Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  "Up," she said. "Look up."

  He did, and felt his heart shrink in an instinctive spasm of dread, because there were sphinxes perched motionless on roofs. Large ones. And as he looked down, he realized that they were on the ground, too, crouched motionless in shadows.

  "Where are we going?" he asked her.

  "Straight ahead. The building with blue trim."

  That was a generous description; the trim might have been blue an age ago, but it was a weathered, flaking, indeterminate color now, on a building that sagged as if it might melt completely in the next rain. A ramshackle thing made for knocking down, at least to the casual eye.

  But he recognized the precautions.

  The windows were, of course, barred; that was no surprise in such a neighborhood. But they were also dark, and he thought they were almost certainly covered by steel plates. The door looked old, but it would be reinforced and highly armored. Inside, the place would be a fortress, with dozens of tunnels for escape.

  It was large enough to be a major storage point for Red Ibrahim's business, though the old fox would be careful to keep visible traffic to a minimum.

  "Well?" Wahl raised a fist, and her escort came to a halt along with her. "Go and make them surrender. That's why you're here."

  "They'll kill me."

  She shrugged. "I assume you're hard to kill. But if you want to stay here and refuse, we'll find out fast."

  "Do I at least get a weapon?"

  "Besides the dagger you lifted from me earlier? No." She pulled her sidearm and aimed it straight at his chest. "Go on. I'm almost sure the sphinxes won't tear into you."

  He felt sweat break out at the back of his neck. This was a death sentence, and it was blindingly clear to him in that moment that they intended to have him killed, but with the excuse that he'd been killed by smugglers. A neat solution to the Archivist's puzzle of how to get rid of his annoying visitor, while also claiming innocence to his newly made ally.

  He took two steps toward the building. A sphinx's wings unfurled somewhere above him with a faint, metallic ring, and he glanced up.

  He was aware of a flash of light from the building he was facing, and then a hammer blow to his chest, and being lifted off his feet and thrown like a toy. Fragments of images crowded in, all chaotic: a massive red fireball rising to the sky. A sphinx falling out of the sky and crashing to the pavement. Two High Garda soldiers cut to pieces by flying metal in splashes of vivid crimson.

  He landed on his side and rolled until a hard wall crushed him to a stop, and for a moment he just panted for breath and waited for his dazed eyes to come back into focus.

  When they did, he saw a slaughterhouse. Half of Wahl's soldiers were down, blood on the street and splattered on dirty walls. There was nothing left of the building they'd been approaching but crumbled walls and burning rubble.

  Those of them still standing were in a white-hot fight for their lives. Sphinxes were tearing apart surrounding buildings, trying to get at those firing from shelter, but as soon as an automaton succeeded in forcing its way in, it was faced with hails of hellish gunfire. He saw three sprawled, motionless machines. Red Ibrahim's people had a way to kill them effectively enough, though he heard tortured screams from a building on the left where a sphinx had ripped through the roof and descended on unprepared residents.

  Innocents, perhaps. But probably dead in seconds, if so.

  "I found the traitor!"

  He hardly heard the shout; it sounded like a whisper in his blast-numbed ears. He looked around, dazed, and then happened to look up and saw a man with a red scarf over his face aiming a rifle down at him.

  He rolled away at the last instant, bullets peppering the ground and building around him. None of them found their mark, but some came far too close, and then he saw something falling toward him. It was just a shape, indistinct, and he put his hands up to protect his head.

  He caught a thrown bottle of Greek fire that, by all rights, should have reduced him to burned bones on a molten street, and once he realized what he held, he nearly dropped it, anyway, out of sheer surprise. The cap popped loose and rolled away, and the liquid sloshed and rippled with half-seen flames. He steadied his hands and pulled it down to rest on his chest, which was all he could do at that moment. No throwing it back without splashing it all over himself.

  More bullets rattled down, and he curled carefully on his side and hugged the wall, with the deadly bottle as protected as he could manage. If a bullet hit him, he'd likely survive. If it hit the flask, he wouldn't.

  He stayed where he was, acutely aware of the deadly weight held against his chest, and stared at the dirty wall in front of his face as an eerie silence finally fell. A beetle wandered up the scarred surface as if all the danger around it meant nothing. Lucky you, he thought. Though the beetle would burn just as surely as he if this glass container cracked.

  "Brightwell?" Wahl's voice was breathless. He turned his head at an awkward angle and looked up at her. One side of her face was bloody, and she had a half dozen bullet dents in the black armor over her chest. "Surprised to find you alive."

  "Surprised myself," he said. His voice sounded as shaky as his hands felt. "Mind taking this?"

  She spotted the Greek fire and took in a sharp breath, but she retrieved the cap and made it safe before picking it up. He rolled over on his back and sucked in a couple of deep, cooling breaths before climbing to his feet again. As he leaned against the wall, he counted the soldiers standing and realized that most of those who'd been in her escort were down.

  A sphinx was systematically ripping apart something that had once been human at the far end of the street. It was damaged, with one wing gone and one leg dragging uselessly, but that didn't make it any less horrific.

  "You were right," Wahl said. For the first time, she seemed to have a flicker of humanity in her eyes. Not for him, of course. For the men and women of her squad. "We should have brought an entire company. Not even the sphinxes can stop murderers who don't mind destroying their own headquarters. We can only hope we can find one still alive to question."

  He didn't tell her that Red Ibrahim certainly knew she was coming and that the building had likely already been emptied of everything of value. That the ones fighting were almost certainly hired mercenaries, with no connection back to his real organization.

  If she had been better at this, Brendan would have buried the dagger in her and found a spare piece of shrapnel to shove into the wound. Blamed it on the explosion. But she wasn't. She had no real understanding of how smugglers worked, and that was a good thing. Better to keep her in charge than someone such as Jess's Captain Santi, who almost certainly wouldn't have made these mistakes.

  He thought, I hope I don't have to kill you, Captain Wahl.

  But he knew full well he would if it came to that.

  Family first.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wahl walked him to the door of his sad little house, and Brendan walked inside, grimaced at the wreckage of the place, and wearily slammed the door. His head ached fiercely, he had bruises in places he'd never been bruised before, and he reeked of smoke and blood. He couldn't recall feeling this tired in a long time. All he wanted to do was sleep now, and the sight of the rumpled small bed drew him like a magnet. He toppled onto it facedown and felt darkness descend frighteningly quickly.

  In two hours, Jess Brightwell opened his eyes.

  On waking, you'll remember everything, he heard a voice say. It took him a moment to place it, but then he remembered the carriage ride to the Serapeum, and Elsinore Quest. You will remember that you are Jess Brightwell. You asked me to mesmer you into believing you were your twin, and so I did. It shouldn't last more than a day at most. You'll come back to yourself as soon as you sleep, and remember all the events of the day as if you did them yourself. You'll remember that you asked me to do this, most especially. I insist you remember that, because I don't wish to end up at the wrong end of your knife.

  Jess felt s
ick, and for a moment he stayed where he was, flat on the bed, until he felt comfortable in his skin again. His heart was racing, skin flushed and prickling with alarm, and blessed Heron, he ached from the abuse his imaginary brother's body had taken. Quest's mesmer skills were incredibly well honed, to convince him that he was Brendan to such an extent; he'd thought differently, acted differently. Even moved differently. He'd even flirted with Neksa.

  But it had all worked. He'd feared interrogation, though he'd expected it to be physical rather than at the hands of an Obscurist and mind-altering gas. Thank God he'd asked Quest to specifically shield the part of his memory that had to do with his father's location. He'd feared the Archivist would decide to torture that last bit out of him, and though torture hadn't been involved, the question had most certainly been asked, and an answer compelled.

  But Brendan--the Brendan that Quest had created in him--had been able to swear to a great many blatant lies with perfect sincerity.

  Whatever Alvaro Santiago had paid the Mesmer on Jess's behalf, it wasn't half enough.

  Jess stood up. He felt every wound that Brendan had collected and recalled in sharp detail the nearly deadly day he'd had. Including the gentle, intimate touch on Neksa's cheek . . . which she'd allowed, or at least been too shocked to protest. He wasn't certain yet whether that had been inspired or a terrible mistake. Time would tell.

  He opened the tap at the sink and washed his dirty face in icy water, then stood for some moments staring into the mirror. The difference between himself and his twin was so small, and yet so large it was like walking a high wire above a furnace. Exhausting. Maybe I should have Quest convince me I really am my brother for the duration. Could be restful.

  But no. He'd need both sides of his personality to get through this, because now that the Archivist believed him . . . somewhat . . . there was much to do.

  He checked the Blank, but once again there was no message from Morgan. It isn't safe for her yet, he told himself, but the worry gnawed harder. Morgan had been confident she could find a way to get around the Iron Tower's restraints. What if she hadn't? What could have happened to her in there? What Gregory had said about a partner . . . He found himself staring at the page for far too long before he slammed the book shut, ate a meager meal he didn't taste, and fell into a troubled, dream-crowded sleep.

  He woke up to a pounding on the door and squinted at the window. Wasn't yet light outside, and it took all his control not to bury his head under the pillow and seek sleep again. Not that it would matter, he knew; they'd just come in and drag him out of bed if he tried.

  A fresh High Garda Elite contingent stood outside, glittering with sharp edges in the dull predawn light. Jess wondered what had happened to Wahl.

  "Come with us," the man in charge said, and turned to head down the path. The rest of his soldiers waited for Jess to step out, and he debated it for a long few seconds before closing the door and following. They closed in around him. No carriage today; they'd brought a sturdily armored carrier. Good. The more the High Garda was worried about Red Ibrahim's retaliations, the less they'd pay attention to their prisoner. He didn't doubt they still considered him one.

  The carrier was standard--bench seats along both sides, hanging straps for those who didn't earn a seat. Jess was given the seat closest to the metal barrier to the driver--and the farthest from the exit. No one seemed inclined to make conversation, and he was still regretting getting out of bed and not insisting on coffee. He put his head back against the metal as the carrier's doors slammed, the engine hissed and gears engaged, and they glided rapidly toward their destination.

  He expected to emerge at the Serapeum and be led through yet another confusing tangle of corridors, but instead he found himself at the Alexandria Colosseum. An old Roman import, still maintained and in use; the vast structure could hold as many as fifty thousand, and while the old blood sports had been long outlawed, the more civilized contests remained popular. "We're taking in a football game?" he asked. He'd played it with other children in London, a ragged, barely serviceable ball kicked back and forth and chased to grimy landmarks that served as goals. Hadn't played it since he was twelve, and had never attended a game, though they had been as popular in London as anywhere.

  But there were no happy sports fans here. The place was deserted, and the perimeter iron fences had automaton guards. It felt eerie and as ghostly as the departed spirits of the Caesars.

  The High Garda surrounded him in a tight cordon, and he was pushed forward . . . to a guarded entrance.

  And a downward-sloping ramp, lit by greenish glows on both sides.

  The descent was harrowing. The place smelled like centuries of death and blood, and a stomach-turning electric feeling crawled along his nerves. Nothing good has ever happened here, he thought. These weren't the changing rooms for the teams, or the public galleries. This was ancient, and awful.

  It was also in use.

  The ramp leveled out into a long, broader hallway, still lit with the same glows that, though bright enough, cast a sickly pall over pale stone and iron doors, all tightly shut. The High Garda captain pushed one open and said, "In."

  If I go in there, I'm never coming out. The whole place screamed at him to fight as hard and as dirty as he could, and stay alive for another moment.

  But that was a fight he couldn't possibly win, and he had little choice but to limp inside.

  The door slammed behind him, but he hardly noticed. He was too surprised by what spread out before him.

  He stood on an overlooking gallery, and beneath it spread out a neat, orderly, modern workshop, with hundreds of tables and Scholars and mechanical technicians moving among them. Automata, half-built or under repair, occupied most of the space: sphinxes, both large and small. Lions. Spartans. Something in the back, veiled behind cloth, that looked more massive than any of the rest, but he couldn't make out any details except a ridged back.

  The Archivist waited at the railing.

  "The mission yesterday was not what I'd hoped for," said the Archivist. "Though I understand I can't legitimately blame it on you."

  "Did you blame it on Captain Wahl?"

  "Captain Wahl understands that failure is not acceptable for High Garda Elites," the old man said. "Don't worry, I won't ask you to be our stalking-horse for the next raid. Your father was informed of the . . . difficulties. He was very plain that you were to be treated as a guest."

  "I'm sure he asked very nicely."

  "In his way." The Archivist looked out over the workshop. "This used to be the space where condemned criminals were held before they were brought into the amphitheater to fight for their lives. Savage times. We've put it to better use."

  "Thought I was going to the lions," Jess said, in Brendan's slightly sarcastic tone. "Is this supposed to frighten me?" He leaned on the railing beside the old man. There were, of course, guards, guards everywhere, and off to his left and behind them sat a massive automaton lion, ready to spring if he made the slightest mistake. Tempting, to think about tossing the old man over the railing. He imagined how easy it would be.

  But it wouldn't save anyone else, either.

  "Caution you to mind your step," the Archivist said. "The rigorous questioning you went through has established your identity. Whatever doubts I have now are simply to do with the general untrustworthiness of your . . . type."

  "Criminals?" Jess let loose a fierce grin. "Reasonable. But we're in business. And I'll keep my word because it's in my da's best interests."

  "Perhaps. As you know, it's unwise to cross me. I made the promise to empty France of its pernicious rebels, and I did it. Destroying your entire family would be a wave of my little finger."

  "And I could shove you off this balcony," Jess said. "But I won't." He leaned back from the rail and faced the Archivist fully. "When do I see the books?"

  "Soon. But first I thought you'd be amenable to telling me more about this smuggler operating so effectively under my nose. Since he and his band a
lmost took your life yesterday."

  Risks of doing business, Jess thought. That applied to his danger yesterday and what he was going to do now. "That will cost you. It's no small thing for me to betray someone like him."

  "If you are loyal to me and to the Library, you will be protected. You won't need to pander to your rivals anymore. All I want is for you to--"

  The Archivist paused at a cry of alarm from below in the workshop, and Jess had a bare second to glance in that direction and take in the sphinx that had launched itself into the air, gliding on metallic eagle wings. Its back legs were not a lion's; they were knife-sharp talons.

  It was coming straight for them.

  The Archivist's guards reacted with admirable speed, as unexpected as it was; a hail of gunfire shattered the air.

  It bounced off of the armor that coated the sphinx. This was no ordinary automaton, Jess realized. And when he took his riveted gaze from it and looked back at the workshop, he saw that the Scholar who'd been standing by that table was still watching, unafraid. Unmoved.

  This is an assassination. The Scholar had been waiting for this opportunity. And now, all Jess had to do was stand back and allow it to happen. Most of the workshop below was in chaos, technicians and Scholars scrambling for safety. There were a dozen guards in the room, and they were all focused on firing on the sphinx circling above, to little effect. No one would fault him for saving himself.

  But if there was one thing that would earn him his freedom to do as he pleased, it would be this. No more questions. No more doubts.

  Much as he wanted to see this old man's guts strewn on the floor, he needed to save him.

  He reached a lightning-fast decision, grabbed the Archivist, and shoved him away from the banister an instant before the sphinx's talons sheared through the metal and cracked the stone floor. He kept the old man moving, running, dodging, on the gallery as the soldiers poured more fire into the attacking automaton. Off switch, he thought. Must be an off switch!

  He turned and threw himself back at it, hand grabbing for the neck of the thing as the smooth bronze face contorted, the needle-sharp teeth snapped at his arm. His searching fingers slid on smooth, featureless metal.