by Rachel Caine
It also made them more vulnerable, but Jess doubted they realized it.
Inside city hall, Jess marched into antique grandeur. This place had originally been built as a Serapeum of the Great Library, and it still had the Library's trademark elegance stamped on it in the tall pillars, the inlaid marble floor, and the dazzling design of the place.
What it didn't have were books. No shelves, no Codex, no statues of Scholars. The inlaid design in the center of the hall they passed had a far less intricate design than the rest of it, and he thought it had once been the Library's seal, broken up and redesigned by local craftsmen. The symbol that they walked over now was an open volume with flames leaping up from curling, burning pages. Sickeningly appropriate.
They climbed stairs, circling around to the third level and then down a long hall warmed with dark wood trim and old portraits of American notables. A large, well-done painting near the end depicted one of the battles that had raged for the city . . . a heroic army of Burners rebelling against the Library's troops while eerie green flames of Greek fire consumed trees and buildings around them. Chilling and thrilling at once.
He avoided looking too closely at the companion illustration of the victory, which showed books being piled on the steps of this building and set alight. It made him want to take a knife to it. Burning books for religion or politics was all the same to him: evil.
One of the guards knocked, a muffled voice said, "Enter," and the guards eased the heavy door open at the end of the hall. One of them pushed Jess forward, as if he needed the instruction, but they didn't follow him inside.
"Shut the door behind you; there's a draft," said the man who sat behind the desk: Willinger Beck, as smug and self-satisfied as ever. Jess obliged, more because he wanted to block the guards than from any desire to please this man.
He ignored Beck, because Thomas sat off to the side in a comfortably plush old chair that almost was large enough to seem proportional to his frame. Thomas looked up and met Jess's gaze and nodded slightly. I'm all right. Jess wasn't sure that was true, but he knew what his friend intended to convey. And truthfully, being out of the cell probably was better than whatever threats Beck had to hand in this place.
The office didn't look particularly intimidating. It did look self-congratulatory, compared to the ruined poverty of the rest of the town.
It was filled with gleaming wood, sleek, comfortable couches and chairs, and a desk large enough to double as a dining table for eight, except that it had papers piled atop it. There were shelves in this room, and books, too . . . every one an original, not a single Blank among them. Some had the gilt and flash of rare volumes; Jess recognized a few at a glance that he'd personally read, held, or run across London for his father. The majority, though, had the shabby, handmade look of local production.
What made Jess's stomach turn sour, though, were the books--almost a hundred of them--stacked near Thomas. He recognized those volumes, and the packs and bags that lay discarded in the corner that had held them. They were the books he and the others had rescued from Alexandria, from the Black Archives. Forbidden books, full of dangerous ideas and inventions and knowledge.
Thomas, he realized, was currently reading one of them.
"Ah," Beck said, and rose from his desk to come over to a chair near Thomas. "Come, sit. We have things to discuss, you and I."
"I'm fine here," Jess said. He wanted to stay on his feet and mobile. He'd already begun analyzing ways out of the room--the broad windows looked like the best exit. Chuck one of the handy, heavy sculptures through the glass, and oh, the possibilities. His main worry was in getting Thomas to follow him out. One thing at a time. I could kill Beck on the way.
"I said sit down," Beck said, and all the false good humor was gone now, which was an improvement. Jess responded by leaning against the wall, between two paintings he hadn't even glanced at, and crossing his arms. The silent standoff went on for almost half a minute before Beck pretended Jess hadn't just forced his hand, and turned to Thomas. "You said he would be cooperative."
"He will be," Thomas said, unruffled, "once you tell him why he's here."
Beck didn't like this, Jess realized. He didn't like that Thomas, despite all sense and appearances, held power right now. He certainly didn't like having to pretend to be civil. Good, Jess thought, imagining those books going up in ash toward the sky. "Well, this sounds interesting," Jess said. "Go on."
Thomas didn't, which forced Beck to say--growl, really, "He's told me that you together can build a machine to reproduce original books without the use of an Obscurist or a copyist. He says the job requires you both."
"That's true," Thomas said. "My first model was crude and unreliable. Jess designed many improvements to make the machine run correctly."
Thomas was getting very good at lying. I'm having a bad influence, Jess thought, and was rather proud of that. Beck glared at both of them, ending with Jess, who shrugged. "Think of it this way: use us, and you'll be able to undermine the Library in a way that counts for more than just destroying books."
"It's true," Thomas said. "How do you devalue a country's currency? Make more until it's worthless. Knowledge is the common currency of the Great Library. If you make books freely available with no restrictions, the Library has no power over you. Over anyone."
Beck's resting expression--dour--didn't change, and Jess found himself thinking the man might be either very stupid or very good at holding his cards close. Since he'd survived as Burner leader so long, it had to be the latter. Beck's fingers reached for a pen and twirled it as he sat back, staring at Jess--only at Jess--and thinking. "I see," he finally said. A gambit, that phrase, to buy time. "Most interesting."
Jess sighed. "Get to the point."
Beck didn't like being rushed. He wanted to appear deeply thoughtful about it, but in fact, Jess knew, he'd already made up his mind. So despite the glare, Beck said, "We have no opportunity to take any books you produce here beyond these walls. Unless you have some magical means of transporting them . . . your Obscurist, perhaps . . ."
Keep any mention of Morgan out of it, Jess thought, but he didn't know how to signal that to Thomas.
He didn't need to. "You miss our meaning," Thomas said without missing a beat. "What we offer eliminates the need for an Obscurist. We will build you a machine, and give you the plans to build more, out of simple components that can be made anywhere. Send those plans out, not books. Set up printing facilities in every corner of the world."
Beck didn't manage to conceal a greedy little spark this time, something that fired through his expression in an instant and disappeared, leaving him professionally disinterested. "I would have to see such a miracle in operation first."
"Naturally," Jess said. "And you will, provided you give us the tools and supplies to build it."
"And you will prepare written instructions for the building of this machine in return for what?"
"Freedom," Jess replied. "For us and all our friends."
That made Beck give a bitter little laugh. "I can't set my own people free outside these walls. What makes you believe I can promise you any such thing?"
"He means freedom here, in Philadelphia," Thomas said. He cut in so smoothly Jess couldn't tell if he'd anticipated the objection or just reacted fast. "No more locked cells. You feed us and allow us to live as we wish. Freely."
That made Beck laugh out loud, but it was fast and humorless and ended in "No." A flat slap of a word. "You must think I'm a mewling idiot. Let Scholars and soldiers loose here to sabotage and destroy our city? I'd be better off trading you to the High Garda!"
That was exactly what they didn't need to happen. Once the Great Library learned that Wolfe and his students had survived London and were trapped inside Philadelphia, Jess thought that would be a perfectly simple puzzle for the Archivist to solve: destroy the entire city. Kill them all in the process. Neat, and a dual benefit.
"Trading us to the High Garda wouldn't get you as much as trading with my family," Jes
s said, to head off the entire discussion. "I assume you know of my father. Callum Brightwell."
He saw the exact second when Willinger Beck's world shifted. The man's eyes widened, blinked. In that moment, he didn't look like a man who'd be good at any game that required a bluff. "Brightwell," he repeated, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "Brightwell." That last repetition was weighted by a heavy varnish of chagrin.
"I see you know of him," Jess said. "I assume you work with smugglers to stay alive. Might be a mistake to get on the wrong side of one of the most powerful families for a stupid, preventable reason."
Beck's face went still, but red spots formed and burned high in his cheeks. Still, he wasn't a rash sort. He thought it out. While he did, Jess glanced at Thomas, who had raised his eyebrows and now quickly lowered them again. Surprised? Worried? Hard to tell.
Beck gained control of his voice. It sounded smooth, but the tension underneath was as sharp as sharks. "I didn't recognize the connection. I'm familiar with your illustrious father, and your very impressive brother."
Of course you are, Jess thought. "My illustrious father and very impressive brother got sold down the river by your people in London," he said. "My father won't be in a good mood. And he won't look kindly on any further insults toward his family."
"I never heard that he had a son in Library uniform. I wonder, are you really still considered part of the family?"
That struck, and cut. Jess smiled to hide it. "Oh, Callum Brightwell knows full well I'm in this uniform. I can promise you, sending me to the Library was his plan." Both those things were true. They didn't quite add up to the sum of the parts, but Jess saw Beck reconsidering his stance.
Beck went for a cautious half measure and said, "He's always been fair to us. Sympathetic, even. I think I can count on him to be consistent in his dealings with us, whatever your . . . situation."
"My father values two things above all else: his business and his family. He considers the two the same. If you harm his son--or my friends--I can promise you that he'll take that personally."
Beck took his time thinking it over. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out, clasping his hands behind his back; with the soft light on his face, he looked like a flattering portrait of a statesman. Jess wondered if he'd done it for the effect. "I must do what is the best for my people, of course. Alienating the Brightwells might not be in their interest."
"That's good sense," Jess said. He wasn't averse to praising people when they said the bloody obvious, so long as it was in his favor. "My recommendation is to let me write and explain."
Beck ignored that. He stared out for another long set of clock ticks and then turned to regard him and Thomas with a sudden smile on his face. Far too wide. Far too warm.
"No, I think that I will write to him. No doubt the fact you are in residence here will make him a stronger friend to Philadelphia. And of course, I welcome the construction of this machine you're talking about. We can discuss some small privileges for your friends while you do the work." He turned to Thomas then. "If that is acceptable to you, Scholar Schreiber?"
That speech, Jess thought, was a bit of a wonder. An implication of hostage taking; in the same breath, a promise of favors; and as an apple polish on the end, lauding Thomas with his rightfully earned title. A title the Burners normally used as a term of scorn.
"No," Thomas said. Not a diplomat, Thomas. Blunt, earnest, and to the point. "For the price of humbling your pride and giving us food and trust, you get a weapon that kills no one, destroys nothing, and yet undermines the tyranny you claim to resist. A life is worth more than a book; that is your motto. We can make that a fact, not mere words."
In the silence that followed Thomas's words--slow, deliberate, powerful words--Jess imagined he could feel the world changing around him. It was subtle, but it was there.
He could see by the look in Willinger Beck's eyes that the man felt it, too. But he hadn't survived this long, against these odds, by being gullible. "I will provide you with supplies to build your machine, and food for you two, and you two only," Beck said. "Rations are dear here. The others need to earn their bread with useful work, and while I agree to leave the prison doors unlocked, there is no such thing as freedom of movement for any of you; you will go guarded, or you do not go anywhere. If your machine proves all that you promise, then you may earn additional rights. Not before."
Jess locked gazes with Thomas, and Thomas gave a rolling shrug. A very German sort of move, and it made Jess feel a slow burn of satisfaction. This could work. He nodded to Thomas.
"Acceptable," the other young man said. Looking at him, Jess could suddenly see the Scholar he'd one day become--sure, centered, deliberate and calm, and sharply intelligent. A great man, if they survived this. "I will make you a list of what we need."
Beck laughed. It sounded barren. "You may make all the lists you like, my boy. We have what we have, and you will make do, as we all must. I will write to your father, Brightwell. If there is something you need that can't be crafted here, we'll send to him for it. He might feel inclined to gift us with it, if he knows his son's life is at risk with the rest of us."
Maybe. Jess's brother Liam had died dangling from a noose in London and was buried in an unmarked grave as a nameless book smuggler. Da could have saved him. Da hadn't bothered, because getting caught was, in his world, a mortal sin.
Jess was caught, too. The trick was letting Beck think he wasn't.
It seemed the agreement had been reached, and Jess allowed his shoulders to relax just a little . . . and a little too soon, because Beck suddenly said, "One more thing. You're aware that Captain Santi once commanded troops outside these walls?"
"Did he?" Jess asked. And shrugged. He wasn't about to answer that. He'd hoped that Beck didn't know the identities of the many, many High Garda captains who'd camped out there in the dark.
"He is to sit with my guard captain, Indira, and map out for her everything he knows of the Library camps. Troop strengths, placement of tents, routines. Everything."
He's not going to do that. Jess knew it instantly. Santi might turn his back on the Library, but betray other High Garda? Never.
The next instant, he thought, But he might like the chance to lie his head off about it, though. And so he let a second pass before he said, without any change of tone or expression, "I'll pass along your request."
"It wasn't a request."
Jess stared back without saying anything. There was something about Beck that reminded him, strongly, of his father. It wasn't a happy comparison, and he had no issue at all waiting the man out. He knew his father got impatient when faced with silence.
And sure enough, so did Beck. "I'll expect his attendance in the morning," Beck said. "Tell him to report to Indira. If he isn't there at dawn, he'll be dragged along in chains."
"Everyone except us will be with you here tomorrow," Thomas said. "The Scholars and Morgan will begin to translate these books. And that earns the bread we take from you, yes?"
"Your soldier girl--Wathen, is it? Wathen is of no use to me," Beck began, and Thomas cut him right off.
"Squad Leader Glain Wathen is Scholar Seif's personal guard. She stays with her. Protocol."
That was a truly excellent lie, and Jess had to admire it; he'd simultaneously made Khalila mysteriously important and given Glain status, too. Beck might have some information, but surely not enough. They only had to work around his preconceptions.
Beck let out an offended little huff and tugged his jacket down. "Protocol!"
"Consider that it's for your own protection," Jess said. "One of your men insulted Scholar Seif, and she's not in a forgiving mood."
"If Seif is so touchy, she can stay in her cell!"
Thomas suddenly clapped shut the book he had open in his hand. It was a shockingly loud sound, and he got to his feet in the startled silence. "She is properly addressed as Scholar Seif, and if you want your books translated, you need her above all the others," he said.
"Your man laid hands on her. Don't ever do it again."
"Oh, threats now? You must fancy yourself dangerous," Beck said.
Jess raised his eyebrows and looked at Thomas. "Do we?"
"Occasionally," Thomas said gravely.
For the first time, Beck lost his temper. He slammed both hands down on his desk, sending papers scattering. "This is not a matter for your amusement, you spoiled children! You think it's easy to keep my people safe, fed, housed, and warmed with the Library bombing our city with regularity? Now, shut up and appreciate my forbearance, or you might not enjoy quite such special treatment in the future!"
Jess opened his mouth to reply but shut it when Thomas shook his head. Best to let him have this, he realized. We have what we need.
Thomas bowed, the picture of calm. He made it seem easy. "Thank you," he said.
"Just get out!"
Thomas inclined his head meekly, and when Beck's office door opened, they followed the tall guard woman down the hall. More guards fell in behind.
"You're called Indira," Jess said. The woman glanced at him. Barely. "You're in charge?"
"As far as you're concerned," she said. Nothing else. Jess tried smiling, but he was aware he gave off a more criminal air next to Thomas's pleasant farm-boy charm. She remained distinctly uncharmed. He gave it up and concentrated instead on noting everything about the building they passed through, and everything he could see outside.
They were on the steps when the first alarms began to sound. It was a terrible wailing sound, coming from all around them. Outside the walls. It rose and fell like the cries of the damned, and even though Jess knew what it was, he felt a sick, falling sensation in his stomach. He had to resist an overwhelming urge to cover his ears.
"What is that?" Thomas's shout near his ear was only just barely audible, and he heard the rattle of panic in it.
"High Garda warning signal," Jess shouted back. "Bombardment."
He'd been exposed to it in training sessions, but he'd never expected to hear it this close; it sounded like an ancient, eerie thing, like the screaming of gods, and it was meant to warn the citizens of a city that hell was coming down.
And the Philadelphians, he saw, were used to it. No one even covered their ears, except a few small children.
