by Rachel Caine
Glain snorted. “I don’t need an oath to want to kill the old bastard. It’s my sworn duty. If you’re done with the theatrics, can we please get on with it?”
He looked up at Anubis once more. There was a stillness here, as if the god stared unblinking into his soul. Is this who you are? A killer? That was his brother’s voice in his head, and for once, it wasn’t mocking. It sounded concerned.
Jess thought of his heart on the scales of Ma’at, a feather balancing it as the gods watched and judged.
I do what I have to do, he thought.
It wasn’t a good answer, but it would have to do.
* * *
—
Anit led them to Red Ibrahim’s house—not the same residence where Jess had originally met her, but another, more modest establishment in a quieter, more provincial part of Alexandria. An unassuming structure, if one didn’t note the sturdy locks and the guards posted at every approach. On a normal day, they’d have blended with the common street traffic; today, they stood out like the uneasy sentries they were. In this quarter, as in so many others, families stayed indoors, awaiting whatever would happen next. Shops were closed, restaurants shuttered. None of the familiar scents of Alexandria, beyond the heavy salt of the sea; no baking bread, no spices, no tang of coffee. It felt like a terrified, breathless town today.
Jess struggled to keep up. Glain could tell, though Anit seemed oblivious; Glain deliberately held the pace back, and Jess felt both frustrated and grateful. Just a little farther, he told himself. Then you can rest your damned lungs.
The double doors of the house opened as they approached, and Anit quickened her stride. Her guards all seemed alert and relaxed, and her pleated dress, bloody crimson, floated in the fitful breeze.
One of the guards stationed near the building didn’t look right, and Jess’s gaze caught and snagged on him. A shorter man wearing a cap and old clothes, but he had the bearing of a soldier. The cap wasn’t his own; it seemed too small, and the haircut beneath it seemed military.
Soldier recognized soldier. High Garda out of uniform, today? That wasn’t good.
“Anit!” Jess shouted, and pointed at the man, who was positioned in a shallow, shaded corner. The soldier’s hand lunged into his sagging coat pocket, and he came out with a glass globe filled with green liquid. Greek fire. He was looking at Jess and assessing the danger, and Jess saw the calculation come to an end. The man’s focus shifted behind him, and he raised his arm, ready to throw.
There was no real defense against Greek fire. Only one way to stop it: keep him from throwing it at all.
Glain ran for the man, and as she did, she tossed Jess’s sidearm back to him without looking. He grabbed it out of the air, aimed, and fired. Three shots, slicing a line diagonally across the target. The first missed. The second hit the man’s elbow, an explosion of blood and bone. The third entered his stomach just left of his liver.
The elbow wound was the kill shot, because the man fumbled the glass globe, and it dropped at his feet and exploded, splashing Greek fire upward to cover his feet and legs. For one flash the man just stared in horror, and then the Greek fire exploded into flickering, ghostly flames that clung and grew like eerie green vines as they climbed his body in a rush.
Glain checked her run and veered away as the man flailed, burning. The would-be assassin screamed once and then stopped, though he continued to stumble forward, a human torch as the fire spread with unholy speed. Jess gagged on the bitter smell of the chemicals, then the sweetish reek of cooking flesh. The man’s mouth still gaped open, but his throat must have been cooked, too ruined to form sound.
Glain looked back at Jess, and he read the order on her face. He took careful aim this time. The shot was fatal, directly through the man’s brain, and he was dead before his burning body hit the cobbles. The reaction hit Jess in the next second, shakes and nausea and horror. He tamped it down quickly. It wouldn’t have been mercy to let him burn to death. He knew that. It didn’t absolve him.
The stench of the Greek fire and the burning body set off a round of coughing that tore at his already-raw throat and aching lungs. He tasted blood, again, and swallowed it down. He wanted badly to resort to that restorative mask, but not now. Not here. His breath came in shallow, liquid gasps.
Anit’s guards were surrounding her and pushing her into the house now, and Glain rejoined Jess and shoved him toward the house as well. She had her weapon out, too. “Good job,” she said. “Go on. It’s not safe out—”
He didn’t immediately hear the shot that hit her, but he saw bright blood spray the air from just below her ribs. A bullet had gone completely through Glain’s back and out her front, and for a moment he thought it had hit him, too, but he felt no pain. Just shock. Everything seemed to slow down.
“Glain?” He heard himself gasp it. She was still standing, swaying.
“I’m all right,” she said, and then she coughed, and a shocking explosion of blood came from her mouth. “Oh. I’m not?”
Then her eyes rolled back and she toppled forward into his arms. They were still ten feet from the door, and he found the strength—somehow, from somewhere—to drag her with him to safety, though a fuzzy darkness gathered in front of his eyes, and his body screamed for oxygen. He glimpsed the fresh, splintered mark on the doorway where the bullet that had felled her came to rest, but only as a flash, a point of information like the wide crimson swath Glain’s body left in its wake. His boot slipped in her blood. He felt rather than heard the impact of another bullet cracking the stone next to his head, and then he was inside, easing her to the floor, and one of Anit’s men was slamming the door shut and turning locks.
“Blessed Isis! Is she dead?” Anit asked. She crouched beside him. Jess checked the pulse at Glain’s neck and found a rhythm.
“Not yet.” His voice sounded oddly normal. As if the answer didn’t really matter to him. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it couldn’t. He felt numb at the moment, light and weightless.
“Jacket,” Anit commanded, and he stripped it off and handed it over. She pressed the cloth firmly against Glain’s wound in front and rolled her on her side. Blood was pumping from the hole in her back, too. “Fadil! Your shirt!”
The guard nearest to them stripped off his black shirt and handed it over without a word. Anit wadded it up and pushed it into the wound. She grabbed Jess’s hand and put it against the cloth. “Hold that tight. Fadil, get our doctor. Go.”
The shirtless guard ran.
“Doctor,” Jess repeated. Doctors were little better than hedge witches and herbalists, for the most part. “She needs a trained Medica!”
Anit said, “My physician was a Medica before we paid him handsomely to leave your service. Don’t worry about Glain.” She glanced at Jess. Forced a smile. “You’re lucky my house is made for events such as this. It’s a fortress, my father’s favorite bolt-hole, and fully staffed and stocked. Your friend picked the right spot to find herself wounded.”
Jess knew he should feel more than he did at the moment; Glain was a friend, a good friend, but all within was silence. He’d shut himself down, the better to do the work that needed doing. He still wasn’t healed from losing Brendan; he hadn’t even faced it, really. And now Glain. No. He couldn’t afford to feel it.
“Out of the way,” a thin, reedy voice said, and a person in a dark silk robe effortlessly slid into the space Jess had occupied as he got to his feet. “I am Burnham, the physician. And who is this?” The physician, Jess realized, was speaking to Glain and ignoring all the rest of them entirely. Jess’s first impression was the healer was male, and then the light shifted and he thought female, but it was clearly unimportant to the healer at all what others might interpret. Glain’s found a kindred spirit, he thought.
“This is Glain Wathen,” Jess said.
Shockingly, Glain started talking. When she’d come around, he wasn’t sure; he co
uldn’t see her face. Her voice came slow and almost dreamy. “Lieutenant of the High Garda. Captain Santi’s . . . I mean . . . I don’t know who my captain will be now. Jess?” Her voice suddenly sharpened on his name. “They won’t make Zara captain, will they?”
“No,” he said. “Not her.” It was troubling that Glain even said it; Zara had betrayed them, left them, sided with the Archivist. Had killed his brother. She wasn’t thinking straight. “Maybe Botha.”
“That would be good,” Glain said. Her voice drifted off, and she closed her eyes. “Botha.”
“Soldier. Soldier!” No response. Burnham gave a frustrated, wordless growl, then said, “Mistress Anit, I’ll need immediate assistance to move her to the surgery. Must close these wounds and repair the damage the bullet’s done. And she’ll need blood. A lot of it.”
Anit snapped her fingers, and a guard stepped forward and scooped Glain up in his arms. He grimaced a bit—she was no lightweight. Burnham nodded and walked quickly toward a hallway to the left. Anit stayed, watching Jess as he started to step back.
He lost his balance and fell back, gasping in surprise. The gasp turned into a cough that racked him almost limp. His vision grayed out. When it cleared again, he was sitting against the wall, and Anit’s cool hand was on his forehead. He was breathing in shallow gasps. Her expression was worried, but she made an effort to clear it when she realized he was taking that in. “Well,” she said. “I think you’re another candidate for my doctor. What happened to you?”
“Gas,” he said. He didn’t have the will to lie about it. “Traps in the Archivist’s office.”
“Is it bad?”
“Bad enough,” he said.
“Do you need anything?”
“Medicine.” He fumbled at his pockets and pulled out the mask the Medica had given him. He fitted it over his mouth and nose and breathed deep to drag the treatment to the most damaged parts of his lungs. It burned, but he was getting used to that, at least. After a few moments, calm set in, and it didn’t hurt as much. But he was no longer deluded enough to think it was healing him. Only time would do that, and rest.
Neither of which he had, or was likely to get.
Anit hadn’t left. She sat on her knees, hands on her lap, watching. The household was in controlled chaos around them, and he lowered his mask to say, “Just leave me. You have things to do.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet. My people know what they’re about. I have little to add. Put that back and breathe.”
He obeyed. He didn’t know why he trusted Anit, but he did. Likely that was stupid and reckless, but any kind of peace right now was better than none.
What was happening to Glain felt quite a great distance from him at the moment, and he wondered if he was in shock. No, he couldn’t be. He was a soldier. He’d seen friends hurt and dead before. This was no different. Wasn’t it?
“Jess?” Anit was saying his name. He realized he’d missed something. He wrenched his gaze away from the closed doorway and looked at her. “Do you think you can get up now?” she asked.
“Yes.” He put the mask away and stood up. “I should get after the sniper.”
“Don’t be stupid. Come with me. Please.”
He followed because he couldn’t think of a better thing to do, in the end. Anit led him through the center portal of the entry hall; none of her guards followed. Beyond the door opened up a large, spacious indoor garden with a fountain spilling drops into a large pool. It held Japanese koi. He paused to stare at the lazily swimming fish. The garden smelled of herbs, with a quiet, earthy scent of the garden soil beneath. Lounge chairs were positioned in comfortable spots. On one lay an abandoned original book. He walked over to turn the volume faceup and read the title.
The Prince. Machiavelli. A forbidden work, on the restricted list in the Codex; the lending of it from the Great Library through the Codex was granted to a select few, and only for a limited period of time. If this volume were legally obtained, it would have been mirrored inside a Blank, but this was a hand-scribed copy, bound in blue leather with a carefully stamped gilded title. Funny, he knew the book almost by heart. He’d taken it from his father’s storehouse when he was fourteen and kept it for almost a year, before he’d been found out. A rare volume. A dangerously illegal one.
He turned toward Anit, who had paused near the fountain. “Yours?” He held up the book.
“Yes,” she said. “A gift from my father.” He saw the flash of guilt and horror that came over her. “In better days.”
“When are his funerary rites?” He put the book back where it had been placed. He wondered if she’d ever open it again without reliving the instant she’d killed her own father to save the lives of two foolish Brightwell boys.
“When things are settled,” she said. “I’ve given him to the temple to prepare him for burial. He has a very nice mastaba ready to receive him. He invested quite a lot in it. I’ll do my best to make his afterlife all he might have wished it to be. Just as he did for my brothers.” Her voice trembled a little when she said it, and he saw the shine of tears welling up in her eyes. She took a deep breath and blinked them away. “You may keep the book if you like. I would be pleased for it to have a good home.”
Her control broke. She began to silently weep. Jess walked to her and put his arms around her. “The gods must hate us, Jess. And maybe they should.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say in comfort, and didn’t think she’d accept it if he did, so he simply held her and rested his chin on the top of her head and wished that he could find tears. Maybe it would be a release from the emptiness echoing inside. But he didn’t have it in him. Not yet.
“Anit,” he said, when the crying slowed and shaking subsided. She pulled back, taking deep breaths, and swiped at her eyes; it only served to smear the dark eyeliner she wore even further. She’d seemed so adult before, and now she was a child playing dress-up. She was now, what, fifteen? With the weight of a criminal empire on her shoulders. “I’ve lost a brother. You’ve lost your father. We can be each other’s families now. If you’ll accept that.”
She considered it—that flash of adult, again—and then gravely nodded. “I would be honored,” she said.
“I can’t overly recommend the Brightwell family in general, but I can promise you: I will be a good brother to you.” Like I wasn’t to Brendan. He let himself find a smile. It was small enough, but real. “And together, we might just build something both our fathers would envy.”
“Yes,” she said, and took another deep breath. “I believe we could. Thank you, Jess. I am sorry for . . .” She gestured at her tear-streaked face and laughed a little. “Wait here a bit. I’ll make myself less of a disaster. Are you hungry?”
Was he? When had he last eaten? He didn’t know. He shrugged. “I suppose.”
“I’ll send food,” she said. “I don’t have to remind you not to roam around this house, do I? My men don’t know you yet. Accidents happen, especially in that uniform.”
“We should be hunting that sniper,” he said. “And the Archivist.”
“You’re in no condition. Sit. Rest. Eat. Read. The fight will wait.”
She seemed supremely confident of her security within these walls. Jess hoped she wasn’t overestimating that, but she was probably right: if her people were susceptible to being bribed, they’d have turned long ago and she’d have died in the road. She walked on alone out of the gracious, quiet garden room. He regarded the Machiavelli book for a moment, then sat down and began to read. All states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been and are either republics or principalities. Principalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long established; or they are new. The new are either entirely new . . . or they are, as it were, annexed to the hereditary state of the prince who has acquired them.
There was an entire chapter in The Prince devoted t
o the structure and weaknesses of the Great Library; it had been suppressed for Machiavelli’s keen insight into the institution’s vulnerabilities. The last thing that the Archivists of the past had wanted was to allow a mere prince or king to understand how best to overthrow what had been built at such great price. Like all nations and powers, the Great Library was built on sacrifice . . . some had gone to it willingly, others thrown screaming into the pit of an Archivist’s ambition.
And what if this book hadn’t been suppressed? Jess asked himself. What if every single ruler of every single land had such information and insights? Maybe our leaders have been right to worry about dangerous ideas finding their way into the wrong heads.
But he’d seen the consequences of caution, too. He and Thomas had almost died for even the idea of creating a mechanical press, and they’d been the lucky ones. At least a dozen Scholars before them hadn’t survived the inspiration. They’d ended up buried in anonymity, their work lost, their lives destroyed.
And that was far more wrong than fearing what could happen.
It felt intrusive, reading this book that had been a loving father’s gift to his child. Jess put it down and walked to the fountain. The koi swam toward him and lifted their gilded heads out of the water, mouths opening and closing as they begged for food.
Out of nowhere, it hit him: the image of Brendan in his arms, pale as paper, his mouth opening and closing as he gasped for breath against the truth of his dying body.
Jess sank down with his back against the cool stone edge of the fountain’s pool, drew his knees up to his chest, and felt the ice inside break like a glacier in summer, shards and chunks heavy with their own sorrow. It hurt so badly he found himself trembling, and then he thought of Glain, of the bright red blood still smeared on his hands, and the smell of it overwhelmed him again. He plunged his hands into the cool water and scrubbed them clean while the fish scattered.
The door opened behind him, and he quickly stood up, ignoring his dripping hands, because it was Scholar Wolfe. Wolfe. Here. How . . .