by Rachel Caine
"How long is the fuse?"
"About ten seconds," he said. "Long enough to get to safety."
She took a deep breath and nodded. Steady. Steady and calm. But the ship was pitching wildly, and she put the box under one arm and held tight to a handhold as the ship groaned like a living thing, rolled sharply to the left. Kept rolling, as if it intended to overturn . . . and then, suddenly, righted itself.
"They should be steering into the storm, not putting their starboard side to it," Dario said. He looked wretched again, but grimly determined. Khalila watched as a chair skidded from one side of Santi's cabin to the next. She was grateful that the Greek fire was cushioned, but Allah preserve them all if Thomas dropped that box.
"How do you know?" Glain asked. "You're a terrible sailor."
"I do read," Dario shot back. "Try it sometime."
"Stop bickering," Santi said. "Focus. We can't wait. This ship is making the turn toward the strait. We're out of time. Khalila splits off once we reach the deck, makes her way to the port side of the bridge, where she places the charge and comes to us as soon as possible. As soon as we hear that explosion, we breach the starboard door, and we do what we must to steer this ship to Cadiz. Use the least violence we have to, but don't hesitate. Understood?"
"Yes," they all said, in unison.
"Then, let's go."
Khalila looked at Dario for an instant that seemed like an eternity, then quickly placed a kiss on his cheek.
That was the only good-bye she would allow herself.
CHAPTER SIX
What seemed simple enough became vastly more complex the moment the door opened to the deck of the ship. When she'd last been up here, Khalila had been admiring the oncoming storm's distant beauty. In the heart of it, there was only brutality. The wind hit like hammer blows, and the rain drove needles into her exposed skin; the deck pitched and yawed, wallowing in the deep waves. Water surged over the metal decks and threatened to drag her over, until Thomas clamped a hand on her and held her tight against the pull. She gasped in gratitude, though she was worried that he'd not be able to anchor her and keep a good grip on his very dangerous box . . . and then she realized, as she blinked away stinging salt spray, that Glain had a hand on his other arm. They'd all linked, instinctively.
The crew had strung ropes around the deck. Anchors to cling to, when the sea broke across the deck. She broke Thomas's grip and lunged for one of those. The others could brace one another, but she was going to have to make her own way now.
If anyone called after her, she couldn't hear in the roar of the storm. Lightning broke the sky on the port side, a spear forking from heaven to drive into the sea, and the thunder slammed into her like a physical blow. She'd gone a few feet from the others, and already she'd lost sight of them. Good cover, she told herself. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry, and she was terrified. Her dress, soaking and heavy now, threatened to trip her. She moved down the rope as quickly as she could, heading for the port side of the ship. When she touched that railing, she ducked under the rope and followed the railing toward the stern of the ship. The bridge was up a set of stairs.
Another, more distant shock of lightning illuminated the steps before she passed by them, and she lunged for a handhold and had begun to climb up when the door at the top swung open and a sailor muffled in a thick rainproof coat stepped out.
They stared at each other in surprise.
Khalila moved first. She backed down to the pitching deck and shoved the box inside the sodden fleece of the robe she wore.
Then she drew her sword, and as the sailor shut and secured the waterproof door at the top, she waited with the blade concealed behind her.
"What are you doing here?" he shouted at her over the roar, and came down toward her.
Forgive me, she thought, in the instant before she lunged.
Her balance was off, and the ship plunged into a trough in that second, throwing the sailor forward and her blade lower than she intended. It slid into his stomach, not his heart, and she felt a blind second of panic as he screamed--but no one could hear it. She tugged the sword free and lunged again, and this time, her aim was true. She felt the sword scrape lightly against a rib, then slip deep toward his heart.
He took one step toward her and collapsed.
Her heart hammered so loudly it was almost as deafening as the storm, and she gasped for breath against the shock of what she'd done. It had been necessary, she knew that, but even so . . . Khalila shoved the bloody sword back into her belt with cold, trembling hands and hurried up the steps. She opened the box, set the magnetic charge, and even as she adjusted it to the right spot on the door, just as Thomas had shown her, she wondered how anyone could possibly hear even this explosion in all the howl of the storm.
It didn't matter. She had to proceed, regardless. She pulled the tab, igniting the fuse that Thomas had put inside the device, and turned to go down the steps.
Someone crouched there, blocking her way. Another sailor, looking at the man she'd killed. He hadn't noticed her yet. She slipped down toward him, and as he rose, she braced herself on the slick railings and kicked out with both feet, sending him crashing into the port-side railing. Ten seconds. She needed to be clear of the stairs, but he was still blocking her path.
He turned like a cat to grab her as she tried to dart past him onto the deck.
Time to use the dagger, which she tried to do, but this man was warier and faster, and he caught her wrist in a crushing grip and twisted. She lost the blade. No space to draw the sword, but there was more to a weapon than just the edge; she grabbed a handful of the thick fleece gown and used it to cushion her hand against the blade as she shoved it upward, and the rough pommel of the sword collided sharply with his chin. His head snapped back, more in surprise than in real harm, and she stepped forward to put her right foot behind his left, and twisted into his grip instead of away.
He went down, mouth an open O of surprise, and hit the deck hard. He rolled for the knife, but she found it first and dropped on her knees to bury it in his throat.
She rolled away, praying she had time and Thomas had been precise in his mixtures. She was only a few feet away when she felt the shudder of the explosion through the metal, and a brilliant bright red jet of fire burst out from the door to cook the falling rain into a puff of steam.
Khalila scrambled up, staggered as the ship lurched again, and almost fell into the guide rope. She slipped and clung for her life. The winds were so strong that they pummeled like lead fists, and she couldn't pull in breath against the full force of the blast. Bright sparks swam in her vision, and she prayed for another burst of lightning; there was nothing to see now but darkness and flying rain.
And then she saw the glow from the bridge above. Couldn't make out anything within it, only the indistinct light. She was halfway to the starboard side. Halfway to the other set of stairs.
She fought her way against the wind until she fell across another obstacle in her way. A dead man. A sailor, by Allah's mercy, not one of her friends. She climbed over him and realized that she'd found the stairs. She pulled her sword free and scrambled up.
The opening at the top was a melted mess of metal and still-bubbling Greek fire, though someone--likely Thomas--had thrown down a counteragent to prevent the stuff from eating through the hull of the ship and sinking them all. She jumped over the flickering green flames and into the bridge . . . into the middle of a standoff.
Anit looked like a delicate toy in Thomas's hands, and Thomas . . . well, he looked dangerous, and so did the blade he held to the girl's throat. There were two of the bridge crew down, wounded or dead; the remaining, save the helmsman, who'd stayed at his post, were backed up to the sealed port exit. Through luck or design, none of them had High Garda guns, which could have ended this very badly.
Khalila stopped where she was, sword at the ready and breathing hard. Santi's focus didn't move from the captain, though Dario's did, in a flicker, to sweep her for injur
ies. He must have been satisfied she was all right, since he didn't move toward her.
She felt weak now, and the cold had set deep. Rain coursed down her face from her soaked hijab.
But she held firm as Captain Santi said, "Surrender or we kill the girl, and probably all of you. You know we can do it."
One of them laughed.
There was a loud puff of air, and a red-hot rivet appeared in the steel beside the man's head. Anit glanced over. Glain, it seemed, had found the connection for the steam hose below, and she seemed very content to try her aim again on the next one to doubt their sincerity.
No one laughed again.
The ship's captain, a burly, scarred man who had survived far worse than this, finally said, "All right. Maybe you could kill us. But you need us if you want to sail this ship and survive the next five minutes, and you know that."
"And just where do you plan to sail it after you let Red Ibrahim's daughter be killed under your command?" Santi asked. He seemed cool and calm and utterly in charge. "Alexandria? Her father doesn't sound the type to let you explain what happened. From what I've heard, he's the type happy to take your tongue out first."
"With all of you dead, he'll only hear one side: ours. She's all you've got, you fool, and the numbers are on our side. Your only choice is to give up."
"It's not," Santi said. Khalila knew that tone, light and careless. This was Santi at his most dangerous. He lifted a half-full bottle of green liquid--the leftover Greek fire. He pulled the stopper. "If I pour, it eats straight down, through every layer of the ship, until it bores through the bottom. Won't take long. And my friend Thomas has the only countermeasure. Do you think you can take it from him in time?"
The sailors froze, and everyone looked to the captain, who struggled to seem unimpressed. "You'd go down with us."
"It's better than what waits for us with the Archivist," Santi said. "Agreed, my friends?"
"Agreed," Thomas said, in a voice pitched so low it was like an earthquake.
"Agreed," Dario said.
"Of course." Glain.
"Yes," Khalila said, last of all. "We're not afraid of death. If we were, we would never have begun this."
"Stop," Anit said sharply. Not to them. To her captain. "They mean it. They'll send us all down together. Give up."
"Your father--"
"I will deal with my father. This is on my head. I command you to obey!"
Whether it was Anit's direct order or the threat of Santi and that jug, the captain hesitated only a moment before he nodded and ordered his men to their knees, hands on their heads. He joined them. The helmsman hadn't released the wheel; he couldn't, Khalila realized. He'd been tied to it, to avoid being tossed away in a sudden lurch.
"Change course," Thomas said to the helmsman. "We head for Cadiz."
The man murmured under his breath as he spun the wheel. "I'll need the exact heading," he said. "From the charts."
Santi stoppered the Greek fire, handed it to Glain, and pulled a chart from the rack at the rear of the room. He unrolled it on the table and read off coordinates. The helmsman's face was not made for deception, Khalila thought, and she glided up behind him and put a knife to his throat. "Put us off course, and I'll kill you," she said very quietly, just for him. "I know you're thinking of it. Don't. You can all live through this. Anit will take the blame, and none of you will be punished. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," he said. "I'll get you to Cadiz."
"Then we have no quarrel," she said, and released him. The relief that spread over his face, as she stepped to the side to watch him, convinced her he meant what he'd said. "Salaam alaikum, brother."
"Alaikum salaam," he replied with a wary nod.
"You find friends in the oddest places," Dario observed. He'd drawn close to her, and she noticed that in the press of the moment, his nausea had receded, maybe for good. He seemed to be riding the sharp slip of the waves much more easily now. "How did you know he was Muslim?"
"A sailor without tattoos?"
"Oh. I forgot. Tattoos are haram."
"Yes," she agreed. "But that aside, he was reciting the shahada while Santi held that bottle. In case he might die."
"The shahada?"
"The profession of faith."
"And with all that was happening, you thought to notice." He didn't make it a question. "Honestly, flower, sometimes I find you quite frightening."
"Good," she said, and stretched up to kiss his cheek, just a modest and soft brush of lips on skin. "You really must wash. You smell like death."
"Bathing will have to wait until I'm sure one of these fine new friends of ours won't knife me in the tub," he said. "Thomas? I think you can let the poor girl go now."
"Oh," Thomas said, as if he'd forgotten he held Anit. "Sorry." He released her, and Khalila noted that despite the apparent ferocity with which he'd held the girl, she had not even a reddened mark on her neck.
And, more significantly, the girl didn't look angry. "Thank you for not crushing me," Anit said. "I suppose I deserved it."
"Before we start that conversation, please tell your captain that I'm a man of my word," Santi said. "And he'd best be a man of his, because I will keep this bottle ready until we're off this ship."
"He isn't in charge here, Captain. I am. And I tell you that we have a bargain. This ship sails to Cadiz. Whatever comes there, I will bear the responsibility for my father's anger." Anit, Khalila thought, was pleased. She'd hoped for an opportunity to change her mind.
Which they'd given her. We are pawns in her game, Khalila thought, but she didn't mind. Red Ibrahim's daughter had a dangerous road to walk, and she traveled it bravely. Let her have her victories where she could.
Their own victories would be longer in coming.
As they steered on, the storm's fury seemed to lessen a little. Allah's will, Khalila thought, though she knew he had far too many concerns to be directing the wind and fury in their favor. Their success, or failure, would depend on their own grit, luck, and intelligence.
And Santi's very credible threat.
"Leave my bridge," the captain said. "I follow the orders of my mistress. I'll see you safely where you're bound. But my bridge is my own."
"From now on, you'll have to consider me crew," Santi said, and folded down one of the built-in seats. "I'll be here until we're safely in dock, because while I trust the word of Red Ibrahim's daughter, I don't trust you."
"He stays, we all stay," Khalila said, and settled wearily in the corner. She was shivering now, soaked, and the ebb of adrenaline that had carried her through this was making her feel sick. Now that the crisis was over, she was forced to remember that she had killed two men today.
She closed her eyes and began to pray for their souls as the ship carried them on to the shore of Spain, and whatever might come next.
EPHEMERA
Text of a report by Thomas Qualls, Master of Cells, to the Artifex Magnus. Not submitted to the Codex, and marked as private correspondence.
I have enclosed the last round of direct transcription of Scholar Christopher Wolfe's interrogations. There is little point in wasting your time reading it; there is no variety in his responses to questioning, whatever the particular tools we chose to employ. He rarely speaks at all now.
As I told you six months ago, I believe we have long since gathered all useful data from this prisoner regarding his invention, his process, his research, and each and every associate who might have factored into the development of the device in question. He has been steadfast that his lover, Captain Niccolo Santi, has no knowledge of, or responsibility for, the invention, building, or operation of the device, and in fact has never seen this machine, or even been told of its existence. As I've told you, I don't think it's worth killing a High Garda captain.
I don't know why you hate this Wolfe so much, but I assure you that if your plan was to break him, he is long past broken. You have destroyed his invention, destroyed his research. Erased all his writings from t
he Library's records. You have done everything short of killing him, and that is no favor. I am, as you're aware, not a merciful person, or a kind one; I would not last long in this job if I had even a shred of such fine qualities.
So understand that when I tell you I have had enough. I will not subject this prisoner to more pain.
There are limits, and he has reached them. So have I, surprisingly.
Therefore, I have personally released Scholar Wolfe, and I have seen the Archivist in person and explained my decisions. The Obscurist Magnus has also been told. The Archivist was not happy with this, but he agreed--based upon my extensive knowledge of other prisoners kept in our Roman cells--to allow me to exercise this one, small, almost meaningless act of mercy. Or, at least, he didn't dare stop me, given the rage of his Obscurist.
Leave Wolfe alone, Artifex.
I have resigned my post, and there is nothing you can do to punish me. I will retire in comfort and wealth. But I will be watching, and I promise you, if Christopher Wolfe is ever imprisoned again, I will take steps to make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.
We both know how deep the rot extends in our beloved Library. And if I need to expose it to the burning light of day . . . I will.
PART THREE
WOLFE
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was the smell, in the end, that was the worst of it. Not that the Great Library kept a filthy prison, but the stench of terror and despair was harder to wash away than more organic stains. This facility used stones that had been quarried for similar purposes five thousand years ago, long enough that the walls had been well soaked in pain and horror, and exhaled it constantly.
And he knew the miasma of it so intimately, horribly well.
He could ignore the darkness, the bars, the discomfort. But not the smell. And so, after the bars had closed around him, Christopher Wolfe had gone a little mad. A day of shuddering, flinching, imagining that every noise was a torturer coming for him again. A night when he wouldn't close his eyes, for fear the past would smother him.
The morning of the second day--which he calculated not by sunrise, which was invisible down here, but by the changing of the guard watch--he had grown more accustomed to the stench of the place, and the darkness and the confinement, or at least he'd mastered his dread of those things a bit. He reminded himself that if he was right, his job here was not to wallow in useless self-pity, but to do something more.