Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  He laughed. "I'm not the kind of man who lops off heads for speaking truth," he said. "And you have improved him, like it or not. God knows we've all been struggling to accomplish that for years. When we were children together, I had to bloody his nose to get him to stop calling me names. I didn't think I could ever beat him hard enough to make the leopard actually change his spots."

  "I should have fought back," Dario said. "Would have, if you hadn't been--"

  "The king?"

  "Smaller."

  "Ha, Cousin, I know you better. Please, Scholar, don't stand on ceremony with me. I'm happy to be simply Ramon Alfonse, as long as I'm with friends. I do consider you friends. Even you, Dario."

  Dario managed not to quite roll his eyes. "Family, at least." He sobered. "But we have important things to discuss, Ramon, do we not? Most notably, whether or not we are all about to be crushed under the heel of the Library."

  "If you are asking if we are officially at war, well." The king of Spain snapped his fingers, and a retainer stepped up to proffer a rather official-looking scroll, which he took without looking and handed to Khalila, not to his cousin. "In a sense, we are."

  Khalila unrolled the stiff paper, heavy with seals and redolent of the sweet beeswax that had formed them. She was holding something that would be an important piece of history, she realized: a withdrawal from the ancient Treaty of Pergamum, the foundational document that ensured the neutrality of the Great Library. And not just by Spain; Spain, it appeared, was a latecomer to the agreement, following Wales, England, Portugal, Turkey, Russia, Japan, the exiled queen of France, and the United Colonies of America. It was a stunning list, and she gasped without meaning to do it, as Dario leaned in to take a look.

  "I see Spain was reluctant to join the party, Cousin," he said. Which was not what she was thinking at all.

  She was imagining the chaos that would ensue from this, and she felt sick. The Library would, of course, be withdrawing its Scholars and librarians from these countries and locking down their Serapeums . . . but they couldn't strategically turn their backs on such a large part of the world. Russia alone was enough to rip the fragile fabric of the Library's grip on power. And Japan and Wales were known to hold learning in such high regard that any attempt to cast these rebel countries as barbarians would be worthless.

  Spain and Portugal were conservative lands. England was proud in defeat. And while France's queen in exile might be expected to support any such measure, for the American colonies to break with tradition meant something dire had changed.

  The Library had burned Philadelphia, and America would not forget it.

  Santi, as usual, was practical in his analysis. "Dramatic, but these are all lands that don't touch Egypt," he said. "Easy to be rebellious at a distance. We still need a better way in."

  "Or a navy," Ramon Alfonse said, and bowed slightly. "Captain Santi, Spain and Portugal have the honor of offering you ships and men to your cause. But first, we must agree on what the goals of this battle will be."

  "No," Santi said. "I don't want to lead a foreign army against my own people. I'm trying to save the Library, not destroy it."

  "And where then are your troops? Besides these good people." Ramon gave Santi an appraising look. "I am compassionate toward you, Captain Santi. I understand your point. But remember, regardless of who fights by your side, should you be successful, a new treaty may well be forged with the Great Library." Ramon gave Santi an appraising look. "And for all your undoubtedly high principles, I believe you're interested in saving someone in particular from the Library, first and foremost."

  Santi could hardly argue that point, but he didn't let his expression show it. "The Spanish and Portuguese navies are the envy of the world, no doubt, but don't you think they'll expect you to use them? We need a better plan than an attack they can anticipate without getting out of their chairs. Your ships will be a vital part of that, without any doubt, but we need a much different approach if we want to win control of the Library without unnecessary bloodshed."

  "Well, I am no strategist; I leave that thorny problem in your capable hands, Captain. My job is to end the Library's oppressive grip upon knowledge to the benefit of my people. That last part is the most important, of course."

  "Are you in communication with the Russian tsar and the emperor of Japan?"

  "As it happens, I am. But I hardly think the lobby of the Cadiz Grand Hotel is the proper venue for that discussion. Come."

  The king turned and abruptly headed for the door. His soldiers didn't seem at all surprised; a core of them closed ranks around him, but another part split off to rush up the stairs, and a third portion moved to take posts around the three of them: Dario, Santi, and Khalila.

  One of the soldiers stepped smartly up to Dario and bowed slightly. "Don Santiago, His Highness Ramon Alfonse is pleased to see you moved to more secure and comfortable accommodations in Madrid. Please follow me."

  Santi said, "And if we don't wish to go with you?"

  The soldier was a thin-faced man, hardened, with eyes as lifeless as a doll's. "Then, Captain Santi, you will be taken to more secure and less comfortable accommodations here in Cadiz. While I have no wish to kill you, I will obey the orders of my king."

  Khalila didn't want the full focus of that man's eyes, but she raised her chin and didn't blink when she received it. "I am a Scholar. So is Scholar Santiago. Captain Santi is of command rank within the High Garda. You understand what you are doing, do you?"

  "Spain's recently declared its independence from the Library, Scholar," he told her. "And that makes you a foreign refugee, at best. Don Santiago is welcome to travel with the king to Madrid, as are you, as his guests. But do not imagine wearing the symbol of the Library gives you any special consideration."

  It was no more than she should have expected, she knew that, but the vicious precision with which the man said it indicated years of pent-up resentment, a fierce satisfaction at a minor revenge. She felt a shiver go through her and hoped it was not something he could see. We didn't think of the resentment. Or the glee with which people would view the Library's vulnerability. Once the chill passed, she felt heat. Anger, building to fury. You will not destroy the Library. You will not.

  "We're happy to be my royal cousin's guests," Dario said. "Of course. Are we not?" His tone was butter smooth, but the quick glance he sent her and Santi was loaded with warning. They all knew Santi was on a hair trigger; the last thing he wanted was to become enmeshed in royal politics when every moment wasted was another his lover spent in a cell in Alexandria, moving fast toward execution.

  But Santi nodded agreement, however hot the look was in his eyes. And in a moment, the guards returned from upstairs, leading Thomas and Glain. Thomas looked like he was in the mood to fight, but he calmed when he saw the rest of them standing unharmed. "What is this? They're packing our bags. Such as we have, of course."

  "We're going on to Madrid," Dario told him. "It's all right."

  But was it? This had the feeling of a trap closing around them, for all that they'd hoped for something like it. "Should we do this? Are we sure?"

  "There are no right moves at this stage," Santi told her. "Everything will go wrong. Egos will get in the way. Politics. Greed. We have to find a way through, whatever happens." He took in a slow breath. "But you two would be far safer staying in Spain and organizing the unification of countries against the Archivist. You're both natural politicians. Make them call for the Archivist's removal, and the replacement of the Curia with new leadership, as a condition of signing a new treaty."

  "And you?" Khalila asked.

  "Let me and Glain go on to Alexandria."

  "The days when one or two people could save those we love are long gone, Captain." Surprisingly, it came from Glain herself. She looked calm, though she was watching the soldiers around them with sharp focus. "To cripple the Archivist's power, you have to make people believe he's vulnerable. That's already started. Wales openly defied him, and they still
conquered London and brought England to its knees; he threatened them for storming the Oxford Serapeum, but he couldn't stop them, either. That hurt him, and this hurts him more with every country that declares its independence. We need to take advantage of it."

  "And, Dario? Is your cousin going to commit real troops to fight a real war?" asked Santi.

  Dario shrugged. "Let's find out."

  Not that they had much choice.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The royal coach was, as might have been expected, luxurious, and large enough for twice their number; Ramon Alfonse dismissed all but two of his guards from the interior to make them comfortable, and offered water and juice. Dario looked over the selection with a frown. "Nothing more relaxing than that?"

  "A king is offering you refreshment from his own hands, and you criticize? Really, Cousin. You haven't changed at all."

  "I have. I no longer think that I'm the most important thing in the world. I've met people who've convinced me of that. I thought you'd be pleased."

  "Oh, I am," the king said, and poured a crystal glass full of orange juice at Khalila's request. He passed it to her with a smile. The carriage they traveled in was so well insulated that she could only barely detect the hissing of the carriage engine and the sound of the wheels. No sense of motion at all. "We all thought that you'd never grow out of your arrogance, but we'd hoped you'd learn to point it in a useful direction. I suspect these friends of yours have helped." A glass went to Thomas, who took it carefully in his massive hand. It looked like a child's teacup in comparison. "You, sir, you are an inventor who understands the automata?"

  "Yes."

  "And, if I heard correctly, who also can reproduce the written word using some sort of machine? Tell me, does it copy script quickly? I've seen automata that can do such things. A French inventor built one, but it was meant as an aide to scholars, and was slow enough that the Library felt it was of no particular interest."

  "They take this machine seriously. Once the letters are set on a tray, a page can be printed again and again, without limit."

  "Quickly?"

  "Yes."

  The king's eyebrows rose, and Khalila watched him take a long, meditative sip of his juice. "Well. I'd heard rumors, but this is the first confirmation. And does such a machine actually exist?"

  "Yes."

  "Is it in use now?"

  "Yes."

  "Then the dogs have been unleashed, and we don't have time to waste. If I intend to stop the High Garda from using every Serapeum with a Translation Chamber as a potential invasion point, I need to act quickly to preserve the kingdom." He drummed his perfectly manicured nails on his knee and looked off into the distance. "And, of course, we will require the plans for such a machine, in exchange for our assistance."

  His tone had shifted. So, Khalila noted, had the emphasis of his pronouns; she could almost hear the weight of them. This was the king of Spain speaking, not Ramon Alfonse.

  Dario had missed it. "Cousin, before we give up anything--"

  "It's customary to call me Your Highness," the king interrupted. "We permitted you landing and shelter. It aligns with our interests to support you in your quest to, shall we say, reform the great institution to which you owe your true loyalty. But this is not an exchange. Crowns negotiate only with crowns."

  "Which means?" Captain Santi asked.

  "When great kings fall, the world trembles. Who is the Archivist's successor, when you achieve your goal?"

  "I'm no kingmaker, Your Highness."

  "You have no choice. And you must take that seriously. I don't know your Scholar Christopher Wolfe. Would he be capable of holding the center in such a time of crisis? Of not only leading a Library caught in the throes of change, but dealing resolutely with the heads of every nation on earth? Because Spain will not come to the new Archivist as a supplicant. We will come as an equal. All the reverence and history the Great Library has behind it means nothing if it cannot defend its own existence."

  Santi was silent, and Khalila could see he'd never asked himself such a question. It took a long, charged moment before he said, "Wolfe is fully capable. But he will never want it."

  "Then who? Who leads the Library if you succeed? If you don't know, your quest is nothing but disaster. The Archivist is a fixed star in the heavens. Remove him, and you had best install a great light to keep the sky from falling."

  "So says the king of Spain?"

  "So would say a friend," Ramon Alfonse said. "Sadly, a king has no friends once he takes the crown. It may be put aside from time to time, but a king is not a man. A king--and an Archivist--is a country."

  "There are tens of thousands of truly great Scholars still loyal to the true ideals of the Library," Khalila said. "We will find someone, Sire."

  "No. You will not. There is nothing rarer than an honest politician, dear Scholar, and that is what you will need to prevent the greatest disaster of this--perhaps of any--age." The king was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "I think you began this effort of yours for noble reasons, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as the Scholars frequently quote. So be sure what you are doing. And be ready. Spain is an ally, to a point. But Spain will not fight for the same goals that you seek."

  The silence in the carriage was profound after that quiet statement. Khalila felt a little sick. She thought herself an intelligent person, but he was right: none of them had fully considered the effects of what they'd set in motion. It had started as a means to save friends, and now . . . now it was larger than they'd ever imagined.

  "King Ramon Alfonse," she said. "Does Spain believe in the burning and destruction of the Great Archives? Of the wholesale loss of millions of original works?"

  She'd struck him from an unexpected quarter, and she saw him blink. "No. Naturally, that is abhorrent to any person of any land."

  "But it will happen. It is inevitable. If we count politics above the preservation of knowledge, that is the outcome. We know, because it happened for a thousand years before the Great Library created the Archive system and the Blanks. Tens of thousands of precious, unique works, all gone because a king decreed that destroying them was useful. That denying knowledge to others was a tactic of war. Those are the days we fear, and they are coming. Unless we succeed, and you help us, then you will one day look on a world with no respect for knowledge and no tools to tell truth from a lie. Is that what you want?"

  "Of course not. But the Library can't survive on reputation alone. It needs strength, and it needs a leader who can mend all this damage. It's been a long time coming, but the worst will happen quickly. You must be ready, Scholar Seif." The king's gaze swept across the rest of them. "You must not wait to find your new Archivist. When you present Spain with a name, you will receive our full support."

  It wasn't Scholar Wolfe; she knew that. Wolfe didn't have the temperament or, she thought, the desire.

  Then who?

  She didn't know. And she had the sick, falling feeling that none of them did.

  The carriage suddenly picked up speed with a lurch, and they all swayed from the change. The king turned to the guard beside him and said, "What's happening?"

  The guard slid open the compartment window that separated them from the driver, conversed, and slid it closed. "Your Highness, we're informed that High Garda troops have arrived via Translation at the Cadiz Serapeum, and they are fortifying the building, along with the librarians. We believe the same is occurring in the Madrid library, and several others throughout the country."

  "Then Spain must choose," King Ramon Alfonse said soberly. "We must take every single Serapeum. If they surrender, they will be given safe passage to Alexandria. If they resist, take the fight forward until resistance is done. Give the orders."

  "Wait," Khalila blurted out, and instantly wished she hadn't when all eyes turned to her. "Wait! If you start this war, it erupts everywhere! And at what cost?"

  "To the Library? Everything. To us? We risk becoming the burning wa
steland that was France, after their rebellion. Or, more recently, Philadelphia. But the Archivist cannot fight on so many fronts, and so we stand little risk of punishment. As king of Spain, I must do this." The king stared at her with such intensity she felt an instinct to look away . . . but she did not. "This is the path you've paved for us."

  "Then let us try something else first," she said. "Let us talk to them."

  "Talk?" He sat back, a frown forming now, and looked at Dario. "Talk?"

  "She's right," Dario said. "There are doubts in the ranks. We had help getting away in America. And what loss to you if we can persuade at least one of the Serapeums to side with us?"

  "I don't like your chances, but it's your funeral mass to schedule." Ramon Alfonse tapped the barrier, and it slid open. "Counter that last order. Take me to the train. Then you may deliver our friends where they believe they need to go, and assign a full company of soldiers to guard them. I'll expect them in Madrid in one piece. If they fail, or God forbid are murdered, then my original orders stand: take the Library properties with all speed."

  "Sire," the driver said, and closed the window again.

  "There." The king arched an eyebrow at them. "I wish you luck, my friends. And if not luck . . . then I will exact vengeance."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Talking their way into the Serapeum had seemed like a reasonable idea in the heat of the moment.

  Standing on the blocked road that led to the building, surrounded by grim, determined Spanish soldiers, it seemed a great deal more like suicide.

  Khalila, to calm her nerves, walked away from the low, intense discussion between Santi and Dario and Thomas and found Glain, who was sitting on the back of a troop carrier. She had a rifle in her hands, efficiently loading it, then fine-tuning the optical scope. She'd put on Spanish armor, since it was all that was available, and she looked as at home in that as she did in High Garda gear.

  "What are you doing?" Khalila asked.

  Glain, without looking up, said, "I'm making sure that I'm ready for what happens when everything else fails." She looked calm, but then, she usually did; the High Garda had done that for her, smoothed away her old flares of temper and given her purpose and direction. Glain had been born for soldiering, far more than anyone else Khalila had ever known. They had nothing in common, and yet, strangely, they had so much, too. "Did you finish your prayers?"