Sword and Pen

by Rachel Caine

  The Archivist wanted to make this difficult for anyone who might come looking.

  The problem was that this was a city of the dead; it was disturbingly quiet here, only a distant whistle of wind across the hole piercing the dome above to disguise their footsteps. He tried to step carefully. It was cooler in here than he’d expected, and there was a strong reek—not of decomposition so much, but of embalming chemicals. It clawed at his lungs, and he felt a surge of panic and held his breath. He could not cough. Not now.

  He was so intent on that, he flinched when a tap on his shoulder signaled that Wolfe had joined them. The Scholar pointed toward one structure near the far left side, and once spotted in the gloom it was impossible to miss: a not-very-miniature pyramid with a capstone covered in gold. Jess signaled to Anit, who began to direct her people. She stayed back, which he appreciated. And she had a guard who stayed by her side. He glimpsed the distinctive haircut, though it was far too dark to see the snake tattoo beneath.

  Wolfe was moving forward, and for an older man he still had an athlete’s light, sure grace; he used the outer structures of the Necropolis for cover. Jess and Glain flanked him, ready to fire at the first sign of trouble. I don’t know why I always think of him as a Scholar, Jess thought. He moves like a soldier. Always has. He’d spent a long time away from Alexandria out in the world, doing dangerous work for the Great Library.

  Jess’s lungs were on fire now, and he tried to breathe in the shallowest mouthfuls of tainted air possible. It didn’t help. He shook with the effort to hold in the coughs, and tasted blood again. No. I can’t afford this. Not now!

  He should have been watching his footing. His boot landed on a stone, and the scrape echoed through the chamber like a shot.

  Everyone froze. The others, he thought, didn’t know he’d been the one to make the sound; it ricocheted off of tombs and walls and ceiling.

  He heard whispers follow it. They weren’t coming from Anit’s people—that was clear; they knew better. No, this came from another group.

  The Archivist’s High Garda Elite were here.

  Jess didn’t catch the first flutter of movement, but Glain did; she raised her rifle and fired, and the flash illuminated the raw gray edges of tombs. In the next instant Wolfe flung himself behind cover, and a barrage of answering shots came at them. It was impossible to know how many of them there were, with the echoes in this chamber, but it sounded like a lot. Maybe as many as Anit had brought with them. Jess didn’t think he was a match for even one High Garda Elite on a good day, and this wasn’t one. He doubted Anit’s band of mercenaries was, either. Glain might be. But even Glain couldn’t best a crowd of them.

  His mind was racing, and he was trying to think of some way around a fair fight. I’m a liability. I shouldn’t have come. He knew that, and was enraged about it, but it was too late. He needed to use whatever advantages he could offer to save his friends.

  It was far too dark in here to see properly; there was a very real risk of shooting allies. No way to tell if the Elites were wearing anything to identify them, but he’d memorized the faces of Anit’s warriors. He just needed to be able to see them.

  The lights.

  Jess slipped off to the right, away from the fight. Tombs clustered thickly on this side, opposite the model of the Serapeum. He took shelter behind a tomb built to look like a gracious Egyptian home, complete with a stone garden in front, and used the mask in deep, convulsive gasps until the burning in his lungs calmed. Then he crouched and began a zigzag run between the tombs and toward the light at the center of the Necropolis.

  The Elites hadn’t destroyed the mirror, thankfully; they’d only tilted it down toward the ground. Jess stayed concealed behind a large granite statue of Bast and looked for any traps, any guards. Saw nothing. That didn’t mean they hadn’t thought of this, of course, but he hoped not.

  The rolling roar of shots fired made him decide not to wait. Caution would get his friends killed.

  He rushed forward with absolute focus on the mirror. Imagined exactly when to drop to his knees and spin the giant metal disc up on its metal frame so it caught the sunlight, then focus that light on the next mirror. With any luck, the Elites hadn’t bothered to move the rest of the array.

  He had to veer aside before reaching the mirror when what he’d taken for another inert funeral statue whirred to life.

  Jess threw himself aside and rolled, but there was nowhere to go; his back collided with the side of another tomb and drove a wrenching cough from him that tore something inside. He spat blood and got a clear look at the thing coming for him.

  It was a nightmare.

  He’d heard rumors that the High Garda Elite had ordered special automata, but everyone he’d ever talked to had dismissed them as legends. He wished that had been true, because he was facing a Minotaur.

  Even if he’d been standing it would have topped him by several inches, and it was three times as broad in the chest, with shoulders that bulged with cabled muscles. A bull’s head with sharp, curving horns and glaring red eyes. It carried an axe, and it moved forward on metallic human feet with hardly a sound.

  Jess scrambled upright and threw himself aside just before the axe buried itself in the ground and cracked the granite of the tomb he’d been lying against. The blow would have chopped him in half if it had landed. He darted for an open path but the thing was fast, and it was relentless; he veered away from a swing of its double-headed axe.

  He backed away, and it followed. It was locked on him, and if he wanted to escape, he was going to have to stop it. No chance of getting close enough to it to look for an off switch, and somehow he doubted this automaton even had one. He’d never seen one quite like it. Not even the dragon had this much raw presence. Not even the gods. This was built to resemble a monster, and it moved like one; the fact that its bull’s face had no real expression only made it worse. Even without the axe, the sheer power of those arms could easily pull him to pieces.

  He just wanted to run, but he knew that was useless; his lungs wouldn’t take it, and this thing moved so fast he was certain it would hunt him down, no matter what he tried. He tried his rifle, but the bullets glanced off the creature’s armored skin. He needed Thomas’s light ray.

  He didn’t have it.

  How is it seeing me in this darkness? Because here, near the turned-down mirror, it was very black indeed, hard to see anything in any great detail. He ought to be nearly invisible in these clothes.

  Because it can see in the dark, he thought. Of course it could. That made it extra-terrifying.

  But if it could see in the dark, that might mean it wouldn’t be well-adapted to the light. Not concentrated light.

  Jess raced for the mirror. He reached it with the Minotaur pounding in pursuit just a dozen feet behind. He flipped the mirror to catch the sun and quickly angled it to shine directly into the thing’s eyes.

  It stumbled and veered away.

  The mirror was on a rotating stand, he realized; he followed the Minotaur, drove it into a corner between two of the tombs, where it found itself trapped, unable to escape through the narrow opening between them. He kept the light pouring onto it, pinning it in place, and stepped back while he heaved in painful breaths and analyzed the thing. Very few vulnerabilities in it. But the eyes . . . the eyes might be the key.

  He raised his rifle and aimed carefully, sent up a prayer to whoever was listening that the crafters who’d created this awful thing hadn’t armored the inside of its eyes, and fired.

  He missed. The bullet hit a protruding brow ridge and ricocheted, digging a deep gouge in the marble of one of the tombs. His heart was pounding, and his lungs throbbing in time.

  Slow down, he told himself. Relax. Focus.

  He fired again. One of the glaring red eyes went out, and the Minotaur gave a horrifying roar. It staggered forward. It lifted its axe.

  Je
ss switched his aim to its other eye as it charged for the mirror. No time to be careful. He had to be correct.

  The shot hit the right eye, and the Minotaur kept coming, flailing, wild, blind. Jess turned the mirror on its base to protect it, and the swing of the axe missed and sank the blade deep into the stone beneath. Jess kicked and landed his foot squarely in the chest of the Minotaur; it staggered back and lost its grip on the axe.

  And then it flailed blindly at the air. It couldn’t see and didn’t know where he was. Jess stayed still, watching; it must be listening for any clues, but the wild hammer of gunfire from the other side of the Necropolis would be overwhelming for it.

  The Minotaur ran at the side of a tomb and began to batter it, cracking marble as pale as bone.

  Jess couldn’t kill the thing, but at least it wasn’t an immediate threat. He swung the mirror around and looked for the next bronze reflector; he aimed the beam of light at it, and instantly, the entire chamber illuminated with a bright glow as the array of mirrors lit up in series. It was oddly beautiful, this city of white houses and monuments and unmoving gods.

  It was also a war zone. Now that the area was lit, Jess had a clear view of where the Elites had stationed their gunners, and he made his way in that direction, coming at an angle that put him at their backs. One was fully exposed in the light now, and Jess paused and aimed, fired, and saw blood splash in a shocking spray on white marble. The High Garda Elite soldier slumped. Down, or dead, didn’t matter at the moment. The Elites wouldn’t be able to tell that he was behind them, with the echoes in this vast cave. It was all a rattle of noise coming from all directions.

  He surveyed the landscape of close-crowded buildings and found an easy approach to one of the higher tombs; even better, the tomb had a roofline that provided good cover. He climbed onto a simple mastaba, then jumped from that to a larger tomb, then made it to the roof of the last one. The effort made his vision go soft around the edges, but he made it; he rolled behind the protection of the small ledge around the roof and steadied his rifle on it. He saw four targets, and with methodical precision he aimed and fired.

  He didn’t miss.

  He watched from his prone, resting position as the rest unfolded. Anit’s crew swarmed one of the defended positions on the ground and took possession of the weapons after the Elites fell. Jess spotted Wolfe and Glain leading another band of mercenaries forward toward the Serapeum, where the last of the resistance was located. I should be with them, he thought, but it felt good here. Calm and comfortable. He could do more for them here.

  And as it happened, that was the right decision, because a sniper wearing the Elite uniform crawled up to the roof of a tomb that had a good vantage point against his friends. The sniper had chosen—probably accidentally—a position that was partially blocked from his view by a statue of Anubis. Jess shuffled himself over as far as he could without tipping off the roof, and got a clearer angle on the Elite soldier.

  But he missed. And the sniper whirled, searched for who’d shot at him, and Jess saw him aiming back.

  Better not miss a second time.

  He dropped his opponent with a bullet through the chest, and only seconds later realized that he’d killed a woman. He didn’t know her, but she was younger than he’d expected, and it hit unexpectedly hard. But he’d had no choice. She would have gladly put a round in Wolfe’s back, or Glain’s. Or in his own head.

  The firing reached a fever pitch, but it was all concealed from him inside the Serapeum; he watched tensely and finally relaxed when he saw Glain come outside and raise her fist. A sign of victory. She seemed all right, and Wolfe appeared a moment later, bloodstained but upright.

  Jess climbed down and began the walk toward the Serapeum. He saw the blinded Minotaur still reeling and uncontrolled in the distance; it bashed holes in everything it touched, but it was easy to avoid now. Someone would have to put it completely down later, but it wouldn’t be him, thankfully.

  He’d done enough.

  He made it to within a few feet of the Serapeum before his vision grayed out again, and as Glain came toward him he said, “I think I need to sit down.”

  But he was already collapsing as he said it.

  EPHEMERA

  Text of a Codex message manipulated from within the Iron Tower to be hidden from observation, addressed from the Archivist in Exile to Callum Brightwell

  Mr. Brightwell, I deeply regret the loss of your elder son; it is a great pity that the boy sided with his misguided brother instead of obeying your instructions, and if I could have saved him, I would have done so.

  I have attempted, without success, to deal with your so-called cousin, Red Ibrahim’s child, to negotiate a safe exit from the city; she has refused me completely. I hope you will be more reasonable, and will find a way to either prevail upon the girl’s good will, buy her cooperation, or remove her and replace her with someone more willing. My work cannot be done here in a city that is both hunting me and under attack from outside forces. I plan to raise an army of my own to retake Alexandria and bring order back to the world, but I cannot do it from within these walls.

  I will spare your younger son as part of this bargain, of course. And you may have your pick of the Great Archives on the day I triumph.

  Advise me of a plan and the deal will be made.

  Reply from Callum Brightwell, hidden from observation

  Don’t bother. You’ve promised me enough favors and ransoms that I should own the Great Archives, and the Great Library itself, four times over. If you’re still lingering in Alexandria and not dead on a gallows by the time of my son’s funeral, then I may yet hold you to account and get some value out of you.

  Touch my other son and die.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DARIO

  The first thing Dario did, after being released from Santi’s zealous soldiers, was go back to his room in the Lighthouse to dress. It meant passing burning buildings with crews of firefighters, wounded being treated, familiar and beloved spots damaged by bombardment. That one there: his favorite shop for little cakes. There, the café where he drank morning coffee.

  It made him angry and unsettled, and being shadowed by Santi’s High Garda afflicted him with a rare dose of caution. He wondered what orders Santi had issued. He trusted the captain—no, Lord Commander—with his life for the most part, but in these unsettled times . . . well. Everything had become chaotic. Even the normally predictable Niccolo Santi.

  Coming back to his room always made Dario feel warm and safe; it had a good view of the harbor and it was spacious and had plenty of room for his work desk and clothes closet. He stopped at the desk first, sat, and wrote in his Codex. He addressed the message to his cousin Alvaro Santiago; there was no indication that it would be reviewed by sharp-eyed Obscurists and High Garda, but he was certain it would happen. So he began with an entirely heartfelt entreaty to stop the bombardment of the city, invoking family loyalty as much as he felt would be appropriate, and after that, he used a particularly ornate curl of his pen. It was the signal, in the language of Spanish spies, to switch to a clever code, one devised by a mathematician who’d refused to study at the Alexandrian university or have anything at all to do with the Great Library. He’d been a rebel, that one; his writings were interdicted and difficult to find, even with a Scholar’s clearance. But generations of Spanish diplomats had used his particular code, and as far as Dario knew it had never been cracked. The virtue was that it was not the words themselves that mattered, but the height and embellishment of each letter. It demanded precision on the part of the writer, certainly, but if executed properly it could be a nearly invisible and undetectable way to convey hidden information.

  So while he wrote, My loyalty is entirely to the Great Library, as you must surely know; I have been granted a gold band and a lifetime appointment, and this must direct my actions moving forward, he knew that what he was actually conveying was My lo
yalty is to Spain, and I seek an opportunity to speak with you. Send instructions. He used the code only sparingly, for simple things like this, and he knew his cousin was sharp enough to spot it. Whether or not Alvaro would believe it, or comply, was another matter entirely. But it was possible. At the very least, Alvaro would want to explore the idea that they had a well-placed asset within the city . . . and one with the ear of the new Archivist. And her new assistant, he thought, and felt a flush of shame at what he was doing. Khalila might understand; she was, like him, a child of politics. But at the same time, he was very much afraid she might not.

  He knew where his duty lay, and he could not apologize for it. He, of all of them, understood the fragility of the Great Library and the might of the kingdoms that surrounded her on every side. The only thing that had protected the ancient city was the legend, the glittering façade that covered rotten timbers.

  But even that had tarnished now, and the only thing that could save this place was to make accommodations. Adjust. Adapt. Make Alexandria useful to the world in ways it had never been before. The Great Library could no longer command the unquestioned obedience and awe of the world, but it could make itself safe. And he would see to that.

  Whatever others thought of him in the end.

  He bathed and ordered food from the kitchens, only to find from the harassed copper band who delivered his meal that the circumstances of the day prevented anything heated. He settled for the bread, jam, and cold-press coffee, though not with any good grace, and went to choose his clothing carefully.

  Brightwell had always accused him of being a peacock, and, yes, to be sure he liked rich fabrics and fine cuts, but today of all days advertising his royalty was inadvisable. He had in his stores a plain set of clothing, purchased secondhand; it was still decent quality, and very clean, and once he’d put it on he looked no different than any other Alexandrian. When he finished, he stood before the mirror and checked himself with exacting eyes. He’d put away all his jewelry, with the exception of his family signet ring; that, he turned inward so all that showed was a plain gold band. It was vanity to wear it, but, well . . . he was vain. The shirt, vest, trousers: all correct. The boots were a bit too good, but he imagined this alternate Dario Santiago had aspirations to better things, and besides, they were comfortable. He’d be wearing them for a long time, most likely.