by Rachel Caine
Dario shook his head. He bent forward and ran his hands distractedly through his wavy black hair. “I just realized that I stink like a pig farmer,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just . . . needed to see you.”
“I’m glad. I’ll find you food. For now, lie down. Rest.”
“Lie down with me?” he asked, and then smiled at her raised eyebrows. “You know what I mean. A little comfort, that’s all.”
“It’s never that simple with you, Dario.”
“Are you suggesting that I am not a gentleman?”
“Never. But you certainly pretend not to be one to everyone else.”
He shrugged. “They see what they expect to see,” he said. Their hands fell close together and automatically entwined, fingers yearning for each other. “Khalila—” He was trembling on the edge of that memory, that darkness that he was trying to escape. She sat down beside him. “I did things today, saw things—I don’t know. Is it worth it? What we’re doing?”
“It has to be,” she said. “If the Great Library comes to pieces, what’s left? Warring kingdoms fighting over the bones, dragging apart the Archives, hoarding and hiding knowledge? Do you want to live in that world?”
“No,” he said, and took a deep breath. “But I’m afraid we may inherit it, anyway.”
* * *
—
She left him asleep on the couch and went to find Archivist Murasaki. The older woman was standing in the conference room that had so lately housed the fleet’s diplomats; it seemed large, silent, and lonely now. The vast windows offered a view of the bay and the storm that swept black clouds ever closer from the north. The winds were already blowing. The storm wasn’t far off now, and the ships out there would have to make a quick decision: seek shelter, or attempt to ride out the weather. “They’re too close together,” Murasaki said as Khalila came to join her. “When the storm hits, they’ll be their own worst enemies.”
“You’re thinking of allowing them harbor.”
“No. I’m thinking of asking the pasha of Tripoli to allow them emergency shelter. I don’t want unnecessary deaths on our conscience.”
“They’re our enemies,” Khalila said.
“Until recently, with the exception of France in exile, they were signatories to our treaties. Partners in our great work. If this is handled properly—and it must be—then they will be our allies again. We can’t war with the world if we intend to also teach them, Khalila.”
That, Khalila thought, was a difficult thing to achieve: saving one’s enemies from their own folly. But she nodded. “Shall I send a message to the pasha?”
“I’ll do it,” Murasaki said, and sent her a sudden, warm smile that lit her serious face in wondrous ways. “I’m not yet settled in my throne to the extent I can’t wield a pen for myself.” The smile lingered, but it dimmed. “I’ll also send messages to the respective governments, urging them to order their captains to safety.”
“I can help with that, Archivist.”
“I have other work for you,” Murasaki said. “I am concerned for the Great Archives. It’s the most vulnerable jewel of this city, and I am not satisfied that we have secured it completely. I would prefer some plan to protect that information more thoroughly. Message the Curia and present the problem. I want plans and suggestions in the next hour.”
“Yes, Archivist.” Khalila was already taking out her Codex and marking down the names of the Curia. As she wrote, she said, “Perhaps you should consider the invention that Thomas and Jess created? Not for this crisis, but for the future. Surely having additional printed copies of the work would help preserve it in case of . . . disaster.”
“Heretic,” Murasaki said, but gently, and with a stroke of humor. “Well. The world is changing; that much is definitely true. And we can either change with it or be left behind. I will evaluate this machine of theirs and see how the Great Library may use it to our advantage.”
“You won’t try to suppress it?”
“Here is where I part ways with prior Archivists. Progress will come. It is our job to be sure we remain of use even as it overtakes us. No. Suppression is not our policy, not while I am Archivist.”
That woke a wild streak of hope inside Khalila, a feeling that the world was, at last, cracking open. Changing into something new.
If they could survive to see it.
She finished her rapid message to the Curia, and by the time replies began to appear, the Archivist said, “The pasha indeed offers shelter to the assembled navies. I am sending this information to Ambassador Santiago. I hope they are not stupid enough to remain.”
“Maybe they won’t be,” Khalila said. “But also, maybe they’ll try for our harbor.”
“Against Poseidon? And the anchor chain? That would be folly.”
“Even Poseidon can’t withstand sustained Greek fire bombardment,” Khalila said. “And if they decide to go that direction . . .”
“Then we will fight them,” the Archivist said calmly. “The Obscurists have other automata that we haven’t shown them yet. Between that and the storm, I do not think they’ll like their chances.”
But she was wrong.
As she and Khalila began organizing the room for the arrival of the Curia, the Lighthouse siren sounded, a dire wail that vibrated up Khalila’s spine like a poisonous snake. They both rose from where they sat, and the Archivist looked at Khalila for a long, frozen second before they both turned to look out to sea.
The fleet was coming.
They weren’t running after all.
The first Greek fire hit the Poseidon automaton glancingly on one shoulder; the metal god simply brushed the fire off, and though the skin beneath was a little darker, it seemed undamaged.
But the next volley hit it squarely in the center of its body, multiple ballistas targeting at once, and the fire clung and glowed hideously in the growing dusk. It was beautiful in a way, the explosions, the green flames outlining the sea god, but it was also deeply terrifying to watch their most visible, most ancient defense under attack.
But the automaton wasn’t without its open offensive capabilities. Poseidon lifted its trident and threw it directly at the ships; the massive weapon smashed through three of them like toys, speared three more on its points.
The sheer devastation was horrifying, and Khalila covered her mouth to hold in her gasp. She couldn’t see the blood, the torn bodies, the dead and drowning, but she knew it would be appalling. Violence at a distance was still horrific, and should be felt just as deeply.
The bombardment continued. Intensified, if anything. Hundreds of Greek fire bombs, all aimed at the giant figure of Poseidon. The blaze completely enveloped the automaton, as if it had combusted; where its legs met the waterline, steam erupted and billowed to create an eerie fog.
Not every bomb landed on target. Some sailed past to the docks. Some landed farther in on Alexandrian streets and buildings. Lives were being lost here, too.
The shutters began to close as a security precaution, but Murasaki made a notation in her Codex, and these shutters stopped their descent. “Archivist—,” Khalila began, but the older woman shook her head.
“I need to watch,” she said. “You may go if you wish.”
It was a risk, staying in front of this open window; a lucky ballista shot could sail inside, turn this entire room into a nightmare of flame. But if Murasaki stayed, Khalila would as well. She had to.
She heard running footsteps behind, and then they slowed. She whipped around, pulling the knife she kept at her waist for emergencies like this, and felt an immense rush of relief to see it was Dario. Just Dario, breathless and pale.
High Garda followed just a step behind. “What are you doing?” she snapped, not at Dario but at the soldiers. “Your job is to stop anyone who approaches the Archivist who isn’t on the approved list!”
“With respect, Scho
lar . . . he is on that list,” said one of them. “We were only escorting him. He just pulled ahead.”
“I added him,” Murasaki said. “Khalila, if you trust him, so must I.”
That was a shock. And a compliment. And a worry, too.
“My thanks, Archivist,” Dario said, and tried for a bow. He wasn’t steady enough for it to have as much grace as usual. “You should—”
“Shut the windows? Yes, young man, I’m aware what I should do,” Murasaki said, and there was unmistakable flatness to her voice that warned him off the subject. She leaned forward a bit, hands flat on the surface of the marble railing. “It’s moving.”
She was talking about Poseidon. Dario joined Khalila, and their hands twined together, but her attention was fully on the automaton.
It was walking. Lifting one burning leg out of the water and stepping over the harbor chain. Then the other. The burning giant strode forward, pushing tremendous waves ahead with every step.
It sank down to its thighs as the water deepened. Then to its waist. The Greek fire continued to burn underwater for long moments before it guttered out, but from the waist up, Poseidon was a flaming green torch. Terrifying and relentless, it advanced on the fleet. They were packed too close in waters shallow enough for it to stand above the surface, and as the ships began to break and try to move away, it grasped hold of one and simply crushed it. Khalila cried out. Murasaki’s hands tightened on the railing. Dario said nothing, but Khalila felt his grip on her fingers grow crushingly hard. She didn’t protest. Pain was something that kept her from weeping as she watched the metal god remorselessly slaughter every single ship it could reach. Hundreds dead with every single swing of its hand. Greek fire dripped from its burning arms and set other ships alight, too. It was a nightmare like nothing she could have imagined.
“No,” Dario said. “Stop it. You have to stop it!”
“I can’t,” Murasaki said flatly. “Heron put these commands in place. I can’t stop it from defending the city.”
It had torn its way through the British and Welsh ships. It was approaching ships flying the Spanish flag now, and they were fleeing but not quickly enough. Not nearly quickly enough.
“The Obscurist Magnus, then!” Dario demanded. “You can’t let this happen!”
“Eskander’s been injured in an attack at the Iron Tower. And as difficult as this is, should we stop it? Your kinsmen came here intending to take control of our city.”
“They’re trying to run!”
They were. It made Khalila sick to see it. The bombardment had ceased; the fleet wheeled like a flock of birds. The British and Welsh were virtually destroyed. The French had already broken off and sailed toward Tripoli. The Japanese were turning toward home.
The Spanish, the central bulk of the force, were trying to maneuver toward escape, but the seas were turbulent, and the god’s pursuit relentless. Waves broke over the chest of Poseidon, but it kept up its chase. Snatched up two more ships and crushed them. Dario let out a low cry. “Khalila, Morgan! Get Morgan!”
She fumbled for her Codex. Surely it was enough now. Surely this had to end. Morgan might not be able to help, but at least she could try . . .
And then, suddenly, Poseidon stopped moving. The automaton stood burning, just chest and head above the water, with one hand outstretched toward a fleeing Spanish ship . . . and it no longer moved. Waves slashed at it, washing away the Greek fire in guttering ribbons.
What was left was just a melted, unformed thing, with exposed, frozen clockworks and tubes. In time, it would rust earth brown, become a home for coral and fish. Become an island that no one remembered was once a god.
Poseidon would never rise again.
But it had done what it had been designed to do by Heron so long ago: it had destroyed an invading fleet. Protected the Great Library. At what cost? Khalila realized she was still shaking only as Dario put an arm around her shoulder. She tried to seem braver. Surely the Archivist would want that.
“Today is a day of mourning, not victory,” Murasaki said quietly. “I think I begin to understand the weight that these robes carry.”
It took Khalila a moment to realize that the Archivist was crying, despite her calm and steady voice.
“Your cousin’s ship—?” Khalila turned to Dario. He shook his head.
“I couldn’t see,” he said. “God help this city if he’s gone. King Ramón Alfonse will never agree to peace if Alvaro is dead.”
They watched the Spanish fleet gather together and turn in a large, solid wheel.
Headed back for the harbor.
“No,” Dario whispered, “no, no, you fools, don’t—”
The Lighthouse’s droning alarm suddenly cut off, leaving an eerie and echoing silence, and Thomas’s Ray of Apollo kindled into fierce, solid life as thick as one of those Spanish ships. It burned a line through the water only meters away from the leading ship’s bow. Another warning. A very pointed one. It transformed water to superheated steam where it sliced, and after just a few seconds it went out.
Murasaki said, “Scholar Seif, send a message to the Spanish ambassador. Tell him to make for Tripoli with all speed, or prepare to meet his god.”
As Khalila wrote the words, black clouds swallowed the last of the day’s light, and a bolt of lightning shattered out of the heavens and struck the Iron Tower. Shimmers of power radiated down it and bled away into harmless sparks. It was as if Allah himself had decided to emphasize the message. When she finished writing, she realized that she’d used the Arabic alphabet for the city’s name. Instinct and habit. But Santiago no doubt knew Arabic as well as Greek, English, and half a dozen other tongues. All the ambassadors did.
Khalila stared at her Codex tensely until the answer appeared in tight, angry words. “Message acknowledged. They’re turning,” she said, and looked up to be sure. Yes. The Spanish ships continued their turn, avoiding the Alexandrian course and locking in for the shelter of the docks at Tripoli, and the assurance that the pasha of Libya would protect them from reprisals. They’d be safe there, if given a chilly reception by the pasha, the sooner to send them back on their way to their king. “The ambassador writes that the Great Library stands or falls alone now. They will do nothing to help or hinder our fate.”
“He is angry,” Dario said. “Alvaro’s usually much more pleasant. But his better sense will come back as soon as he cools off. I’ll send my cousin Ramón a message. Spain won’t destroy our long relationship so easily as that.” He sounded confident. Khalila hoped he was right. But for now, tonight, at least it was one less worry.
The storm’s wind arrived in a sudden gust that jerked at her hijab, and she quickly put a hand to it to be sure it held firm. The first spits of rain hit the marble, and there was an edge to that wind, a chill that seemed foreign to her. A wind that had raced halfway around the world, gathering cold and violence as it went to deliver its vengeance here.
“Close the shutters,” Murasaki said, and Khalila went to the manual hand crank and turned it to finish the job. A boom of thunder shook through the walls, the floor, her flesh and bones. The storm growled, and a low wail of wind rattled the closed window. “I need to speak with the Curia, then with the Lord Commander. We must understand what’s coming this evening, and I need an update on the search for the rebel Archivist.”
She was already in motion, walking toward the two guards standing at the door, and Khalila saw them exchange looks. Khalila moved to follow the Archivist, and Dario came with her, saying something she didn’t catch because she was distracted by another violent boom of thunder.
She didn’t see it happen, to her horror and shame. She only saw Murasaki suddenly stop, sway, and then turn toward them.
Then she saw the blood on the Archivist’s robe. Something’s wrong. She felt cold, numb, utterly incapable of understanding this because why would the Archivist be bleeding, what—<
br />
The Archivist looked at Khalila, opened her mouth, and said, “You must—”
She was shot again, in the back, and folded at the knees. She landed on the floor, tangled in her bloody robes, and Khalila screamed. Everything went suddenly, icily clear. The thin smoke curling from the barrels of High Garda guns. Dario, lunging forward.
Assassins.
She drew her knife and didn’t hesitate, not for an instant. She had practiced this motion so many times as a child, as a young woman, drilling and drilling for hours, and the second the knife left her fingers it arrowed straight for the right eye of the man on the left, the one who was smiling.
Because he was smiling.
It buried to the hilt, and he was screaming. His dying flail knocked his companion’s arm, and the shot meant for Dario went wild and gouged a white wound in the marble column behind him.
Which meant that Dario’s dagger punctured him just under the armor, angling up. It drove the soldier backward, gagging on the pain, but whatever he might have done to fight back no longer mattered, as Dario withdrew the blade and used it again. It was a pretty thing, patterned with emeralds.
It slit a throat with ease.
It took a few more seconds for the soldiers to die, but it was just stubborn bodies refusing the inevitable; Dario kicked their guns away as Khalila knelt beside the Archivist and searched for a pulse. She felt something, but it was weak. “Dario, go for help! Now!”
He didn’t want to leave her, but he obeyed and ran past the two dying men. Were more High Garda compromised? How had this happened? Did the old Archivist command even now, even here? Khalila was cold and shaking and hot all at the same time, a sickening sensation made worse by her own rapidly beating heart. She pressed down on Murasaki’s wounds as best she could, but she could see that it was a desperate situation. Blood flowered and flooded between her fingers, shallower with every pulsebeat. “Archivist? Archivist!”