by Rachel Caine
Glain looked revolted at the idea of owing favors to smugglers, but less than she would have when he’d first met her; she’d come to accept that for everything prohibited, there would be an endless stream of people willing to cater to those who still craved it. And controlling those people was far better than attempting, uselessly, to completely eradicate a supply without also destroying the demand. “Fine. Where do we start?”
They were now outside the gates of the High Garda compound, on the hill that overlooked the harbor and the city below. A good vantage point, this one, almost at the level of the three major landmarks: the Lighthouse, the Serapeum, the Iron Tower. From here, a good commander could see all the approaches and defenses and most of the city’s closed gates. Santi would be making his way here once he’d finished with orders at the pyramid.
It was going to be a long damned walk back to the Serapeum, and he felt a wave of weakness looking at it.
Jess pointed toward the docks. That journey he could manage. He thought.
Glain frowned. “Why the docks? No one’s working today. No ships coming in.”
“That’s exactly why. Her men will be idle and drinking, and that’ll be where they feel most comfortable. And most protected. So they’ll be easier to approach there.” Hopefully. Because Anit’s men were hers by inheritance . . . they’d been loyal to Red Ibrahim, but she’d killed her own father. He wasn’t sure of the allegiances just now. And if word had gotten around that Anit had killed Red Ibrahim to protect a pair of errant Brightwell boys . . . that would be dangerous.
Jess started for the path that led down the hill. Glain grabbed him by the arm. “No,” she said. “Transport is leaving right now. We’ll hitch a ride.”
“I can walk.”
“Save it.”
She was right: there was a High Garda troop transport rumbling through the gates, and it slowed for them as Glain flagged it down. He climbed in with a real, humbling sense of relief. The troops inside were all grim and quiet; he exchanged nods with many of them he recognized, but no one said anything. Glain signaled to the driver to drop them off at an intersection of roads that led variously to the docks, to the Lighthouse, and around the curve toward the heart of town; she didn’t help Jess down, and he was grateful for the trust. He wasn’t that bad off. Yet.
The Alexandrian docks—like most docks around the world—were not for the casual tourist. It was the one place in the city where Scholars rarely visited, and High Garda went only on business, so it was a natural haven for the less savory elements, particularly smugglers and thieves. The ships crowded together at anchor in the harbor were a vivid reminder of just how vast the reach of the Great Library really was . . . red-sailed trading ships from China, massive multideck vessels with dragon heads from the cold reaches of Scandinavia. Sleek Roman ships rubbed hulls with ships hailing from Turkey and Russia and Portugal, those of the island nations of the Caribbean with the continents of North and South America. As many seafaring, trading countries as existed did business here . . . or had. Now they were all trapped in the harbor, awaiting the outcome of the most dangerous game the Great Library had ever played. Bored. And frightened. It was a bad combination.
There was, of course, a heavy High Garda presence here to keep order, but by common practice they left the bars, taverns, and brothels alone.
Jess headed to the closest and seediest bar he could spot. It didn’t bother with a name, just an aged wooden sign swinging on a pair of hooks with a painting of a single mug with froth bubbling up. Efficient. Every language spoke it, even if every person didn’t partake. He remembered the place. He’d found Red Ibrahim’s representatives here more than once.
Glain stopped him a few steps from the door with a hand on his arm. “Remember, you’re not going in there a Brightwell. You’re in a High Garda uniform. It matters.” She meant both watch your back and don’t embarrass us, and Jess nodded to her.
“Stay here,” he told her. “I mean it. Bad enough I swan in there dressed this way. With you looking official and disapproving, it’s a useless effort.”
“Five minutes,” she said.
“In five minutes, I’ll either have what I want or they’ll be dumping my body and you’ll still accomplish nothing by barging in,” Jess said. “I’ll be back when I’m done. Trust me. I know these places.”
He did, but neither was he exactly sure of his reception right now. Still, nothing for it but to do the thing.
No one appeared to notice or care when he pushed his way into the room. It was—predictably—packed and sweltering with the heat of the bodies in it; the smell of the place was an earthy mix of sweat, fermented alcohol, and the sharp spark of heavily flavored meat cooking somewhere in the back. There were tables, but all of them were full to groaning with men and women packed on benches, and the clink of glass and metal was like heavy rain on a roof. The bar at the front was manned by no fewer than five staff, all of whom seemed overheated and overworked; Jess avoided the crush there and moved among the tables. No one met his gaze. He heard muttering from a huddle of African sailors; he didn’t speak their language but he imagined that they resented being held here in the harbor for trouble that they had no part in causing. No doubt most of these crews felt that.
“You’ve got a nerve.”
That direct comment came from a Greek—a captain, by the look of him—who drained the last of what was surely a long line of tankards. He had a long pale scar across his tanned face and a belly the size of a wine barrel. He put both hands on the table.
“Just one?” Jess responded. The Greek was obviously talking to him, so it seemed only polite. “I hope I have several.”
“This isn’t your place, boy.”
“Nor yours, unless you run the place. If you do, you shouldn’t drink up your profits.” Jess was talking just to be talking, because he was watching the man’s hands. He wasn’t certain what was happening here, but some instinct had stirred inside him, some memory he couldn’t pinpoint.
Then the man’s left hand moved. Three fingers curled down, and his right forefinger tapped the table twice. It seemed an odd gesture, and then Jess remembered. It was an old, old thing, this smuggler’s code, used by spies and ne’er-do-wells for centuries before his time; his father had taught it to him, and his men had occasionally used it in situations just like this, to convey messages when there were too many eyes and ears around for safety.
It meant beware.
“High Garda bastards aren’t welcome here,” the Greek said. “Nor any fools who’ll sacrifice our lives for their books.”
His fingers were still moving. This time they indicated a word Jess didn’t immediately understand. He finally parsed it down to rival. Rival what? Gang? Red Ibrahim had locked this city down in his day, but his day was gone. Rivals would have come up quickly, ready to seize their piece of Red Ibrahim’s crumbling empire. Anit would have trouble, no doubt about that.
Jess grabbed the drunken old man sitting across from the Greek and brought him to his feet, handed him an Alexandrian gold geneih, and sent him stumbling toward the bar. Jess slid into the chair, put his hands flat on the table, and said, “High Garda’s always welcome anywhere in our own city. You’re just a visitor. Know your place.”
Many were watching this, but Jess hoped that they were watching the obvious: a drunken captain insulting a High Garda soldier, who was taking it personally.
“You start a fight, you’d best be able to finish it,” the captain said. His fingers signed talk outside.
“Oh, I can finish it,” Jess said. “Outside. Not room enough in here to raise a glass, much less swing a proper punch.”
“True,” the Greek said. “But if I go out, I promise you this: only I walk back in. You, someone carries off to a Medica, or the Necropolis.”
“We’ll see,” Jess said. He stood up and headed for the back door, a dim gray shape in the far corner. He wa
ited a few steps, then looked behind. The Greek was still sitting there. “You coming?”
“If you’re so eager to die.” The man slammed his tankard down and roared, “Someone buy me a drink while I thrash this Library slave!”
Cheers broke out, and he waddled and weaved his way toward the back door. Jess went ahead. He was alert for danger as he stepped outside, and good that he was; he caught a flash of movement and ducked, and that saved him as a club whistled over his head and smashed into the side of the damp stone wall. He shifted his stance and kicked out hard; his boot connected with a sagging midsection and sent his attacker reeling backward. Not enough to take the man down, but enough to give him an advantage. Jess felt pain as he sucked down a deep breath, but he had to ignore it. No time for it. He ran at the wall, used it for leverage to twist and land another kick, this one in the center of the man’s chest. It hit hard enough to crack bone, and the man went down gasping; his club spun out of his hand and went bumping unevenly down the hill. But Jess sagged against the wall behind. His lungs were burning, and he tasted blood. This was probably not what the Medica meant when he told me to rest. He tried to sound amusing to himself, but it wasn’t funny. He felt real terror that he’d just damaged himself. Again.
No time to worry about it. Jess drew his sidearm and pointed it at the man’s head. “Pax,” he said, and fought off the urge to cough. “I’m not your enemy. I’m a cousin.” Cousin, in the smuggling trade, meant that affiliation with one of the great organizations. The Brightwells. The Helsinki coalition. Red Ibrahim. The Li Chang tong in China. Or the Tartikoffs in Russia. Cousins didn’t fight one another, not unless territories were involved.
“You’re wearing a High Garda uniform, cousin!” The man he’d kicked down groaned. He was a big, overfed specimen with the rich copper coloring of a native Alexandrian, and he moved his hand toward his belt. Jess stepped on the hand, drawing a sharp outcry. He put a little pressure into it.
“Easy,” he said. This time, he had to pause to cough, and he tasted more blood. Swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Let’s not make this personal.”
“You broke my ribs!”
“You tried to break my skull, cousin, so we’re even.” Jess looked toward the back door as it opened with a creak, and the captain finally stepped out. He was certainly not nearly as drunk as he seemed, because he took in the scene with a glance, glared at the man on the ground, and shook his head.
“Damned idiot,” the captain said. “Can you please not break his fingers? He’s useful.”
Jess removed his foot and holstered the gun. It seemed a good faith effort was needed, and thank Heron it was rewarded; the big man got slowly to his feet and backed off. The captain leaned against the bar’s stone wall and crossed his arms. He kept watching Jess, and there was something in the assessment that made Jess nervous.
“You don’t look well,” he captain observed. “Not sick, are you?”
“Sick of dealing with idiots,” Jess shot back. “I’m looking for the Red Lady.”
The captain’s bushy eyebrows arched up, then down. “Ah. The girl.”
“Might want to be careful about saying that too loudly. She won’t take it well.”
“She’s got other troubles,” he said. “When her father dropped and she threw her support behind librarians . . . well, it didn’t settle well with some who felt she was betraying our own. Chaos is a time ripe for profit. Your Red Lady doesn’t seem to understand that.”
“There’s very little she doesn’t understand,” Jess said. “You’d do well to remember that. Give her a year and your support and there won’t be a thief or smuggler on earth who’d cross her—or you, if you stand with her.”
“Not even your own father? I know who you are, boy. And how ambitious that man is.”
The last thing Jess wanted to discuss was Callum Brightwell. The glancing mention brought up a deep, heavy wave of pain, and suddenly his hands felt sticky with his brother’s blood. Again. He swallowed and said, “My father respected Red Ibrahim’s territory, and he’ll respect the daughter’s just as much. Or he’ll have me to deal with.”
“Hmmm,” the captain said, and rubbed a thumb across his gray-stubbled chin. “You’re sure you want to find Anit, then?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then let’s strike a deal. We have three ships ready to sail in the harbor that hold precious cargo. We need them on the way before this damned war breaks out. Arrange that and I’ll tell you.”
Jess unsnapped the Codex from his belt and wrote a message. He waited for a moment, watching until the handwritten answer appeared, and then he turned it toward the captain. “Neutral trading ships will be released within the next hour,” he said. “Including yours. No one wants them in the middle of any conflict.”
“That easy, is it?”
“Yes.” Jess had been lucky on that, but he’d been betting that Santi would want to clear the docks; having this many ships at anchor was a real risk of accident, fire, riot, a thousand other things. Best to get the strangers out of the way before trouble arrived. “Where is she?”
“All right. She’s at the Temple of Anubis,” he said. “Lie and tell her I was loyal, while you’re about it. Our ships had better sail soon. And if we lose our cargo . . .”
“You’ll find me and kill me in horrible ways, yes, I’m sure.” Jess sighed. “If you lied to me, you can count on the same.”
“I haven’t. You’ll find her. Keep your word today and I’ll consider supporting the girl against her rivals.”
Jess nodded. “Done. And thank you. The Brightwells owe you a favor.”
“I’ll claim it someday,” the captain said. “Titan Berwick, at your service.”
“Captain Berwick.” Jess bowed slightly. “Try not to kill any High Garda while you’re about your business. If you do, you lose that favor.”
“Now you’re just being damned unreasonable.”
Jess didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”
He turned and made his way down the hill. He had to stop halfway around the building, lean against the warm surface, and struggle to breathe. It wasn’t enough. He was weak and shaking, and his chest burned from the inside out. Felt like it was packed with burning cotton. He fumbled in his pocket, found the mask, and breathed through it for a few moments. It eased the pain, and when he rounded the corner he was steadier and stronger, at least for now.
Glain was where he’d left her, though she looked militant and poised to do real violence. She relaxed when she saw him. “About time. Did you find anything except trouble?”
“Trouble can be useful,” Jess said. “Temple of Anubis. Let’s go.”
EPHEMERA
A letter from the Archivist in Exile, blocked from distribution on the Codex, archived for future review
To all within the reach of the Great Library of Alexandria: I summon you to our defense.
Never before has the Great Library faced such a treasonous rebellion from within its own ranks. I say to you now, as the rightful Archivist of this vast and ancient institution, that without your action and unquestioning loyalty, the Great Library will fall. The light that has burned for thousands of years will be extinguished because of the petty, selfish greed of a few disaffected rebels. The world will descend into chaos, barbarism, and petty fiefdoms that squabble over the torn flesh of an ancient wonder. It is within your power to prevent this.
I call on every Serapeum, every captain in the field, every citizen: defend us. Send aid to Alexandria. Crush the rebels and restore order before it is too late.
Once any nation-state lands its forces on Alexandria’s shores, or crosses its inviolable borders, the Great Library ceases to exist.
Be warned.
War is not coming.
War is here.
CHAPTER THREE
KHALILA
Scholar Murasaki stood n
ext to the formal throne of the Archivist and touched her fingers lightly to the old, old wood. “I thought it would be more . . . ornate,” she said. “And also perhaps more comfortable.”
Khalila suppressed an urge to smile. This place wasn’t meant for it. The Receiving Hall of the Archivist of the Great Library, a vast marble space with lotus columns marching into the distance. There was only one automaton here: a two-story-tall Horus standing behind the chair. It was an impressive, beautiful thing of black and gold, with bright turquoise eyes. Horus held a Scribe’s tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other . . . but the stylus had a knife-edge and was the size of a sword.
The throne sat on a raised golden platform, which rested on the backs of golden sphinxes. There were seven steps leading up to it, a number sacred to the ancient Egyptians. Four burning braziers, one at each corner: another sacred number. The place smelled of bracing, aromatic herbs.
Through some trick of engineering, the air in this chamber felt cool despite the damp heat outside.
And Khalila knew she was observing to avoid her own sense of disquiet. She felt small here, which was by design; this was a place meant to make a mere human feel utterly meaningless . . . save for the one who sat in that lofty chair.
Though Scholar Murasaki—an elderly Japanese woman—seemed more than capable of dwarfing the chair, and the room. Which was what made her perfect.
“I don’t feel I am worthy of this honor,” Murasaki said. “I did not expect it when I was summoned here.”
“You won by acclamation through Conclave,” Khalila said. “Exactly as every other Archivist has been chosen throughout the millennia. There’s no reason for you to hesitate.”
“And no great need for haste,” Murasaki said. “The Great Library has not survived by doing things in a rush. Even with the wolves at our door, we should take our own counsel and our own time.” She had a bearing that reflected the gravity of the moment, and the office. Murasaki had accepted the Archivist’s formal robes—cloth of gold and worked in silver with the eye of Horus—but rejected the elaborate Pharaonic headdress that came with them. Instead, in her gray upswept hair, she wore a simple diadem with the Great Library’s symbol. She looked . . . magnificent, in Khalila’s admittedly biased opinion. A true Scholar risen to the highest seat of the oldest institution in the world.