by Rachel Caine
He rose again, slowly this time, and nodded tersely. "I'll tell my father," he said. "I expect an answer within the day. Where should I wait?"
The Archivist had already moved on and was taking another book from the stack on the corner of his desk, and a pen. He made swift notes without looking up. "My assistant will take you to more comfortable accommodations," he said. "For now, you are my guest. A guest with no privileges, and no freedom, you understand. I hold you hostage for your father's good behavior. And make no mistake, if I see any signs of betrayal, I will kill you."
Jess bowed slightly. A touch mockingly, as his brother would have. "Of course."
CHAPTER TWO
He didn't allow himself to relax until the assistant--what in God's name was she called?--led him from the office and into the anteroom decorated with ancient friezes from Babylon, where her own desk sat. Less well polished, that wood, and stacked with work. She wore a gold band of service, and, yes, she was lovely; he could certainly see why Brendan had been so taken with her. Graceful as she motioned him to a seat and opened a book on her desk--one that no doubt contained orders from the Archivist that he'd just written out.
He studied her while she wasn't looking. The rich skin tone told him she was of Egyptian heritage, mixed with something else he couldn't define; he remembered the thick braid she wore down her back, and the cheekbones and pointed chin. I need to remember her name. N something. Naomi? Nallana?
It came to him with sudden clarity, and he used it. "Neksa, about the way I left--" This was a bridge he needed to test. Carefully.
"You left exactly the way you intended," she said in a brisk voice very different from the warm one that Jess remembered from their first encounter, the night he'd realized his brother had taken a lover from the Library's staff. "Without any warning and without a word." She looked up, and those sharp eyes seemed to cut right through him. "Though I thank you, at least, for a decent note to tell me you regretted it. I wish I could say it lessened the sting."
Brendan had written a letter? An apology? Clearly, his brother felt more for this girl than had been obvious. "Sorry," Jess muttered. He wanted to say something else, but it was risky, and the further he pushed Neksa away, the better for both of them. "Had to be done."
"I suppose," she agreed. She opened a drawer in her desk and removed something that she extended to him. It was a wooden box, carved with the symbol of the Great Library on the top, and when he opened it, he found a copper bracelet sitting on a bed of soft red velvet.
He shoved it back at her. "I'm not joining your cult."
"And we wouldn't have you," she said. "If you don't agree to put it on, your accommodations will be the sort that are far less pleasant. Did you imagine you'd be granted the same freedom this time?" That, Jess felt, was a double cut. Probably well deserved, that rejection.
Jess gave her a look he well remembered from Brendan's childhood--petulant, with a bit of aggression--and plucked the bracelet from the velvet. He slid it onto his wrist and winced when the alchemy embedded in the metal closed the bracelet and shrank it to fit close to his skin. He'd need an Obscurist, or the alchemical key that Neksa probably kept well hidden, to remove it.
"Tight," he said. "Can't you loosen it--"
"Of course not," she said. "I don't suppose you're brave enough to chop your hand off for comfort?"
Jess was honest enough to admit that he wasn't. At least, not without far more dire circumstances. He bowed slightly. "After you."
He followed as she led him through the corridors of the Serapeum. It was jarring to realize that the hallway they entered was not the same he'd passed through to get here, and it preoccupied him trying to make some sense of it. He had the strange, unmistakable sense that the office was no longer where it had been when he'd been brought into it. Was that possible? Or was there some strange, confusing Obscurist field that scrambled his memory of the directions?
The thick sea air closed over him as they passed out into an unfamiliar courtyard, and he felt that strong sense of home again. This place had quickly become something special to him. He'd made his first real friends here. He'd found purpose.
And now this was a hostile environment, full of traps. He needed to remember that.
Neksa took him through the gardens that surrounded the base of the huge pyramid, and Jess looked up at the sun-gilded marble facing of it, the fire of gold at its top. They were on the public side of the pyramid now, where a steady stream of people entered the vast reading and study rooms. On the other side, the side he'd entered before, were the Scholar Steps. Thomas Schreiber's name had been carved there, and Khalila Seif's, and Dario Santiago's . . . if they hadn't been chipped into oblivion yet. Likely. Jess imagined that would have been first on the Archivist's list, to erase them from Library history.
Scholar Christopher Wolfe's name was years gone already. The Library seemed permanent. But the steady, quiet editing of its own history showed its vulnerability.
He concentrated on following the sway of Neksa's braid out of the shadows, through the lush, blooming gardens, and out to the busy street. That took them past a lounging statue of an enormous sphinx, and the automaton turned its pharaoh's head to regard them with flickering reddish eyes. Jess's skin prickled with a flood of adrenaline, but he kept his pace measured and tried to control his heartbeat, too. This was the beast that would be set on his trail if he violated his parole. And while he might be able to disable the thing, it could easily disembowel him with a swipe of its claws, or take to the air with its wings to crush him down. Worse still, that human-shaped mouth hid a nightmare of razor-sharp teeth. Better to never see those, or hear the shrill, eerie scream.
The bracelet he wore was both protection and threat.
Neksa stepped confidently into the wide, white-stoned street and gestured for an oncoming steam-powered carriage, which hissed to a stop next to them. Neksa gave an address and they scrambled in. They sat on opposite sides, staring at each other, as the vehicle lurched into motion, and the wonders of Alexandria began to scroll past.
Neksa finally said, "You'll leave when your business is done here."
It was not quite a question, but Jess treated it as one. "I will," he said. "I owe it to my father."
"And you owe me nothing."
Jess looked away and fixed his gaze on the broad shape of the Lighthouse tower, where his friends had once held offices. "I owe a lot of people a lot of things," he said, and wasn't sure if he was speaking for himself or his brother. "No idea how I'll be able to pay all those debts."
She shook her head but didn't answer otherwise, and they rode in silence, clanking past the Lighthouse and around a shallow curve that took them into different streets. Alexandria held a wide, wild variety of architecture: Greek, Roman, Egyptian, a few styles from farther afield. They passed a lush Chinese palace surrounded by carefully tended gardens, and then a manor house that could have easily passed for English.
They were, Jess realized, passing a diplomatic district. His pulse sped up as he spotted an ornate Spanish palace behind heavy iron gates, because he knew who lived behind that facade. Dario had told him that he had a cousin serving as an ambassador in Alexandria.
Dario's family was stuffed with royals and lords and ladies. Hardly surprising they'd end up in positions of power here, too.
Jess noted the location, and the carriage took another turn into a much drabber section . . . perfectly respectable but very small homes decorated with a variety of bright colors. The carriage drew to a halt, and Neksa handed the driver a slip of paper--a promissory note from the Archivist, most likely. After they stepped out, the driver clattered her carriage onward, and Neksa led him up the worn steps to a door that swung open when she pressed her hand to it. "It's keyed to your bracelet," she told him. "And, of course, the lock can be overridden at any time by someone of higher rank. You will be watched, monitored, and tracked. We will search your quarters regularly."
"I expect nothing else," he said. The single roo
m they stepped into had blank white walls, plain furnishings that seemed comfortable enough. A bed in a doorless alcove that could be curtained off for privacy, a long reading couch, a desk and chair. The kitchen held the rudiments necessary to cooking. There was a bathroom in yet another curtained alcove.
The windows were small and barred from the outside, and there was no other door.
"Adequate," he said. "And how far am I allowed to go?"
"You don't. You wait until you're told differently. The Archivist has told me you'll be put under lock and key in the prisons if you set foot outside this door. Do you understand?"
"What am I supposed to do for food?"
"You'll get food brought to you. Beyond that, it's not my concern."
"So this is another holding cell--is that it?"
"A much better one. Count your blessings, Brendan."
For a long second, they stared at each other. She was looking for something in him, he realized. Some spark.
He didn't have it to give her.
Neksa looked away, took in a quick breath, and said, "If you need something else, write it to me in the Codex."
"Books," he said. "I'll need books."
"There is a shelf of Blanks next to the bed," she told him. "We're not cruel." There was an accusation buried in it, and then a bit of a frown followed it as she tilted her head to study him again. "When did you become such a reader, Brendan?"
A second of inattention, and he'd slipped. Jess was a reader. Brendan was not. "Just wanted to do a bit of research for Da."
She nodded, but that little notch of a frown remained between her eyebrows. Jess stared her down, and she finally looked away again and then left without a good-bye. The door shut behind her, and Jess sank down on the couch. Allowed himself a deep, shaking breath.
It was alarmingly easy to become his brother . . . but the little things mattered. Neksa was now on her guard, even more than she had been. If she began to doubt he was who he claimed, he'd end his days screaming in a dungeon, or worse.
He put his aching head in his hands, because that made him finally face the rest of it: Scholar Wolfe, locked in his own private hell again because bringing him here had made this charade possible. And Morgan, Morgan, back in the Iron Tower, where she'd be once more enslaved, not even her body her own.
This has to work, he told himself. He couldn't use the Codex that had been provided to him; it was obvious that Neksa would see every pen stroke he wrote in it, watch it appear in real time in her own mirrored volume. And with the bracelet locked on his wrist, he couldn't slip away to send messages.
They were all locked up, in their own ways. Dario, Khalila, Thomas, Glain, Captain Santi . . . all prisoners headed for Red Ibrahim's ship, which would carry them here to Alexandria for sale to the Library. That was the bargain Jess's father had made with his fellow master smuggler. Red Ibrahim would exact his own terms from the Archivist, in his own time.
Every one of his friends, every one, was inches from death, or prison.
How did I ever think this was going to work? Not that he'd had much richness in choices; he'd known that his father would betray them back in England, and this had been the last-ditch effort, once that happened, to keep some elements in play. Wolfe, for one; he hadn't brought Scholar Wolfe here by chance. He'd been afraid that, of all of them, the Archivist would have ordered Wolfe killed instantly. He and Dario had agreed that delivering Wolfe gift wrapped was the only decent option of a set of very bad choices. Jess was acutely aware that it meant, at best, sentencing Wolfe back to a prison that had destroyed him before.
No, no good choices.
Delivering Morgan had been more strategic, because of all of them, Morgan had the most chance of turning the tide . . . but that meant sending her back to the last place she wanted to go: the Iron Tower.
Standing here, an inch from death, Jess didn't feel especially sure that it was a plan at all.
But it was all they had.
Jess opened a Blank and summoned up a map of the city. He found where he was, near the diplomatic district, still within easy walking distance of the Serapeum, Alexandria University, and the closely guarded precincts of the Great Archives.
He was near where he'd last visited the Alexandrian Graymarket--Red Ibrahim's criminal enterprise. But that shadow gathering never lingered anywhere; it was a constant game of cat and mouse with the High Garda, a dangerous one. He had no notion, and no way to find out, where the Graymarket might convene again, not without tapping into family lines of communication. And that he couldn't do, with the Library monitoring his every move.
And Dario, damn him, hadn't come through as agreed. Jess had been watching everywhere for a sign--especially as he'd passed the embassy--but Santiago, as always, had proved to be reliable only when it suited him.
That was unfair, but it felt exactly true in that moment.
Jess fell asleep, despite the urgent flood of worry he couldn't seem to shut off. How long he slept, he had no idea, but suddenly he was sitting straight up, ready for a fight.
He'd have blamed it on a bad dream, but he knew it was more than that. Something was wrong. The sudden shock of adrenaline made him want to rush to his feet, but he knew better. Any move without information could be the wrong one.
A small handheld glow flickered on, and he saw a man of about thirty-five standing not ten feet from him, leaning against the small kitchen table. How he'd managed to enter a locked door and barred windows, Jess had no idea, but the most important thing was that the man was not holding a weapon and was putting a finger to his lips, then circling the same finger in the air around them and touching his ears.
There were some sort of monitors here. Listening. That was a warning.
Jess stopped and looked around for something with which--and on which--to write, but the only thing he saw was the Library-provided Codex on the table. He went back to studying the man, and now that he was getting control of his first impulse to fight, he thought the man looked a bit familiar. Only a bit, and he didn't think he'd seen him before . . .
Then it hit him. He was looking at a Spaniard with some passing family resemblance to Dario Santiago. Taller, thinner, lacking the devilish goatee that Dario had decided to sport.
Jess thought hard for a few seconds, then slowly signed out with his fingers, Are you from Santiago?
The man seemed startled, then pleased, and he replied, just as slowly, Yes. Dario taught you to sign?
Dario's sister had been born deaf. Most of his family, Dario had said, had learned to sign. And Jess had considered it a useful skill to pick up, in slow moments locked in a Philadelphia jail. It had kept him and Dario occupied, at least.
He did, Jess said. Why are you here?
Helping. The man spread his hands wide and shrugged. Dario asked. What can I do?
Dario, of all of them, was the one whom Jess had trusted the least . . . until recently. He was gaining a brand-new appreciation for the Spaniard's ability to play this game of deceit.
But could he trust this man? In truth, he couldn't even be sure Dario had sent him. And Jess's own sign language was nowhere near fluent enough to conduct an in-depth interrogation . . . not that they had time for it. However this wraith had gotten into the house, he'd need to be out before the Library detected anything out of the ordinary.
You doubt me, the man signed, and gave him a grin that was so effortless it was hard not to return it. Jess felt the familiar mix of irritation and--reluctantly--liking. Smart of you. Dario said you would doubt. He said to tell you to trust me . . . Here, the man faltered, thinking through his signs, then spelling the word out carefully. Scrubber.
Ah. That old familiar insult that Dario had been leveling his way for more than a year. At least now it had a tinge of fondness to it. And only those who knew Dario would know that name.
Can you help me? Jess asked.
Escape?
No. Get messages out without detection.
The Spaniard nodded. Give me names.
The Spanish ambassador.
The man's face relaxed, and he almost laughed, and then he gave Jess an elaborately ornate bow. Your servant. I am Alvaro Santiago.
You're the ambassador?
That's me. Alvaro shrugged, as if to say, Why not? This time, Jess had to stifle a laugh. Safe for me to come. Even if caught, not likely to be punished.
That was a neat checkmate of a move, though Jess had never imagined an ambassador who could move with the quiet skill of a criminal. He'd always thought they came with escorts of rattling guards.
What do you need? Alvaro asked when Jess hesitated. Who else to contact for you?
This was another conundrum, but Jess only spared it a second's hesitation before he signed back a response. Elsinore Quest. Mesmer.
I will find her.
Him.
Ah. Fine. To come here?
No. Tell him to intercept me the next time I'm taken to the Serapeum. Jess hesitated. He'll require payment. A large one.
Alvaro gracefully waved that aside. I trust you to repay all debts. Why a Mesmer?
Only a feeling, really, but he had the definite feeling that the next interview with the Archivist would be far, far more difficult, and Elsinore Quest had a skill set that might come in quite handy. But Alvaro didn't need to know that. Not important, Jess signed back.
Alvaro doubted that, clearly, but he shrugged and let it go. Anyone else?
Red Ibrahim. Smuggler.
The ambassador cocked his head, clearly not recognizing the name. Why would he? Royals and the smuggling royalty almost certainly didn't share social circles. When Jess spread his hands, not sure how to indicate an impasse, Alvaro nodded and signed, Then I will find him.
Criminal, Jess signed, with a little extra emphasis. Funny, this was one of the first words that Dario had taught him. Be careful. Dangerous.
The ambassador waved that away with airy disregard. Too noble and too arrogant to believe he could be at risk himself, Jess thought; he'd spent too much time being respected for his birth and station in life. Dario had been forced to learn his limits. Maybe this Santiago would as well.
