Smoke and Iron

by Rachel Caine

  He deserved a chance. So did those prisoners who were being marched now in that procession toward the amphitheater.

  "There's no cheering," he said.

  "What?"

  "There are crowds along the street, but they're all silent. Do you hear anything else?"

  Zara listened, then shook her head. "So? The common folk of Alexandria are going to rise up for us? You're dreaming, Captain."

  "I might be," he said, and turned the glasses back to the glimmering scales of the dragon. "First, we have to take that creature down. Ideas?"

  "It's a dragon. It breathes Greek fire."

  "You're usually better than this."

  "And you're usually better than to throw yourself into a useless fight," she replied. "Unless something dramatic happens . . ."

  Something drew Santi's attention down to the open drive in front of the mansion. Four shapes, fanning out at equidistant points in the middle of the road. He recognized Wolfe's robe blowing in the morning breeze an instant before he heard Thomas's deep voice say, "Now," and four beams of light--one red, two blue, one a shattering white--drew lines from the four humans straight to the dragon at the top of the Serapeum.

  The shrieking, grating scream that came out of the dragon was loud enough to shatter windows, and down on the street below the Serapeum, the procession scattered as the dragon unfurled its wings and launched itself upward.

  It wasn't flying evenly. When Santi lifted the glasses and focused, he saw that along one side--the side that had been facing the embassy--half of its heavy, plated scales were gone, revealing cables, gears, wires, tubes, that were slashed open to expose ropes of green liquid cascading out.

  He removed the glasses and threw himself down on the edge of the roof to shout, "Again! You hit it! Keep hitting it!"

  Wolfe looked up, and so did the other three faces. Khalila, Thomas, and Glain. "Again!" Wolfe shouted, and the beams sliced out again. One missed completely as the dragon banked, but three found marks. Thomas's--the white beam--sheared off one entire wing of the creature and sent it spinning heavily off to crash somewhere down into the city. A cloud of screams rose. "Keep firing!"

  The dragon was making a clumsy attempt to keep aloft, but as the rays fired at it again, it marked its enemies and, in an awkward corkscrewing motion, turned its fall into a lunge.

  God save us, it's coming straight for us.

  "Up! Get up!" Zara was dragging at his arm, but there wasn't any point; they'd never get off the roof, and the four down below weren't running. They were holding down their triggers, sending continuous blinding pulses of light at the automaton as its enormous, shredding jaws cranked open and it fell toward them.

  It was Wolfe's shot that cut the head from the beast. It hit at just the right angle, cutting clean through a gap in the melted, blackened scales and into the body of the creature; the weight of the head ripped it free and sent it tumbling down in a rough spiral to crash into the iron fence that ringed the compound, where it was impaled down to the ground on the spikes.

  The body fell limply out of the sky. It hit just past the fence and skidded to a stop, hissing steam and leaking Greek fire that caught the entire metal skeleton on fire and slowly, steadily began to melt it down. The barbed tail of the thing continued to twitch, but that, Santi thought, was just the heat burning through the metal cables.

  Wolfe turned to look up, and Santi found himself smiling. No, grinning. He saw the matching, vulpine expression on his lover's face.

  "Now," he said, "we have a chance. Come on, Zara, let's get--"

  He rolled over and started to rise, and checked himself when he realized that she was holding a pistol on him. Her dark eyes were wide and very steady.

  "No, Captain," she said. "Not this time. I'm not letting you kill yourself. Not for him. I've watched you drag yourself through hell for him, and you can't do this, Nic, you can't. You swore oaths. This is wrong."

  He got up slowly, eyes on hers and not on the gun held between them. When he reached out, he was reaching out to her. "I would go to the lowest depths of hell for him," he said, and put his hand on the gun. "Zara, if turning my back on him is the price of loyalty, you'd better shoot." He could have taken the weapon, and they both knew it. She could have fired, and they both knew that, too.

  Zara let the gun drop to the roof between them, reached up, and ripped the rank and insignia from her High Garda uniform. She opened her hand and let that fall between them, too. Her eyes were full of tears and rage, and she just shook her head and walked away.

  He wanted to tell her something better . . . that he valued her, that he would miss her, that she was worth more than this. But in the end, he stood quietly and let her leave. It would be unkind of him to lie to her. He would never choose her over Wolfe. Best she understand that now, at the end of all of this.

  He left her gun and insignia where they had fallen, and once he was sure she was gone, he went down to find Wolfe, throw his arms around him, and say, "They'll be here soon. We need to go. Now." He pulled back and looked at Glain. "Get Botha. Tell him he's promoted to lieutenant. Find Troll; he's my new second. You're promoted to Sergeant, and head of the Blue Dogs."

  She saluted as smartly as he could ever have hoped. "Thank you, sir. It's a start."

  He returned her salute, open hand over heart, and as she ran off to find his company, Wolfe said, "She's going for your job, Nic."

  "After today, she can have it," he said. "And may God help anyone who gets in her way. She didn't miss a single shot, did you notice?"

  "I was trying not to be roasted alive. It tends to erase the details."

  Santi pulled his lover close, and in this quiet moment before everything began, and ended, he was happier than he'd been in years.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  GLAIN

  Finding Botha and Tom Rolleson took only a moment--Santi's company was camped under a large camouflage tent in the back. Though Botha seemed surprised, Troll didn't; whether they valued promotions on a day like this, she couldn't say, but both seemed calm and ready. The whole company did. They were ready to move on a moment's notice. We have five hundred soldiers, she thought. Against the same amount of High Garda Elite and a small army of automata. She didn't mind a hard fight, but she had to admit that even after removing the dragon from the equation, the math was still unforgiving.

  But it was better than it had been before Thomas had stepped out of the workshop with those weapons.

  Still, Glain was happy to surrender the strange gun back to Thomas after running to rejoin him and Khalila; not that she didn't value the pure destructive power of the thing, but there was a skin-crawling ease to it that made her feel a little ill. Killing--and though this time, they'd only aimed those beams at an automaton, surely the time was fast approaching where it would be searing human flesh--killing ought to be more . . . difficult.

  Thomas checked each one and opened three out of four of the weapons to knock out large, shining stones.

  "Are those . . . jewels?"

  "Yes," he said, but he was engrossed in the last weapon. "Interesting. The diamond drew the least power, perhaps because of the size of the stone, or the refraction, or--I'll have to examine the power-consumption rates more closely."

  "Where did you get them?"

  He glanced at her, and the fog lifted in his eyes for a second. He put two warm blue stones and one very warm red one into her hand. "Give these back to the ambassador," he said. "Tell him I need the loan of this last one a little longer."

  "Oh, I'll take the guns as well," said the ambassador himself, and Glain kicked herself mentally for not seeing the man approach. He was a quiet one, Alvaro Santiago. "Please."

  "No," Thomas said.

  Santiago raised both eyebrows. He wasn't dressed like a royal ambassador now; he looked like a common sailor. The only thing that didn't fit--and would change the instant he left these grounds, Glain thought--was his accent, far too refined for the rest of him. "Perhaps I should rephrase my re
quest," Alvaro said, and a brace of Spanish soldiers--both in common clothing, too--stepped out of concealment behind the columns and leveled guns on the three of them.

  Glain revised her objections to the power of the weapons, but it was too late now, and she was late even drawing her sidearm. Next to her, Khalila began to step forward and, no doubt, deliver a powerful speech; Glain stopped her by the single expedient of throwing out a solid arm to halt her in her tracks and looking to Thomas.

  Thomas flipped a switch on his Ray of Apollo and calmly raised it and pointed it at the ambassador. "No," he said again. "After today, these will be destroyed. I'll send your diamond to you."

  "The diamond is not half so valuable as what you hold in your hands, and I'm sure you know this," Alvaro said. "Thomas. You are a brilliant young man, an Artifex worthy of the best days of the Great Library. Don't be stupid. I would hate to extinguish such a light."

  "If I shoot," Thomas said, "there won't be enough of you left to bury. I'm grateful for your help and your workshop. But I won't give you these guns. And I won't make more for you, or for anyone. There are no plans. The secret dies with me."

  Glain eased her sidearm out of its holster. She took up a High Garda shooting stance and aimed at the ambassador's head. "So say we all," she said.

  For a long, tense moment she was certain the man would order them killed; she was not at all sure Thomas intended to carry out his threat. But then Alvaro turned to his men and gestured, and they lowered their weapons. "Very well, Scholar, I understand," he said. "But you must also understand that sooner or later, someone else will make one, and that person will be less moral than you. It wasn't worth your life."

  "It was to me," Thomas said. He pointed the Ray down at the three discarded, de-jeweled weapons and, with one short pull of the trigger, reduced them to smoking, melted wreckage. He checked the gauge on the weapon. "Interesting. Still two more shots. Don't make me waste them."

  Santiago shook his head and said, "Use them to free my cousin. I do care about the wretch. I'd stay if my king didn't order me home." He gave Glain a respectful nod and she put away her gun. Khalila earned a full court bow. "I will be seeing all of you again, I hope."

  "If you do," Khalila said, "I hope you don't bring an army with you. Tomorrow, this is still the Great Library, and it stands. If we win, we will keep it safe against anyone--even friends--who tries to take what isn't rightly theirs. You should be on your way. The fall of that dragon will bring Library troops."

  "I expect no less. Hasta luego, my friends."

  And then they were gone, disappearing into the shadows of the columns, and when Glain advanced to follow, she found the whole entry hall deserted. By the time she reached the back doors, she found them locked and the convoy already moving away. For a rich, spoiled royal, he knew how to move with military precision and speed; she had to grant him that much.

  Botha joined her at the windows and said, "I assumed we should let them leave without starting a fight. Was I wrong?"

  "Not that I know," she said. She shot a glance toward the lieutenant's calm, unreadable face. "Do you think--"

  "I don't think," he said. "It's not useful before the fight. Only during it." He turned, and Glain followed a second later, as the others came into the room. "Sir. We're ready. The High Garda Elite carriers can hold fifty, if we're friendly, but the rest of the company will have to be on foot."

  Santi nodded. "The Blue Dogs, the Harpies, Shadow Team, and Mars One for the vehicles. Arrange them as you prefer. Split the company into four units. Stay away from the main routes. Third and fourth units are covering fire. Use the heights."

  "Sir." Botha saluted, and said: "You'll be in the vehicles?"

  "Yes," he said. "All of us. Glain, Thomas, and Khalila in one, me and Wolfe in another. And, Lieutenant? Library engagement rules. You don't kill unless you must, but if you must, you get it done. Protect the Scholars and librarians down on the killing floor. Let us handle the rest."

  Glain opened her mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap. Santi's orders were precise and calculated. He wasn't mounting a High Garda rebellion. He was showing that they were committed to the Library's principles. And that was noble.

  Just very possibly suicidal.

  Glain claimed herself a proper rifle and a healthy supply of ammunition from the armorer, who was loading up the extra guns and supplies in the rear of the carrier, and as she crowded into the carrier with Khalila and Thomas and the door hissed closed, she thought she ought to by all rights be afraid. They had little chance, after all. The might of the Great Library was against them, along with history, tradition, and her captain's own scruples.

  She met Khalila's eyes as the carrier rattled through the streets, speeding toward the amphitheater. Held up her hand. Khalila clasped it. Then both their hands were swallowed up by Thomas's.

  "Together," she said.

  "Together," they both echoed.

  The Blue Dogs--Glain's squad--howled. The Harpies let out their weird, unsettling, keening cry.

  It was war.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  JESS

  "Down," growled Tadalesh, when Jess inched up to peer over the edge of the roof. "If you want to gawk, go stand with the crowds on the road."

  "Any sign of Elites?" Jess ignored Anit's lieutenant and got his own good look. The street below seemed clear.

  "No. The Elites are inside the fence, and that way." Tadalesh jerked his sharp chin toward the main street, where the procession was pouring in toward the amphitheater. It was almost finished; the Scholars and librarians had gone first, a parade of fluttering robes conducted in silence. Then a tall, stalking row of automaton Egyptian gods, the largest of which--Horus, easily identifiable even at this distance--carried a huge, sharp sword. The Curia--the heads of the Library's major disciplines, including the Obscurist Magnus--were proceeding now, and with them, under a huge cloth-of-gold covering, the marching honor guard of Elites, with the Archivist carried on a sedan chair in the center of the pack.

  There was no cheering. Nothing but silence from those gathered along the route. Jess wondered if the Archivist felt as uneasy about that as he did.

  That was when the dragon, coiled around the Serapeum, let out a shriek that seemed to shatter the sky, and Jess saw the flash of solid beams of light slice into the thing for just a flash before they cut off.

  Thomas. Thomas built a Ray of Apollo. No, more than one; that much was clear as the dragon launched itself into the air and began to clumsily beat toward the source of the attack. It had lost its grace, but none of its power.

  And then the ray weapons flashed again, and pieces rained from the sky. Scales the size of troop carriers. A sheared-off wing, spiraling to slam through the roof of a building. And then the head came loose, and the whole terrifying automaton slammed down into the ground with an impact that Jess felt through his entire body before the sound of it rolled over them. The Greek fire inside the thing began to burn in pale green flames, and for a second Jess couldn't process what had happened. Then he had a mad impulse to shout, to leap to his feet and punch the sky in triumph.

  That had been an impossible task, and Thomas had done it.

  "Your friends?" Tadalesh asked.

  "Yes," Jess said.

  "You think they will sell us those guns?"

  "No."

  Tadalesh shrugged. "Maybe we take them, anyway."

  "Maybe they kill you first," Jess said. He rolled over on his side and gestured to Brendan, who climbed down from the roof and joined the massed hundred or so men and women Anit had assembled. They were a hard rabble, and heavily armed. He liked the discipline and rules of the High Garda, but for some things, a gang of thieves was just . . . better.

  The cutter acted quickly at the fence, opening a section with judiciously applied Greek fire wide enough to allow five to pour through at a time. They'd timed it between the loops of the automata sphinxes, but even so, they'd be spotted in seconds, and from then on, it would be a re
al fight.

  Tadalesh was sliding over the edge of the roof, and Jess followed. He found hand-and footholds and jumped the last ten feet to land in a roll and come up running, and he was halfway to the fence when the first automaton sphinx spotted the breach and let out a harsh metallic cry. It flapped metal wings and glided toward Anit's people, claws unsheathed and ready to rip into flesh.

  Brendan slid into its path, and it dropped onto him, pinned him to the ground, and opened its needle-toothed mouth to bite. Brendan twisted, reached, and jammed his rifle between the jaws, forced the head up, and found the switch.

  The sphinx froze in place, and Anit pulled him free as two others tipped the statue over with a crash. Brendan got to his feet and yanked his rifle free, and Jess shoved through the thieves' army to make it to his brother's side.

  "Stupid!" he shouted. Brendan was hurt. He could see the blood soaking into his shirt.

  "Effective!" Brendan shouted back, and grinned. "It's nothing. Get us in--more are coming!"

  The workshop entrance was locked, but Jess and the cutter got it open in seconds, and Jess took the lead, grabbing a glow from the wall and calling up the path that he'd taken to the Archivist's workshop. Another pair of doors, these thicker. Behind them, the sphinxes would be swarming and killing as many as they could reach. Getting trapped here in the corridor was deadly.

  It took a costly half minute, but the doors finally slammed open, and Jess was one of the first onto the balcony where he and the Archivist had last stood. The railing had been newly repaired, and the metal was still shining. The workshop below was well lit but empty of any workers or guards. Just the silent, still forms of automata under construction.

  Jess wrapped a rope around the rail and slid down, and more ropes joined his. Anit was still on the balcony and ordering men to hold the door; that wouldn't hold for long against automata, but maybe long enough.

  And then the doors flew open, knocking Anit's people back, and High Garda poured through. Jess raised his rifle and aimed, then realized who was in the lead. "Don't fire! Don't fire!" He shouted it as loudly as he could, and Anit echoed him up on the balcony.