Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  Jess fired, and the man staggered back and sprawled full length on the floor. He crawled for a few seconds, then went still.

  Brendan looked up, panting. His face was bloody, and his knuckles dripped crimson, but he nodded to Jess, and Jess nodded back.

  What did we just do?

  Brendan pulled Jess to his feet, wiped the thick track of blood from the side of his face, and went to Anit, who was still on her knees, hands resting limply on her thighs. The girl--child, really, she was far from old enough for this--stared at her fallen father, and then she looked up at the two of them with tears shimmering in her eyes. "I couldn't--I-- He was going to--" She suddenly covered her mouth with both hands, and a wail burst out of her, only a little muffled by the cover. "No, no, Father--"

  "Anit?" Jess got her attention, slowly. "Anit, why . . ."

  Her hands were trembling badly. When she lowered them from her mouth, he took them in his. Cold as ice. But when she answered, her voice was steadier than he expected. "He betrayed you," she said. "He betrayed your father, too; he took the money from the Archivist. He broke the oaths. I had no choice." She swallowed. "He would have killed you both. I couldn't--" She shook her head and didn't finish, but Jess understood.

  He understood what they owed her.

  "We can't leave her," Jess said. "She'll have to come with us."

  "Come with us where, exactly? Whatever protection Red Ibrahim could have offered, it's gone now; his men will be fading into the night as quickly as they can, if they don't come looking for us to settle the score . . ." Brendan's calculations finally added up to what Jess's already had, and he looked at Anit with new speculation. "Or . . . we take her with us. She knows the operation. She has her father's codes and secrets. And however loyal his men are, they won't attack if we have her."

  Much as Jess didn't like to think about it as keeping Anit hostage, his brother was right. Besides, leaving Anit for her father's guards to discover would be cruel. She'd confess in a heartbeat, and they'd kill her for what she'd done . . . at least, unless she found her center and power very quickly. Right now, that seemed unlikely. She needed time to recover and regroup.

  Jess helped the girl up. "Come on, Anit," he said. "We'll take you somewhere safe."

  "I killed my father. Do you think there's safety from that?"

  "We'll keep you safe until you're ready," he said, and she turned and looked at him. The glassy shock over her eyes cracked, and what bled through was fury.

  "I wish I'd never met you," she said. "Any of you!"

  "You're not the first to say that," Brendan said. "But you're the one who killed your da, not us. You should be thinking of yourself. Do you have somewhere else to go?"

  She broke free of Jess. For a second he thought she meant to take the gun, and he quickly switched it to stun; he had no desire to kill her, no matter what she might do. But she just pulled away and ran back to her father.

  Jess glanced at his brother, and Brendan returned it, but neither of them followed her. She knelt down and posed her father's body: arms crossed on his chest like the pharaohs of old, legs straight, robe perfectly neat. Last, she unwound the red silk scarf she wore around her throat and placed it over his closed eyes.

  "We don't have time for this," Brendan muttered.

  "Make time," Jess said. "She saved my life, and I saved yours because of it."

  Anit prayed for a moment, then kissed her father's still lips and said, "Anubis, guide him to his rest. Forgive me, Father. But you were wrong. You have been wrong since you betrayed what we believe for the Archivist's gold." She reached into the fold of his robe and came out with a red velvet case. Then she stood up, turned, and looked at both of them. "Come on," she said. "I saved your lives because it suits my purposes. No use if all of us die here."

  There was already something different about her, Jess thought. Something stronger, and more dangerous, than he'd seen before.

  "What's in the case?" Brendan asked as she led the way to the back door of the temple.

  "Keys," she said. "To the kingdom."

  PART TEN

  KHALILA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Captain Santi, when he heard of the Brightwells' escape, was grim but silent. It was Scholar Wolfe who lost his temper.

  "And you didn't stop them?" he shouted at the rest of them, and for a moment Khalila felt like a student again, caught short and feeling the burn of his contempt.

  "How?" Dario spread his hands wide. "You know Jess. His brother's just as bad. What were we supposed to do, sit on them? Tie them up?"

  "If necessary!" Wolfe spat the words like nails and stalked away. Without his Scholar's robe, he looked less majestic but more lethal, Khalila thought. A man who'd endured much and survived more. There was an edge to him that was honed almost to breaking. "Do you know where they've gone? Tell me it isn't some wild plan to kill the Archivist."

  None of them replied to that--presumably, Khalila thought, because they all knew that was exactly what the two young men were about. Jess knew better, but he also was willing to forget that to protect his brother.

  "There's nothing we can do about them now," Khalila said, and got the full, dark force of Wolfe's attention. She didn't flinch. "But there is something we can do, and it's more important. We must get the Scholars, especially the Research Scholars, on our side. Most of them have to see how dangerous the Archivist has become; they only need some assurance that we are sensible to join us. Scholar, you know many of them, if not all of them. Which of them do you think we should approach?"

  "I can't approach anyone. I'm under an instant death sentence if they find me in the streets, or had you forgotten that?"

  "No, I hadn't," Khalila said. "And you should stay here. I doubt the captain will allow you out of his sight again, in any case--"

  "True," Santi said. "And, no, Chris, it isn't up for debate."

  Khalila hurried on. "But Dario and I . . . we are far less well-known. Scholar Murasaki has already arrived at the Lighthouse from Cadiz, and she is doing her part for us. Give us names. Let us go to the most influential of them tonight."

  "Not alone," Glain said. "I'm your escort, and don't bother to argue about it."

  "Why would I?" Khalila said, and smiled. "You see? We're well protected. But we should do this, sir. Now."

  "You'll be recognized."

  "Not here. Young women in hijabs are common. I'll blend in. Dario--might have to amend his wardrobe, however."

  "What's wrong with it?" Dario asked.

  "You look like a Spanish noble."

  "I am."

  "And do you think there are dozens of them roaming the streets here tonight?"

  "I get your point," he said, and sighed. "I'll change." He paused on the way out of the door to look at Wolfe. "Scholar, she's right. She usually is, of course. Give her the names. We'll need every advantage if we intend to do anything meaningful tomorrow."

  Wolfe glared, and it was a hot enough look to burn stones . . . but then he stalked to a small desk in the corner of the library and took up a pen. "Give me a moment," he said. "I'm writing individual letters. Hopefully, they will help open minds to what you have to say."

  It took half an hour, more or less, and Khalila helped slip each of the letters into envelopes and write the Scholars' names on them. "You signed these," she said. "You realize that if all this fails, these are proof you were bent on undermining the Archivist's authority."

  "Do you really think that matters, if this fails? Proof or no proof, we'll all be in the ground." He paused and signed the last letter. "Khalila, if you let yourself be taken while you're out tonight, it's not likely we can save you. You might end up in the same jail I just escaped. You understand that."

  "Of course," she said. "Don't worry, sir. We'll be back."

  "Do that," he said, and for an instant she was sure she saw something kind in his eyes. Something warm. Rare, to see such vulnerability in this man. "Well, at least you. Santiago and Wathen, now . . ." He handed
her the last letter, and Khalila smiled and looked toward Glain--who seemed to be sleeping, and wasn't, of course.

  "Nice of you to think of me," Glain said without opening her eyes or adjusting her relaxed posture. "I'll come back just to spite you, sir."

  Dario was just a few moments later, and with him came the ambassador. "My esteemed cousin Alvaro would prefer it if we do not vault the fence and draw unwanted attention, like our thieving friends," he said. "He's arranged for a carriage. He's also insisted on a disguise for me." He spread his arms, and Khalila had to cover a laugh, because Dario was wearing, of all things, a Christian monk's robe. "Should you be asked, I am Brother Ferdinand, a poor Franciscan monk."

  "Is there a real Brother Ferdinand?"

  "Sometimes," Alvaro said, without a flicker. "But he's hardly ever the same person, and no one remembers monks, anyway. The driver of the carriage is a loyal retainer of mine, but I warn you: if you compromise yourselves or are otherwise identified, he'll have to drive away without you."

  "Understood," Khalila said. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me. I have other news, I'm afraid. I can only extend the safety of this embassy to you until tomorrow morning. I've received orders from Madrid. The king has ordered this embassy closed and all of our staff withdrawn; he's arranged for a ship to be waiting in the harbor to take us to a neutral port. I fear this means he's planning something more than waiting to see what happens."

  "Meaning?" Wolfe asked.

  The ambassador shook his head. "Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you. My hospitality is one thing. My loyalty is quite another. I tell you this because when you leave the safety of these gates tomorrow, you will have nowhere left to return. I'm sorry for that."

  "You've done more than could be expected," Santi said, and offered his hand. The ambassador took it in a firm shake. "We're grateful. And if this goes right tomorrow, perhaps the embassy might stay open."

  "Perhaps." There was something in Alvaro Santiago's voice that indicated he doubted it, though nothing showed on his face. "May my God and yours hold us close in the hours to come."

  That hung a pall in the air, and Khalila turned to Dario and said, "Well, Brother Ferdinand, we had best be about our business."

  "It's the Lord's work," he said, deadpan, and bowed her through the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  "Divide and conquer," Dario said as the carriage rolled through the eerily quiet streets of Alexandria toward the port and along the curving drive that went toward the Lighthouse. "Am I to convince these Scholars to fight, or only to not support the Archivist?"

  "You're not to convince them of anything," Khalila said, "because I know you, Dario. You will frighten or infuriate them into entirely the wrong thing. Just present the case as I laid it out for you and tell them that they must make their own decision."

  "I don't like you splitting up," Glain said. "I can only watch one of you."

  "Half the time will be spent in the open. It's worth the risk. Naturally, you'll be watching Khalila," Dario said. "Brother Ferdinand can take care of himself."

  "And I can't?" Khalila raised her eyebrows and watched his discomfort grow as he realized the trap he'd put himself inside. "Very well. Glain will stay with me. And you, Brother, had best carry your God as your sword and shield."

  "Or this," Dario said, and eased a High Garda pistol from his heavy sleeve. "Courtesy of Lieutenant Zara. I think she likes me."

  "At least someone does," Khalila said, and then relented and kissed him, very quickly, as the carriage began to slow. "Dario. If you're taken . . ."

  "I won't be," he said. "Until later, madonna."

  "Until later," she said. He opened the carriage door as the vehicle halted, and as he started to get out, she was seized by a very real surge of dread. "Dario!" She grabbed his hand, and he froze, one foot on the step down. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat and said, "The answer is yes. It was always yes, by the way. But I thought I should make you wait a while, since you seemed so confident."

  It took him only an instant to realize what she was saying, and the look on his face, in his eyes--it took her breath away, and it definitely did not belong on a monk. "You do me the greatest honor I will ever receive," he said, and it didn't sound like a glib, facile line; it sounded like something raw, and very real. He pressed her fingers to his lips, and she caught her breath at the intense heat of his mouth against her skin. His eyes never left hers. "I will live my life to be worthy of it."

  He stepped down, and Khalila took in a deep breath. Glain said, "What the hell was that?"

  "Dario asked me to marry him just before we were taken in England," she said. "And I just agreed. Am I insane, Glain?"

  "Absolutely," Glain said, and gave her a full, wide smile. "He'll make you happy. And if he doesn't, just tell me, and I'll end him."

  Khalila smiled back, and then Brother Ferdinand was helping her down from the carriage with all due respect, as fine an example of a monk as she could imagine, and she turned to face the Lighthouse.

  Her smile faded, and all the anxiety she'd pushed aside began to buzz in her veins.

  Now is our test.

  And this, most of all, they could not fail.

  * * *

  There were, strangely, no High Garda soldiers at the Lighthouse this evening; the sunset was spreading red across the sky, and down at the base of the tower, night had already spread a dark blue shadow.

  But there were automata, and Khalila moved quickly to avoid a roaming sphinx. There were crowds of people in the vast courtyard, many of them Library assistants seeking transportation home; even here, their voices were muted and quiet, the mood dark. Khalila used the exiting workers as cover and hoped Glain would do the same; Dario had already slipped through.

  Once inside the Lighthouse's tower, she caught her breath and tried to slow her pounding heartbeat. Glain joined her just a moment later, and they took the winding stairs up to the first of their Scholars, a Medica named Parker. She was a commanding older woman with sweeping walnut hair, eyes the color of the open sea, and an attitude that Khalila could best liken to that of an angry, wounded lion. She took Wolfe's letter, ripped it open with a sharply pointed fingernail lacquered crimson, and read the contents once rapidly, then twice slowly before she spoke. "Close the door," she said without looking up. "Is he serious?"

  "I assume you know Scholar Wolfe," Khalila said. "Have you ever known him not to be?"

  "Fair point. The man has the sense of humor of a corpse." Scholar Parker drummed her fingernails on her polished black desk, then folded the letter again. "I heard that Wolfe had been thrown back into prison."

  "He's free," Khalila said. "That's all I can tell you."

  "Do you know what's in this?" She tapped the folded paper, and Khalila shook her head. "I've known Christopher Wolfe for ten years, and I've never known him to make wild claims, but he says he's seen the Black Archives. That's insane enough, but then he says--"

  "That the Archivist ordered them burned," Khalila finished quietly. "Tens of thousands of original, irreplaceable books. Yes. He's telling the truth. I was there, too. I saw it happen. And it's a horror I'll never forget."

  "You're one of his students."

  "Yes, Scholar."

  "So strange. I never thought Wolfe had the patience to teach, and if he did, that he'd be a terrible influence. But you seem more or less sane."

  "More or less," Khalila agreed. "Scholar, I am not here to ask you for anything but an open mind. Scholar Wolfe has no doubt written what he believes; I know what I do. And if you believe that the Library is facing the worst moment of its existence . . . then please think on which side you'll stand tomorrow. Think what you believe in, and what you want the Great Library to be not today, but tomorrow, and the day after, and for the next hundred generations. Because Scholar Wolfe and I don't believe that it can continue down the path it is on. And if he's written to you, I think he knows you don't believe it, either."

  Scholar Parker said noth
ing, and there was no reading her expression. All it would take, Khalila thought, would be for that well-manicured hand to press the gold button on her desk and summon Lighthouse security, and this would end quickly, and badly . . . but Parker finally opened a drawer and dropped the letter into it. She closed it with a firm click of a lock engaging. "Do you know where I was born?" she asked, which seemed an odd question. Khalila shook her head. "I'm from the American colonies. We have a tendency to question authority. You may tell Scholar Wolfe that I'll think about what he's said . . . and tell him I wish him safety. Now you should go. I don't imagine it's very safe for you here."

  "It isn't," Khalila agreed, and got up from where she'd taken a seat. Glain was still beside the closed door, looking every inch a crisp, cool High Garda soldier. "Thank you."

  "Who else are you seeing?"

  "I don't think I should tell you that."

  Parker nodded. "Quite right. But if Scholar Yang is on your list, take him off. He's been spouting the Archivist's rhetoric for some months now, and it wouldn't end well."

  Khalila felt a little hint of a chill. "Thank you," she said again, and moved to the door.

  As soon as they were in the curving hallway, Glain said, "Is Scholar Yang on your list?"

  "Not mine," Khalila said. "Dario's. Go tell him. Go now."

  * * *

  Khalila forced herself to trust that Glain would find him, and delivered her other ten letters, spending only a few moments with each recipient; a few she received immediate and positive indications from, and a few an alarming and glacial silence. Most were somewhere in the middle, cautiously noncommittal. If these are our best and most influential friends, then Allah protect us, she thought. She felt sick that she'd missed prayers and hoped that he would remember and understand her need. But soldiers didn't pause in battle to pray, and neither could she.

  As she left the last Scholar's office on the fortieth floor, she consulted the Codex directory and found Scholar Yang's office was only one floor below; she took the winding steps down, and as she opened the door to the hallway, she listened for any trouble.