Sword and Pen

by Rachel Caine

  For once, Santiago didn’t seem to have an answer at the ready. A tall, regal woman beside him stepped forward and said, “Honored Archivist, I am Ceinwen Parry, ambassador from Wales. My king has directed that his troops assist in securing the Great Archives against any possible damage. We will never withdraw without seeing this done.”

  “Lord Commander,” Murasaki said, and Santi stepped up to the foot of the steps, facing the assembled diplomats. “Instruct our guests what they may expect, should they attempt to enter this city.”

  “Yes, Archivist. Should your ships attempt to sail into the harbor, we are prepared to activate Heron’s Guardian to defend the entrance. Should you somehow overcome this barrier that no one has ever defeated, be aware that we now possess a weapon which can set wooden ships alight at a distance—or melt metal to scrap. Should you evade both of these defenses, you will be met with the full force of the High Garda and the automata that defend this city.”

  Ambassador Parry didn’t blink. “You should be careful of your threats, Archivist.”

  “Those are not threats,” Murasaki said. “They are advisories. It is our duty to defend this city from invading forces, however well meant their stated intentions. We do not require your rescue. And we will not accept it. You have my answer, Ambassadors. You may take your places as honored diplomats, or you may go back to your ships and leave. But there is no third option that does not bring disaster to you.”

  “Archivist,” Santiago said. “You badly mistake our intentions. We are here merely to assist in your struggle—”

  “Look around you, Ambassador,” Murasaki said. There was an edge to her voice now, and Khalila shivered at the sound of it. “We are not struggling. We have won. You may now retire to a room we will provide and discuss your options. When you are prepared to present a unified answer, I will listen.”

  It was a clear, cold dismissal, and the ambassadors all exchanged looks. All deferred to Santiago, who gave a cool, studied bow to the Archivist and said, “We will discuss. My thanks, Archivist, for your time and consideration.”

  She nodded. “You will be provided with food and drink,” she said, and Khalila immediately stepped forward. She felt rather than saw the Archivist’s glance. “Scholar Seif will guide you to your temporary accommodations.”

  Khalila was trembling inside, but she kept her head high and face neutral as she led the party of diplomats and their guards out of the hall; she saw Dario watching, but he didn’t attempt to join her. She was thankful for that, in a way, though she would have liked his company. As long as Spain had a stake in this, his loyalties were mixed.

  The party passed through the massive doors and into the outer hall; she led them up an interior stairwell to a large, airy room with an open side facing the ocean to catch the cooling breezes. Light screens blew in the breeze and prevented the invasion of flies so typical of this time of year. There was a long conference table of polished stone with a dozen chairs of Florentine design, and couches and chairs nearer the windows for the rest of the ambassadorial party. Seating enough—she saw that at a glance. What they lacked was refreshment.

  “Ambassadors, I will see you are provided with food and drink,” she said. “You’ll be assigned staff should you have any special requests. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

  “Scholar Seif, may I offer my gratitude?” Alvaro Santiago said. “I am pleased to see you well, Khalila. Are your friends all safe as well?”

  “All safe,” she said, and smiled. Be on guard. He’s a clever one. “Our sincerest thanks for your assistance to our ragged party of Scholars, Ambassador.”

  “Of course. It seems my assistance had a rather large impact. I am glad to see you well. And Brightwell . . . ?”

  “He’s fine,” Khalila replied. I hope. “Unfortunately, his brother was lost in the struggle.”

  “All wars have losses,” Santiago said, and she felt he meant more by that than a comment on Brendan’s death. “And all wars are destructive. You should remind your new Archivist of that.”

  “I am quite sure she’s aware of it, sir.” Khalila nodded deferentially and left to order the promised refreshments from the busy Serapeum staff. Santi, she noted, had already dispatched soldiers to guard the room’s sole exit. She approved.

  The pyramid’s middle level contained the staff services: cleaning and catering. Khalila headed there and found the area surprisingly understaffed; she sought out the beleaguered woman wearing the silver collar of a career servant of the Great Library and said, “Excuse me, but where are the workers?”

  “They’re worried,” the woman said. She was a short, round woman with South Asian features, and a surprising number of scars on her hands. A chef, most likely. “Not sure everything is settled yet, and they don’t want to be caught in the middle of things. I can hardly blame them, to be honest. There’s panic in the city. They have families to look after. As do I, but my first duty is still here.”

  Khalila started to fire back a hot reply, but then took a beat to consider. There was no point in being angry; the woman’s point was well made. Great Library servants were not all careerists; many signed on for limited contracts of a year, five years, ten. They had much to lose and little to gain in a conflict, and they weren’t Scholars with a stake in the outcome . . . but they still had priceless value. It took vast numbers of people just like this woman, and the ones afraid to appear today, to make the whole city run. She needed to keep that in mind.

  “On behalf of the Archivist, I thank you for your faithful service,” she said. “May I ask your name?”

  “Wadida Suhaila, Scholar.” Some of the weariness disappeared from her face. She straightened her shoulders. “I appreciate the recognition, Scholar.”

  “Khalila Seif,” Khalila said, and gave her a small, formal bow. “I know you are overworked, but might I ask you to provide what refreshments are available to the Seventh Great Room? We have a grouping of ambassadors there, debating their next steps.”

  “Of course. I will arrange it immediately.” Wadida took a Codex from her belt and quickly made a note. “The kitchens will have it prepared, and I’ll find servers to bring it up. Is there anything else?”

  “Some tea for the Archivist, when you have time,” she said. “In the Receiving Hall.”

  “Of course.” Another note, and Wadida snapped the Codex closed and replaced it in its holder. She hesitated for a second, then met Khalila’s gaze. “Scholar? If I may . . . Will we be all right?”

  It was a simple question, but still hard to answer. Khalila settled for, “The Great Library survives. Always.”

  She took her leave, and hoped she had not told the lie of her life.

  EPHEMERA

  Text of a letter from Ambassador Marta Kuznetsov to the Russian emperor Vladimir Nikolaev III. Archived in the Codex.

  The newly elected Archivist, Scholar Murasaki, is not as skilled in diplomacy as was her predecessor, but she is most straightforward, which is a useful trait in unsettled times. If she survives this strife, she will guide with a steady hand, and perhaps avoid some of the abuses that lie at the feet of the former occupant of the office. She has demanded a full retreat of the ships at sea. I am certain you expected nothing else.

  I do not recommend we comply. This is clearly an opportunity for Russia to advance upon the world stage as a partner with other nations. Should the worst—or best—come to pass, we will split Alexandria in parts, and of course we should seek to control the Great Archives and the books within it, though the Spanish will almost certainly defend that to the death. Peace is clearly not possible without some test of the new Archivist’s mettle and resolve; if she shows weakness or indecision, if we see that this city remains divided in its loyalties . . . then we have no other choice but to act in the interest of our crown and our people.

  I am aware that the Archivist in Exile has placed a bounty upon the heads of many
of those who engineered his downfall. This may be useful to us, whether we wish such a thing to succeed or to fail. I recommend that we say and do nothing, and see what strengths this New Alexandria possesses. And what weaknesses.

  I remain, as always, your devoted servant, and await your instruction.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JESS

  The ancient sculptor who’d crafted the statue of Anubis in the temple—not an automaton, a work of carved stone, painted and gilded—had done an astonishing job of it. Jess gazed up at the god, whose head tilted down to consider the worshippers below. It stood on a golden plinth, one foot ahead of the other as if frozen in a moment of action. At each corner of the plinth sat a brazier producing pure blue flames that echoed the rich enameled ornaments of the god’s clothing and headdress. The space wasn’t vast in terms of floor, but it vaulted far, far up, and the god’s upper body was cloaked in brooding shadow. The strength and power of this place wasn’t mitigated by the small figure in priestess robes sweeping dust from the corners. Apart from the single priestess, the temple seemed deserted.

  Jess knew better.

  “Wait here,” he told Glain. She stood watchful guard as Jess moved toward the priestess, one hand on her sidearm. No doubt she, like Jess, had calculated the depth of every shadow and the potential for every avenue of attack and escape. And that was fine with him, so long as she stayed where she was.

  The priestess wasn’t Anit; it was a plain young woman who watched him nervously as he approached. Jess stopped a respectful distance away and said, “Hello, Priestess. Are you in charge of the temple today?”

  “I am,” she said. It was a good attempt at authority, though she was at least two years younger than he was. “How may I help you, soldier?” She looked past him at Glain. “Did . . . did you come for devotions?”

  “To make an offering of faith. A gift for the temple’s maintenance, in memory of my brother.”

  She almost staggered, she was so reassured. “A recent passing?”

  “Yesterday,” he said. “In the Colosseum.”

  “Oh.” She bowed her head. “Anubis will guide him on his way. Was he faithful to the gods?”

  “Not to any god in particular,” Jess said. “But he respected Anubis the most, I suppose.” He had no idea if that was true, but he knew Brendan would approve even if it was a lie. “A thousand geneih in return for prayers for his safe journey into the afterlife. Where shall I make the deposit?”

  “The al-Adena Bank,” she said. “Or you may bring it here and ask for the treasurer. He is not in today, but I am sure . . .” She trailed off. Jess allowed himself a small, bitter smile.

  “I am sure tomorrow might bring those less hardy back to the temple,” he finished for her. “It’s a real sign of your faith that you’re here doing the work.”

  “I believe the Great Library will continue, sir,” she said. “And Anubis will note my faithful service.”

  “I’m sure he will,” he agreed. “But I confess, I also seek another power here. A quieter one.”

  The priestess raised her head slowly and gave him a long look. “Who are you?”

  “Jess Brightwell.”

  “Brightwell.” The young woman had suddenly taken on a far different stance. She knew the name. “Welcome, cousin.”

  “You work for her.”

  “I work for my god,” she said. “But I am loyal to my friend, too. And careful of her safety, so you’ll be wise to hand your weapons to your colleague.”

  Jess didn’t intend to fight, and he wasn’t in any real shape to in any case. So he drew his sidearm and kicked it to Glain, who picked it up. “Good enough?” he asked the priestess.

  She nodded. “She mourns her father,” the priestess said. “She’s asked not to be disturbed.”

  “As much as I wish to respect that, I need to talk with her. Can you arrange it?”

  The priestess started to answer, but a voice from behind the statue of Anubis, deep in the shadows, said, “She can’t. But you can join me in our shared mourning.”

  Anit stepped forward. The shadows, he realized, hid more than just her; he saw the gleam of three more sets of eyes behind her. She’d dressed in a red pleated dress, as traditional as the priestess herself, and with kohl around her eyes and henna mourning inscriptions inked on both her arms, she looked like she’d stepped straight out of the time of the Pharaohs. She seemed older, and it wasn’t just the makeup and clothing. She seemed to have aged years. Her copper skin looked richer, her hair a ripple of black silk left loose around her shoulders.

  She was beautiful. It struck him hard, and he wished he hadn’t noticed.

  “Anit,” he said. It was a ridiculous thing to say; she knew her name, and he didn’t need to sound so damned surprised. But he’d expected to find an unnaturally clever child, and instead, here stood a dangerous young woman.

  She raised one eyebrow. “Were you expecting someone else? Don’t tell me you’re here on account of your brother. I mourn him, too, but Brendan would laugh to think either of us was overly concerned for the state of his afterlife. He told me once that he’d always thought of you as his shuyet, his shadow-self. And I know you thought the same of him. But now his immortal soul stands before Osiris and the forty-two judges of his heart, and there we cannot help him.”

  “I couldn’t help him in the arena, either,” he said quietly. “Some shadow-self I am.”

  “Jess . . .” She shook her head. “Why did you come here?”

  “You know why.”

  “The Archivist and his lackey, the one who killed Brendan. Yes. I expected you to be looking. But one glance tells me you’re in no shape to exact any kind of revenge,” she said. “And do you really think I know where the bastard is, and haven’t taken action?”

  “I’m fine, and if you don’t know, you can find out.”

  Anit’s eyes went cool and distant, like stones beneath running water. Far older than her years. “The old man is good at hiding,” she said. “And his Elites stand with him. No good comes of putting your hand down a snake’s hiding hole.”

  “No good comes of leaving a poisonous serpent where it can strike, either,” Jess pointed out. He leaned against the dark stone wall and felt the chill of it through the thick cloth of his uniform. Suppressed a shiver. “And you know he will. Hard, and often. We can’t let him take anything else from us. Not one more thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t intend to,” Anit said. “If I knew where he was, he’d already be begging Anubis to lead him to judgment. But I’m happy to let the Great Library take care of its own problems.” She cast a glance toward Glain. “Fierce as she is, she’s hardly an army, though.”

  “Help me bring him to justice,” he said. “Common cause for killing a Brightwell.”

  She laughed. It sounded low and raw in her throat. “Justice. There is no justice for the likes of him that doesn’t come slowly, with screams. And I know you, Jess. You’re squeamish about such things.”

  “I’m practical. We can bring the bastard before the Conclave and let them decide his fate. He’s a traitor to the Great Library. He’ll get death, but it ought to be done in public, not in private. Justice isn’t done in the dark.”

  “Come off your high ground, Jess. The shadows are where we live.”

  He didn’t want that to be true, but somehow, he felt she’d just spoken an important truth to him. He wanted to be better than that. He wanted to be a Scholar, to live in the light. But he, like Anit, had been born in shadow, and she was right: he functioned better there.

  But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  “I won’t assassinate him,” he said. “But I will find him. And I’ll bring him back alive, in chains.”

  She smiled. Not a nice expression, but a profoundly calm one. “Not alone you won’t.”

  “Then help me,” he said. “Unless you’re pausing
for your mourning period.”

  “Henna washes off,” she said. “And I will be mourning what I did for the rest of my life, my cousin of shadows. But if we go together, you must understand this: your notion of bringing him to justice is quaint, Jess, but useless. He won’t come quietly. He won’t come at all, given any choice. He’ll force his own death rather than endure trial and disgrace.” Anit looked eerie just now, in the shadow of Anubis; she seemed almost supernatural in her calm. “This city will settle only when he’s dead. Not before. Put him in chains, you risk riots and revolts, and that gives those ships and armies around us the opening to claim us as their own. Politics is a blood sport. The old man knew that when he started this. He’s perfectly willing to destroy the Great Library and Alexandria without flinching.”

  Jess wanted to say what he knew Khalila would have said, something about mercy being greater than anger, something about rising above . . . but he knew this feeling too well. That growling, crimson rage that stopped him from reaching that high ground again. Because Anit was right. Taking the Archivist alive risked too much, whatever Wolfe intended.

  “Fine,” he said. It felt worryingly good to say it. “Then let’s hunt him down. Together.”

  Anit said, “Only if you swear on Anubis that you will kill the old man if you can.”

  Jess walked over to the statue and laid his hand on the god’s outstretched foot. “Before Anubis’s eyes, and the Christian God, I swear to kill the former Archivist of the Great Library, or watch him die. Send me straight to hell if I lie.”

  “An interesting appeal to multiple faiths,” Glain commented, “but since you don’t practice either faith with any regularity, I can’t see it matters.”

  “It matters,” Anit said. “Devout or not, no one wants to break such a vow made in the presence of a god.” She turned to Glain. “And you?”