‘The lady is conscious, as you can see, and seems in good enough health otherwise, so one must assume a paralytic . . .’
‘Irene, say something!’ Kai leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands, staring into her eyes. She could just barely feel the touch of his skin against her face. ‘Can you hear us?’
‘Hear . . .’ she managed to force out. ‘Cur . . . curare . . .’
‘She’s been poisoned with curare!’ Kai swung round to Vale. ‘Quick! Where can we find a doctor?’
Irene wondered sourly if dragons were particularly prone to stating the obvious at moments of crisis, or if it was just him.
‘Aha.’ Vale brightened, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. ‘I believe we can deal with this here and now. I have a small amount of a strychnine derivative with me, which I use as a stimulant in moments of emergency – ’
Much is now explained, Irene thought, even more sourly.
– ‘and while there may be some minor side-effects, with any luck it should restore her enough to speak. Mr Strongrock, if you would be good enough to hold her shoulders steady?’
‘Of course,’ Kai said, stepping round behind her chair to grasp her shoulders. She could actually feel his fingers biting into her through the folds of clothing. Either the curare was wearing off, or that was a very firm grasp indeed.
Vale removed a small glass tube from an inner pocket of his coat. Leaning forward and turning his head away, he flipped the lid off and briefly passed it under Irene’s nose.
Irene inhaled. Her whole body jolted in an undignified convulsion, legs kicking wildly and tangling in her long skirt, the muscles in her arms clenching and contracting. Her head snapped back and without Kai’s grip on her shoulders, she would have sprawled out of the chair to thrash on the floor.
‘Miss Winter?’ Vale said, closing the glass tube and putting it back in his pocket. ‘Can you understand me?’
Irene coughed and focused on breathing for a moment, as the twitching in her limbs slowly eased. It just felt like cramps now. Really bad cramps. The sort of cramps that would ideally warrant a long, extremely slow rubdown in a hot bathhouse . . .
That must be the strychnine. She wouldn’t normally let her mind wander like that.
