Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  For a wild, random moment, he thought he knew who it was, and he whispered, "Nic?" But of course it wasn't Niccolo Santi, conjured up by his longing.

  "No." The voice was just a whisper. "You know who it is, Scholar. You always know when I arrive, don't you?"

  He stopped breathing. Like a child, hiding in the dark from the monsters, that was all he could do. There was nowhere to run. No one to call on for help.

  "You know," the shadow said. "We're old friends, you and I. I've been with you in your darkest moments. I've cleaned your wounds. I've listened to you weep. Remember?"

  "No," Wolfe whispered. "No. You're not here. You're not--"

  A cold finger touched his lips. Cold and thin as bone.

  He closed his eyes.

  "I'm not here to hurt you," the voice said. "I am here to ask you a question, Scholar. You remember how I asked you questions, don't you? Sometimes it was very gentle. Those were the good times."

  That had only made it worse, the times when the questions had been kind and soft, and there had been a cup of tea and a sweet pastry and a bath. Fresh clothes. Wolfe remembered it so vividly every scar began to ache.

  Kindness made the inevitable cruelty so much worse.

  "Do you know who made me do that to you, Scholar? It was your old friend the Artifex. He's always been afraid of you. You, you see, would have become the Artifex, and he knew that. He's still afraid of you taking his place. Is this his doing now?"

  Wolfe shook his head. His throat had gone painfully dry. I'm talking to a phantom, he thought, but the finger touching his lips felt so real. So cold, but so real.

  "The Archivist," he said. "It's the Archivist who wants us all dead. He's old. His grip is slipping on the throne."

  "More than you know," the whisper said. "Be patient. This will be over soon. They've left you alone, but the questions are coming. And I will be coming back to ask them."

  He knew that was true; the questions always came, and always, always, the gray, pale shadow was there to ask them. He was going mad, completely mad, and this was an impossible nightmare.

  The cold finger left his lips. The chill lingered like a fog.

  "You let me go," Wolfe whispered. "You said you'd let me go."

  "I always keep my promises. You remember, don't you?"

  He did. He remembered. And that was more frightening than the idea that this was a ghost, a phantom, a madness. "Qualls." The name alone made him feel faint, and he had to brace himself against the wall. "No. You're gone. Gone. You let me go."

  "Did I?" Qualls gave out a terrible, chilling chuckle, a scrap of iron on stone, of screams echoing from far away. Even in full light, the man had always been terrifying. Something about him was dead, and it showed in his eyes, his smile, the not-quite-human way he moved. "Very well. Go. The cell door is open . . . if you have the courage to run."

  And then he was gone, as quickly as that. A shadow in shadow.

  No, Wolfe thought. He was never here. Couldn't have been here. I'm broken.

  Santi's voice whispered, Broken bones heal twice as strong.

  Wolfe held his head in his hands, shivering, sick, shaking from the onslaught of memory, and finally, he realized there was a way to know if it had ever happened at all.

  He slipped out of bed, went to the cell door, and pulled.

  It opened without a sound.

  Wolfe froze, shocked into stillness. He'd never expected this, never thought it would move.

  He was here. Qualls was here.

  He went weak against the bars. Go. I can run. I can escape.

  But something inside him twisted and screamed in terror at the thought. I won't make it.

  He heard a soft growl.

  Red lights glowed in the darkness: the eyes of the sphinx, moving forward with slow, deliberate pads. Wolfe leaned against the bars and tightly wrapped a hand around the bars to hold the door shut. If the sphinx pushed . . .

  The growl turned to a hiss, and the light grew brighter, until quite suddenly it flared into a red glare bright enough to dazzle his eyes. He blocked the worst of it with his left hand while keeping his right firmly around the bars, and slumped down. Hoped he looked as desperate and dejected as he felt.

  "I can't sleep," he said to the thing. "Please. Help me. Tell them I need something to help me sleep. A bit of wine, a drug, anything. For the love of the gods--"

  In the harsh red light, he saw a lion's paw swipe at the bars at the level of his fingers. If I let go and it isn't locked . . .

  But he had to let go or have his fingers severed. He snatched his hand back just in time and leaned all his weight against the door as he covered his face. Through the cover, he sensed the sphinx was pacing back and forth in a restless figure eight. A paw rang sharply against the bars again, and he flinched. Pretending to cry left him perilously near the real thing, but he held himself back from plummeting off that cliff. He'd spent months in a cell like this, huddled and broken. He wouldn't go back to that.

  "Please," he said, in a voice he allowed to tremble and break. "Please, for mercy's sake, let me sleep."

  It sounded true because it was. A wail came from deep within him, and he let it out. A tormented, ugly sound.

  The sphinx hissed, and then he heard it take up its slow, steady pace moving down the hallway. The other cells were deathly quiet now, no rustles or moans, snores or cries. Everyone was aware of what had happened.

  Wolfe moved to the corner of his cell closest to Saleh's and whispered, "Noise. I need noise. Pass the word to the other end of the hall."

  "Done," Saleh whispered back. Word passed quickly. Coughs and sneezes began at the other end. Snoring. A voice counting out loud.

  Freedom was there, in his grasp. He knew the guards and the automaton routes, but even so, an escape would be impossible without tools and help. He couldn't do this. He couldn't.

  He couldn't run and leave the others here.

  You have to try. All of us agreed we would, if the chance came.

  He reached out for the door and pulled.

  It didn't open.

  It was locked.

  Had it ever been unlocked at all?

  It happened before. You imagined Santi was with you the last time. You imagined he was taken to be questioned. You imagined you could hear his screams. You kept crying for them to stop hurting him. It had all been very real, in those dark months. He had needed someone so badly that he'd created Santi out of whole imagination . . . but even that desperate delusion hadn't been able to block out the very real pain.

  You're imagining things again.

  No, that couldn't be true. The door had been unlocked, hadn't it? He'd felt it move under his hand. And you heard Santi's screams back then, but he was never there.

  But why would he imagine Qualls? His torturer? What sense did that make?

  Wolfe put a hand on the wall to steady himself. The rough stone felt damp and slick under his palm, and very real. He concentrated on that, on the texture of what he could feel, the smell of the place. This is reality.

  The door had felt real as it moved, too.

  He was coming apart, just as he had before, in a cell like this under the Forum in Rome. Qualls had been there. Imagining him was a sign that his healed, twice-strong bones were cracking. That he couldn't hold.

  Wolfe collapsed to the floor and rolled over on his back, staring at the black ceiling. Opened his mouth and started to scream without making a sound. He felt tears streaming down from the corners of his eyes, and the ache inside felt black and empty and bottomless.

  I'm not strong. I'm broken. I can't save anyone. I can't even save myself.

  As he lay there, he heard the whispering tread of the sphinx again, saw the muted red glow of the eyes turn to regard him, but he didn't move, and the monster didn't lurk. When he was sure it was past, he rolled up to his feet and crawled into the bed. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but it was more comfortable than the cold stone, at least by a small margin.

  He felt Santi'
s phantom warmth settle beside him, felt his lover's arms around him, and heard Santi whisper, I'll be with you. When you think you can't endure, I will help. Believe in me, if you can't believe in yourself. No, that was a memory, not a phantom; when he'd come back from Rome a broken, shaking shell of a man, that's exactly what Nic had said to him.

  There was no Qualls. Qualls was a specter, a ghost, a terrible memory screaming under the surface. A phantom, to drag him into the darkness.

  He deliberately summoned up Nic in every line, every texture, every memory he could find, and held him close. Nic would keep him safe.

  It was a trick, a fidget, a lie, but it let him slide away into a dark, dreamless, whispering sleep at last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Morning brought a certain sour satisfaction with it. Wolfe woke alone, curled on his bed, and though there was never any morning light to help mark the hours, the glows had been brightened again. He heard the normal shuffle of men and women in their cells, and before he rose, he quickly ran through the map in his mind, placing each of them in the three-dimensional model he'd built, then adding the guards one by one, in as much detail as he could. Last, the automata.

  The imaginary visit in the night seemed like a vague dream to him now, and he was glad of it. It was a bitter taste in his mouth to think he could be so fragile. They hadn't even used torture yet, only deprivation and the boredom and routine of prison.

  But the counterpoint to it was the sure and certain knowledge that come the Feast of Greater Burning, they were going to die, and horribly. So in a sense, the torture was ever present, and none of the guards had to sully their hands with prisoner blood. Not, he thought, that most would blink at the job.

  "Wolfe!"

  A tap on the bars from Saleh's corner, and Wolfe rose and walked there. "What is it?"

  Saleh let out a breathless laugh. "What do you mean? What happened last night?"

  He'd forgotten that he'd spoken to Saleh in the depths of his delusion. Or at least had hoped that the conversation had been imagined as well. Wolfe took a moment to think how best to say it, but he didn't have a chance before they heard a sharp cry from somewhere down the hall. Hard to pinpoint where it was coming from, but it took only seconds for word to be passed down the row.

  "That's my father," Saleh said. He was trying to sound calm, but Wolfe could hear the tightness underneath it. "They've taken him out of the cell. Where are they taking him? For what?"

  "I don't know," Wolfe said. "Focus, Saleh. He's valuable. They won't execute him out of hand, no matter what he does . . ." His voice trailed off, and he blinked.

  Because it was true. Only a few of them, of course; the patriarch of the Seif family was one, Scholar Maria Kent was another, located down a level on the east hall. One or two others who stood high enough to be counted as truly exceptional prisoners that the Archivist would want to make a public show of destroying.

  "They've taken him away," Saleh said. He was trying to sound calm, but the worry gave his voice a tremble it didn't normally have. "What are they going to do to him, Scholar? Is this because of my sister? Because of you?"

  It was, without any shadow of a doubt. Wolfe knew he bore a great deal of responsibility, if not guilt, for what was happening to the Seif family; he'd have to carry that, too, without flinching.

  "Yes," Wolfe said honestly. "It's why I'm here, to help you." Please, all the gods of Egypt, let that be the plan.

  "Then, help! My father is an honest man, a Scholar, loyal always to the Library. You can't let them hurt him!"

  Wolfe closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "You're right," he said. "I can't." He raised his voice. "Guard! I need a guard!"

  The man who came at his call wasn't alone; he was paced by one of the sphinxes. Their stares were equally warning. "What do you want?" the soldier asked.

  "I want to speak with the Artifex Magnus," he said. "Immediately. It's important."

  "We'll get to you," the soldier said. "Wait your turn, Stormcrow."

  "All right. I will. And I'll be sure to tell the Artifex what you said when he finally sees me, so that he knows who to blame."

  "Blame for what?"

  "My old students are planning an attack," Wolfe said. "A daring and potentially ruinous one for the Library that will happen in just a very few hours, now. I know when and where. But by all means, continue uselessly interrogating prisoners who have nothing to do with it. I'm sure that's highly effective." His contempt, he'd long ago learned, had a special sting to it, and he deployed it now to good effect. It wasn't an act. He really did find these High Garda Elites to be contemptible. They'd long ago compromised their true loyalty to pin it to the person of one man. When they'd lost, their path wasn't material anymore, and all the excuses in the world meant nothing. They were corrupt, and on some level, they knew.

  "Why should I believe you?"

  Wolfe shrugged. "Then, don't. As I said: I'll make sure the Artifex hears the full story. Including how you failed to report an imminent threat against the Library. Never mind. I'm happy to wait."

  He turned away from the bars and stretched out on the bunk. He even added a tuneless hum.

  It took only fifteen seconds, counted in fast pulse beats, for the soldier to turn the key in the lock. "Out," he snapped. "Now. If this is a trick, you'll suffer for it."

  "Of course," Wolfe said. "Naturally."

  He sat up, fought against a wave of very real nausea and dizziness, and forced himself to his feet. He would show none of it--none of the exhaustion, the fear, the screaming panic. He'd had years of experience now at concealing it from everyone except those who mattered to him.

  A broken bone heals twice as strong, he told himself. Santi had taught him that mantra the night he'd stumbled in the door of their house. He could still hear the soft, insistent whisper of it if he chose. Santi had bathed him, dried him, clothed him, held him through the night to whisper it in a constant, bracing refrain, because Wolfe had been unable to speak or explain where he'd been.

  Stay with me, Nic, he thought, as the shackles closed around his wrists. I need you more than ever.

  As they passed Saleh's cell, Wolfe locked gazes with the young man and nodded. Saleh nodded back. He'd keep things moving forward here; there was no doubt. Khalila's brother could be counted on.

  Even if Jess Brightwell's could not.

  "Scholar? Scholar Wolfe?" One of the librarians--Kima; he remembered her from his circuits; she'd been the senior at the Serapeum in Leeds--leaned against the bars and held out her hand. He brushed her fingers with his, which resulted in a warning to Kima and a push between his shoulders to quicken his pace. He passed every cell and marked every face. They were all watching. Trusting him to do something to redeem them.

  One thing about being a Research Scholar, as he'd been for almost all of his lifetime: he knew things that those who had no such background couldn't imagine.

  And he knew the Alexandria Serapeum better than even the guards who patrolled it. If he could get there, he knew exactly what to do.

  But first, he was going to have to spin the most fabulous, compelling tale he could to take to the Artifex, and then to the Archivist. It would have to be the best lie of his life.

  He knew what it would have to be.

  Brendan Brightwell is not who you think he is. You've been misled.

  That would certainly set the Archivist's teeth on edge. As lies went, it was just bold enough to work.

  EPHEMERA

  From a treatise by the Medica Phlogistes written in 1733. Interdicted from the Codex to the Black Archives upon review in 1881.

  Although there are a great many of my very learned colleagues who disagree with me on every point, I contend that while the number of Obscurists is, without a doubt, decreasing over time, there is no evidence that the trait that makes an Obscurist so valuable--the ability to sense and manipulate the universal fluidic energy that lies beneath everything--is not latently present in all of us. A gifted metalworker is
not thought to possess the Obscurist talent, and yet, he is able to fashion metal in ways that no one else can duplicate. A Scholar able to tell a story in a unique and involving way . . . is that not also such an expression? And many Medica know full well that we have a touch of the talent, and we can use it to enhance our cures and treatments. In many religions, this is known and accepted as fact.

  Why, then, do we treat Obscurists as such a special and prized breed?

  The answer lies not in our desire for the innate value of their talents, though we value the skill of the Medica, the metalworker, or the writer.

  The answer is that we value them out of proportion because we simply need them to operate a system that has not been changed in thousands of years. That is, namely, the Codex and the Archives. If the Obscurists were no longer necessary to make those core functions of the Library work, how much more could be accomplished in our world? How much better and faster and stronger would the Library now be?

  We have fettered ourselves to a system that is bound to fail, and is failing now.

  I am only a Medica, and not even Medica Magnus, but I will say this: we must see beyond our present needs to our future state.

  If we do not, there may be no future for us at all.

  PART EIGHT

  MORGAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It took weeks for Morgan to work out what clever thing Gregory had done to cripple her abilities. Elegant work, masterful . . . and, she strongly suspected, not his doing. Someone else had written the script, which by itself was useless; the targeted Obscurist had to have a particular innocuous drug in her system for the script to take any effect.

  There was nothing she could do about the script, which he'd built into the crafting of her collar.

  But the innocent companion drug? That was a point of failure.

  She and Annis both looked up at the quiet knock, and Annis whispered, "Ready?" Morgan nodded, and the older woman stood and went to open the unlocked door.

  The kitchen server brought in the tray and set it down silently on the nearest table.

  "Good, I'm famished, and the wee girl here needs that soup; she can't seem to keep anything else down," Annis said. Her winning smile and warm charm disarmed whatever wariness the server might have had, and he smiled back, and instead of bolting from the room, as he'd probably been directed to do, he took the time to uncover the dishes and show Annis the contents.