Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  He didn't recognize any of the soldiers who sat silently around him. They wore the uniform of High Garda Elite, which he supposed wasn't surprising. He wondered how many more the Archivist had in reserve. And he wondered if it would do any good to tell them just how faithless the man was whom they were so faithfully obeying.

  The soldier sitting next to him coughed and sent him a scowl. "You stink," the man said. "Smells like Greek fire and cat piss."

  "Quiet," said a commanding voice from down the row. "You've smelled worse than that on many a day, and I doubt you have his excuse. Leave him alone. He'll get what's coming to him soon enough."

  The soldier subsided, but the look he was giving Jess was pure loathing. Jess hardly even noticed. In every blink of his eyes he saw that street aflame, and the bodies in it. His hands were shaking and suddenly the stench that the soldier had commented on was all too real and suffocating.

  He didn't much notice the trip at all, but suddenly he realized that they'd stopped and soldiers were pouring out of the open door. The hostile soldier next to him grabbed him by his shackled wrists and heaved him up; Jess was forced to rise or have both shoulders dislocated. He didn't much mind the pain. At least it gave him something to focus on.

  This wasn't his little house. He recognized this bare courtyard, with its view of the Lighthouse in the distance. It was a rally point for High Garda troops, and the huge sweep of the Serapeum rose into the sky above them. The whole courtyard was full of soldiers. Some wore the Elite uniform, but most wore the same as the one he'd worn with such pride just months back. Loyal men and women. Jess wondered whom they had been told they were fighting. Burners and rebels most likely. He wondered if any of them harbored any doubts.

  As before, he was led through a maze of tunnels. He recognized part of it, but that part had belonged to another route before. It confirmed what he'd suspected--that the building itself was an automaton in some sense. Its defenses started with the confusion of its ever-changing corridors, a defense Jess wasn't sure he understood or could outwit, at least not yet. Right now, there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to be out of here, even if there was nowhere else to go. He was too heartsick to play games and too angry to pretend any longer. If he had the chance, he intended to kill the Archivist any way he could. It might not stop that dragon from flying again, but at least it was something.

  He was in the mood for murder.

  Neksa was at her desk in the outer office, and she looked nervous and disturbed. She fiddled with the Library band on her wrist in a way that he was sure he'd never seen before. She avoided looking at him directly, and that was when he was sure that something had gone very wrong.

  In the Archivist's office, there were two people standing and one on his knees. Guards as well, of course, lurking in the shadows along with the waiting automaton gods. Jess's mind reeled, and for a long moment he was sure he had gone insane. This could not be right. Could not be happening.

  But then his brother Brendan shook his head and said, "Sorry, Brother." It was the brisk tone that made Jess take a step back and realize he wasn't imagining things. His brother really was here.

  And then the man kneeling on the carpet looked up. His hair was a matted, graying mess, and he looked paler and more wild than Jess had ever seen him, but it was Scholar Wolfe. Bruised, and from the look in his eyes half-mad, but alive.

  "Scholar?" Jess moved toward him, but before he could get more than a step, his brother grabbed his elbow and pulled him to a stop. "Let me go. What's been done to him?"

  The third man in the tableau was the Archivist, of course. He was standing behind his desk, but with no sense of calm about him. His hands were clenched behind his back, and his color had an unhealthy reddish tone to it. "Nothing has been done to him. Not yet. In fact, Christopher has done me a great favor. I don't suppose he meant to do so, but that doesn't change the fact that you have been lying to me all this time. And we're going to find out exactly how you managed that."

  "I already told him that you drugged me and took my place," Brendan said. "And that Father had no choice but to play along if he wanted to get his bargain. Once he realized the game was up, he sent me as a sign of good faith to finish the deal. And I will. I'm sorry, Brother. It was never going to work for long."

  "You think he really intends to give Father any bargain?" Jess almost laughed. Besides the awful taste of chemicals and death, he tasted something even worse: defeat. "Don't be stupid. He has both Callum Brightwell's sons. He can get what he wants without paying a geneih. Unless you think that Father is even more heartless than I ever thought he was. Why did you come here? He'll kill us both."

  "My fault," Wolfe said. His voice sounded rusty and hollow and haunted. "Why didn't you tell me what you planned? Because you knew I'd never let you take this risk? Jess . . ."

  "Too clever by half," the Archivist agreed. "It's the clever ones that get caught in their own traps. If you'd only told the Scholar what you intended, he wouldn't have come to me and told me a lie that turned out to be true. He told me you'd taken your brother's place. And of course it was what I suspected from the beginning, but you did an excellent job of putting my suspicions to rest. I intend to spend some time with you to find out exactly what you've been up to. You didn't do this alone. You had help, and I intend to pull every name out of you and send every one of your allies screaming into the afterlife. I admit you were bold. We'll see how bold you are at the Feast of Greater Burning." He suddenly opened the Codex on his desk and scribbled a note.

  "No need for that," Jess's brother said in a deliberately calm and careless tone. He was the master of making it seem he didn't care. "Just send the boy home. My father will still hold to the bargain, as long as Jess is safe."

  "Your father will do exactly what I tell him. He's going to lose a son. Take care he doesn't lose two. Your brother's written his own fate, and his own very unhappy ending. If you're as smart as I believe you to be, you'll stand aside and save your family and your fortune. No point in losing everything, is there?"

  "Don't believe him," Jess said. "He'll kill all of us. Some of us will just die later."

  Brendan shrugged. "I don't see that I have much choice," he said. "And I don't see that you do, either. You started this, Jess. And you know the consequences. The Library always wins in the end." He turned toward the Archivist and bowed slightly. "You understand that I had to try to save him. He's my brother. But one thing about our family: we put business first. My da will understand what had to be done. I brought you the plans. And that makes us square for our end of the deal."

  The double doors opened, and Neksa stepped inside. She shot an involuntary look at Jess, then Brendan, before she settled her gaze on the Archivist. "Sir," she said, and bowed.

  "Come in, my dear," he said, and smiled. Jess didn't like the look of it, even though the Archivist took a seat and tried to seem welcoming. "Do you recognize these young men?"

  "Of course," she said, and she sounded baffled. "The two Brightwell brothers. But I thought only one was here."

  "Did you?"

  Jess caught the tone, and he knew his brother did as well, but neither of them moved. The guards, responding to some signal he hadn't seen, had drawn weapons and moved closer. Whatever was about to happen, there was no way to stop it.

  "You rented a house to one of them, I believe," the Archivist said. "Or have I been misinformed?"

  "I--" Neksa seemed caught off guard. She bit her lip and tried again. "I did, sir. Some time ago, now. But that was long before there was any hint that his brother would turn against the Library. I can only beg your understanding and assure you of my loyalty."

  "Did you help?" the Archivist asked.

  "I don't understand. Please, sir, I have never betrayed you in any way, if that is what you are saying. I never would. You are the Archivist, and I would never betray my oath."

  The Archivist looked at Brendan. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, and it chilled Jess to the bone. "Is th
at true?"

  Brendan returned the old man's gaze for a long moment before he said, "She rented me a house for money. I was here to check up on my brother while he was in High Garda training. Then I left. I hardly exchanged half a dozen words with her."

  "Hardly an impassioned plea for her life, young man," the Archivist said. "Do you want her to live?"

  Jess heard a muffled gasp from Neksa, but he couldn't look away from his brother's face. Even now Brendan didn't betray any anxiety or any fear.

  "I don't much care," Brendan said, and turned to look at the young woman with the same indifference. "Please yourself, I suppose; she's your employee, not mine."

  It was a ploy, Jess realized, and a good one; even knowing his brother, he would've believed that Brendan didn't care either way. And it was the only way that Neksa still had a chance of walking out alive. If she reached the outer office, he could only hope she had the sense to run, because the Archivist wouldn't forget, and he certainly wouldn't forgive.

  The Archivist nodded. "It's true," he said. "She's never given me the slightest hint that she might be anything but loyal. She's bright, efficient, and a tireless servant of the Library. I could never find anyone half as competent to take her place. She knows my secrets. And that's why this is such a loss."

  Brendan knew, in that instant, and he began to move toward her, but it was already too late. The statue of Horus stepped from its alcove and, in one terrifying, fluid motion, drove the spear it carried through her back with so much force it emerged from her chest and buried itself in the floor. Jess shouted, but his voice blended with the sound of his twin's scream. Brendan reached her just as the automaton withdrew the spear in a spray of blood and stepped back into its alcove. He caught Neksa as she fell forward and wrapped his arms around her as he eased her to the floor. She was still alive. Jess tried to get to her and to his brother, but in the next instant he was shoved down on his knees next to Wolfe, and there were guns at the back of both of their heads. Don't, Jess thought wildly at his brother. Don't try it.

  And if it entered Brendan's mind at all, his brother dismissed the idea of killing the old man because he was trying to stop the rush of blood from Neksa's wounds. It was useless, and no one could've saved her, not even the most skilled of Medica, and Jess closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the words his brother was whispering to the woman who was dying in his arms. It was private. It was heartbreaking.

  He knew she was gone when his brother went quiet. Brendan's back was to him, and his brother was still, but there was something forming under that stillness that was very, very dangerous.

  Brendan eased Neksa back to the carpet and closed her eyes with bloodied fingers.

  Then he went for the Archivist.

  Jess timed his move precisely; he threw himself forward, hit his brother in mid-lunge, and knocked him sideways to the floor. They tangled together and rolled, and then Brendan's fingers were around Jess's throat and there was no way he could defend himself except to try to writhe free, and his brother's eyes were wide and dark and wholly mad with fury . . . and then they went blank, as the High Garda soldiers dragged him off and forced him to his knees in the spreading pool of blood from Neksa's fallen body.

  "You two, settle down," the Archivist said. He hadn't moved from where he'd been sitting, and he still had a calm, remote look on his face. Jess had always hated him. He'd never hated him so much it felt like physical pain before. "It had to be done, of course. The girl couldn't be trusted, and that's deeply unfortunate. And now I find I can't trust either of you. Much as I'd hoped that your father and I could reach a lasting agreement, it seems he's no more trustworthy than any other criminal. For the protection of the Great Library, I have to remove all contaminants from our society. Rebels. Burners. Criminals. And you . . . you are at least guilty of at least one of those things, if not more." He nodded to the High Garda captain. "Take them back to the prison. Remove the body for funeral rites. She deserves that from us, at least."

  "I'm going to kill you," Brendan said. His voice held all the rage that Jess had swallowed, and more. "You evil old bastard, you're going to pay for this if I have to crawl out of hell to bring you the bill."

  "Save your breath," Jess told his brother. "He's not worth wasting it."

  The Archivist smiled and shrugged. "Wolfe? No threats from you, then?"

  Wolfe kept silent. His dark eyes were half-hidden under his wild hair, and he didn't look capable of much, weak as he was. But somehow, Jess thought that was more frightening than his brother's raw, wounded fury.

  "Take them out of my sight." The Archivist sighed and took up his pen. "I have to find a new assistant."

  They took Brendan out first, and Jess was glad of that.

  It meant his brother was spared the sight of the girl he loved being rolled into the spoiled carpet and taken away without ceremony, or even a last look from the man who'd killed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The corridors had shifted again, and Jess grimly memorized this configuration, too; he was starting to see a pattern to it, but he'd need more data to finish the puzzle. Not likely to get it in the time he had left. He had the feeling he'd been to this office for the last time.

  Brendan's hands were shackled now, and his ankles, too; as Jess was pushed down into the carrier seat, he got the same treatment. So did Wolfe. No chance of using their numbers to take down the six High Garda soldiers crowded in with them, though Jess had considered it as an option for a flash. Brendan sat silently now, as still as an automaton. He was half-soaked in Neksa's blood, and Jess could imagine how that felt cooling against his skin. If he'd ever needed more of a reason to see the Archivist dead, he had it now.

  "Bren," he said quietly. And when he got no response: "Scraps."

  "Don't," Brendan said. "Just don't."

  "Leave him," Wolfe said from Jess's other side. "Jess. Is Santi--"

  "I don't know," Jess said. "But I'm glad to see you alive."

  "Are you?" Wolfe had recovered a ghost of his usual acerbic tone. "That's mystifying, considering the horror I unleashed on you just now. Both of you."

  "My fault," Jess said. "Dario and I, we thought . . . we thought you'd tell Santi what we planned, and Santi would put a quick stop to it. I hated not telling you, but . . ." He shook his head. "It wasn't worth what you've been through, Scholar, and I am sorry for that."

  "Don't take the world on your back. I don't need your guilt, Brightwell. I need your mind working. We're not finished."

  It looked like they were, Jess thought, but he kept that silent. At least Wolfe wasn't broken to his core. Not yet. But Brendan . . . No, he couldn't be. His twin bounced; he didn't break. He never cared enough to be hurt the way that others could be. Or at least, he never showed it if he was.

  "Not sure how we're getting out of this, sir," Jess admitted. "My plans didn't include . . . this. Any of this."

  "I suppose it would be asking a great deal if they did," Wolfe said. "But there's all the time in the world to feel defeated."

  "Shut up, the lot of you," growled one of the soldiers. "You're going nowhere but into the cells and into the ground."

  Hard to argue that he was wrong . . . except that the carrier, which had been hurtling along at a fast clip, suddenly decelerated and threw everyone's weight toward the front.

  "Blessed Isis, learn to drive, you mongrel--," shouted the same soldier who'd first spoken, and he pushed his way up to the front to bang on the driver's compartment. "What's happening?"

  No answer. The carrier continued to slow down, and Jess looked over at Wolfe, then at Brendan. Brendan's eyes were shut, his face tense and still, but Wolfe seemed more than aware of things. "Be ready," the Scholar whispered, and Jess nodded. Ready for what, he wasn't sure; with ankles and wrists pinned, it wasn't likely he could do more than flail at random. But anything out of the ordinary was something that might, might be useful.

  The carrier ground to a hissing stop, and a brisk, businesslike boom sounded t
hree times on the door. "Come on, soldier, we don't have all day," barked a bored voice. "Orders and papers. High Commander's orders."

  "Talk to the driver!" their guard commander shouted without opening up. "He's got the clearances!"

  "He says you've got them."

  "We're transporting prisoners on the orders of the Archivist, you idiot. Can't you see the Elite seal on the vehicle?"

  "Word is, some faction's stolen two of those very things. I'll need to inspect before I can open the barricades."

  "What's your rank, soldier?" the Elite guard barked.

  "Lieutenant, sir. And yours?"

  "I outrank you. Open the barricades!"

  "Show me your orders and it's yours."

  "Damn your soul to the crocodiles--" The commander backed up and drew his sidearm, and around them, his soldiers followed suit. "Be ready. I don't like this."

  "Lieutenant?" More bangs on the door. "If you force me to crack this can, I'll have your head, superior or not!"

  He sounded like an annoyed, tired High Garda officer, Jess thought, and that must have decided the Elite commander, too, because he unlatched the door and slid it open, just enough to thrust his Codex out. "First page," he said. "And then I'll want your name. You can expect to be cleaning toilets in my barracks by--"

  He stopped because he was coughing . . . and in a second, they all were:; helpless, racking coughs, though Jess couldn't see any smoke. In the next seconds, his eyes filled with burning tears, and he felt, rather than saw, soldiers stumbling blindly toward the door, retching.

  Then the three of them were alone, struggling to breathe in the toxic atmosphere, until the door slid fully open and brought in a gust of bracing fresh air that Jess sucked in with real relief. He was lying on the floor, with Wolfe half on top of him, and as he blinked the burn from his eyes, he saw someone pulling Wolfe out by the feet into the glare of daylight.

  He was grabbed and dragged next, and caught by a second pair of hands before his head could hit the ground.