by Rachel Caine
The casing was made of walnut and brass, and now that it was all completed, the weapon looked to Jess's eyes much like a country squire's version of a High Garda rifle. It was a bit longer and thinner, and altogether simpler. There was a sight, and a trigger to pull, and a small knob to adjust. That was all.
It wasn't the same as what Thomas had built in Philadelphia, but there were undeniable similarities to it. And refinements. This had the fatal elegance of one of the Library's automata.
"Yes, it's done," Thomas said, and took off the magnifying spectacles he'd been wearing. He put them on the trestle table, stood up, and stretched. "Just now done."
"You haven't tested it yet?" Glain asked, looking the thing over. He shook his head. "Want to do it now?" Thomas gave her a strange smile and quirked his shoulders, and she smiled in return. "You're afraid it won't work."
"It will work."
"I'd rather not stake my life, no matter how bright you are, you great cabbage. We're not playing games anymore, you know."
Something dark flitted through Thomas's eyes as he cut them toward the Welsh girl. "I should know if anyone does," he said. "Step back, please. I don't like to be crowded."
Glain did, immediately. A generous step, at that. "We still should test it," she said. "Jess? Don't you agree? An untested weapon is no kind of weapon at all."
"May we not take a moment to admire what it is that he's done?" Khalila stood on the other side of the table, and the light's glow made her look almost ethereally lovely as she raised her gaze to fix it on Thomas. "It's an amazing attempt, whatever happens. I don't think anyone else on earth could have built the earlier version in Philadelphia. And this . . . it's beautiful in itself."
"It's not a work of art," Glain said. "And even if it was, I'd still insist on seeing what it does."
"Same," Dario nodded. "How do we know how to use it if we don't know what it can do?"
"Morgan?" Thomas asked. Morgan sat on a chair a little apart from them, staring not at Thomas's invention but at her clasped hands. "You seem very quiet."
"It seems like a deadly thing," she said. "The one you made in Philadelphia, you made to set us free. This one . . . I think you made it for another purpose. Don't we have enough things meant to kill?"
Maybe no one else heard it, but Jess did: a broken emptiness in the words, a haunted quality that made him want to hold her in his arms.
"Jess?"
Now Thomas was calling his name, which he'd been dreading, because it meant he had to agree with Glain and Dario. "I'd rather never see it used," he said. "But . . . it's true, we should know."
"And if the stones inside fail and shatter, and we've wasted the chance?" Thomas asked. "What then?"
"My mother has other jewels." Jess managed a grin. "You don't keep me around for my wit and charm. I'll find you what you need, when you need it. Count on it."
"How . . . noisy is this likely to be?" Dario asked. "Given we're in the middle of an armed encampment."
"The peacock has a point," Glain said. "But still. You know my vote."
"If it works, there shouldn't be any sound at all," said Wolfe. He and Santi stood a little apart, together. Santi looked fascinated, and quite like he was itching to pick the thing up. "Light doesn't make sound."
Thomas put his hand on the stock of the weapon that lay on the table. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then picked it up. It looked small in his grasp, and then he held it out to Jess with an abrupt move. "You do it," he said. "I don't think I can bear it if it breaks. Dial it to the lowest setting, aim, and fire. Keep the trigger down as long as you want the beam to burn, yes? Simple. If it works."
Jess took the gun and was surprised at the weight of it--it had looked like a toy in Thomas's hand, but this had substance. Finely balanced, though. The weapon felt heavy and hot in his sweaty hands, and he looked carefully at the dial to be sure it was turned as far down as it could go.
It was.
"No point in waiting, English, unless you're worried it'll blow your hands off," Dario said.
"Want to try it first?"
"No, by all means. Your privilege. I wouldn't dream of taking the honor."
"That's exactly what I thought." Jess was stalling, and he knew it. There was a moment of truth coming, and it frightened him, just as Morgan must have been terrified of her ability to kill so easily. It wasn't the same, but he knew that pulling this trigger would change his world, too.
But there was no way around that. The world was shifting faster than he'd ever imagined it could.
Jess silently stepped away--far enough, he hoped, that any catastrophic disaster would spare the others--and raised the weapon to his shoulder. He braced it, as if it might kick (would it?) and took aim at the far wall.
He took in a slow breath and pressed the trigger.
There was no kick. There was a hum, something that he felt more than heard, and the brass fittings of the gun went from cold to skin warm . . . but no hotter, thankfully. He actually saw the beam that came from the barrel of the weapon, a pure reddish line pointing straight to the wall, and then . . .
And then nothing. There was no explosion. No devastating surprise. Jess let go of the trigger and lowered the weapon slowly, staring.
"Is that it?" Dario asked. "Disappointing."
"It's glowing," Morgan said, and Jess realized she was right. Santi moved toward the wall and held his hand about two feet from it.
"It's very hot," he said, and jumped back half his body length when the wall suddenly let out a sharp, percussive sound and a crack raced from the center of the wall from top to bottom. The entire workshop structure groaned, and for an insane moment Jess wondered if he'd just dropped the roof onto their heads . . . but then nothing else happened. The glowing point in the center of the wall began to fade. There was, he realized, a black scorch mark where he'd aimed the beam, and the wall had cracked in half at exactly that spot.
"!Joder!" Dario came rushing up and stopped with his hand feeling the heat, just like Santi had. "That was the lowest setting?"
"Yes," Jess said, and checked it a third time. "Lowest." He looked at Thomas, who had no particular expression on his face at all. Certainly no triumph. "What happens if it goes higher?"
"I expect it will destroy things quite easily," Thomas said. "You remember the wall, in Philadelphia?"
Hard to forget. "Yes."
"This would have burned through it in seconds, even at half power. It is much stronger. And you might notice, I have shielded the heat."
"I did notice," Jess said. The casing was cool now, not even a trace of warmth remaining.
"Do it again," Santi said. "On a higher setting."
"No. One test, Captain. We agreed." Thomas looked stern. And a little worried.
For answer, Santi walked to the end of the hall, picked up an empty wooden crate, and set it on top of the long trestle table. "That will do," he said. "Shoot it."
Jess, for answer, held out the weapon to him. Santi came back and took it, and Thomas silently shook his head, but didn't object, as Santi turned the dial up. It was, Jess saw, almost halfway.
"Niccolo," Wolfe said. "I don't think--"
"Weapons are my part of the world. Not yours." Santi put the stock to his shoulder, sighted, and fired.
The crate . . . It didn't melt, exactly. It . . . dissolved, in a flutter of black ash. The only sound was a kind of sinister hiss, like steam escaping, and as Jess went forward to look, he saw liquid metal simmering and scarring the top of the thick wooden table. The nails, he realized. The crate's nails had melted.
The table began to smoke where the molten metal touched, and Jess grabbed a leather apron and flung it down over the top. Black scorched patches appeared on the thick material but didn't burn through. When he cautiously moved it, he saw the metal was cooling into sharp-edged smears.
"Dios santo," Dario whispered. He sounded shaken.
"It's what Archimedes used, to burn the Roman ships at sea," Khalila said. "But stro
nger, and held in one hand. He called it the Forge of the Gods."
"The Romans probably called it something less flattering," Glain said. "Imagine what it would do to a human body."
Jess did, all too vividly, and his stomach clenched. He looked back at Captain Santi. The tall Italian stood there, staring at the destruction with a cold calculus. The weapon in his hands no longer seemed so beautiful.
"It's demonic," he said. "But this demon's out of hell now, and in our hands. And there's no going back from that now." He handed the weapon back to Thomas, who took it with the same solemnity. "Can you hide it? Make sure the Brightwells don't find it?" He cast a lightning-fast glance at Jess. "The other Brightwells."
"Yes," Thomas said. "Frauke will guard it for me."
"Can you make more?"
"Not like this," Thomas said. "Not without more gemstones. But smaller ones, with mirrors, yes."
"Then, do it. We may need them." Santi had stopped being their friend again and was now a High Garda commander; it was all in the way he stood, the way he looked at them. "No one talks about this. No one, for any reason. Understand?"
One by one, they nodded.
Wolfe said, "Tomorrow, we show Callum Brightwell the press."
"And then?" Thomas asked. "What will happen then?"
No one answered, but Jess had his suspicions.
And in the morning, after Callum Brightwell had been shown the miracle of Thomas's press, Jess saw the look that passed between his father and his brother, and he knew he was right.
Their usefulness to the Brightwells was fast coming to an end. It was time to make sure, as Dario had said back in Philadelphia, that they take command of the chessboard.
And that, Jess knew, meant sacrifices.
He waited until the deepest, darkest part of the night and slipped out of his room, down the long corridors. He checked Brendan's room first, but it was empty, the bed still neatly made.
He found Brendan and Anit in the one place he supposed he should have expected to find them . . . playing chess in the library where he'd last found Morgan reading. He had a vision of his girl bathed in sunlight, there in the chair, and wished with aching sincerity that he could go to her, be with her, avoid this moment forever.
But he silently walked in, sat down, and pulled up another chair.
Brendan and Anit played in silence for a few more moments. Anit took two pawns. Brendan took a rook. Then Anit froze, studied the board, and sighed. She tipped over her king. "Third time," she said. "I do not understand how you distract me. I'm very good at this."
"I'm better," Brendan said. "But Jess? Better still. Anyone outplay you these days, brother?"
"A few," Jess said. "Khalila, for one. Dario, occasionally." He glanced at Anit, then back at Brendan. Silently asking, Are we doing this in front of her? Brendan nodded, just a little.
Jess turned to the girl and said, "I thought you'd left."
"You knew better," she said. "Because you understand the game. You were born for it, even though you wish you were not."
"She says you remind her of her brother," Brendan said. "Ironic, because I don't, apparently. And if you're thinking what I believe you are, you're still underweight, you know."
"I know," Jess said. "But not enough to matter." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "When will he do it?"
Anit raised her eyebrows and exchanged a quick glance with Brendan. His twin wasn't surprised. Anit was. "You told him?"
Brendan shook his head. "He was born to this, like you said. And he knows my da as well as I do. Maybe better, in some ways. He understands people in ways I don't." He began resetting the chessboard--not so much, Jess thought, to play a new game as to give his hands something to do. Restless, where Jess was suddenly and unexpectedly calm. "Da's sent out summonses to the family, those who can arrive in time. Three days. There'll be a trick pony show that you'll all be expected to attend, and then . . ." He didn't seem willing to say it. So Jess said it for him.
"Then the guards move in. My friends are taken prisoner, and Da ransoms them off. Some--Thomas, Wolfe, and Santi, at a guess--he's selling off to Red Ibrahim, who'll use them as bargaining chips with the Archivist. That's why Anit is still here."
Neither of the other two said anything. Jess caught the slight hitch in his brother's movements in placing the rook, and then the knight.
"Almost correct," Anit said. "I'm to take Khalila, Thomas, and Santi. Dario, your father plans to ransom back to Spain; he wants to build goodwill with the queen."
"And Morgan?" Jess asked. He sounded calm, as if it were all of academic interest. It wasn't. "Scholar Wolfe? Glain?"
"Glain has no use to anyone," Brendan said. "I convinced Da to offer her a post with us. She won't take it--I know that--but I had to try."
"And when she doesn't accept?" For answer, Brendan tipped the knight over. "Does Da really believe I'll ever forgive him for any of this? Ever?"
"No, not really. But he'll keep you locked up until it's over. He thinks that once they're all gone, once the thing's settled, you'll--and I'm quoting him, you understand, so don't take a fist to me--you'll come to your senses."
"He's the one who's out of his mind. And you haven't told me about Morgan and Wolfe. What's he planning to do with them?"
Brendan set the knight upright again and finished putting the rest of the pieces on the board. He was playing black, Jess realized. Somehow, he wasn't at all surprised that his brother had let Anit have the advantage.
"This is where it gets interesting," Brendan said, and sat back to look directly at Jess. "I'm taking them to Alexandria, the two most valuable prizes, as a gesture of good faith directly to the Archivist. We're making a deal to sell ten thousand original volumes to him at an extortionate price. They're the sweetener."
"Why?" The question tore out of him, bloody and raw. He meant why to everything . . . why was he born into this family, why would his father betray him so badly. His brother.
Brendan deliberately mistook the meaning of it. "Because these are ten thousand obscure texts no one is going to want anyway, and it buys us time to print up the real treasures with your miracle machine. Once we start selling those, we'll need the warehouse space to store our profits. And it keeps the Archivist pointed away from us, until we're ready."
"I mean, why is he sending you, you idiot. You're his heir." That was half a lie, but Jess knew the rest of it had no answers. Or rather, the answers had always been right in front of him.
"No," Brendan replied quietly. "You are his heir. His firstborn. I'm just his manager. His assistant. His bullyboy he sends in to solve a problem. You're the one he's always wanted. And now he can have you, because sooner or later, the lure of those books coming off the press will draw you. We both know that. That's the business you're inheriting."
It struck Jess with a sick little thrust that Brendan was saying that he was being sent to negotiate with the Archivist because it didn't matter if he lived to return. The old saying he'd once heard his father say, so jovially, came back in a rush. I still have an heir and a spare. And the other men around him had laughed.
Brendan was the spare.
Anit silently got up from her seat and offered it to Jess. He hardly knew what he was doing when he sat down across from his brother and began to move the pieces. Playing from instinct, and with foreknowledge of what his brother liked to do.
He won in six moves.
"You need to eat hearty," Brendan said as he tipped his black king forward on its face. He looked up, and their gazes locked, and Jess, on impulse, extended his hand. They were, on occasion, capable of this kind of communication, silent and instinctive; for all they were different, they were made of the same body, two halves of the whole. And Brendan knew exactly what he intended to do. Maybe he had from the beginning.
His brother took his hand and shook. They both stood and embraced. Jess understood precisely what Brendan had just said. He understood the magnitude of the sacrifice.
&nbs
p; Anit looked from one of them to the other, mystified by the fact that they were both smiling. "What? What are you going to do?"
"Nothing," Jess said. "We're going to do nothing at all. It's the only way to win."
When he left them, Anit had departed for her ship, and Brendan had stretched out on the divan and fallen soundly, immediately asleep--a skill Jess had once had and wished he could recapture. I have to sleep, he thought. His body had a weight and drag and ache to it that only rest could cure, but there was so much to think of, and so much to dread.
He slipped into his room and locked the door behind him and was stripping off his shirt in the dark when he heard a small rustle of cloth and froze. He reached for a knife he'd concealed in his boot, and for the control of the glow by the door, and was already moving forward to engage the enemy when the light's glow rose like false dawn and spread over the young woman lying asleep in his bed.
He stopped, staring at her. Knife still in his hand. Mind gone entirely still, for the first time in what felt like an age. She had that effect on him, he realized; she created silence in the noise. Peace in the storm.
He put the knife down on the bed table with a soft clink, and her eyes opened. Morgan sat up and brushed her hair from her face. She was, he noticed, wearing a soft nightgown, something that showed the blush of her skin underneath it, and he had to drag his gaze away from that, back to her face. And the smile--warm, sleepy, welcoming . . . and then changing into something else as she came fully awake.
He sank down wearily on the edge of the bed, watching her. "You've been waiting here," he said. She nodded without saying anything at all. "I'm sorry."
She studied him so closely that he felt strangely uncomfortable, as if her power allowed her to reach too far into him. Maybe it did, because she said, "I'm not a fool. You and Dario, you've been whispering together for days. You and your brother, too. Every day, I see the shadows get stronger in you. What are you doing?"
