by Rachel Caine
"I know," Jess said. "I'll be brief." There was, he realized, no easy way to tell her; the shock wouldn't be kind. Better to do it in one go. "I have proof that Thomas wasn't executed, as the Archivist told us he was. There's every reason to believe Thomas is still alive, in prison."
Khalila's smile faltered, then died, and her dark eyes fixed on his for so long and so silently that he wondered if she'd really heard him. Then she stood up; walked to the door with brisk, firm steps; and turned the lock. "That will put on a privacy signal. My assistant could arrive at any moment," she told him. "I shouldn't wish for her to hear this." Her voice sounded completely normal, as if he'd told her that there might be rain in the afternoon, or that the price of saffron could go up in the markets. "I would ask how you are taking this, but I think I can guess."
"You seem very calm," Jess said.
Khalila turned to face him. Tears glittered in her eyes, on the verge of falling. "Do I? Who told you he might be alive?"
"No one," Jess said, and told her a shortened story about the illegal book and his confession to Wolfe, Santi, and Glain. "Santi's worried we'll all do something stupid now. To be fair, he's probably right about that."
She crossed back to her chair and sat, then absently dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. A few blinks, and the tears vanished, leaving a hard, luminous shine. "And you believe this? You're sure?"
She was asking him to be logical, not emotional. Jess took a moment to order his thoughts. "Devil's advocate? It's exactly the kind of ruse the Archivist would love to try," he admitted. "And maybe he'd be careful enough to make me work for months to lay hands on this information. So I'm not completely sure, not yet. We might never be completely sure. Maybe we'll have to take a chance."
"You must be sure," she told him. "If it's a trap . . ."
She wasn't saying how much she'd lose for it, but he was acutely aware. "We need to find records of where the Library likes to keep its most dangerous prisoners," he said. "I'm just not sure how to get to them--and that's where you come in, I think. You're the best researcher I know, Khalila."
"Without a doubt." She had the sweetest smile, one that dimpled just at the corner to let him know she was silently mocking him. "And you want me to proceed?"
"Carefully. Khalila, I mean it: carefully."
"Of course. I understand the risks." She paused for a moment, then came to sit next to him again, hands folded in her lap. "Jess--having been here in the Lighthouse for the past few months, I have heard . . . disturbing things about Scholar Wolfe. That he may not be himself, or--"
"A few books short of a full library?" Jess finished, and was rewarded with a nod. "It's true: he went through terrible things before we met him, and they left scars. But I don't think he's broken beyond repair, and I think we can count on him. All this makes sense. Thomas had--has--too good a mind for the Library to just discard. They'll want to use him. Isn't that logical?"
"Perhaps," she said. "Or it's just difficult for us to believe the arrogance that would destroy such a beautiful mind. Such a . . . such a beautiful person as Thomas." That thought killed another of her lovely smiles, and Jess hurt to see it.
"We have two choices," he said. "We can choose to believe he's dead or choose to believe he's alive. Believing he's dead is safer, but--"
"But so cruel," she whispered. "What if he's alive? Suffering? Thinking we will come for him, and we never do?"
Jess nodded. It never left his mind for long, the idea that somewhere, Thomas Schreiber was counting on him for rescue. "That's why I can't let this go, Khalila, trap or no trap. I just can't. I won't ask you to do anything more than a little research--"
"Don't be stupid," she interrupted, and that smile returned, more certain--and more devilish--than before. "Of course I will do everything I can; it's the only honorable thing to do. It might take time. I say that not because I am afraid to jeopardize myself, but because wrong moves will only get me locked away from key information. It will have to be done slowly, for all our sakes. But when it's time to get him out, Jess, I will go with you, of course. You don't even have to ask."
There had been a tightly tied knot of stress in his chest, and he felt it give way under a wave of relief. And then another tension set in. Worry. "I mean it: be careful. Thomas--I don't want to explain why they took him; that would only put you at more risk. But they'll do anything to keep what he discovered from being known. I don't want you joining him somewhere in the dark, being--"
"Convinced?" she finished for him, with a sharp arch to her brows. "Yes, I would like to avoid that, too. I don't think I'd be very brave."
He doubted that. Khalila had a soul like a diamond--fiery, brilliant, and difficult to scratch. Even diamonds could shatter, though, and he didn't want to be the cause of such an awful thing. "I mean it," Jess said. "Don't trust anyone. Someone tried to kill Wolfe yesterday, and they didn't care how many others died with him. Just like when we were postulants."
"Someone?" she asked, and gave him a slight tilt of her head. "Jess. Don't treat me like a fool. We both know who would be behind a thing like that."
"The Archivist," he said. "Not that we'd ever manage to prove it. There'll be a whole chain of disposable puppets, and he'll already have cut any strings that lead back to him."
She was silent for a moment, staring out the window at the view--at the towering pyramid of the Serapeum, he realized, whose gold top caught the morning light and blazed like a second sun. "Such a tragedy. The Library was meant to be a light lifted against the darkness," she said. "But we've lost our way. We're wandering in the shadows. That has to change."
It has to change. Morgan had said the same thing many times, and he heard the echo of her frustration in Khalila's voice. "Well, if that's going to change," he said, "then we're the ones who will have to see it done."
"Because revolution rarely comes from those in charge." She turned her head back to him, and the smile was firmly back in place. "Yes. I read history. But we shouldn't be talking in abstracts and philosophy, Jess. How have you been? It's an injustice, you being wasted in the High Garda. You deserve so much more!"
He grinned. "I've done all right," he said. "You know me. I survive."
"You shouldn't have to simply survive!"
"They tell me suffering builds character," he said. "Glain's turned out to be a right good leader, by the way. She'll climb the ranks fast, I've no doubt."
"And you?"
He laughed outright. "No, thanks."
"I wish I knew a way to get you back here. I think you miss this." She gestured at her office. It was a plain affair, with a desk, shelves, Blanks. A few precious originals carefully shelved behind a panel of glass. His gaze fixed on them, and instantly he felt that sensation: longing. He wanted to take those books in his hands and experience the texture of the covers, the smell of the pages. Books spoke mind to mind, soul to soul across the abyss of time and distance.
He did miss all this. Desperately. "I'm fine, I tell you. How's Dario? Are you two still . . . friendly?"
She shrugged. "Dario is an arrogant ass."
"So you're still seeing him, then."
That made her laugh outright, and he liked seeing happiness on her face. "We understand each other." She blinked, and the amusement faded fast. "Speaking of understandings . . . Have you heard from Morgan?"
He didn't want to lie to her again, but he did. Effortlessly, to protect Morgan, if nothing else. "Morgan isn't likely to ever leave the Iron Tower again. You know that." And I did that to her. She could have run. Maybe she would have made it.
"I'm so sorry. I know--" She seemed to search for just the right words. "I know how much she meant to you, though you try not to show it."
He said nothing to that. The compassion in her voice made the half-truth hurt as if it were true. And it could be true, despite what he wanted to believe. Morgan might forever be nothing more than words on a page to him, like those originals safe from his touch behind glass.
"Stupid saying."
"Surprisingly true, though. How should I contact you? Not by Codex, I assume."
"Paper messages," he said. "Put nothing down that you wouldn't want the Archivist reading. And give your notes only to those you trust completely. Nobody else."
"I've missed you. We can be friends again, finally. I've missed you so much, Jess." She hugged him once more, and he hugged her back. In some ways, the bonds he'd formed with her, Dario, Glain, Morgan, Thomas . . . those had been more important to him than the ties he had by birth to his twin. I let Morgan down, he thought. But not them. Not this time. "Do you want me to tell Dario about Thomas?"
"No, I'll do it. Is he here? In the Lighthouse?"
"Yes, he's three floors down, in Scholar Prakesh's offices. He's working as her assistant. You're going to see him?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"A little. I admit, I never thought you two would pay each other visits like reasonable adults. Tell him. He'll want to help as much as I do." She patted his cheek in an almost motherly way. "The two of you are so alike."
"Oh, so now I'm an arrogant ass, too?"
"Of course," she said, and her smile grew deep enough to reveal that dimple again. "A fiercely smart, ridiculously brave one. My favorite kind. Now, take some of these pastries away before I eat all of them and make myself sick!"
He took most of the boxes with him and went down three flights. He'd never heard the name, but Scholar Prakesh's offices took up an impressive expanse, and when Jess pressed the bell to the side, he was surprised to find the door opened not by Dario, but by an elderly woman in a violently pink sari with gold trim at the edges under her black Scholar's robe. "Scholar Prakesh?" he asked, and bowed to her. She smiled and gave him a slight nod. "Please forgive me for disturbing you. Do you like almond pastries?"
She watched his face intently as he spoke, and to his surprise, began to move her hands in fluid, rapid motions. He recognized it, though he didn't speak it: sign language. He tried to look uncomprehending without seeming stupid, and must have failed, because she sighed and clapped her hands.
As if she'd summoned him out of thin air, Dario Santiago appeared from a side room. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Jess and the pastry boxes. Scholar Prakesh repeated her gestures, and Dario watched her hands, then said, "Scholar Prakesh says, 'Young man, your charm is wasted on me, but your pastries are not. You are . . . ?'"
He knew enough to address his words to the Scholar and not to her translator, and bowed to her. "Jess Brightwell, Scholar, a soldier in the High Garda. I am very honored to meet you."
Dario watched the exchange that followed and spoke for her again. "'That is only because you do not know me yet, of course. Come in. I expect you are here to see my exasperated young assistant.'" Dario laughed. "She means me."
"I am, Scholar. Thank you."
Prakesh signed again. "You might have to dig him free of the work I've piled on him this morning. Try not to listen to his complaints." She reached for the boxes, and the conversation between them was clearly over. She moved with impatient speed back to her desk, leaving him and Dario to sort things out. It gave Jess a moment to take in Scholar Prakesh's office. If Khalila's room had been stacked with papers and books, this one had the feeling of order, but ancient layers of it, built one atop another. Chalkboards lined the room, filled with jottings and notes in tiny, precise writing, some of it written in a rounded, beautiful language he didn't recognize. It was an oddly restful place, and, best of all, it was steeped in the crisp, autumnal scent of books. I just want to take this all in, Jess thought. It seemed like . . . home.
Dario gestured impatiently for him to follow, and Jess left home behind. He trailed Dario to the door of the office on the left. Dario sat down behind a desk, leaned back, and folded his arms. "What are you doing here, Brightwell?" Unlike Khalila, Dario seemed to have changed quite a bit. He'd put on a little muscle, and cultivated a Spanish-style shadow of beard that made him seem older. Even a little wiser. His hair had grown longer, too.
The attitude, though, hadn't changed at all.
"I see you've missed me."
Dario gave him an incredulous look. "Were you gone? My goodness. The time seemed to fly by, not seeing you."
Jess took a seat in the chair across from the desk. "Still charming," he said. "Just for that, you don't get any pastries." It seemed odd to switch from this comfortably contemptuous banter to news about Thomas, so he offered, "I didn't know you knew sign language."
"My baby sister was born deaf," Dario said, which surprised Jess to the bone. First, that Dario had a baby sister, and second, that he'd be considerate enough to go out of his way to communicate with her. "That was one of the reasons I was assigned to Prakesh, besides being so handsome and charming."
"So, this is working well for you?"
"As well as I could have dreamed. The Scholar's a wonder. I learn so much every day." Dario's expression turned serious, and he leaned forward in his chair to stare at Jess. "Why do I have the feeling you've come here to ruin all that?"
He kept the story short, if not sweet. Dario's face took on a blank masklike expression while he spoke, and his eyes went narrow and very dark. No smiles. No sarcasm.
"So," Dario said, once he'd told him everything he knew, "we go and get Thomas. When?"
In that moment, Jess liked him very much.
"No idea yet. Stay in touch with Khalila--I'll send word through her. Help her with research."
"If you need to question anyone, let me know. I'll come along."
"You mean, you'll hold them while I beat them?"
"No," Dario said. "You'll hold them while I cut the truth out of them. This is for Thomas."
"I didn't think you--"
"Liked him?" Dario waved that away impatiently. "He's one of us."
Simply said and plainly heartfelt. Jess nodded. "Dario. Be careful. Keep your wits sharp."
"And my dagger sharper? Yes, scrubber, I do have a brain. I know what we face here." Dario pulled a piece of paper closer and picked up a pen. His fingers were shaking. He put the pen down again and flexed them, as if they troubled him. "Anything else?"
"Enjoy the pastries."
He was opening the door and preparing to leave when Dario said quietly, "Jess." It was rare that Dario called him by his first name. "Do you think they're hurting him?"
"Yes," Jess said. "And I think they'll keep hurting him until we get him back. So let's get him back."
He closed the door, said a polite farewell to Scholar Prakesh--that sign, at least, he knew--and headed back down the stairs. He was halfway down when his Codex chimed for attention, and he paused in the middle of the stairs to open it and check, as others moved around him with impatient looks.
It was from Glain, written in her sharp, impatient printing. Get your bum back to the barracks before someone misses you. NOW. That last was underlined with vicious black pen strokes. He could almost feel the anger and worry smoking off the page.
He reached for the stylus and replied, On the way.
EPHEMERA
Text of a treatise from Heron of Alexandria on the uses of automata in Library service, in the second century of the Library, in response to minor damage made to the Alexandrian Serapeum by vandals
. . . insofar as the mechanical sentries are concerned, I see no reason that such devices cannot be used to frighten away evildoers bent on mischief inside the grounds of the Library precincts, and those of the museum, university, and zoo. It would be whimsical to fashion these automata on the shapes of creatures both familiar and fabulous to us. Lions have long been seen as noble beasts of tremendous power and cruelty; I should imagine a mechanical lion would turn away any casual vandal in search of easier targets, and it reflects well on the ideals of our Library.
There might also be made use of the sphinx
, for this wise and legendary creature is everywhere a symbol of royal power and strength. To go a bit more fanciful, serpent automata might coil on columns, and perhaps such devices in the shapes of horses could one day even carry our soldiers to battle. Think of the possibilities!
I shall establish herewith a new field of study into this matter, with the express purpose of developing such methods of defense for the Library and those who understand and support our noble purpose. Of course, this will need to be done in secret. Such devices are of no possible use if their inner workings are made public.
May the gods bless our struggles, and our light ever push back the darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Getting out of the Lighthouse meant, in the end, waiting for a whole flock of Scholars to leave at once, and striding along with them as if he were one of them. Jess quickly offered to carry a heavy load of equipment for the small, overweight man leading the party, and that had earned him instant friendship--at least, until he handed it back at the end of the road and headed for the High Garda compound at a run. Running felt good on such a bright and perfect morning.
When he arrived back, he searched for Glain. Her quarters were empty, but he finally spotted her walking the halls in the company of Captain Feng. He couldn't read her expression, but he doubted she was with the man by her own choice. The conversation seemed one-sided.
Despite Glain's worries, no one seemed intent on ordering him today, so Jess indulged in some much-needed sleep, then rose with the intention of doing some reading. As he stepped into the hall, he realized that the door at an angle to his on the other side--Tariq's room--was standing open. He'd gotten halfway across the hall to say hello before the memory caught up with him of Tariq slumped against the wall. Tariq was dead, and someone was in his room. He stopped in his tracks.
Inside the room, Tariq's closest friends, Wu and Bransom, packed up his few belongings. Jess felt it like a hammer to the chest as he watched Recruit Bransom--as sturdy and muscular a young woman as Glain--wipe away tears as she picked up Tariq's personal journal, embossed with his name. The cover, even at the distance from which Jess observed, was smeared with dried blood, and she scrubbed restlessly at it with the sleeve of her own shirt. Her hands were shaking.
