Sword and Pen

by Rachel Caine

  He knew what he had to do.

  “Very well,” he said. “I accept.” But he didn’t settle the robe around his own shoulders. He walked around Khalila, turned, and put it around her shoulders.

  Her gasp went through him like a knife, and she turned, eyes as wide as saucers. “What are you doing?”

  “Retiring,” he said. “And naming you my successor. Scholar Khalila Seif, will you accept my nomination as the Archivist of the Great Library of Alexandria?”

  “I—I—” Khalila, never at a loss for the right words, had nothing to hand, and that made Wolfe smile just a little.

  “Don’t say I can’t,” he advised her. “Because I know you, Khalila. Your family history goes deep in the Great Library. Your level of scholarship is exceptional. Your ability to navigate the difficult politics is a skill that can’t be taught, only refined. And you will have time to learn.”

  Litterae Vargas said, “But she’s a child!” She sounded as shocked as Khalila.

  “She’s young,” Wolfe admitted. “But hardly a child. And if you want to fight an old man who wants to drag the Great Library into the past, appoint a young woman who looks to the future. That is my recommendation, and I believe with all my heart it is the right one.” He swallowed hard and looked at Santi. “Nic?”

  Santi slowly raised his head. The bleakness in his eyes was still there, and it broke Wolfe’s heart. “I knew you’d refuse. The Litterae is right. She’s just a child. But you’re also right; she’s the most intelligent, thoughtful, strong young woman I have ever met. Charm and skill and the right streak of ruthlessness. I have no objection.”

  “Thank you. The Obscurists are not represented but—”

  “They are,” Morgan said. She seemed to emerge out of shadows that hadn’t existed a moment before, and the power that took, the raw talent, struck all of them silent. “My apologies. Eskander was injured, but he’s better now. We had—we had an incident in the Tower. Assassins tried to—to kill many of us. But they failed.” She seemed well enough, but there was a bright shimmer to her eyes that Wolfe recognized, and it put him on edge. She was exhausted, and exhaustion in an Obscurist like her was deadly to those around her. He still felt the unnatural, unnerving pull of her at his life-force. She’d tried to unravel him like an old sweater before, and even now he felt the black need gnawing at her control. His Obscurist talents were blunted, but not entirely absent. He knew.

  “You’ve proposed Khalila for Archivist,” she said. “Eskander agrees.” She smiled, and Wolfe was struck with how much older she looked now than her years. Beautiful, but fading like a winter rose, and seeing that hurt. I failed her, he thought. But he knew he couldn’t have helped her, either. Sometimes there simply were no good choices to be made. Only costly ones.

  “Morgan—” Khalila looked breathless, but then she steadied herself. Wolfe saw the change, the way her body shifted to fill that draping robe, the way her chin lifted and her breathing slowed. “I am humbled and honored, Scholar Wolfe, but I am still little more than a student of the Great Library. I’m not worthy of this—”

  “Oh, quiet, girl, are you not a full gold-band Scholar? Were you not granted a lifetime appointment? You meet the requirements,” Vargas snapped. She tapped her stylus restlessly on the desk and studied Khalila with sharp, predatory eyes. “And you’re not ignorant of politics, which is the main requirement of this particular posting, I’ll allow you that. I agree with Wolfe; he hasn’t the inhuman patience necessary for the job. Neither do I, Christopher.” She sent him an unexpectedly cheerful smile, and he found himself nodding back. “Greta, our Artifex, is brilliant but quite raw in social skills; it seems to be a theme in that field. So that leaves Medica. Chen Shi?”

  The Medica Magnus was a younger man, in his early thirties most likely; Wolfe didn’t know him. But he smiled and said, “I have absolutely no desire to be Archivist, and I wouldn’t be good at it. Let me do my own job. I do it well.”

  “And Lingua?”

  “No,” the old man in that seat said. Him, Wolfe recognized. Achim Ben David, a man of his father’s age who’d studied in the Great Library his entire life. He’d never taken a single posting beyond the borders of Alexandria, but that didn’t hold him back from being the single most learned man in the room. “I would not take the chair unless I was the last Scholar in Alexandria. I’m terrible at politics. From all accounts, even Murasaki relied on the girl for advice. To each their strengths.”

  “I believe Archivist is the sort of job that disqualifies anyone who wants it,” Vargas observed. “But your point is well made. Lord Commander?”

  “I’ve surrendered that title,” Santi said.

  “And we’ve rejected your surrender. If the new Archivist wishes to take your resignation, then you can rejoice, but for now you are still the Lord Commander of the High Garda, and I need your answer. Do you want to serve as Archivist?”

  Wolfe didn’t miss the revulsion that flared in his lover’s eyes. “No.”

  “Do you support the elevation of Scholar Khalila Seif to the position of Archivist of the Great Library?”

  Santi’s vote, like it or not, would carry the room. Wolfe knew it. They all did. Nic took his time, choosing his words, and finally said, “I wish it wasn’t necessary. In time she’d have risen to it, I have no doubt of that, but we’re out of time. I’d rather not place this heavy weight on her, but . . . yes. I support her elevation.”

  “So say we all?” Vargas made it a question. One by one, the Curia nodded. “Then it’s done except for the ceremonies. Archivist Seif, you may have the shortest tenure in the Great Library’s history—”

  “Except for mine,” Wolfe murmured. Vargas’s eyes flickered, and her lips twitched as if curving toward a smile.

  “But for tonight, at least, you are the Archivist. Tomorrow, if the city still stands, we will see what can be made of that. I would say congratulations, but I don’t think they are much in order. We have the Russian army massed at the northeast wall. We may yet have the Spanish in our harbor once the storm clears, gods know. We have traitors in our midst, and the former Archivist planning to retake his power. A city to protect. Treaties to repair.” Vargas tapped the table again with her stylus, a sharp exclamation point to her remarks. “And now we await your orders.”

  This, Wolfe thought, was the moment. The moment that would make or break his student. And it was a rare privilege to be here to witness it.

  It also terrified him, because there was nothing he could do to help her.

  Khalila was silent for a few seconds, and then she walked to the head of the table where a seat had been left vacant. The whole Curia rose to their feet. Even Vargas.

  Wolfe leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

  Khalila sat and nodded to the Curia, and they took their chairs. After a brief hesitation, Santi sat down as well. His demeanor had changed. His back was straight, shoulders square. He hadn’t come to terms with his failure—that, Wolfe knew, would haunt him forever—but he was prepared to carry on.

  “My colleagues,” Khalila said. “‘Thank you’ is inadequate to the trust you’ve put in me. Let’s take a moment to remember our first duty: to preserve the knowledge that has been put in our keeping. That means the Great Archives. Is there any chance that they could be breached?”

  Morgan replied, “Speaking for the Obscurists . . . we’ve locked down the Translation functions within the Great Archives. Nothing comes in; nothing leaves. There’s no risk by any alchemical means.”

  “And if the old man has his own Obscurist?”

  “Even then, we’ve blocked the access to the base script. Only Eskander himself can unlock it—or me. But no one else can open Translation within the Great Archives. Even a rebel Obscurist can’t do that.” She hesitated a moment. “I have a suggestion, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please.” Khalila nodded.

&nb
sp; “I think we all have to agree that the Great Archives is our most fragile resource. Having those manuscripts as the source of all our knowledge makes us dangerously exposed. It always has, but especially now.”

  “I agree,” Khalila said. “And I intend to authorize the Artifex Magnus to incorporate Thomas’s marvelous print machine into the Great Library’s plans, but that will take time. Do you have a better solution?”

  “For the moment, yes. How many Blanks do we have in storage?”

  “Litterae Vargas?”

  “Several hundred thousand,” Vargas said. “Why?”

  “How many books can each of them hold?”

  “Depends upon the size of the book, and the size of the writing of the Scribe. Ten? Twenty?”

  Morgan turned back to Khalila. “Then I propose you allow us to take those Blanks, task all the Scribe automata to immediately copy every book—or as much of the Great Archives as possible—and as each book is filled, set an Obscurist to disable the script that allows the contents to erase.”

  “Rendering the Blanks as originals?” Khalila asked. She understood immediately. And the whole Curia looked various shades of uncomfortable. “How long would it take?”

  “If we devote all the Scribe automata to the job? A day. Maybe more. But at the end of the day we have copies that the Archivist doesn’t know even exist. And they will be in a completely separate location.”

  “Which can then be sold, stolen, destroyed—” Achim Ben David seemed repulsed by the idea. “We have always maintained originals. Never copies!”

  “Not true,” Khalila said calmly. “In the earliest days of the Great Library, copies were made. Sometimes as many as a dozen. The Serapeum, the daughter libraries—those held copies, if you remember. It’s not without precedent.”

  “It hasn’t been done since the Great Archives was first copied into Blanks for lending!”

  “And it’s time to reconsider our approach.” Khalila nodded to Morgan. “Proceed, Morgan.”

  “Yes, Archivist. We’ll start immediately.” And with that, she was simply . . . gone.

  Wolfe suspected she’d already started without any such permission, from the curve of her smile. Clever girls, both of them. And Morgan, at least, had never been too concerned with the Great Library’s rules.

  “Before I issue any further orders, I’d like a full report of the city’s defenses,” the Archivist said. “Lord Commander? If you please. I depend on your wisdom.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Wolfe said, and headed for the door.

  Her voice stopped him. “Scholar Wolfe.”

  He turned. That was not the voice of his student. It was the voice of his queen. He bowed slightly. “Archivist.”

  “Do you know where the former Archivist is hiding?”

  “No,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

  Khalila took out her Codex. “There may be something just as important. The Artifex Magnus reported in shortly before Archivist Murasaki was killed that Thomas couldn’t be located; Artifex Jones was expecting him back at the Lighthouse some time ago. I know he sometimes loses himself in his work and ignores his Codex, but—I wonder if Thomas is in trouble. Please look into it. We can’t afford to lose him.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Archivist. I’ll find him.”

  Thomas might have simply plunged himself so deeply into his work that he forgot the world; it wouldn’t be unusual for him. But at the same time, Thomas knew the dire needs of Alexandria. Schreiber wouldn’t just ignore all summons. Not for this long.

  He was worried for the boy.

  EPHEMERA

  Text of a letter from Jess Brightwell to his father, Callum Brightwell, never sent

  Da,

  I suppose they’ve told you of Brendan’s death. I have nothing to add except that he died with honor, not that I think you value that. I suppose, too, that you blame me; without me, he’d never have thrown his loyalty to my side, and gotten himself killed for it.

  I loved him. Without measure. And I accept that blame.

  I have to tell you that when they shot him, his killer probably believed he was me. I don’t know if that makes things better or worse, but it’s the truth.

  Here, at the end of things, I wanted to tell you nothing but truth. I don’t know if I’ll ever send this letter, but if I do, I want it to be honest. You’ve taught me to survive, and without meaning to, to love books; I can give you that much. But what you also taught me was that every friend and every ally is temporary, every trust is there to be broken to an advantage. I hate that I see the world through eyes you crafted. Maybe no matter how much I try to avoid it I’m still a Brightwell.

  You once ordered me to the Great Library to be your spy. It’s the kindest thing you ever did for me. I’ve found my feet, my soul, my voice, my strength, my friends. And I’m grateful.

  I’m dying, Da. They haven’t come out and said it yet, but the Medica’s words are too careful. I’m to “conserve my strength” and other such nonsense, but I’m getting worse, not better. Anyway, no time for rest now. Better I die for something, even if it’s nothing you’d believe in. Loyalty’s just a word to you. It’s real for me.

  I’d like to say I love you, but I promised truth. I’ve feared you, admired you, hated you, maybe even worshipped you. But I know what love feels like now, and we never had that.

  Tell Ma that if I love anyone, it’s her. She’s always been quiet and distant, but I think that’s because she hates you and I’m collateral damage. I wish I’d known her without you. I think we’d understand each other better.

  Good-bye, Da.

  Go to hell.

  I hope I’m not there waiting.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THOMAS

  The Tomb of Heron had always been a myth. His entire life, he’d read about it in books, a fabulous hidden storehouse full of unseen and unknown wonders, but no one had ever found it. The official records said that Heron had died and been cremated, by his own wishes. That there was no such thing as Heron’s Tomb.

  But here it was.

  “How did you find this?” Thomas asked. He was manacled at the wrists and ankles and had no less than three High Garda Elite guns at his back. Their weapons would be set on a nonlethal choice, he imagined; they’d not want to spoil the Archivist’s plans. That gave him a decided advantage.

  They were in a faded ancient temple built to Thoth, god of many things, including technology and magic. It seemed in poor repair, but the fires were still lit by the altar, and the statue of Thoth—just a stone statue, not an automaton—had been kept painted and patched where time had worn at its surface. It stood near the western wall of the city, surrounded by brickworks and dye shops that had grown around it and dwarfed its modest presence. There was a temple to the Greek god Hephaestus not far away; Thomas had visited it, since inside was one of the earliest automata that still survived. The bronze god inside hammered ceaselessly in his forge. The iron hammer had been replaced every year, as had the anvil, but the automaton still worked on and on. A marvel beyond price.

  That should have covered Heron’s Tomb. Not this dusty, rigid statue.

  “I collected the clues,” the old man said. “It’s never been opened. Never looted by hungry smugglers. There are seven locks, and the theory is that no one has ever survived past the third. But I’m betting that you, Schreiber, you will be the first.”

  “I’d like to disappoint you.”

  “I’m sure you’ll contain your disappointment if it means surviving.”

  Unfortunately, the old man was right. Thomas had no choices, or at least, no good ones. He could refuse to try, but he remembered the circling eyes on Wolfe, Jess, Glain. Certainly the Archivist would have assassins who could go anywhere, kill anyone they chose—if they were prepared to die for it. He couldn’t risk the lives of his friends.

  Ris
king his own life wasn’t something he relished, either, but since raising Poseidon’s avatar from the hidden cavern beneath the harbor, he’d felt . . . different. Steadier. More his old self, as if the god’s shadow had healed something inside of him that prison had broken. He wasn’t the same. But where he’d been welded together again he felt . . . stronger.

  “So where is the first key?” Thomas asked.

  The old Archivist—pale, seamed, sharp-faced, seemingly so frail—smiled and placed his hand on the plinth where the god stood, and a piece of decorative stonework slid aside. “It will only open for someone with a Scholar’s band,” he said. “Simple enough.”

  Inside it was a lock. “And is there a key?” Thomas asked.

  “Of course there is.” The old Archivist made no move to hand anything over.

  “Long lost?”

  “Precisely so. But every thief and smuggler passed this part of the test. I assume you will, too.”

  That was a good hint, even if the old man didn’t intend for it to be; Thomas held up his cuffed hands. “I can’t work this way,” he said in a reasonable tone.

  “Certainly not.” The Archivist nodded at the Elite captain who stood nearby, scowling. “Unlock him.”

  “Archivist—”

  “Do as I say. Scholar Schreiber won’t betray me now. He knows the price. And he wants to see inside this tomb as much as I do, don’t you, boy?”

  It was true, shameful as that was; Thomas just held out his wrists for the unlocking. His ankles came next.

  “Careful,” the captain said. “I’ll shoot you down if you make any move I don’t like. Understand?”

  “Oh yes,” Thomas said. “You’d better hope you don’t miss.” He made it cheerful, which he thought was more disturbing. It seemed to work from the change in the older man’s expression, and the step he took back. “I’ll need two pieces of wire, please.”

  Someone handed him what he asked for, and he inspected them, then twisted them into the angles that he wanted. Jess was extraordinary at this, and Thomas had learned by watching and trying it himself when no one was looking; it seemed a useful and intriguing skill to have. He wished his friend was here. It would be comforting to have Jess’s humor and practicality at his side.