Sword and Pen

by Rachel Caine

  “No time like the present to try,” he said. “Alamasi? Direct them to fire it. Target close to the Spanish fleet, but don’t damage any ships. Warning shot only.”

  “Acknowledged, sir, a warning shot,” she said, even as she wrote down the instruction. “They advise two minutes to align and power the device.”

  He walked to the last set of windows and looked at the Obscurist. “Raise this set of shutters only. Alamasi, if I’m burned alive, then all this becomes your problem.”

  “Sir,” she said reproachfully. “That’s not the inspirational speech I need.”

  “I’m not in an inspirational mood.”

  The shutter rolled up, and he saw hell.

  He’d watched the bombardment of Philadelphia under the orders of the old Archivist; he knew the devastation Greek fire could wreak, and he knew he’d hesitate to ever use it against a vulnerable target. But the Welsh—who had used it on London, heedless of civilian casualties—had no such qualms. They’d raised flags on their ships: black ones, with a red bar across them. The Welsh signal for no quarter.

  So much for diplomacy. The Welsh, at least, intended to destroy whatever they could, reduce the Great Library to ashes if they had to. And the Spanish weren’t turning on them. Weren’t supporting their efforts, but certainly weren’t demanding a stop.

  The only saving grace was that the plans the High Garda had so carefully prepared were working. Stores of denaturing powder that could quell Greek fire were at every corner of every main road, and on many of the smaller ones, too. Special fire brigades were in place with dispensers to fire the powder over larger areas. So as many vile fireballs as streaked through the air toward the beautiful Alexandrian streets, few did more than land, spread, and be promptly smothered. Of course there was damage, unavoidably, but he saw only a few fires that were spreading, and those had plenty of attention.

  So far, it was only Welsh ships firing ballistas. But if the other ships in that fleet joined . . . “They said two minutes,” he said. “Is the Lighthouse aware of how much damage could be done by then?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re working.”

  As he watched tensely, one of the Welsh ships got the range and began to hammer at the Iron Tower. So far, it seemed unaffected. It was torture to stand here and watch the bombardment and deliver no answer. A barrage came at the Serapeum, hit the ancient stone, and slid away. The ancients had built their defenses well. We rely on the past accomplishments far too much. Must do something about that.

  “Sir!” Alamasi’s voice was vibrant with excitement. “Lighthouse signals ready!”

  “Fire,” he said. He hoped he sounded calmer than he felt.

  A thick beam of red light cut from the top of the Pharos Lighthouse. It was as broad as a warship, as hot as the sun’s fiery skin, and it sliced straight through the water in a line that only just missed the bows of several Spanish ships, including the one flying the flag of the ambassador.

  Steam blew up in a blinding cloud, creating instant fog and confusion; through the mist, Santi saw one of the ballistas go wrong on the deck of a Welsh ship, and Greek fire exploded and spread. They’d have precautions, but the heavy, sudden fog did them no favors in organization. Ships drifted too close together. The crews were disoriented in the reduced vision. And the unholy green glow of the spilled Greek fire burned like angry spirits, creating a hellish vision of chaos.

  The red beam cut out. Santi watched for a few seconds, and then said, “Senior Captain, please send a message to the Spanish ambassador. Tell him that the Welsh are to cease their bombardment immediately, or the next thing that the Lighthouse burns will not be seawater.”

  “Yes, sir.” He heard the fast scratch of her stylus. Alamasi had a rare gift for quick communication matched with perfect script; he couldn’t have done it himself. His scrawl would have been incomprehensible to the Spanish under this type of pressure. Much depended on precision.

  The silence within the room felt heavy, overlaid by the distant screams and cries from the city below.

  There were two more bombs fired toward the city, and then the bombardment stopped. The fleet sat quiet in the drifting fog.

  And Alamasi said, “The Spanish ambassador writes as follows: Our Welsh allies acted with reckless haste and have been reprimanded. We are willing to signal a truce and assist with the injured within the city.”

  “Thank him for his gracious offer,” he said. “Should the fleet wish to remain against the orders of the Archivist and threaten our borders, we will respond with all weapons at our disposal to any hostile intention.”

  She was transcribing as he said it, and he felt a moment’s light-headed weakness. I’m no diplomat. But in this moment, he did as he had to do, and he knew that was what the Archivist expected. Whatever mistakes he made would be discussed later, but for now, he knew weakness could only bring the wolves.

  And the wolves would rip the Great Library apart.

  Alamasi’s pen stopped, and he waited. Long moments. The city’s alarms still droned, warning the citizens to shelter, but now they fell silent, too. He saw flutters of bronze wings in the skies; the Obscurists had set the sphinxes in flight to circle above the city, ready to strike enemies with all the terror an automaton could bring. The lions were moving through the streets with the High Garda companies. Spartans and automaton gods would be stepping off their pedestals to patrol.

  No one had ever succeeded in breaching Alexandria’s defenses. And he would not have it happen under his command.

  “Message to the Obscurist Magnus,” he said. “Ask him how the Obscurists are holding up. We need those automata working.”

  After another moment, she said, “He reports that the workload is heavy, but they are managing. He recommends keeping a dozen sphinxes in the air for early detection of any threats. Save the dragon for emergencies.”

  “Good,” Santi said. “Anything from the Spanish ambassador yet?”

  She sounded regretful. “No, Lord Commander. But I do have a report that Dario Santiago has been found and is being escorted here.”

  That implied rather strongly that Dario hadn’t come by his own will. Typical. Santi quite liked the arrogant little ass, but he knew how much Dario detested being told what to do. Royals. “Any updates from Scholar Wolfe?”

  “I regret not, sir.”

  Santi clasped his hands behind his back in favor of balling them into fists.

  Stay alive, Christopher.

  And find that damned old man before he causes chaos on top of chaos. We can’t afford to fight on two fronts.

  * * *

  —

  Dario arrived under armed escort, and despite their professional behavior Santi could see it hadn’t been an easy trip. The young nobleman was dressed in wine-red velvet, expensive and well made, though he probably considered his outfit quite plain. Not a jewel to be seen. Not even lace on his sleeves.

  What he did have, which the High Garda soldier leading the escort deprived him of and handed to Santi directly, was a dagger. It was indeed jeweled, and it had a beautiful Latin inscription on the blade. “Ego bibo alte,” Santi read. “I drink deep.”

  “It works both for the blade and for me,” Dario said. “May I have that back? It was expensive.”

  “In a while,” Santi said, and put it aside on the table. “Come to the window.”

  Dario weighed his choices and wisely decided not to make it a fight; he came to the window, crossed his arms, and said, “What do you want, Lord Commander? I might be royal, but kidnapping me won’t get you anywhere. The king of Spain has a lot of cousins.”

  Santi cast him a look that clearly told him not to push his luck. “Where is your loyalty?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You wear the gold band of a lifetime Scholar,” Santi said. “You’ve put it back on, I see that. But you’ve abandoned your robe.”

&n
bsp; “Not every Scholar wears one.”

  “Today they do,” he said, “unless they have a compelling reason.”

  “Is this what you had me dragged here for? To critique my wardrobe?” Dario flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket. But he was wary. Listening. Just putting up his usual rank of glittering defenses.

  “I’m asking you where you stand,” Santi said. “With the Great Library, or with your homeland and relatives. It matters very much at this moment.”

  Dario’s face smoothed out into a blank mask. “Sir,” he said, “I’m offended you should even have to ask—”

  “Don’t.” Santi’s calm, heavy tone put a stop to the foolishness. Dario rocked back and forth on his heels a moment before he answered.

  “It’s difficult,” he admitted then, and Santi heard the ring of truth this time. “I love Spain. I love my cousins. And I hope they have the purest of motives—”

  “They just bombarded our city.”

  “The Welsh did that!”

  “Without the Spanish ambassador’s complicity? Really? You’re smarter than that, Dario. He used them to see what we’d do in response. Now he knows.”

  “He is an extraordinarily good chess player. But so are you, Cap—” Dario broke off and shook his head. “It’s hard to break the habit of calling you captain.”

  “Imagine how it feels for me,” Santi said. “I’m doing my best to protect and preserve this city, but my true and only duty is to protect and preserve the Great Library. I need help to do that.”

  “From me?”

  “Yes. From you. If you’re willing. And if you’re loyal.”

  “I am,” Dario said, and heaved a sigh as he looked up at the ceiling in frustration. “Dear God in heaven, I am loyal to this glamorous, miserable place, and I never thought I’d say that. I never expected it to force me to stand against my own, but here we are. It doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

  “Your happiness isn’t required,” Santi said. “I need something that comes to you as naturally as breathing.”

  Dario’s dark eyebrows went up. It gave him a piratical look. “Which is?”

  “Betrayal.”

  Santi didn’t miss the fury that ignited in the young man’s eyes, or the hand that went automatically to his side; if he’d had the fancy blade there, he’d have drawn it. Which was why it now lay on the table behind Santi. But Dario checked himself and said, “Be careful how you say that, High Commander. I’m loyal. Not a lapdog. What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell your cousin that you need to borrow his spies.”

  * * *

  —

  The Archivist summoned Santi for a personal report after Dario was dispatched on his way, and she’d put aside her formal robes and headdress for a simple, clean kimono of pale green with pastel flowers. Murasaki looked calm and ordered, and she was gracious enough to allow him to sit as their tea was poured. It was a tea almost the shade of her gown, and though he wasn’t prone much to tea, it drove his weariness away again. For a while.

  “The reports tell me your preparations were effective,” she said. “The damage to our heritage buildings is minor, and even in the unprotected streets your firefighting teams minimized the losses.”

  “Ten dead,” he said. “Two of them librarians. Twenty-one injured seriously enough to summon Medica. I don’t consider that minimized, Archivist.”

  “We’re at war, in all but name. You must adjust your expectations. As must I. I have lived much of my life in Spain; I have served at the three largest Serapeums there, and I have a great love for the country and people. And my own home country has taken arms against us. It leaves me in a difficult position, but I will do what I must. As will you. Whatever the cost in lives and property, we have a greater responsibility—to knowledge. To the world.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes. I know that.” He wanted to tell her about Dario’s mission, but he didn’t dare, not here. There were staff members around, and worst of all, Khalila Seif, who would not take this well at all. “I have a question, Archivist, if you would allow.”

  “Ask.”

  “Will you place this war completely in my hands? Trust me to follow a strategy, even if it seems wrong to you?”

  “That is your position, High Commander. I would only overrule you if I saw imminent disaster.”

  “I need you to promise me: don’t do it even then. We’ll need our nerves steady, both of us, to do what I plan.”

  “And I suppose you will not tell me what it is?”

  “I can’t,” he confessed. “Not because I don’t trust you, Archivist. But because I am risking the life of someone who also trusts me. But I will tell you, I promise. When it’s time.”

  Her gaze was cool, heavy, and assessing; she reminded him of Christopher in that moment. No fools suffered in this room. “Very well,” Murasaki said. “But you know the consequences if this goes badly.”

  He toasted her with his cup of tea. “Are you telling me to return with my shield or upon it?”

  “Thirty-six plans of how to win the battle are not as good as one plan to withdraw from it,” she retorted. An old Japanese proverb. “But I will trust you. And you must trust me. Or we both lose.”

  He touched his fist to his chest—not quite a salute, but a suggestion of one, and she accepted it with a nod.

  He had his approvals.

  After thanking her for the refreshment, he rose to leave. The Archivist stopped him. “Distasteful as this is, we must discuss one of our own. My understanding is that Jess Brightwell is involved with the young woman who has inherited Red Ibrahim’s shadow empire. True?”

  “He knows her,” Santi said. He didn’t tell her that he did as well, if only slightly. It didn’t seem a proper thing for a High Garda commander to admit.

  “And Brightwell’s father controls much of the illegal book trade of England and Europe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet this boy was accepted to the High Garda? And we wholly trust him?”

  “Jess is not his father,” Santi said. “And his brother died fighting with us.”

  “But for what reason? I doubt his altruism.” The Archivist had a very traditional view of book smugglers, and he couldn’t blame her; he’d had the same opinions until Jess had introduced him to some of the players. Though he’d cheerfully knock Callum Brightwell flat any day of the week. As if she’d just read his mind, the Archivist continued. “His father has sent several messages demanding we hold an immediate funeral for his son, and that he and his wife attend. I am reluctant to admit him to our city, especially in this time of uncertainty. Or, frankly, at all. Your opinion, knowing all of these people better, would be welcome.”

  Funerals. Santi hadn’t thought about them, hadn’t even considered the need for them yet. But of course funerals would need to be held, particularly for those whose religions required immediate burial or cremation. He wasn’t sure what religion the elder Brightwell followed. Or Brendan, for that matter. The Great Library always honored the traditions whenever possible. “And when is his funeral to be held?”

  “I haven’t yet decided,” she admitted. “I would prefer to return him to his father in England for whatever rites are required, but . . . I think his brother should also have a choice in this.”

  “Brendan died for us, and his brother,” Santi said. “I agree that having Callum Brightwell here is an invitation to chaos, but I will say this for him: he saved our lives during the Welsh conflict in London. And gave us shelter when we were on the run from the Archivist.”

  “And sold you out there, as well. Landed you in Philadelphia, at the mercy of the Burners.”

  “He had very little choice,” Santi said. “But yes. Brightwell also connived with your predecessor because he realized an opportunity presented itself. He’d certainly be interested in profits, if there�
�s some arrangement the Great Library finds beneficial. Times are changing, Archivist. There might be accommodations to be made.”

  “With book smugglers?” She sounded not so much horrified as disgusted.

  “I know it goes against the grain,” he admitted. “But consult with Thomas Schreiber. I believe he has an invention that will be vital to this discussion.”

  “The young man who just raised Poseidon in the harbor?” She nodded thoughtfully. “I will. Thank you, Lord Commander. I know you have a—I do not want to call it a war, but perhaps a campaign—to conduct.”

  He bowed. “My thanks for the gift of your trust, Archivist.”

  She nodded, and he left. Tom Rolleson was waiting for him in the hall; his younger aide seemed as if he’d aged years in the last few days. He was reading his Codex, and kept reading as he fell in step. “Sir,” he said. “The fleet has moved back. They haven’t departed completely, but they’re putting some water between us.”

  “More likely, between that deadly cannon of Thomas’s and their highly vulnerable ships,” Santi said. “The Spanish ambassador’s no fool. He saw Thomas make one of those weapons, and he’ll know what they’re capable of doing. But he’s not one to give up, either. I imagine he’ll test it periodically and see how long it can keep up its beam. How long can it, by the way?”

  “No more than thirty-six seconds, sir. Then it needs to recharge for at least a few minutes.”

  “And they will quickly discover that. I need to talk to the Artifex Magnus and see what can be done.”

  Rolleson glanced up. “I’ll arrange it, sir. What else?”

  “There will be spies inside the city, likely part of the Spanish ambassador’s ring that existed long before this.”

  “I’m told the Obscurists are looking for any suspicious writings in either Codex messages or private journals.” Rolleson nearly missed a step. “Wait . . . how can they possibly read a private journal?” Santi recognized the scandalized worry in that question. He’d felt it himself when he’d first realized that personal journals weren’t just for their intended purpose of adding to the history of the Great Library, but for surveillance by increasingly anxious Archivists. By slow, seemingly logical steps, they’d gone from pure motives to bitterly authoritarian outcomes.