by Rachel Caine
The Elites hardly gave him a glance as they formed a tight cordon around him and marched him through the outer office, where an assistant's desk sat empty, and then through a set of massive double doors decorated with the Library's seal.
He was escorted to a heavy, ornate chair and pushed into it, and the guards immediately withdrew to stand in the shadows. They went as immobile as automata.
Jess raised his gaze to find that the head of the Great Library wasn't even bothering to look at him.
The old man looked different, Jess thought. Grayer, but somehow stronger, too, as if he'd taken up a new exercise regimen. His hair had been cropped close now, and his skin had a darker hue than before, as if he'd spent time out in the sun. Sailing, perhaps. He must have a ship or two at his disposal.
The Archivist signed official documents with quick scratches of his pen.
Jess expected to at least have the old man's attention, but the Archivist said nothing. He simply worked. In a moment, a young woman walked in with a silver tray and put a small china cup of strong coffee on the table next to Jess.
"Can't drink it, love," he said with a shrug of his shoulders, and twisted to show her his bound hands.
The Archivist sighed without looking up. "Remove his restraints, will you, please?" The order was directed at no one in particular, but a guard immediately stepped forward to press his Library bracelet to the shackles, and they snapped apart. Jess handed them over, and the guard took up his invisibility game again. Jess picked up the coffee cup with a fleeting quirk of his lips at the lovely assistant--she was beautiful--and it was only after he saw the hurt in her eyes that he realized he should have remembered her.
And Brendan Brightwell certainly should have remembered her. He couldn't forget, not for a second, that he was now intent on carrying on an impersonation of his twin brother, and his brother, God help him, had carried on a secret affair with this very same young woman. Whose name he couldn't remember, no matter how he tried.
Get your head in the room, he told himself. He wasn't Jess anymore. Couldn't be. Jess Brightwell was a dead man in Alexandria; he'd come here to set plans in motion, and he'd done it the only way he could: as his brother Brendan. His life now depended on everyone believing that he was his twin, as unlike him as it was possible to be. Sarcastic, sharp, brash, always ready with a grin or a joke or a knife in the ribs.
He returned his focus to the Archivist Magister, the head of the Great Library of Alexandria, as the old man--still without looking up--said, "Explain why I shouldn't have your head taken off here and now, prisoner." He frowned down at the document he was marking and put it aside to take up another.
Jess held on to the brash smile that was his brother's shield. "In here? You'd be days cleaning the carpets."
"Don't be obtuse."
"Well, then. You'd just be robbing yourself. I'm here bearing gifts. Valuable ones, at that. And I have much more to offer."
"Heretics and criminals have nothing to offer me," the Archivist said. He still hadn't given him real attention.
"You must not have read my father's message."
"Your father is a heretic and a criminal. Did you miss my point, boy?"
Jess drank the coffee. It was strong, and familiar as home. "Not at all," he said. "But we're both aware the Great Library has dealt with far worse than my da to get what it wants."
"And what do you and your book-dealing father imagine that to be?"
"The thing that will destroy this place."
The Archivist finally put his pen down and looked at him directly--a cold stare, empty of pity or mercy. This was a man who'd sentenced Scholar Wolfe to torture once, and Thomas, too. Who'd killed countless innocents who'd stood between him and the Library's goals, and showed no sign of ever caring.
"Go on," he said.
"The Library has rested for nearly four thousand years on the supremacy of alchemy, and the Obscurists who practice the highest levels of it. Everything you do rests on some aspect of their power: the automata who keep cities in fear. The portals you send your armies through. But most of all, the books. When only the Library is the source of learning and knowledge, you have a stranglehold on the world."
"I might argue with your sinister interpretations, but not your facts," the Archivist said. "The Library is the source of learning and knowledge. The automata help keep order. The Translation Chambers are an efficient way to move our people from one point in the world to the next. And your point is . . . ?"
"That one simple invention brings it all down," Jess said. "Something so blindingly simple that it ought to have been invented thousands of years ago, if it hadn't been deliberately and continuously suppressed by the Library. And you."
The Archivist sighed and made a point of going back to his papers. "If you insist on talking in riddles, then this conversation is over, and I'll send your body back to your father for a proper burial. It's the least I can do."
Jess sat back and smiled. "We have a working model. In fact, it's churning out copies of things that have been secret for a thousand years--you remember the Black Archive books my brother and his friends stole from you? At this very moment, your power is being eroded one page at a time. If you'd like to ignore that, please yourself."
The old man was good at this, Jess thought; not so much as a flicker, a flinch, a twitch. But the card had been played, and he'd done it as well as he could do it, and all he could do now was sip coffee and pray that he hadn't just signed his own death warrant.
The Archivist put down his pen. "I'll do you the honor of acknowledging that this is of some interest to me. It is of advantage to the Library, long may it survive, to take control of this machine so that it may be properly administered. It's to no one's benefit to unleash such a technology on a world unready to handle it responsibly. Surely even your father can see that?"
"My da's not one for social responsibility," Jess said, and showed teeth. "He's more interested in the financial benefits. What do you offer for him to destroy it? Has to be more than he stands to gain, mind you."
"Blackmail?"
Jess shrugged. "You're the learned man. I'm just conveying the offer. For a price--and a very, very large one--my father will destroy his press, shut down all operations, and hand over the plans and the man who drew them up."
"Thomas Schreiber."
Thomas's name from those bloodless lips made Jess want to abandon this plan and kill this old lizard now, before more harm could be done to his friend. He spent a pleasant few seconds thinking of how to accomplish it. It was thinly possible that he might be able to lure a guard, snatch a gun, and put a bullet in that evil head before anyone could stop him.
Assassination was always possible if one didn't care about getting away with it. Or surviving.
He held himself still, smiling, though the hate that surged in him physically ached. The old man was tapping his fingers silently on his desk, and whatever he was thinking, none of it showed in his face until he said, "What's your father's price?"
That was it, then. Jess had been balanced on the edge of a cliff and now a bridge had appeared in front of him. Narrow, death still very much a possibility at any misstep, but a chance. A chance.
"Oh, it's very high," Jess said. For the first time in his life, having an identical twin was proving to be a good thing. A lifesaving thing, in fact. He copied Brendan's brash grin and loose, easy posture and crossed his legs. Took in a deep breath of familiar air. He'd missed Alexandria down to his bones, and it helped steady the shaking anger he kept tightly locked. "It might ruin a medium-sized country. But you'll pay it, because it will bring an end to this business once and for all. I already brought you one Scholar you wanted so badly, and the Obscurist, too, for free. As a sign of good faith." Wolfe's betrayal was a burden he'd have to endure for a lifetime. The desperate look in the man's eyes . . . The Library's dungeons had broken him before, and only time and love had put him back together again. This time? This time there might be no repairing what Jess
had done to him.
"Yet you didn't deliver your brother along with them."
"Well, family's family. My father might. But not yet. Early days."
The Archivist studied him, and those sharp eyes, faded with age but every bit as dangerous as they'd ever been, missed nothing. The old man's skin might be rough and lined, his hair dulled, but he was a killer. A survivor. A ruthless and morally bankrupt absolute ruler. "You know, the resemblance between you two really is remarkable. Without the scar I couldn't tell you apart."
Brendan's shrug was higher than Jess's, and more fluid. "Really? Because we're nothing alike. My brother's a bookish idiot and always has been. I'm my father's son. I'm not sentimental." Brendan's smile stretched his lips. "And you have my father's assurance he sent me. But that's your business, whether you believe me or not. Please yourself."
The Archivist smoothly changed tack. "You realize that I do have bargaining leverage, boy. I have you."
"And my father has another son. Not much benefit to angering him, either." Jess took a sip of coffee to give himself time, and listened to the Archivist's silence. Silences, he'd learned, had layers to them. Some were tense, on the verge of violence; some were slow and calm and peaceful.
This one had edges.
Jess moved his gaze away from the Archivist and studied the office as if he'd never seen it before--he had, once, but he'd been younger then, and desperately afraid. Brendan, having never seen it, would take it all in: the lush carpets in Egyptian motifs, the shimmering wall of glass that offered a view of the blue waters of the Alexandrian harbor and the boats sailing on it. The oversized automaton statue of the hawk-headed Egyptian god Horus, standing with one foot forward. It would be ready to protect the Archivist at the slightest threat, in addition to the waiting Elites.
Jess sipped coffee, but he tasted only bitterness. His pulse threatened to race, but he breathed deeply, the way that his friend Khalila had taught him, and felt the pressure slow. Wait it out, he thought. Brendan would.
At last the Archivist said, "Tell me, Mr. Brightwell--have you ever heard of the Feast of Greater Burning?"
Jess's skin went cold, and he felt muscles tighten in his back. Tried to keep it from his face. "Not familiar with it," he said, because he was fairly sure Brendan wouldn't have known. "You're inviting me to dinner?"
"Our ancestors here were not known for the savagery of many other cultures, but the occasional sacrifice was known to occur. We give many offerings during the Feast of Greater Burning, and these days, they are symbolic and ceremonial. A thousand years ago, the feast was a practical way to both continue tradition and dispose of . . . particularly troublesome individuals. If you understand my meaning."
"You're threatening to burn me alive? Don't dance around it, sir. I'm not likely to faint. Or beg. Kill me, and deal with my father. More to the point: don't."
The Archivist had been unnaturally still and composed, but he slapped his hand on the shining surface of his desk with a report like a gunshot. He didn't move like an old man, Jess thought. There was real strength behind the blow. "Don't presume to threaten me, boy. I am the Archivist of the Great Library! I command the respect, wealth, and loyalty of the world!"
"You did once," Jess agreed, and it sounded quite calm. "But the world is changing. And this is your only chance to control it."
The Archivist went as still as the Horus statue looming in the corner. Those eyes caught the light from the windows and turned an eerily hollow shade. Got him, Jess thought. The one thing that every Archivist for nearly a thousand years feared was change, and it was upon this one whether he liked it or not. With a working press to print copies of books, people would no longer be beholden to the alchemically mirrored copies from the Great Library. They could own books, not merely borrow them. They could write books without the oversight of Scholars and the censorship of the Library. The Library had started as a preserver of knowledge, a beacon of light, but through the centuries and millennia, it had become a center of power.
Power rotted from within.
If the Library was going to survive at all, the one thing the Archivist needed to stop was the printing press.
Jess sighed. "Let's not pretend you don't want what my father has. You've killed a hundred Scholars to keep the secret over the centuries. We're willing to trade it to you, with all the plans. But if you're not interested, I expect we can sell the idea elsewhere." He stood up.
The Horus statue turned its gleaming golden head in a sharp, birdlike gesture, staring down at him.
"Careful," the Archivist said softly. "If I made you disappear, no one would ever find your bones."
Jess put both palms flat on the man's desk and leaned forward. He had some satisfaction in knowing he was ruining the shine. "If you make me disappear," he said, "you'll be the last Archivist of a ruined Library. If you think that's an empty threat, unleash your metal god." He heard the rush of human footsteps as the guards came forward, but the Archivist lifted a hand and they stopped.
Silence. Edges and humming tension. When a full ten heartbeats thudded past, Jess stepped back to his chair and settled in, as if he were at home. "We can be powerful allies," he said. "Burners are rising all over the world against you. Kingdoms are on the verge of rebellion. Your High Garda troops are stretched too thin to protect your vital outposts. We can help."
"I do not deal with smugglers and thieves."
"You've dealt with rulers and kings for years. My father's crown is shadows, but it's real enough. Think of it in those terms, and swallow your pride if you don't want to lose all . . . this." Jess gestured around at the office and the great central pyramid in which it stood: the home of the Great Library of Alexandria, in a city devoted to its glory, in a country made incredibly rich by it, protected by armies and tradition, automata and alchemy.
It was all more fragile than it seemed, and they both knew that.
The Archivist made a small gesture, and the Horus statue's head returned to its neutral position . . . but once you'd seen it move, Jess thought, you'd never forget it again. The point had been made.
Mutual destruction.
"What does he want in return for such . . . consideration?"
"Books," Jess said. "Rare and valuable. It's nothing to you; you've got vast storehouses of things no one's ever seen."
"How many?"
There it is, Jess thought. They had an agreement. Now they were only arguing terms. He relaxed a little, but only a little. "For the press and plans? One hundred thousand rare volumes, and I'll inspect each one." He smiled. Brendan's cynical smile. "Believe me, I'd rather be doing something else. It's my brother who's the bookworm."
"That will take weeks," the Archivist said.
"Are you in a hurry?"
That earned him a sharp glower. "Your answer implied you have more to barter."
"Well, the press and plans are worth that much, to be sure, but the mind of the one who built that wonder . . . that's worth more, even if it's just to ensure he doesn't build more."
If the Archivist was aware of it, he kept his own counsel. "Schreiber is valuable to us."
"Then that's another hundred thousand books. And the others?"
"What others?"
"Captain Santi. Khalila Seif. Glain Wathen. Dario Santiago," Jess said. He tried not to think of their faces. Tried to care nothing about them, as Brendan might have done.
The Archivist flipped a dismissive hand but then thought better of it. "Santi deserves punishment," he said thoughtfully. "An example should be made of him. Dario Santiago's family is royal. Pardoning him could earn us the renewed loyalty of Spain and Portugal."
"And Khalila?" Jess tried to keep his voice calm and light. Difficult.
"The Seif girl made her choice. She can rot with her father and brothers in prison, until their execution."
Jess's chest began to burn as if he were holding his breath, but he was pulling in plenty of air. Khalila, Khalila, executed without a thought for her brilliance and com
passion. "That leaves Wathen."
"Drop the Welsh girl into a well somewhere and be done with it. She's not important."
You bastard. You cold, stupid bastard. She's your next High Commander.
And suddenly, the burning in his chest turned to ice. He'd done it. It was agonizing, playing to this man's vanity, drawing him into a discussion that dismissed people he loved to death and torment . . . but now, with the casual admission that murder was acceptable, the Archivist had shown his flank, and he was vulnerable. A fish on the line, Jess thought. Don't let him wriggle off.
He nodded casually and tapped his fingers on his thigh. "I'll convey all this to my father. He'll want terms for the ones you want."
"You may use my personal Codex, if you'd prefer. It is not monitored."
Brendan's grin hurt his lips this time, but he deployed it anyway. "I'm not a fool," Jess said. "I'll manage my own affairs. If we deliver Santi, Khalila Seif, Thomas Schreiber, return Dario to his relatives, and dispose of Wathen, what do you offer in return for all that?"
"Besides the two hundred thousand rare volumes you've already demanded? You go too far, young man."
"I am my father's son, after all. A fair offer buys you what you want. It's simple commerce."
"I am not in commerce." The Archivist managed to make it sound like a mouthful of filth, but after a hesitation, he donned a pair of thin spectacles and opened a book on his desk. He appeared to scan its contents, though Jess doubted he had to check; a man in his position would know precisely what he had to offer, and what its value would be.
A moment later, the Archivist clapped the book shut and said, "I've wasted enough time on these fools and rebels. Two hundred thousand rare original books from the Archives, plus a full High Garda company's shipment of weapons sent for the use of your father, including Greek fire. And the High Garda turns a blind eye to anything the Brightwell clan does from this point forward, so long as it doesn't involve outright threat to the Library. Does that suffice?"
Despite everything, Jess found himself unable to reply for a long few seconds. The Archivist Magister is selling weapons and Greek fire as if it's nothing. And guaranteeing protection to black market smugglers. The betrayal of the Library's principles ran so deep, offended Jess's soul so much, that for a difficult few breaths he couldn't master his distaste.
