by Rachel Caine
The Artifex Magnus, head of the Artifex division of the Great Library. One of the members of the Curia, who advised the Archivist. But, in reality, the Archivist's bullyboy and henchman. A villain with elegant handwriting, it seemed.
The message read, Our eyes are on you. Nothing else. But on the heels of that unsettling mess at Alexander's tomb, it seemed even more ominous.
"Bad news?"
Jess's head snapped up, and he met the High Commander's eyes. He couldn't read the man at all and he couldn't trust him. So he folded up the note, put it in his coat, and said, "No, sir."
He half-expected the man to ask harder questions, but it was late, and he was of too insignificant a rank. The High Commander brushed a hand toward him. "Go."
"Sir."
He walked out on legs that felt less steady than those he'd walked in on, and once he was out and the door boomed shut behind him, he still felt eyes on his back, as if gravity had increased its pull.
As he stood for a moment in the round vestibule, getting his mind together, for the first time Jess realized that there were no guards. The man in charge of the most feared army on earth had no guards. That was a stunning statement of his power.
That was when he looked up at the flanking statues of Horus and Menhit. The hawk-headed Horus and lion-headed Menhit stared back, and, as he watched, Menhit shifted her weight from the traditional pose. She held a flail in one hand, and the flexible metal strips dangling from it whispered against each other as she moved.
He tore his gaze from Menhit back to Horus, who carried a spear.
Horus cocked his head, birdlike, to stare harder at Jess.
Our eyes are on you.
He jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder and pulled him back a step.
"Cachu," Glain breathed. "What is it about you they don't like? Did you kill their pets? Come on!"
They walked fast, and Jess became horribly aware that all of the war-god statues they passed were turning their heads to stare. Behind them, Horus stepped down from his pedestal in the alcove on the wall and took a long stride down the hall. Then another. Behind him, Menhit descended, that hissing, sharp flail cutting the air before her.
It was all bluff. When Jess attained the end of the corridor, he looked back to see Horus stepping back up to his pedestal in an eerily smooth, flowing motion. Threats, he thought. Intimidation. The Artifex's stock in trade--and the Archivist's. Extremes of emotion colliding inside him made him feel sick.
The rest of the squad stood clumped at the end of the hall, looking one step from running as Glain and Jess caught up.
"Why did they do that?" Violet Bransom sounded utterly shaken. "Why would automata come for you?"
"They didn't," Glain said. She sounded brisk and matter-of-fact, and if he hadn't known her well, he might have believed she hadn't been frightened at all. "It was likely some malfunction. If they'd meant us harm, someone would be mopping our remains off the floor right about now."
"Then why--"
"I don't know," Glain said, cutting Bransom off, with the definite subtext of and I don't care. "You heard the High Commander. The squad passed. We'll receive individual commissions by Codex. This may be my last opportunity to say it to all of you, but I'm proud of you. Very proud." Her gaze touched each of them in turn, and last of all, Jess. He nodded.
"Thank you, sir," Wu said, and Jess echoed it. "Oh hells, Bransom, stop cringing like a child. You're a soldier now!"
"I wasn't cringing!" she said, and glared at Jess, as if it were somehow his fault. "What about Helva?"
"Helva will be on Medica duty until she's well enough, but I imagine she'll pass, too. They say she'll make a full recovery eventually."
Jess drifted slowly away and let the group talk, as their good fortune slowly began to sink in. He continued to stare back down the hall, where the eight-foot goddess Menhit relentlessly swished her golden flail, her leonine jaws baring in a grin that showed sharp, cutting teeth.
Jess went back to his room and tried to go back to sleep, but his heart was pounding, his hands clammy, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the jaws of a trap were slowly, slowly closing around him. He couldn't lie still. Finally, he rose, dressed in common clothes, and paced his room restlessly as he tried to still the anxiety inside. He didn't want to wake up Glain, and Dario and Khalila didn't deserve to be rattled awake at this terrible hour, either, but he felt more alone than he ever had.
He sat down and picked up his Codex and turned to the page where Morgan's messages appeared. He knew it was useless, but he took up his pen and wrote, I need to talk to you. Please. I need you.
He watched the page, waiting for her familiar handwriting to appear, but it didn't come. Of course it wouldn't. She could reach out to him, but he couldn't do the same to her. He didn't even know if she was reading it. So he kept writing, almost against his will. I feel very alone tonight. And I miss you. It's stupid, I know, but I miss the touch of your skin, the smell of your hair. The weight of you in my arms. Horus help me, I sound like a lovesick poet. I should thank the God of Scribes you'll never read this, because I don't deserve to write it. You still hate me. You might not ever want to see me again, and, even if you do, you might never feel the same as you did before. I know that. I just . . . I miss you, Morgan.
Then he reversed the stylus and brushed it all out, erased as if it had never been, and felt more alone than before.
He needed the comfort of someone familiar. I want to go home, he thought, which was strange; he had few happy memories of London, really. And it had hardly ever been safe. Still, in this moment, he desperately wanted to walk in the door of his family's town house, to see the wan smile of his mother and see his father busy at his massive desk.
A bit of home.
After a moment of debate, and knowing it was bound to backfire on him, Jess gave in to temptation and went in search of his twin brother, Brendan.
The sentries posted at the gate asked where he was going, and he told the truth: visiting relatives. I'm not a child running for comfort, he told himself. Father's been pestering me to find out what Brendan's up to, anyway. Because Brendan should have left Alexandria long ago, headed back to London, but Jess had learned his brother had taken up residence in the city instead.
Maybe his brother had broken with the family business. Maybe they were both outcasts now.
Leaving the compound this time felt like shedding a giant load from his shoulders; he wasn't on a mission, wasn't under pressure to dodge, avoid, not be found out. He had been allowed off the grounds without argument, and now he walked into the cool, misty night of Alexandria with his hands in his pockets.
It felt, for the first time in a long time, like freedom, even with the weight of the copper bracelet of the Library still clasped around his wrist.
Alexandria at this hour was a relatively quiet place, except near the docks, where lights and noise and activity continued as ships loaded and unloaded and sailors found leisure. He avoided that; pubs here in Egypt were far different from the friendly, cozy places he'd grown up with at home. Add sailors to the mix, and they were almost always dangerous places, especially at this dark hour.
He knew the way to his brother's rented home; he'd walked past it a few times, studying it. But it occurred to him that along the way, he needed to make a stop at the shadow markets.
Growing up in the book-market trade, he'd been dragged along to these sorts of places since he was old enough to understand what went on there and the risks. He remembered, at ten years old, carrying a satchel of rare books for his father as they followed warrenlike alleys into a particularly wretched little shop near Cricklewood. It had not, of course, sold books; it sold pens, journals, Codices--all the products of the Library. The old man who ran it had opened up a trapdoor to a tunnel that ran below the shop, and well beneath the city, they'd found London's Graymarket, a moving, ever-changing feast of illegal books and those who craved them. There were always two or three clumps of nervous newcomers who'd
found caches of books in dead relatives' homes and looked to sell them off for a quick profit; those, his father always targeted first. He bought cheap, and relieved those otherwise upright citizens to scamper home with their guilty money.
Then he'd set up at a table all his own, and sell the real beauties to true collectors.
The Alexandrian market was nothing like that, of course; there were no tunnels here, or if there were, Jess had never found them, except for sewer drains. It meant that the Alexandrian smugglers had to be even cleverer and a good deal bolder.
He found Red Ibrahim's daughter, Anit, minding a table. There was absolutely nothing on it, not even a hint of what was for sale; everyone knew it was a matter of requests and fees, not options. She looked up at him as he approached and gave him a calm look. "I have nothing else for you," she said. "I heard about your adventures at Alexander's tomb. Clever of you to escape."
"Clever had help," he said, and handed her a paper drawing of a sphinx, and the location of the switch he'd found. "In memory of your brothers, Anit. Thank you."
She said nothing for a moment, just stared at the page hard, then folded it up and slipped it into a pocket of her skirt. "You're not negotiating for this?"
"No."
She pulled the chain from beneath the neck of her dress and held the embossed ring that hung on it like a talisman. "Then I'm in your debt."
"If you mean that, there's something you could do for me. I'm trying to locate someone who can tell me about the fate of a boy who was arrested at Ptolemy House about six months ago, taken to the Serapeum, and questioned. I want to find out where he was sent after that."
Anit sat back in her chair. "This is not what we do, Jess Brightwell. We sell books. Not information." Then she looked down, and said quietly, "But I will ask."
He nodded and almost walked away . . . but then came back, leaned over the table, and said, "Be careful how you go. I don't want to bring anything down on you."
She actually laughed like a little girl. Genuinely amused. "My father is the most wanted man in all of Alexandria; I am quite used to being careful. But thank you for your concern."
She was right, of course--not that it made him feel any better about having involved her.
Then he went about his real business of the night, to a deserted street on the outskirts of the University district. It held spacious homes built in a modern style, but with bows to Egyptian design and sensibility. Expensive, this area. Well-known for being the home of several prestigious Scholars. There was even a statue of the great inventor Heron on one corner, though, to Jess's great relief, it was only made of stone and was not an automaton.
He still hesitated in the shadow of Heron's statue as he studied the house in front of him. It was large and comfortable, with Egyptian fluted columns and red-and gold-painted decoration. A small fountain whispered in the courtyard, sending a little silver mist into the air. It was a private sort of place. He liked it.
Jess moved quietly up the shallow front steps and knocked.
His brother opened the door.
For a moment, they stood there staring at each other--still eerily similar mirror images, even now, though Brendan's hair had grown long and messy around his face and he'd gained a few pounds. Egyptian life either did not agree with him or agreed with him too much. Hard to say which at the moment.
"You're supposed to have left town months ago," Jess said. "Idiot."
Brendan was wearing a loose silk sleeping robe, and he stepped back, rubbed his face, and said, "Get in before someone sees you."
Jess stepped into a darkened entry hall. He had the impression of expensive tastes, beautiful decorations and furniture, but it was a strangely empty sort of display, as though an expert decorator had done everything. No real personality to it. And, of course, no books. Not even a Library shelf of Blanks. Brendan wasn't much of a reader.
"What are you doing here?" Brendan asked. Jess shrugged, and got a hard-eyed glare from his brother in response. "For God's sake, do you know what time it is, Jess?"
"I've passed training," he said, because he realized he had to say something, and Brendan gave him a disbelieving stare.
"What do you want? Congratulations? A nicely wrapped gift? Weren't you supposed to be a full Scholar by now?"
"Aren't you supposed to be back home?" Because Brendan wasn't supposed to still be in Alexandria. "The last letter from Mother almost seemed worried about you."
"Almost," Brendan said. "Well. That's something."
A girl of about Jess's own age appeared in the doorway. She was dressed neatly in a loose white gown belted with gold, and her hair was swept back smoothly in a braided queue. Pretty features, sharp cheekbones, skin the color of blushed copper. She met Brendan's eyes with remarkable ease to say, "I see you have a visitor. May I bring you anything, sir?"
Brendan said, "Coffee, please, Neksa. Jess?"
"Coffee," he said. "Thank you." Jess watched the girl go her way and waited until she was out of earshot before he said, "You know, you don't have to pretend with me."
"What?"
"She's no servant."
Brendan, to his credit, didn't give it away if Jess's observation surprised him. He sat down in a gilt-framed chair with lion-head arms and covered a healthy yawn. "What if she isn't?"
"Well," Jess said, and took a chair across from him, with a wide black table between them, "that would explain why you haven't gone home. She's pretty."
"My personal life's none of your business."
Jess grinned. "Scraps, it's always been my business. So, what's the difficulty? Father doesn't like her? Mother wants you married off to some bloodless girl with twelfth-removed royal connections?"
"Jess," Brendan said, and rubbed at his forehead, "why are you here? Please God, tell me, so I can get back to bed again before dawn arrives."
I needed you. And I worried, Jess thought, but he could never say that. He and his brother had never been close, not nearly as close as he felt to his friends, but they were brothers. And he did worry. "Father sent a letter. You were supposed to be home long ago. I know you're not staying in Alexandria to look after me."
"And this isn't a question you could ask me in the daytime?"
"We aren't daytime people," Jess replied, to which truth his brother had to give a smile of acknowledgment. More of a grimace, but still. "You can't be staying this long in Alexandria for entertainment. It's business."
"Why would I tell you? You'd just run back to your real Library masters and tell all."
"Scraps."
The flash of temper surprised Jess, as his brother leaned forward and all but shouted, "Stop calling me that!"
It never failed to get a rise out of him. "You don't trust me--I know that. I even understand why. What happened? Why didn't you go home?"
He didn't really think his brother would answer, but Brendan finally looked away and said, "I lost a shipment. A large one. Rare books."
"Lost it--"
"To the Library. It was a mistake, and, yes, I should have known better, and Father's never going to let me forget it until I make up for it. So, yes, you're right. I'm after something big. Big enough to make him forget his disappointment."
Jess shrugged. "Cost of the business, isn't it? Father already wrote me off as a lost cause; he won't take the chance of losing the only son he's got left."
"You're dreaming. Do you actually remember our father?"
Brendan might have been right about that. Eerie. In some ways, talking to his twin was a bit like having a conversation with himself. "Maybe the books are better off with the Library. It's a long, dangerous trip for them all the way to London."
"I knew it," he said. "You've gone over to the other side, haven't you? Trouble with being a spy: sometimes, you start believing your own lies."
"Just the opposite," Jess said. "The Library's shown me very thoroughly that I can never be part of it at all. And I know I won't be welcome back home, either--not with a price on my head from the Arc
hivist. Da would rather see me dead than on the run from that."
"Well, then, he'd have to include me, too," Brendan said, and pointed at his face. "If your face is on a wanted poster, we're easily mistaken for each other, and I'd hate to end up on the bad end of a lion with poor eyesight."
The girl, Neksa, brought a tray with small cups of coffee--three cups, not two. She put one each in front of Jess and Brendan, then put one at an empty spot beside Brendan and sat down. "Oh, don't bother," she said when Brendan started to speak. "He already knows I'm not a servant." She offered her hand across the table to Jess, and he took it. She had a remarkably firm handshake. "Neksa Darzi." She was wearing a Library bracelet, Jess realized, and it was a silver one--which outranked his by a considerable, easy margin. Not the gold band of a Scholar with a lifetime appointment and all her needs supplied, but a silver contract guaranteeing a comfortable career ahead of her. "I am a Librarian here in the city. This is actually my house; I inherited it from an uncle. I have no real use for it, so I've rented it to your brother."
Jess couldn't get his bearings for a moment. Brendan, who was a born-in-blood book thief, was snuggling up to . . . a Librarian?
"So you're his . . . landlady?"
She laughed and took a sip of her coffee as she gave his brother a sidelong look, and there was no mistaking Brendan's smile or the sudden light in his eyes. "Among other things."
He wanted to ask if she knew what it was his brother did for a living, but he couldn't, seeing that silver bracelet on her arm. Either she knew and was playing an extremely dangerous game for which she couldn't possibly be prepared, or else she didn't know at all, which . . . was worse. Maybe this really is why he's stayed so long, Jess thought. Because of her. And that was a tragedy waiting to happen.
"I see," Jess said, and managed a good impersonation of a smile. "Always happy to meet someone my brother likes so well. Better than he likes me, anyway. He can't stand being around me for more than a day or two."
"Damn well true," Brendan said, and drained his coffee in a gulp. "Neksa, I'm sorry, but private family matters. You understand?"
She finished her coffee, sighed, and rose to put a slender hand on Brendan's shoulder. He reached up to cover it with his own, and didn't meet Jess's stare. "I'll see you in bed," she said, and bent to kiss him very lightly and sweetly. "Don't stay up all night. Jess, you are welcome here anytime, of course."