Paper and Fire

by Rachel Caine

  "It's not haram for me," Dario said, and reached for the bottle. She moved it out of his reach. "Khalila. Please."

  "You're beyond drunk enough," she said. "And this is the end of your mourning. If they've killed a Scholar, we are all in danger, and you need to be alert. I need you at your best. We all do."

  He leaned back in his chair, staring at her, and then nodded. "You're right. From now on, we stay together."

  Khalila turned to Jess. "The same for you. Stay with Glain. Watch your backs."

  "Thomas--"

  "There's nothing we can do for Thomas if we're dead," she said. "Stop asking about him, about secret prisons, about the Black Archives, about all of it. In a month, we may be able to start again, but they are watching. It will take only a stroke of the Archivist's pen to kill us all. You know that."

  He did. He hated it with a cold, aching fury, but Khalila's words were wise. Any sane person would pull in their head and proceed with caution.

  Jess stood up. The Pacharan had worked all too well, and he felt his head spin a little. The Archivist won't have to push me in front of a carriage, he thought. I'm liable to stumble in front of one all on my own.

  "Stay safe," he told them, and embraced Khalila first, then Dario.

  Then he left the Lighthouse.

  He'd lied. He didn't intend to proceed with caution. It was far too late for that.

  He intended to make sure Scholar Prakesh hadn't died in vain. If that meant selling his soul to his brother, then he'd pay the price. However high it was.

  When he knocked on Brendan's door, it was late for most in the area, but hardly too late for a Brightwell. Still, he got no answer. Jess stepped back and studied the high windows. All dark. He didn't believe that his twin, of all people, would be so early to bed, whether Neksa was in it or not.

  Calling out for him was a stupid idea. Jess moved down to the far end of the wall, which surrounded a garden, and effortlessly swarmed over it and dropped down on the other side. Darker there, though a fountain whispered in the corner, and lotus flowers drifted on the surface of a pond.

  He found the side door, quickly touched his fingers to the household god next to it, and got out his tools. Not a bad lock, but, then, thieves always bought the best. It took him more than a minute to open it, and then he stepped inside, into the soft shadows and the smell of sandalwood incense. Quiet.

  Too quiet, he thought, for Neksa and Brendan to be here. And then he sensed movement and ducked instinctively into a crouch. Just in time for the club to crash into the wall behind where his head would have been. Jess lunged forward in the next second and found himself pushing a strong, lithe, curved body back against the wall.

  He immediately moved his hands to more neutral territory and said, "Neksa? Neksa, it's Jess! Jess! I'm not going to hurt you!"

  She went still for a few seconds, and then he heard the sound of the club hitting the tiled floor and a trembling intake of breath. "Jess?" Then he actually felt her steady herself and her voice grew firm. "Let me go!"

  "All right," he said, and made sure to kick the club away into the dark before he did let her loose. That had been a very respectable attempt to kill him. "I'm looking for my brother."

  "By sneaking in the side door?"

  "You didn't answer the front."

  "He's not here," she said, and turned a switch on the wall at her back. Lights hissed on, gradually brightening. She left them low, for which Jess was thankful, and he saw the swollen redness of her eyes and nose. For all her bravado, she looked devastated. "He left this morning."

  "Left," Jess repeated. "Are you sure?"

  "I found this when I got up this morning." She silently reached into a pocket of her dress and handed him a folded sheet of paper. Jess took it and held it up to the light. He recognized his brother's hand, the jagged points and long loops. It was a terse message, saying he'd had enough, he was going home, and that he'd send for the rest of his things soon. No affection. Only the vaguest of good-byes. Even for Brendan, it seemed abrupt and cold.

  "It's from him, isn't it?" she asked, and he slowly nodded. "Why? Why would he leave so suddenly? Why would he not talk to me first? I would have gone with him. I love him! He knows that!"

  He doesn't love you, Jess wanted to tell her, but that seemed cruel. He wanted to be relieved, but the timing couldn't have been worse; he needed Brendan. No, you don't, the old cold part of him told him. You need her. And you can still use her. His father wouldn't have hesitated. He'd have threatened exposure, pushed past Neksa's shock and anger and tears, and made her into a tool to be used as needed. That was what Brendan had been intent on doing. That was the Brightwell way.

  She can help you get to Thomas! Scholar Prakesh died for this. The least you can do is do what has to be done.

  He stood there for a long moment, the note in his hand, and just looked at her. At the undeniable heartbreak in her, and the dignity and the vulnerability.

  Then he pressed the note into Neksa's hand and said, "Lesson learned. You shouldn't trust either of us."

  He was gone before she spoke again.

  Captain Niccolo Santi answered his door on the third volley of knocks with an expression Jess could only identify as irritated. Out of uniform, he still looked tall and imposing. "Are you insane? Go home."

  "No. I need to talk to you." Jess heard the hard, bitter edge in his voice and the determination, and the captain must have, too. He stepped back and swung the door wider as he turned away.

  "Close it behind you," Santi said over his shoulder. "And lock it." Which Jess would have done, anyway. "What happened? You look like something hell spit out."

  Hard to choose what to give him for an answer. My brother's fled town without a word to me. Or, We caused the death of a Scholar. He couldn't quite bring himself to say any of it.

  Inside, the small house was clean, orderly, and comfortable. The main feature of the room was a table, with four chairs and bare of plates or glasses but loaded with a stack of Blank books, all open. Christopher Wolfe sat at that table in a dark red silk dressing gown with small reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he compared one book to another. "Good evening. It is evening, isn't it?"

  "It's the black middle of the night," Santi said. "But close, I suppose."

  Wolfe folded the glasses, slotted them into the centerfold of an open book, and said, "You were told to stay away from us, I believe, Brightwell. It was very good advice."

  Santi sat down at the table beside Wolfe and put his head in his hands. "He's as bad as you. Tell him to stay away, and he'll do just the opposite. I don't know why you pretend to be surprised. You should know them all better by now."

  When Wolfe didn't answer, Jess did. "Captain, you heard about Scholar Prakesh?"

  "Yes," Santi said, and looked aside at Wolfe. "I meant to tell you, but you were busy, and--"

  "What about Prakesh?"

  "She's dead," Jess said, before Santi could reply. "It's our fault. We asked her for information that could have led us to Thomas."

  Paralysis lasted for a few heartbeats, and then Wolfe angrily shoved the books in front of him off the table, onto the floor. Santi winced, and Jess quickly bent and rescued the volumes. He found Wolfe's glasses and put them on the top of the stack.

  By the time he'd finished, Wolfe had gotten to his feet and turned away to pace the end of the room. "I hope you realize what you've done. You've not just sacrificed Aadhya Prakesh, but yourselves as well. Every one of you will be picked off before you know what's coming. What were you thinking?"

  "We were thinking about Thomas!" Jess shouted back. "The longer we hide from this, the more he'll be hurt! Broken! You--of all people, you know that!"

  Santi looked at Wolfe with a stilled expression. His long fingers curled too tightly around the edge of the table, and then he nodded. "I know, too," he said. "I was there when Wolfe crawled bloody to this door. I'm the one who saw what was done to him. And we are not taking this risk blindly."

 
; "That's the point, sir. That's why I'm here. We're all going to die if we don't take action now. We need to get Thomas and get out!"

  "Not without more definitive information."

  Jess swallowed, and said, "I think part of that answer is locked up in your memories, Scholar. You were taken, just like Thomas. You were even taken for the same reasons. Maybe they took you to the same place." He spread his hands. "We've tried everything else."

  "No," Santi said.

  Wolfe ignored that. "There's no guarantee that anything I recall will help," he said. "Still less will it be real proof that's where they're holding Thomas."

  "It's more than what we've got right now, isn't it?"

  Wolfe looked at him for a moment without any expression, and then shook his head. "I can't recall any useful details. What they did to me was very effective."

  "Leave it, Jess," Santi said. "I'm sorry, but this has gone far enough. I have to look after Christopher's safety now."

  "There is no safety--you said so yourself."

  "I told you, leave it alone. This isn't some adventure; it's a bloody war. They pay me to be a tactician, and I can tell you this: we can't win. We don't have the numbers or the weapons or the knowledge. We're defeated before we start, and, yes, I will look after the one I love before all else, and devil take the rest of you if it comes to that!"

  Wolfe didn't seem to hear any of that as he paced, but suddenly he said, "Brightwell. Can you secure a Mesmer who knows his business and can be trusted?"

  Mesmers weren't common in Alexandria, but there were a few, and some who plied a trade more in the shadows than in the light. The entertainers--the ones who made volunteers dance like chickens or pretend to fly--those had been certified by the Library. There were others whose motives were more purely profit driven. "I think so," Jess said.

  Santi said, "No. Under no circumstances will I allow it."

  Wolfe said, in the same mild tone, "Ignore that. He doesn't want me to remember more, of course. He thinks I'll shatter like a dropped vase if I do."

  "Will you?" Jess asked.

  "Yes!" Santi said, and it was a shout compressed beneath an artificial calm. "He'll destroy himself. And you've got a target on your back, Jess. Don't forget it."

  Jess shrugged. "I grew up with the Garda chewing at my heels. Business as usual."

  "The Archivist's assassins aren't bound by the same laws as the London Garda or even my own soldiers. You should be afraid. He's killed far better than you."

  "Stop, Nic. Jess is right." Wolfe stopped pacing and looked at Santi. The two men faced each other, and Wolfe seemed quiet, clear-eyed, and steady. He didn't look like the fragile, shaking man Jess had seen at the High Garda compound after the ambush. Nor did he look like the driven, angry man who'd taken on the role of teacher for Jess's class. The man had too many secrets, buried too deep, for Jess's comfort. Ironic, some sliver of Jess's mind whispered, considering how much you keep from him. From everyone.

  They were alike, Jess realized: both mistrustful, prone to hide emotions from others. Both with scars they hated to show. The difference was that Wolfe had Niccolo Santi. They'd braided their lives tightly together, and it would take a sharp sword to cut that tie.

  He envied them that love. He might have hoped for it once.

  But she was gone.

  "Don't do this," Santi said. "I'm begging you, Chris, don't. You'll kill yourself."

  "Better I kill myself in a good cause than let the Library simply erase me. The Archivist has already destroyed my work. We both know he won't allow me to live on much longer. If dying is my fate, at least I can try to change Thomas Schreiber's before it comes." He reached out for Santi's hand. "I will happily remember every cut, every burn, every blow if it helps set that boy free. Please don't stand in my way."

  Santi bowed his head for a moment, stepped forward, and rested his forehead against Wolfe's. "You fool," he said, and kissed him, sweet and slow. "Don't ask me to watch you tear yourself to pieces."

  He let go of Wolfe, went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.

  Wolfe said, "I can't blame him for that; he remembers how I was after. But I'm stronger now. I will manage."

  "Sir--" Jess's voice went cold in his throat, and he couldn't finish for a long, struggling moment. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me." The look in his dark eyes was chilling now, lightless, the same as when he'd been the unwilling proctor for their class of innocent postulants, knowing so many would fail or die. "I'm not your hero. It was my doing that made you all targets in the first place. If you'd never met me, your life would have been happier. It surely would be longer." His smile was awful--full of bitterness and heartbreak. "Now go find me a suitable Mesmer, and let's get this over with before Nic comes to his senses."

  Finding a Mesmer wasn't hard; finding one who didn't have ties to the Library was much more difficult, and, in the end, Jess had to settle for one, on the advice of smuggler friends, who was known for conducting under-the-table thefts from wealthy clients, some of whom he convinced to rob themselves and forget they'd done it. A gifted man, no doubt about it.

  Just not a very nice one.

  In person, Elsinore Quest was a rabbity little fellow who hunched his shoulders and ducked his head and almost never met Jess's eyes. But when he did, Jess realized why. There was a certain steeliness to his gaze that would certainly have put some of his victims off too soon. Better to seem inoffensive and incapable of violence, particularly if someone wanted to entrust mind and will to you.

  Quest kept up a steady stream of chatter on the carriage ride back, which was unbearably annoying, since all he talked about was the weather. It was typical for the time of year--warm and humid--and Quest seemed to think that it would be the death of him.

  If only it were true, at least it would stop his endless droning.

  "You understand what I'm paying you to do?" Jess interrupted, when he recognized the streets they were crossing. They were close to Wolfe's house. "And what I'm paying you to forget?"

  Quest's flow of complaints shut off as if someone had closed a valve inside him, and he raised his gaze to meet Jess's. The man was in his forties, most likely, with weathered, ill-kept, dry skin and graying, thinning hair, but his eyes--blue as the faded Alexandrian sky--were still vital and powerful. "Don't worry about me, young master," he said, and smiled. "I've forgotten more deadly secrets than you can ever imagine existed. One more is no bother, especially at the price you're paying. Though I should point out--just for business purposes--that I sent a message off to a colleague about where I'd be and who you are. In case some . . . mishap occurs."

  In other words, he wasn't a fool and he knew the risks. Jess nodded. He didn't take offense. Everyone in the shadow trades had to watch his own back.

  "Half now," Jess said. "Half when you're done."

  "Reasonable," Quest said, and turned to look out the carriage window. The steam powering it puffed white and wispy behind them on the still, quiet night air; the streets were deserted, which Jess thought was a good thing. The fewer witnesses to Quest's visit, the better. "Ah. We must be close."

  The carriage slowed, and Jess jumped out to offer the driver the standard fare of five geneih. Quest climbed down slowly, as if he was old and fragile, and shuffled after Jess to Santi's door.

  Wolfe opened it and stood aside. He was fully dressed now in a loose black shirt and trousers and boots. There was no sign of Santi, and the bedroom door was still shut.

  "Elsinore Quest, Mesmer," Jess said. "Scholar Wolfe, who'll be your subject."

  "Very pleased to meet you," Quest said, and weakly offered a handshake. Wolfe ignored it until the hand dropped awkwardly back to Quest's side. "We will need relative quiet. Ah, this corner chair will do. Please sit down, sir. Make yourself quite comfortable. It's very important that you be quite comfortable and let all your cares fall away, let them blow away like sand on the wind . . ."

  There is a certain strange rhythm to the man's voice, Jess
thought, and tried to pinpoint what it was that so unsettled him--and, at the same time, what soothed him. He'd already started his work, then. Odd; Jess recognized that the man had used the same tones in the carriage, during that endless flow of weather observations. Had Quest tried to use his talents on him? Had it worked? No, surely he'd have known if it had. Wouldn't I? The doubt made his mouth go dry.

  Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

  Wolfe sank down in the chair that Quest indicated, and as the Mesmer pulled another chair close, Jess saw the bedroom door silently open. Santi stepped out. The captain moved to stand beside Jess and said, in a low voice that couldn't have carried to Wolfe, "If this goes badly, I will stop it."

  "I know," Jess said. "It might not even work--sometimes it doesn't . . ." His voice faded because Wolfe had already closed his eyes. Quest's voice dropped to a low, calm rhythm, and Jess couldn't catch what he was saying now as he bent close to Wolfe. The Scholar's head slowly tipped forward.

  Wolfe raised one hand--or, at least, the hand rose. There was no corresponding shift of balance from Wolfe's body, no sign that the movement of that hand and arm had been directed from a conscious mind. The rest of him stayed completely still.

  Quest reached out and pushed on the top of the floating hand. It hardly moved at all. He nodded in satisfaction and looked over to Jess. "He's ready. What do you want me to ask?"

  That fast? Jess blinked. "Ask him about his time in the cells--"

  "Wait," Santi said. He sighed. "I hate that you've forced him into this, but at least we can spare him some agony. Ask him about being taken to prison, then ask about any time he was taken out of a cell. Nothing about what happened to him--only locations and surroundings. Do you understand?"

  "Of course," Quest said blandly. "You're looking only for where he was being held. I understand."

  "Good." Santi's gaze bored into the man. "You'd better."

  "Trust in me, friend. I know my business." Quest leaned forward and rested his hand briefly on Wolfe's shoulder. "Now go back. Go back to the day that you were taken into custody. Do you remember?"

  The reaction was immediate and terrible. Wolfe's whole body tensed, shifted, and seemed to pull inward. His head did not rise, but Jess heard the change in his breathing from across the room. His skin went cold listening to that harsh, painful panting. But they couldn't stop now. Wolfe had agreed to this.