by Rachel Caine
And then a hand grabbed her and dragged her down. Annis. She'd stripped off her robe and tied it to the handhold, with the other end tied tight around her ankle. The wind flattened the thin shift she wore against her body and sent her wild hair flying like a flag, but she held on and pulled Morgan into her tight, unyielding embrace and held her against the storm as they both twisted and hovered in the blast, until its weakening dumped them back down to the metal floor, and both fell, still holding each other.
Annis was the first to get her breath, and she used it to laugh. A raw, half-terrified sound, but it was still laughter, and against her will, Morgan joined her until they rolled on their backs, exhausted.
"Did it work?" Annis asked, and finger-combed her wild hair out of her face as she sat up. Morgan's was no better, and she tried to twist it back into a rough queue to keep it from her eyes. "Is he with us?"
"The crystal broke." Morgan's laughter turned to ashes in her mouth, and she swallowed hard against a sudden, weightless feeling of horror. "I lost him."
She looked utterly ragged, she realized as Annis helped her up; at least Annis's robe had survived the storm with only minor distress, but Morgan's robe would hardly pass a glance without drawing attention. Do I dare? She'd already expended more power than she wished, and she couldn't tell how much more she had left before the emptiness set in. But she tapped a trickle of it, whispered a formula under her breath to guide the work, and the tears knitted back together. Imperfect, like a child's mending, but it would have to do.
"We should hurry," Annis said. She'd seen the work but said nothing, only slightly compressing her lips. "I'd not put it past Gregory to have someone besides me checking on your whereabouts."
"What are we going to say about the garden?"
"I've no idea at all. Do you?"
"Tell the truth," Morgan said. "That you don't know what happened. And I won't tell him, either. Let him puzzle it out, unless he already knows that an Obscurist can go . . . dark. If he does, he might see me as more valuable yet. I imagine he'd like an assassin to order all his own."
"Or he'd kill you," Annis said archly. "A paranoid choob like that wouldn't see you as useful. Only dangerous to his rule."
"Can't help that. We were seen there. It's a good chance he'll hang on to me even harder."
Annis wasn't happy with that, but she fell silent, and they hurried back through the winding maze of metal corridors. A brief wait for the bored guard to pass, and they dashed for the stairs. Easier to go down than up, but then they called the lifting chamber to take them up.
Morgan didn't even notice anything out of the ordinary, so sunk was she in the sense of failure, until Annis said, "The devil?" and pushed buttons again. "Missed our stop."
It's Gregory. He's got us trapped. He's taking us where he wants us. Morgan readied herself for whatever was coming as the lift slowed and stopped. She exchanged a look with Annis, and they both stepped out onto the landing. No guards. No Gregory.
Then Annis said, in a voice that Morgan had never heard before, "Oh."
She turned to look where Annis was staring, down the hall, where a door was standing open.
They took two tentative steps in that direction before a deep male voice said, "Still falling for that old trick, Annis? After all this time?"
Annis squealed, half in shock, half in delight, and a man stepped forward who Morgan hadn't noticed at all; it was as if he'd wrapped himself in shadows and become part of the wall. Now he'd stepped into the light, and Morgan had only a second to take him in: an older man, silvered hair cascading over his shoulders, clean-shaven, with dark eyes and skin of dark amber.
"Barbarian!" Annis cried, and threw herself on him. He seemed unprepared for that, but only for an instant, and then he embraced her like he might never let her go again. "Oh, my dear. My dear. Is it really you?"
"Really me," he said, and finally pushed her to arm's length. As he looked her over, Morgan began to see the resemblance to Scholar Wolfe, especially the frown that grooved between his brows. "I swore I'd never open that door again, you know."
"I know," Annis said, and fit her hand to his cheek. "But I also know that you'll not abandon those who so desperately need you. Not you, Eskander."
"Won't I?" The bitter smile was wholly like Wolfe's. "You have a short memory. I abandoned Keria. And you."
"No. You never did."
"I didn't save her when she needed me."
"She didn't call on you. Keria never was one to cry for help. She fought her battles alone, and she'd be happy to have died in one of them."
He was like Wolfe in another way, Morgan thought: his unbreaking devotion, because she could see the grief and loss. She'd known Keria Morning, the old Obscurist, only as a frightening, cold, powerful woman until the last moments, but he had known her as someone completely different.
Someone to be grieved.
When Eskander's gaze fixed on her, Morgan felt exposed . . . every fault and flaw showing. Another thing that Wolfe had inherited from his father, this intense, judgmental stare. "You're my son's student? Morgan?" She nodded. Wasn't sure if she could speak. "Keria spoke of you, the last time I saw her. She thought you were a rare talent. She'd never said that before."
Morgan wasn't sure what to say to that, except, "I'm honored."
"You shouldn't be. Talent makes you a target. Talent makes you their weapon."
"I'm not theirs."
He smiled faintly. "Good. Then, take that off."
He wasn't wearing a collar. It hit her with a sudden shock that he didn't wear the standard robes of a Tower Obscurist; he had on a loose black shirt, plain trousers, comfortably distressed boots. A belt that held what looked like a High Garda-issue pistol. Add a Scholar's robe, and his likeness to his son would be uncanny.
It hit her a second later what he was actually saying. "Take what off?" She thought he meant the robe.
He touched his fingers to his throat, and she mimicked him and put her hand to the collar. "I can't!"
"I can," he said. "If you will permit me . . . ?"
"He'll know," Morgan said.
"Of course he will." This time, the smile was dark and full of menace. "I'm looking forward to it."
She nodded. She didn't believe he could do it until Eskander stepped close to her, put both hands on her collar, and pulled.
She felt the harsh flash of broken scripts. Not broken: shattered. Destroyed. The power it took was immense, and it took her breath away.
The golden collar hung loose as he moved back, and he left it up to her to take hold of it, pull it free, and let it drop to the floor with a harsh metallic ring. She felt the vulnerable, raw circle where the collar had been and felt a rush of tears first, and then something else, cleaner, sharper: freedom.
"And me?" Annis asked quietly.
"And you," he said, and easily broke hers, too. "Don't be afraid, Annis."
She let out a shaky laugh and took the collar off. Instead of letting it drop, she looked at it. Turned it over and over in her hands, running her fingers over the incised symbols, and then crouched and put it carefully down. The skin it had covered all these years was ghostly, and at the edges, ridged with scars. "I've not been without it since I was a wee lass," she said. "A child. I never knew how heavy it was."
Somewhere below them, an alarm began to sound in sharp, rhythmic pulses.
"They'll know. They're coming," Morgan said.
Eskander smiled. "No. They won't. Not until I'm ready for them to know. Now . . . let's begin."
EPHEMERA
RESTRICTED ACCESS TO THE ARCHIVIST MAGISTER ONLY, from the Artifex Magnus
The creature is finished. I understand why you desire new automata; I understand that new improvements are necessary to respond to ever-growing threats and keep the population respectful of our power. It's certain that this does convey that as nothing before ever has, not even the statues of the gods.
The technical challenges have been considerable, and while I know t
hat it's taken five years beyond our original estimates, your new automaton is finally ready to be tested.
I hope you know what you are doing. I don't scare easily, but this . . . I am scared of this.
And we all should be.
It could end everything.
PART NINE
JESS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There was a new uneasiness in the air in Alexandria. Even Jess could feel it. He woke early--middle of the night, actually--and had spent his time after washing and dressing in sending messages out in family code. He owed an explanation to Red Ibrahim. The name traitor had been thrown at him along with Greek fire, and he didn't much like either of them.
Morgan still hadn't written, but that would have to remain a mystery; he knew time was running out, and fast. The Alexandrian newspaper was tightly censored by the Library, but there were other sources of news, and now that he was finally trusted by the Archivist--though, honestly, he knew he couldn't count on it for long--he'd left to seek the gossip out well before dawn. He didn't bother about the trailing High Garda eyes assigned to him, because he simply went to the local bakeshop and bought breakfast and thick, hot coffee and engaged in quiet conversation with the other patrons.
"I heard that Spain has completely broken free," one old man said, leaning close. "There's some treaty between the rebel countries, too. Like they'll be marching on us. High Garda will put a stop to it." But he hadn't sounded confident. Others told him of rumors of some great invention, but they were uncertain what it could be. Most assumed it was a war machine of some sort.
He thought it likely to be the whisper of Thomas's press. Those whispers reaching Alexandria meant the speculation had to be a roar already on the borders, as tight as the Library locked down the flow of news here.
He found out when an anonymous woman wearing librarian robes took a seat at the counter next to him, ordered pastries, and left a printed piece of paper in her wake. It could have been dropped by anyone, but Jess had seen the expert dodge, and he retrieved it before anyone else could see it.
The printing was vastly inferior to the quality Thomas had achieved; the block type was clumsily lined up, and the spacing terrible. But it was a fresh-printed page with ink that still smudged when he rubbed on it, and it read, THE LIBRARY IS LYING TO YOU. A LIFE IS WORTH MORE THAN A BOOK. The symbol on the bottom was a new one, but he thought it had a passing resemblance to the flames the Burners used to sketch on their handwritten flyers.
Anit, he thought, had wasted no time in arranging for the construction of a press right here in the city . . . and taking payments from the Burners to upgrade their propaganda leaflets. There was a little touch of satisfaction, but it was quickly chased away by the memory of the Archivist's warning.
The Archivist wanted to exclusively direct the use of Thomas's invention. He wouldn't take kindly to the news that upstarts were already taking advantage and the invention he was paying so heavily for was already spreading without him.
Jess folded the paper small and put it into his pocket for disposal somewhere safe . . . but then he didn't need to, as the next young man who slouched at the bar muttered, "You have a message for His Excellency?" Spanish. To confirm it, the man signed, under cover of the counter, Scrubber.
"We really need a new word," Jess said. He took the paper from his pocket and a pen, and wrote on the back, Find out where my other friends are. Tell them things are moving quickly. The Archivist is bound to move up the executions.
He passed the folded paper on, and the young man claimed his morning roll and coffee and sauntered off looking like he had not a care in the world.
Jess wished he could be as relaxed.
As the sun began to blush the eastern horizon, he headed back and had just stretched out on his bed when the knock rattled the door. The new High Garda Elite had a heavy hand.
"You're up," the woman said, and sounded a bit unhappy about it. "All right. The faster we go, the faster we're finished."
"And what is it we're doing?" Jess didn't expect an answer and, in fact, didn't get one. Their commander was already striding away, and Jess had to hurry to catch up. There was a full team of soldiers in the street, and more in two different troop carriers lined up. The commander whistled and made a quick hand signal, and the soldiers waiting for her began to pile into the remaining carrier. This early, traffic was light on the street, though Jess saw a few nervous residents peeking through windows and around doors to see what was causing a stir. Seeing three trucks full of High Garda likely didn't reassure them, but then again, they had good reason to be worried.
They all did, now.
The commander clung silently to a handhold as the carrier hissed and clanked down the Alexandrian streets with alarming speed. Still not talking. "Are we going after smugglers again?" Jess asked her. "I hope this time you brought a proper army."
The captain didn't seem even mildly amused. "Not smugglers."
That seemed . . . odd. And strangely ominous. "Then what value are you expecting out of me, Captain?"
"Out of you? Not much. But the Artifex said you could identify what we were looking for."
"Which is?"
She didn't bother to answer him, and he supposed she didn't need to; the Artifex had put this squarely on his head, no doubt at the orders of his fellow in corruption, the Archivist Magister.
Jess had no doubt whatsoever that today was going to be a very bad day, but he consoled himself that at least it would be far, far worse for whoever would be on the receiving end of this visit. Having fifty High Garda knocking on the door would ruin anyone's breakfast.
He couldn't see out, and so he didn't recognize the street until he exited the carrier--last, since none of the soldiers seemed inclined to give way for him. But then he did, and it was only an instant before memory caught up to instinct, and he knew they were standing on the street where Red Ibrahim lived.
Red Ibrahim was an old, dangerous man, but even the most dangerous men could be brought down. He'd survived sixty years or so in a business where ten years was considered astonishing; he'd done so right under the very noses of the High Garda and the Archivist. It took a particularly hard and brilliant person to accomplish that.
So how had they found him now?
There was only one answer.
My father sold out his oldest friend and business ally. Just as he'd sell his own sons for a tidy profit if the opportunity presented itself.
Jess had no idea what Brendan would have done in this situation; he only knew that he owed Red Ibrahim and Anit, and he couldn't be the cause of their murders.
And how exactly are you going to prevent it? That was definitely his brother's caustic voice in his head. You can't. This has gone beyond you. You just have to keep up with the avalanche now. The priority is to save your friends and save the Library. Saving smugglers isn't part of it.
The commander turned to him and pointed at the house.
Not Red Ibrahim's house. A modest stucco home sitting two doors down, guarded by an old fountain and a gate with weathered old boards that needed a fresh coat of paint. Jess had never noted the place before, never even glanced at it. It looked like the nondescript house of a well-off librarian or a low-level Scholar. I'm out of practice, Jess thought. He'd have spotted such a thoroughly unexceptional house in minutes, back in the day, before the Library had made him lax about such things.
Someone didn't want to be noticed.
The soldiers obviously had their orders; they silently moved away, each intent on getting to his or her position. There was a breach team who swarmed over the wall and quietly opened the gate; one even took the precaution of oiling the hinges first. Jess followed the captain to the front door. Unassuming or not, it was a stout barrier, but the captain gave a silent hand signal. Her Greek fire expert took a flask and funnel and poured carefully measured drops of the liquid into the crack of the door to dissolve the lock, then stepped back with a brisk nod.
The first soldier ope
ned the door quietly, and to no significant drama, though Jess had expected some kind of violence to erupt. One by one, the team he was with filed inside, and he was nearly the last to enter, though the soldiers stood aside to let him move up to the captain.
They were in a small, shabby room, with a worn carpet on the floor and two chairs, a single lamp, and a bookcase. Nothing of note, though Jess strode to the bookcase and looked through the titles. They were all in Library binding, of course, and he pulled one at random to leaf through it. Nothing suspicious. It all seemed in order, but then, the best smugglers made sure it did.
He let his eyes unfocus and regard the shelf as a whole. Nothing at all suspicious . . . and then, because he wasn't overthinking it, his gaze sharpened on a single book. No different, no larger, no smaller, but there was something about it . . . ah. Discoloration on the top edge of the binding, as if this book was often retrieved . . . and yet, none evenly along the spine. It had been removed. Not read.
It would have taken someone with his practiced eye to see it, but once seen, it was unmistakable. If this had been smugglers, or even collectors, he might have kept all this to himself . . . but not this time. This time, they were looking for Burners, and whether they'd invested in a printing press or not, they were still enemies.
As Jess considered his next step, he heard a soldier report back. "We've been through every room, Captain. Nothing suspicious. No one here."
"They're here," Jess said. "You just can't see them."
The new captain turned slowly to stare at him. "Meaning what? That they're invisible? Ghosts? Speak sense."