Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  "Move!" the same voice barked. "We have a minute, maybe two, and we'd best be gone!"

  Jess craned his head as he was being carried past and saw a pile of unconscious High Garda Elites next to the troop carrier, which was idling and billowing steam in the road. There was an official-looking barricade, but no one manning it now.

  He was being carried by two men, and as he looked up at the one holding his shoulders, he put the upside-down face into the right orientation. "Tom? Tom Rolleson?"

  Troll grinned. "Welcome back, Jess," he said. "Hell of a mess you've got us in."

  Jess found himself--between coughing fits--unceremoniously loaded into another carrier, and as his irritated eyes adjusted, he realized he was, finally, among friends. Santi's company, to be specific: the voice that had demanded credentials from the other vehicle had been Centurion Botha's, and as the man applied the Library key to the manacles on his wrists, then his ankles, Jess had to grab for a handhold as the vehicle lurched into motion. "The gas," he said. "Yours?"

  "A little invention we took off some Burners a while ago," Botha said, and unlocked Scholar Wolfe's cuffs. "We thought it might come in handy sometime." He started to apply the key to Brendan's restraints and then checked himself and sat back, looking from Jess to his twin. "Two of you is too many, Brightwell. Assuming I've let loose the right one?"

  "You did," Jess said, at the same moment his brother said, "No, you didn't," and thrust his restraints back out at Botha.

  "Ease off, Scraps," Jess said. "We're among friends."

  "You are. I don't know where I stand." Brendan sounded better. Not good, by any means, but at least calm, and no longer ragged with rage. "What kind of friends? Because these look like your type, not mine."

  "I see the resemblance is more than skin deep," Botha said. "What's your name, other Brightwell?"

  "Brendan."

  "Brendan, I am Centurion Botha. If I remove these, do I have your word you will not make me kill you over something stupid?"

  Brendan shrugged. "For all that signifies."

  "Go ahead," Jess said. "I'll take responsibility for him. Do anything stupid, and I'll throw you out for the Elites to find."

  "You would," Brendan said. He said nothing else as Botha unlocked his restraints, and settled back without any troublemaking.

  Which left Jess free to hear Scholar Wolfe say, "Do you know if Nic is--"

  "He's well, sir," Botha said immediately. "You'll see him soon. I promise that."

  Wolfe took in a deep breath and sat back to put his head in his hands. "I hate for him to see me like this," he said. "But he's seen me far worse. Where are we going?"

  Botha cast a raised eyebrow toward Brendan. Jess shrugged. "For better or worse, he's got nowhere else to go," he said. "Safe enough to tell him."

  "We're going to a safe place," Botha said. "It belongs to a friend of yours."

  "Of mine?" Jess asked, and frowned. "I'm not hip-deep in those these days."

  "You'll see," Botha said. "You have more than you think."

  They emerged into a large, dark space, with light cascading in sharp squares from skylights above. This was clearly a military storage area, and kitted out for vehicles like High Garda troop carriers; there were four more parked nearby, but in the dim light, Jess couldn't make out the insignia, except that it wasn't the Horus eye of the Library. Militarily neat, and for a moment he had the strange sensation that they'd somehow found a safe space in the middle of the High Garda compound . . . until he realized that the signs posted to keep the space clear, and keep weapons locked, were in Spanish.

  His suspicions proved right when Botha led them through an enclosed hallway without windows and into a large, gracious, tiled courtyard with ornate fountains and a garden that looked nothing like the ones usually found in Alexandria. This one was unmistakably European, and olive trees grew in ropy spirals around the edges, topped with pale, dusty leaves and dark fruit. Orange trees sprawled in massive pots.

  And waiting in the courtyard stood the Spanish ambassador, Alvaro Santiago, but Jess spent only an instant in recognition before he took in the people standing beside him.

  Thomas, with a thick scruff of golden beard and hair curling down to his collar. Glain, next to him, lean and immaculate in a High Garda uniform. Khalila, framed by a wine red dress and matching hijab. Dario, as resplendent as his cousin's closet could provide. And, on the end, in plain black, stood Captain Santi.

  Khalila was the first to rush forward and, without hesitation, fold Jess in an embrace, then kiss him on both cheeks. He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. "I thought you'd slip a knife in my ribs."

  "Oh, I would have, for a few days after your dramatic departure," she said. "You beautiful fool. I forgave you at least an hour ago, as soon as I knew I might see you again."

  He was almost shaken by that. He hadn't realized until she was here, real, how much he'd missed her explosive brilliance and calm energy. She released him and stepped away, and the next was Dario, who offered only a grave handshake. "Still alive after all," he said.

  "And I see you've already found yourself a decent tailor," Jess said, and pulled him into an embrace. Dario returned it briefly, but with real feeling. "You had to tell your cousin your nickname for me."

  "Of course," Dario said. "I tell everyone to call you Scrubber. And as for my tailor, one must keep up standards." Dario's tone was light, but he was taking in Brendan's bloody clothes, and Wolfe, who was staring motionless at Santi. Taking in all information, as he usually did, even if he came to the wrong conclusion half the time. Well, that was unfair. A quarter of the time.

  Dario stepped aside, and Glain gave him a grin and a one-armed, briskly martial hug before stepping back.

  That left Captain Santi, who was moving straight for Wolfe, slowly, as if he couldn't believe his lover wouldn't vanish . . . and Thomas.

  Thomas stood where he was and made Jess come to him. He looks different, Jess thought. As glad as Jess was to see him, the careful expression in Thomas's eyes made him slow down.

  Then he understood why. The last time he saw me, I was lying to him. And it hurt. Khalila and Glain had forgiven him, for their own reasons; Dario had already known. But Thomas . . . it had cut Thomas deep.

  So the first thing Jess said was, "I'm sorry. Truly sorry, Thomas."

  Thomas nodded, and they stood there staring at each other, with an awkward, uncomfortable space between them . . . and then Thomas jerked his chin toward Wolfe and Santi, and Jess turned to look.

  Wolfe extended a hand to Santi. It trembled badly, until Santi grabbed it and pulled Wolfe into his arms, and the sound he made came deep from his soul, a raw sound of relief that seemed to echo through the air. When they parted, it was only to arm's length, and Santi looked at Wolfe, into him, and said, "I should have been with you. I would have been with you."

  "You were," Wolfe said. "Every moment."

  Then they were kissing, and Jess looked away, back at Thomas, who was smiling a little now. "Good to see that," Thomas said, and the smile faded when he focused back on Jess. "You left us. You left us thinking--God knows what we were thinking. But I nearly killed you, and I am not sorry for that. It was the right thing to do, at the time."

  "What I did was the right thing to do," Jess said. "At the time. But I'm still sorry."

  Thomas sighed. "I suppose it will have to do, as an apology." He pulled Jess into a hug, slapped his back so hard it stung, and then pushed him back. "Talk later. We have things to do now." He frowned then and stopped Jess from moving with a hand on his shoulder. "Something's wrong."

  "Obviously," Jess said. "But we're not going to solve it standing here."

  Thomas nodded and slid a look to Brendan, who was still standing where Jess had left him. "And him? Is he all right?"

  Jess shook his head but didn't try to explain; Brendan wouldn't want anyone knowing his grief, at least, not here. Not now. That was why he had a slight smile on his face and empty eyes. It was a mask, and soo
ner or later, it would have to come off . . . but if it helped now, so be it.

  "Ambassador." Jess moved to Alvaro Santiago and bowed. He made sure it was profound, even though it hurt. "Thank you. I assume we're safe here . . . ?"

  "For now," Santiago said. He didn't seem quite as lighthearted as before. "As safe as anyone is in this city at the moment. But the moment is changing, and I think you know that." He raised his voice. "Everyone, welcome. Come inside. I've set aside rooms for you, baths, clothes, meals. When you're rested, we will meet to discuss our futures."

  Somehow, Jess didn't think the ambassador's future would run quite the same path as his own, but for now, at least, it was enough.

  * * *

  Trouble came when Jess was in his room, stripping off his chemical-soaked shirt with real relief; he was naked to the waist when a knock came at his door, and he sighed and threw on the soft white shirt that had been provided for him before he opened the door.

  Niccolo Santi grabbed him by the throat and walked him four brisk steps backward to the nearest wall. The impact drove the breath from Jess's chest, and he tried to gasp out a question, but Santi's hand tightened. The captain's hand was brutally strong, and his eyes were cold. "No," he said. "You don't talk. I talk, Brightwell. Do you know why? Nod if you do."

  Jess jerked his head awkwardly up and down. He'd seen Santi in a killing mood, but never aimed at him . . . and this was very definitely personal.

  "You took him," Santi said. His voice was low and calm, the one they all knew was the most dangerous sign of his temper. "You ripped him away and handed him to the Archivist. You had no way of knowing what they would do to him or what hole they'd throw him into. And you--you, of all of them, knew what he'd endured. You sent him back to hell, boy. And I do not forget that, even if he walked out of it alive."

  Jess felt his face growing thick and red, and what little air he could painfully pull in wasn't enough. All it would take would be one spasm of Santi's hand, and he'd be unconscious. On his way to an ugly death.

  Fight back, his instincts told him. He had a chance. Santi was so focused on his rage that he could hurt him, break free, and escape . . . but he held himself still with a huge effort. He wouldn't fight back.

  He was guilty of what Santi accused.

  Santi let him go a second later and pushed himself backward. Surprised, Jess thought, at his own violence. Santi was a trained soldier, but he was a man who was in command of himself at almost all times . . . but not now. They exchanged looks. Santi was staring at him as if he didn't know him, and Jess gasped for breath and put a hand to his painful neck.

  "Sir," Jess managed to say. "I'm--"

  "I don't care," Santi said. "I don't care if you're overflowing with regret. I don't care if this was Dario's harebrained idea, as I suspect it was. I don't even care that you brought him back to me, because we both know Wolfe could have died there, alone, and that I will never forgive, Jess. I want to send him out of here, away from all of this, and never let him come back. The only reason I won't is I know he wouldn't go."

  "Sir," Jess tried again. "It's my fault. I know that. I should have told him, and you, before we set it all in motion."

  "If you'd told me, stronzo, I would have knocked your heads together until you came up with a better plan."

  "I know. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd stop us. And I knew Wolfe would have agreed, but told you. Same outcome. It wasn't easy, Captain. But it's my responsibility, and I'll try to earn your trust again."

  "You're lucky I'm not twenty years younger," Santi said. "I'd have killed you." He sighed and rubbed his head in frustration. "But you're just a boy, and you made a mistake, and I should know better myself. I'm sorry for putting my hands on you, Jess."

  "You wanted me to fight back."

  Santi's glance at him told him it was true. "And you didn't."

  "Because I know you'd kill me in any kind of a fight, Captain. I can outrun you. I can't outfight you."

  He watched the captain pull in a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out in a rush. "Promise me you won't put Christopher in that kind of danger again. Not that. Not ever."

  Jess nodded. "I swear, I'll do everything I can."

  "Am I such a child that I need a lover and a student to decide my own life for me?"

  That sharp voice stopped them both in their tracks. Santi turned, and Jess looked past him to find Scholar Wolfe in the doorway, arms folded. He looked tired but clean; his color was still too pale by half, but his eyes were bright, and the temper in them was all too familiar.

  Santi winced. "Chris--"

  "Oh no, by all means, choke the young man half to death for doing exactly what I would have done in his place. And, yes, of course, decide my life. Pad me in cotton like a fragile bottle of Greek fire. Nic. I am here. I am standing. I am sane. And much as I love you, much as I will always love you, don't ever assume I can't, or won't, think for myself." Wolfe's voice softened, took on a warmer timbre. "My love, I know you're blaming him because you failed to see it coming. Don't. They fooled me as well. Fooled me so well I betrayed him earlier today, and almost got him and his brother murdered. For my troubles, I am responsible for the cruel death of a young woman who did absolutely nothing to deserve it, so if you're angry with him . . . be just as angry with me."

  Santi went to him and folded him in his arms, because he--like Jess--had heard the tremble in the man's voice. And Wolfe let out his breath and sank into that embrace with real gratitude. "I'm sorry," Santi whispered. "I shouldn't have taken it out on Jess. But seeing you like this--it rips me to pieces. You know that."

  "I do," Wolfe said. "But I am mending. A broken bone heals twice as strong, remember?"

  Santi laughed. It sounded unsteady and half-desperate. "I remember. I remember everything. That's the curse of it, isn't it?"

  "That's the beauty of it," Wolfe replied. "Come. Leave Jess to rest. He's as exhausted as I am, I think."

  Santi exchanged a look with Jess, and Jess nodded. Santi meant what he said: he wouldn't forget Jess's betrayal. And Jess would have to earn back any kind of trust. It was a lot to understand from a single look, and yet completely clear. He might be forgiven by the others, and easily, but for Santi, he'd have a long road back.

  And that was fair.

  Jess locked the door again, took off his clothes, and stepped into the luxury of the Spanish embassy's shower. He stayed in it for far too long, until the water began to run cold and his skin pebbled into gooseflesh; the feeling of being safe was something he didn't want to give up, and as soon as he switched off the spray, dried himself, and dressed again in the High Garda uniform provided, he was back on guard. Alvaro Santiago, as he was sure they all knew, was an ally, but not a friend.

  They had no friends in Alexandria. Not now.

  Downstairs, he found most of the others gathered in a small library; it was richly decorated, and the chair Jess sank into with a sigh was the most comfortable thing he could imagine. His aching body craved sleep, but comfort would have to do for now.

  When he took a seat, everyone stopped talking and stared at him. "What?" he asked.

  Dario shook his head. "I'm still amazed you're alive," he said. "You are an unbelievably good liar, Jess. Better than I would have imagined, if you survived this long. I find that your best quality."

  "Shut up, peacock," Jess said. "If you have a best quality, I'm still struggling to find it."

  "Boys," Glain said. "Don't make me separate you. By which I mean, heads from bodies. We've gotten this far. Stop squabbling about the size of your--"

  "Glain!" Khalila said.

  "Talents," Glain finished. Her voice softened. "Have you talked to your brother?"

  "No," Jess said. "He doesn't want to talk."

  "How do you know?"

  "Twins," Jess said. "I don't want to, either, and I didn't just watch the girl I loved . . ." His voice trailed off, because suddenly he imagined Morgan in Neksa's place, and the spear driving through her body into t
he floor. Her blood warm on his hands.

  "Mein Gott, Jess, is that what happened?" Thomas leaned forward, and the large armchair he sat in creaked as if struggling under the strain. "Were you there? What happened?"

  It was an innocent question, but Jess suddenly felt even more tired. "The Archivist had her killed," he said. "By an automaton. No reason except to make a point. I thought we were next." As soon as he said it, he knew that was true. He'd been pushing that awareness away all this time, had denied it while he'd been on his knees in front of the Archivist, but, yes. He and Brendan had been on the raw edge of death, close enough to feel it. And see it. A shudder worked through him, and he closed his eyes. "I think my brother truly cared for her. So I don't know, Thomas. I don't know how he is now. I just know he doesn't want to talk about it." And neither do I, he thought, but didn't say. Thomas was a good enough friend to know it.

  He opened his eyes when he felt Khalila take his hand. She didn't speak, and for that he was grateful. They all sat in silence for a while, before Glain, always to the point, said, "How safe are we here?"

  "On a scale of absolutely to not at all?" Dario shrugged. "Somewhat, for now. My cousin's a good man, and he'll do what he can to help us, but he is at the mercy of my other cousin. The royal one. And if the Archivist decides to expel all ambassadors from the city, as he might . . ." He raised a hand and let it drop. "It's possible he could evacuate us along with his staff. But that hardly gets us closer to our goal."

  "Maybe our goal can't be reached without an army," Glain said. "Didn't you clever foxes think of that? Or did you expect to simply trick the Archivist into writing his own execution order?"

  "Now, there's a thought," Dario said. Glain sent him a dark look. "But not a serious one. We have the start of an army, don't we? Santi's company is here, with us. And Santi's sent messages to other captains he trusts. Add them up, and . . ."

  "We have enough to lose, and badly," Thomas said. "Alexandria can be taken. The Serapeum? From all I've seen and heard, that would be much, much harder. The Curia has only to seal themselves inside it and wait. The remaining High Garda forces, the automata . . . these can't be overcome for long."

  "You're right," Jess said. "I've been in and out of the Archivist's office several times since I've been here, and each time, I entered and left different ways. The hallways move. The entire pyramid is a vast clockwork that the Archivist can reorder anytime he wishes. It's a deathtrap for an invasion. They could hold it forever, and we'd be cut to pieces."