Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  "None of us will get a trial," she said. "I've seen the orders. Glain is to be killed immediately. Santi and I, we would be sent to join the prisoners for the Feast of Greater Burning, where my father, brothers, and uncle are already imprisoned. And Thomas--Thomas will be made to work for them until they decide he's of no use anymore. And none of us will be remembered. No journals of our lives. No mention of our works. We will vanish . . . like the books of the Black Archives."

  None of them spoke. She took in a deep breath. "I pledge this to you: I will die here in this place before I let anyone, anyone, plunder this beautiful library. And King Ramon Alfonse knows that."

  "Brave words, Scholar," said the High Garda captain. "But all it takes is a single shot to kill you, and your promise means nothing. Spain stands at our gates with troops ready to take this building. Are you asking us to trust that the king will hold back out of the goodness of his heart?" He shook his head. "I'm not in the business of taking the word of a young woman barely out of training on the motives of a man she doesn't even know."

  "If I can sign Spain to a new treaty, will you break with the Archivist?"

  There was a moment of silence, and then Murasaki said, "You mean, break with the Library."

  "No. I mean the Archivist. Because we mean to replace him. The Library will live on. Your vow is to the Library. Does it matter to you who sits in that office?"

  "It might," she said. "It might a great deal. And you cannot guarantee that the one who takes his place won't be as bad, or worse. Can you?"

  "Scholar Murasaki, I can promise you that you will be part of that choice." It was a rash promise, but Murasaki was a widely respected Scholar, one who had refused a post on the Curia to take leadership of the Cadiz Serapeum. We could hardly find a better, more impartial person to take the Archivist's robes, if it comes to that. "You are a woman of great standing and reputation. If you join with us, if you believe in our cause--"

  "You can't trust the word of the Spanish king," said the librarian who'd pushed forward. Khalila didn't recognize her, and there was something about her that put her on edge; the glittery eagerness of the woman's eyes, the tense set of her shoulders. "Kings lie. They'll promise peace, and as soon as they have the chance, they'll loot this sacred place and kill us all. We can never trust these power-hungry savages; surely you know that, Scholar . . ."

  "I come from what some call power-hungry savages," Murasaki said evenly. "And I know King Ramon Alfonse very well. He will not willingly destroy one of the jewels of his kingdom unless we force him to do so. Our lives and our books are safe; Scholar Seif is quite correct. The question is, will the High Garda obey commands to retrieve these fugitives and send them to Alexandria? Or will the High Garda choose to do as it is sworn, and guard this place against any harm?"

  "You're talking treason," the High Garda commander rumbled.

  "I am asking a question," Murasaki said, with glacial composure that Khalila herself didn't possess--not inwardly. This had become a thorny knot of a conversation, and she didn't dare inject herself. She'd set it in motion. Now she could only stand back and see how it ended. "And the question is, to whom do all of us owe our loyalty? To an Archivist who seems willing to provoke wars to get his hands on his enemies . . . or to the Library?"

  Khalila imagined, quite vividly, that this debate might end with her own blood on the floor, and felt a little faint . . . but also, oddly, a little thrilled. Finally, they were engaged in the world. Affecting it directly. And that felt . . . powerful. It felt important.

  "You took an oath, same as I did, Shirasu," the commander said. "Whatever we think of the man, he is the elected head of the Library."

  "Perhaps I do not remember my oath all that well, my friend. What was the wording of it? Did it swear my allegiance to a man?"

  The commander stroked his beard. Khalila knew Murasaki was ruthlessly correct: the oath was to the Library, not to the Archivist who headed it. But he still had an answer. "It's up to the Curia to remove him, then. Not to the head of one Serapeum far away from Alexandria."

  "The head of my discipline rose to the level of Curia through corruption, as did most of them," she said. "Favors for favors, payments, patronage, and favoritism. I'm not blind, Fergus. I know the corruption of which this young woman speaks. Do you think we punished France solely because of its rebellion against the Library? It was a convenient excuse to loot an entire country of its treasures, which became a river of gold to enrich the Library's flagging treasury. I know that because I saw it. And for many years, I have regretted that silence." She smiled slightly, and it softened the severe lines of her face. "Fergus, you told me yourself of your discomfort when the previous High Commander was removed and replaced by someone you didn't think was half so worthy."

  "Aye," he agreed. "Captain Chu was a pompous ass and only as good as the lieutenants under him, that's true. But he's not bent."

  "When a strong gale constantly blows, everything bends," Murasaki said. "And even the most honest make accommodations, and soon they are not honest at all."

  Khalila's attention was drawn back to the librarian, who was edging closer to the front now. Her body seemed stiff, and her face shone with sweat in the reflected light from the window above, though the temperature inside was cool enough. She wasn't registering objections anymore. Her gaze was fixed on Murasaki, and she was heading straight for the Scholar where she sat in her chair.

  Khalila saw the librarian's hand come out from the pocket of her robe and knew she had seconds to act. She didn't know and couldn't see what it was the woman held--knife, gun, something else--but she lunged forward, grabbed the woman's hand and twisted it.

  It was a bottle.

  Liquid splashed onto the woman's robe in a long, slick stain from chest to hips, and the smell of it hit Khalila an instant before she felt the drops that had hit her exposed hand begin to burn. She grabbed a thick fold of her skirt and wrapped the skin tight to stifle the fire; so long as it was starved for oxygen it couldn't spread and burrow, though the pain was a sharp, stabbing agony that made her gasp in breaths.

  She was lucky.

  There was no saving the librarian.

  The woman screamed as her robe erupted in a rush of green fire that greedily wrapped around her. Everyone scrambled out of the way. Murasaki came to her feet and shouted orders Khalila couldn't hear.

  The Greek fire caught with a vengeance as the commander--Fergus--shouted orders. The librarian continued to scream as her skin turned red, then black under the flames. She turned in wild circles, and where she stepped, fire took hold. It was chaos.

  And then Murasaki herself took a gun from a soldier and put a bullet in the woman's heart.

  The body collapsed to the inlaid marble floor, hissing and burning, until a High Garda soldier dressed in thick padding ran to the rescue and sprayed a thick, suffocating foam over the body.

  Khalila tried to be still. The stench, the smoke, the horror of it, was all too much, and around her, others were screaming, crying, running away into the other parts of the vast complex. She composed herself, tried to breath shallowly, and waited for Murasaki to realize what had just happened.

  It didn't take long.

  The old woman handed the pistol back to the soldier, who seemed rightfully ashamed of his lack of action, and exchanged a long look with her guard commander. These two, it seemed, truly were friends of long standing. There was very real regard; it burned in the look. Fergus was breathing heavily, fury in those blue eyes; Murasaki, for her part, seemed as calm as ever. "So," she said. "We knew it could happen."

  "Excuse me?" Khalila said. She felt off-balance now. "You knew someone would try to kill you?"

  "I have been living on borrowed time since word began to spread of Christopher Wolfe and his arrest and . . . erasure."

  "You know Wolfe?"

  "I know him very well. He was a brilliant man, if somewhat unlikeable. It came as a blow to many of us when he was taken from the rolls of the Scholars. We never
knew what heresy or crime he had committed to earn it, but most who knew him were certain it was wrong. Tell me, does he still live?"

  Khalila wanted very badly to be able to say yes, but instead, she could only say, "I hope he does. He's in the hands of the Archivist now, along with my friend--" She almost said Jess, but Jess's safety in Alexandria depended on discretion. "Morgan, who would have been sent to the Iron Tower. I don't know what's happened to Wolfe, but we are going to find him. You have my word."

  "I do not know you, or the value of your word, Scholar Seif, though nothing you have done causes me to doubt it." Murasaki turned her focus back to her High Garda commander. "Well? What do you say?"

  He sighed. "I say if the Archivist is desperate enough to assassinate you--and she was his creature, no doubt about that; we've long established as much--then we don't have much of a choice. He sees you as a threat."

  "He should. I came here of my own accord to avoid being a rival to him. But I could easily change my mind."

  "You should lock down your Translation Chamber," Khalila said. "Before they send troops to take this place away from you. He might order it destroyed."

  "You think he would? Destroy it?" Murasaki asked.

  "I think the Archivist will do anything to preserve his power, and Scholar Murasaki has a powerful reputation. If she sides with us, it will hurt him badly. He won't take the chance."

  Fergus nodded and snapped his fingers. A lieutenant stepped forward. "Kali, lock it down. And keep the Scholars and librarians in the interior. I don't want them put at any more risk than we must. Lock down the Codexes, too. All of them. The slower Alexandria gets word of this, the better."

  "Yes, sir," the woman said, and cut her eyes toward Khalila. "And about them . . . ? Our orders . . ."

  "We're not the Archivist's personal guard, and these people don't threaten our Serapeum. We're not leaving these grounds."

  She saluted and turned to give orders to soldiers, who scattered on their missions. Which left the still-smoking corpse, Murasaki, Fergus, Khalila, and the lieutenant alone in the vast room. Smoke had risen to stain the windows overhead and swirled there like storm clouds.

  "Lieutenant, please have a squad of troopers make the body safe and store it," Murasaki said. "Find out her funeral preferences. I will personally pay for her burial, and transportation to her family if that was her wish."

  The lieutenant silently saluted and left.

  Fergus said, "Are we really doing this, Shirasu?"

  "We've talked about it more than once. I don't think we have any choice if we intend to keep faith with our vows," she said, and turned to Khalila. "You're injured, child. I'll summon a Medica."

  Khalila realized she was shaking from the pain, but at least it wasn't growing worse. If she uncovered it now, she was afraid the Greek fire would find new breath and spread. "I'm fine," she lied. "Scholar Murasaki, I need to know what you intend to do."

  "I would have thought it was obvious," Murasaki said. "I will continue to serve the people of Cadiz and the people of this country. If necessary, we will protect this place and these books with our lives. And I will reject, by force, any attempt by the Archivist to take control of this Serapeum. You may tell King Ramon Alfonse that while we continue to serve the Great Library and its ideals, we do not support the Archivist. Nor will we fight on his behalf."

  Khalila bowed her head. "Thank you."

  "Thank Scholar Wolfe," Murasaki said. "The Archivist's injustice to him is the only evidence I needed."

  "One more thing," Khalila said. "A favor."

  "You saved my life. I think I might owe you this."

  "Use of your Translation Chamber."

  "To go where?"

  "Alexandria," Khalila said. "Not to the Serapeum. The High Garda compound."

  Murasaki's brows climbed. "Are you so eager to be killed?"

  "We have friends there," Khalila said. "And a plan. If it happens as I hope, you may follow us home, honored Scholar, to help us restore the Library we both love."

  There was a long silence--too long for comfort--and Murasaki finally inclined her head a regal degree. "This I will do for you," she said. "But, Scholar, be warned: this is not a game for children, or amateurs. You have taken on something so much larger than you know. I hope you are not crushed under its weight. I believe that if you live long enough, you might do great things."

  Khalila bowed and put her hand to her heart. "You honor me, Scholar. May I leave to gather my friends?"

  "And how do you know you'll not be leading them into a neat trap?" Fergus rumbled. He was still frowning; maybe it was simply the way his face fell even at the best of times. "Easy for us to take you all and offer you up to the Archivist."

  "Yes," Khalila said. "It would be. But I think there is some honor, and some wisdom, left inside the Library, Captain."

  She turned, took a deep breath, and walked out of the jaws of the dragon into the wider compound, past waiting High Garda who did nothing to stop her. The gates opened, and she dared to hope that finally, something was going their way.

  Then she was almost knocked over by Dario as he threw his arms around her.

  "That was stupid," Dario told her as he pressed his lips against her forehead. "If you hadn't come back--"

  "You'd have gone to your cousin," she said.

  "No. No, flower. I'd have fought every one of them to get to you."

  She sighed. "Then we are both stupid. I'd do the same for you."

  "Your hand!" He frowned down at it, cradling it carefully. "Let's find a healer."

  "In a while. First, let's find Captain Santi." She pulled back and looked at him directly. "I've found us a way home."

  EPHEMERA

  Excerpt from the personal journal of Niccolo Santi. Not yet available in the Codex.

  I sit with my journal and my pen, and I find nothing to say. I look back on other pages, and I understand why; every page is full of Christopher. The things he does that annoy me, or amuse me, or delight me. The joy of sitting together in the quiet between missions, when we still had those to look forward to together. He has always been a sharp ball of thorns, and difficult to hold on to, but that has never stopped me from loving him.

  In the silence where he should be, I hear nothing.

  I wait.

  I try to lock away the rage I feel for this stupid Brightwell boy and his stupid plan that has sent the man I love into another dark hole in the ground, endless nights of fear and pain and anguish. There is nothing in the world worth Christopher's suffering. Not to me. Let the Library rise or fall; it only matters to me if he is alive, and safe, and sane.

  If that is heresy, then I will be happy to die a heretic.

  If he comes broken out of that place--and he must come out of it--then I will take every bruise, every hurt, out on Jess Brightwell.

  God help me if this takes Christopher from me for good.

  PART SEVEN

  WOLFE

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "All right," Wolfe said in a low whisper, leaning against the wall that separated him from Ariane, on his right. "Ready?"

  "Ready," she whispered back.

  "Twenty-two guards on this level," he said. "Four hallways, with four guards always assigned to each one. Two walk, and two rest. Each guard is armed with a standard High Garda pistol, rifle, and two knives. There are six automata: one on each hallway, and two that roam at random. Guards change in six-hour shifts, but each hallway changes an hour after the one to its right. All right. Repeat it."

  Ariane repeated it. Where she faltered--she was not well, and he worried that she wouldn't be strong enough to keep this up, soon enough--he patiently reminded her, until she'd recounted it perfectly three times. Then she moved on to teach the sequence to the person housed to her right.

  This was the routine now, every day, noting details and adding to them, and sharing so that every person had the same information, should any opportunities come.

  But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
r />   Wolfe wanted to sleep, to be rested for what was coming . . . but once he'd stretched out, as always, relaxing brought the memories. He'd fought them every night, sometimes all night; lack of rest made them more vivid and compelling, but the vicious circle was hard to break. His hands trembled. His skin itched so fiercely that he rubbed scars until they bled. Hunger, thirst, the constant, gnawing chill . . . those, he could stand. But the memories were the worst.

  Please, Nic. Help me. Help me one more night. He slowly closed his eyes and summoned up Nic. First his smile, the one that came so rarely in public and so easily in private. The rich, dark color of his eyes, the soft silk of his hair. The scrape of a beard Nic could never quite shave clean for more than an hour or two.

  His neck. Powerful shoulders. Scars. The shape of his chin and his hands. Everything about him, built memory by memory, until Wolfe could feel his warmth, his strength, as a barrier between him and the pulling darkness. What are you so afraid of, Christopher? Santi's voice, quiet and gentle in the night. Your scars have healed. They can't break you now. You are made of scars, and so am I, and together, we can forget them all.

  I'm not afraid, Wolfe told him. Not now. He twined his fingers with the warmth of Niccolo Santi's hair and kissed him, and the warmth of that let him drift away, lost in the feeling, until the nightmares lost their way and sleep found him.

  It didn't find him for long, because he woke in a convulsive rush and sat up with his heart pounding and nerves jumping. He'd heard something, something more than just the random noise of a prison.

  There was someone inside his cell.

  Dark as it was, he could hardly make out the shape, but he was certain it was a human shape, wrapped in black.

  "Quiet," a voice whispered. Barely a thread of sound. "Hush now, Scholar. Crying out will do you no good."

  The voice was too soft to identify, but he knew it on some deep, visceral level. I'm imagining things, he thought. I've lost my mind. No one can get in here, past the guards, past the automata.