Ash and Quill

by Rachel Caine

  "You're joking," Jess said to his brother. "You got her to help us. All the way from Alexandria?"

  "I wasn't in Alexandria," Anit said. "I delivered a shipment of goods from Egypt to a port in Mexico and retrieved some new things. Diverting here was little trouble. But it will cost you." She smiled--at Jess, not Brendan. "My father does nothing for free."

  No mistaking it--she didn't care for Brendan much. She looked older, Jess thought . . . taller, and rounder beneath her practical trousers and jacket. Armed with both a gun and a knife, though the knife looked almost ornamental. She wore her dark hair up in a no-nonsense twist, and as she bowed slightly to Jess, he mirrored it, just a little lower.

  "Didn't you make the deal?" he asked his brother. Brendan raised his eyebrows. A familiar gesture. An irritating one.

  "With what? You're lucky I arrived here, trading on favors, in time to save your sorry skin. Da didn't pour his fortune in my pockets. You want passage, you make the deal."

  "I'm sorry," Anit said, and it sounded genuine enough. "You understand this is business, not friendship."

  "I do."

  "And have you anything to offer? I would hate to leave you here, at the mercy of--well--enemies."

  Jess turned toward Thomas, who was holding out a leather document case. He'd spent his time on the trip drawing plans and writing detailed instructions, and Jess held up the case with both hands. Anit raised both eyebrows and shifted her weight a little but didn't reach for it. "Unless that is full of the handwritten papers of Archimedes, I don't think that is enough," she said.

  "It will make you a fortune," Thomas said. "It will change the world. And you can be part of it."

  Anit took the case. She opened it and looked at the plans for a good long time, then put everything back inside and said, "And if we don't want the world changing? My father has built an empire on scarcity. So has yours, Jess. You want to destroy that?"

  "Yes," Jess said. "And so do you. The world is going to change with or without us, Anit. Now, or next year, or ten years from now. The Library's desperate hold on the future is slipping. We change now, we stay in front of that. We profit. Cling to the past, and you go the way of the Archivist."

  "It's just paper," she said. "You're paying me with an idea."

  "You trade in ideas," Brendan said. "And paper. And so do the Brightwells. We stick together, don't we? Cousin?"

  Anit didn't answer. She lifted a hand to her neck and played with a necklace chain there; the pendant ring on it was concealed under her shirt, but Jess remembered it well. It had belonged to a brother she'd lost to an automaton, when they'd been trying to puzzle out how to turn them off. Jess had been the first to manage it and live, and she--and Red Ibrahim--owed him much for that discovery.

  Brendan shifted minutely. Making ready to fight. Anit, he noticed, saw it as well. She exchanged a lightning-quick glance with the man who stood on her right, and then made a tiny, almost imperceptible motion with her hand. Since no one died in the next few seconds, Jess assumed she'd told him to be calm.

  "Do you accept this offer?" Jess asked her, very quietly. Respectfully. He could see the calculation in the look she was giving him. She was very aware of both her youth and her responsibility. The decision she was making could destroy her family or seal its future wealth. A heavy weight for someone even younger than he was.

  "Yes," she said then, as if it was not a hard decision at all, and smiled. It looked easy. His respect for her ability to lie grew. "Of course, that is speaking cousin to cousin. If it proves not to be enough in the eyes of my father, well. We'll have talks, family to family. No doubt my father might speak directly with yours." That was a veiled threat of war, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Brendan start to speak.

  "Fine," he said quickly and casually, and turned to his brother. "Fine, yes?"

  Brendan's eyes had gone dark, but his smile came as easily as Anit's. And just as falsely. "Of course. But let's not make a mistake: you hurt one Brightwell, you hurt all of them. Right?"

  "Your father has two sons," Anit said. "My father has only me. Red Ibrahim will also give blood for blood. But we are not talking about blood, my cousins. We talk gold. Rivers of it, if Jess and his friend are right."

  "Rivers of gold," Brendan repeated. "Enough for everyone."

  Jess had to fight back a vision of the tower of the Philadelphia town hall crashing in, and the golden statue of Ben Franklin melting in ribbons. Rivers of gold. It must have run through the ashes of the dead and covered up bones. Gilded skeletons.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and smelled the stench of Greek fire again, and gulped in a deep breath of sea air, then another.

  "Actually," Thomas said, "I did bring something else I thought might come in useful. Perhaps it would be of use to you, miss."

  He had a sack over his shoulder, one with burned patches on the fabric, and Jess remembered the one he'd dragged out of Philadelphia. Refused to leave behind. He handed it to her, and Anit opened it, just a little tentatively.

  It was full of books bound in matching red leather.

  "What is this?" She opened the first volume and gave Thomas a wide-eyed glance. "Journals."

  "The records of Philadelphia," he said. "A hundred years of them, handwritten by the Burners. I . . . I didn't think their history should die with them."

  That was what he'd gone back for, when he'd realized that the Library would destroy everything. History. The history of a city now in ashes.

  They were all silent for a moment, and then Anit bowed to him. Deeply. "I accept this as payment in full for your passage," she said. "My father will treat this gift with the respect that it deserves. Thank you."

  Anit boarded the ship, but she paused at the rail to say, "The lions must be kept below. And turned off. You understand."

  "Of course," Thomas said.

  "And I might like to keep one, perhaps."

  "Our gift to you," Wolfe said. "With thanks."

  Anit practically grinned this time. She was, Jess thought, coming out of this far better than she'd ever expected.

  They all boarded quickly, and Jess helped Thomas get the lions stowed and turned off in the cramped hold. Morgan had already been shown to a cabin, and so had Wolfe and Santi. Dario stood at the railing, watching as the ship pushed away from the dock.

  Next to him, Khalila didn't seem to be watching anything, but there was something in her face that made Jess pause beside her and ask, quietly, "Are you all right?"

  "I'm thinking of my cousin," she said. "All wars have casualties. Rafa was dead the moment the Archivist handed him the letter. I pray we can get everyone else's family safe."

  "We will. My family's been hiding from the Library for five generations of criminal success. We'll make sure they're put where the High Garda won't find them."

  "If he dispatches them to Wales, Glain's family will send them packing," Dario said. "Wales has already nearly broken away from the Library's control. My family is too royal for the Archivist to threaten. So that just leaves Thomas's to worry about, in Germany."

  "I'll see to it," Brendan said. "Least I can do, since I didn't pay a copper penny for our passage." He strolled off to speak with Anit. Dario followed him.

  Khalila swallowed hard, and for a moment there was a shine of tears in her eyes, but then it was gone, as if it had evaporated under the intense heat of the anger she was banking inside. She hesitated for a moment, then said, very quietly, "Jess? It's past sunset. I have prayers. I can't think of a time I've needed them so much."

  "Do you mind if I wait with you?" he asked. She gave him a smile that nearly broke his heart. Brave and painful.

  "Your God and mine are listening," she said. "Perhaps you might talk to yours, as well."

  "I might try. How do you say amen?"

  "Amen," she said, though it sounded slightly different from the English version, and laughed.

  He repeated that, and she said the word with his pronunciation, and for a moment, it felt like . .
. peace.

  As Khalila prayed, facing toward Mecca, he stood and did his own kind of prayer. More of a bargain. Let me find the strength to do this, he said. And let me be strong enough to protect them from what's coming.

  The ship's engines set up a low, steady thrum and raced them into the teeth of a howling, cold wind.

  Toward England.

  EPHEMERA

  Alert sent out to all coastal ports in which the Library has presence

  ATTENTION

  The Archivist Magister commands that you mark, record, and investigate every vessel that arrives or leaves your seaports. We are seeking a dangerous group of rebels who may be attempting to move through your area.

  Our best information is that they are aboard a vessel recently departed from America, but we have been unable to locate this ship, which may be traveling under different names and flags. You are directed to make all possible efforts, even to the disruption of normal trade and the inconvenience of passengers, to locate these individuals. Likenesses and descriptions are attached. These renegades may be traveling under the guises of High Garda uniforms and Scholar robes.

  They are the enemy of the Archivist and the Library. They must be stopped at all costs.

  A handwritten note appended to the order by the vice chancellor for the king of Wales and sent to all ports in Wales and England controlled by his forces

  In the name of our king, you are to ignore this and any other demands from the Great Library. Let them come do their own dirty work, and they can pay for docking privilege just like anyone else. We don't do their job for them in finding their runaways. Let them come search and see how far they get.

  EPHEMERA

  A handwritten declaration sent under diplomatic seal to the Archivist Magister of the Great Library, signed by the reigning rulers of Wales, England, Portugal, Turkey, Russia, and Japan, as well as the queen in exile of the Library Territory of France, and the United Colonies of America

  Comes before you now the will of the free people to withdraw from the Treaty of Pergamum, by which the Great Library in all its forms is held apart and above the laws of kingdoms in which it provides its service. Knowledge is a greater good, there is no dissent upon this fact, but we can no longer ignore the abuses of power pursued by generations of Archivists, and the use of High Garda not to protect knowledge, but to destroy it.

  The lessons of the past must guide us to the future, and as the Library once stood brave and alone against the dark, now we must stand together against the greater injustice that same Library now represents. We will not fight you, but we will no longer provide free passage within our territories, and we will no longer acknowledge any claims of Library neutrality. You have taken sides, Great Archivist. Proof has been offered that you have suppressed and destroyed the same knowledge you claim to hold sacred. We will no longer support, or allow, the Library's vendettas.

  Librarians may remain and operate the Serapeums within our borders, but be warned: if High Garda are sent by any method, whether land, sea, or Translation, we will act upon this as a declaration of open war. You are warned by the queen in exile that she reclaims France for its people, and so may choose to pursue war within those borders.

  May the ancient gods of Egypt, in whose shadow you still stand, guide you back to the path of wisdom and light.

  To this, we set our hands.

  [signatures and seals]

  Text of an addendum written by the Archivist Magister, to the Artifex Magnus. Not indexed in the Codex.

  They think they can defy us. They aren't the first, but they will be the last. If they want war, we'll wage it on every front. If we allow these insignificant kings and queens and leaders to dictate to us, we lose everything. There is talk of interdicted mechanical presses. We must stop this before it's too late. Under my seal, you are to order the High Garda immediately from our borders to the attack on any country that opposes us in this document.

  Text of a handwritten message from the newly appointed High Garda commander to the Artifex Magnus

  You may send all the orders you like, sir. But I refuse to start wars I cannot win for the sake of an old man's desperation and vanity. I expect he will kill me for it, but it is my duty as a sworn soldier not of the Archivist, but of the Great Library, to tell you that he has become a danger to everything we hold dear.

  Text of a handwritten message from the Artifex Magnus to the Archivist

  If you want to keep your throne, you must make examples. And you must do it soon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The north of England, Castle Raby

  Setting foot on a rocky English beach felt familiar to Jess--cold, windy, damp. At the same time, it felt entirely alien to him, because England, for him, meant London, and London was gone. Not destroyed, not by half, but war torn, looted, scorched, and beaten. And in the hands, at least for now, of the Welsh, who were busy installing their own government in Parliament.

  They'd put Anit's ship--now repainted, with false windows and a brand-new figurehead, plus a different set of flags--in at a smugglers' cove on the north coast, far enough from York to be safe and near enough to the Scottish border to be dangerous. Coming ashore brought with it weak, uncertain legs that had gotten used to the rolling seas, and a conviction that the horizon would never stop moving on him, but leaving the ship was a huge relief. Jess was not a good sailor.

  Thomas was. His big friend clapped him on the shoulder as he tilted, and pulled him straight again. "Good to be home?" Thomas asked.

  "This isn't my home," Jess said. "I'm from London."

  "Which is in England, yes? Isn't that the same?"

  Jess didn't bother to answer that. His stomach was cramping, his legs ached, and the stones turning under his boots didn't make walking uphill any easier . . . but he forgot his discomfort when he arrived at the top and was confronted by two men with drawn weapons.

  Jess held up his hands and said, "Stormcrow," which was the phrase he'd arranged with Brendan during the voyage. "And don't try to fire that thing, Grainger; you've always been a terrible shot."

  "Aye, that's true enough," said the taller of the two men, who had a cadaverous face, hollow eyes, and a strangely lush crop of black hair and whiskers. "And you're a small enough target these days, Master Jess. What did they feed you on your travels, vinegar and air?" Grainger put the weapon away, and so did his smaller, silent companion. "Welcome home, sir. I expect your brother will be along?"

  "Sooner than either of us want." And it isn't home, Jess thought, but didn't say. He glanced behind him. "Captain Santi, Scholar Wolfe, this is Mr. Grainger. My father's trusted secretary and man of all work." He politely ignored the other man, because Grainger did, too. New, since Jess had been off to Alexandria. "Will we be walking?"

  "Thank God, no," Grainger said. "We have cabs for you. Can only take four in each; how many do you have, then?"

  "Nine," Jess said, but Brendan stuck his head over Jess's shoulder and said, "Ten," at the same time. As Jess shoved him back, Brendan grinned. "Anit's coming, too. She says a night off the ship would do her good."

  "Ten," Jess said, and turned back to Grainger. "Is our father here?"

  "Waiting at the house for you. Said you were to take my word for his until then."

  "Meaning I can ignore it altogether?" Brendan said. "Excellent. Good work, Grainger." He turned and politely bowed Khalila up the path to the road. "Ladies first."

  "Shut up," Glain said, and kicked him soundly on the backside. "We don't need your smarmy consideration. Just shift yourself and get out of the way."

  "I'm starting to like you," Brendan called after her. The hand gesture she gave him was not encouraging. Brendan threw an arm around his brother's neck. "Come on, Jess. Smile. We're safe. We're home!"

  This isn't home, Jess thought again. But he was starting to realize that maybe he didn't really have a home, except with the people he loved. And they were piling into the three steam carriages lined up on the road.

  Back in London
, his da had always favored modest transportation; he'd had his town house luxurious enough, but since he'd been pretending all his life to upper-merchant class, he'd never indulged in excesses.

  That was clearly not the case anymore. The steam carriages were gleaming wonders of black lacquer and shining brasses, with the clockworks and hydraulics of the engines visible through transparent panes of thick, no doubt unbreakable, glass. Fit for kings and Archivists, Jess thought. He wondered how many rare books his father had sold to ink-lickers, to be eaten like so many delicious forbidden treats, to pay for them.

  Dario had pushed on past Brendan to help Khalila into the carriage. The journey hadn't done well for her, either; she had a hungry, hollow look to her just now, and as Dario sank down beside her and took her hand, Jess was glad she had someone who cared so much. They'd had no word of her father, brother, or uncle, except that they were still in the Archivist's prison inside the Serapeum. Glain's family was safe. Thomas's had been moved, over their protests, to a remote mountain village, with considerable manpower protecting them, thanks to Santi's brother, and retired soldiers who still owed him debts.

  Khalila was bearing her weight of fear and grief alone, and they all could see the strain of it on her.

  Morgan stopped at Jess's shoulder and pushed her hair back from her face. The wind blew it in wild, shimmering strands. It had grown longer, and the heavy air had sent it into even thicker curls. He liked it. "I wish there was more we could do for Khalila," Morgan said. "It breaks my heart to see her so--withdrawn."

  "I know," he said. "Me, too." Morgan had prospered at sea, as if she was drawing energy and strength from the vastness of it; she'd spent endless hours at the rail, watching the waves and the dolphins that raced ahead of the bow. She'd even put on some of the weight she'd lost in Philadelphia, regained curves beneath her clothes.

  He offered her his elbow, and she took it with a crooked little smile. She'd tanned, sailing under the sun. It suited her.

  She even let him boost her up into the carriage with his hands on her waist. It was the most contact she'd allowed since they'd boarded the ship. It had frightened her, what she'd nearly done to him outside Philadelphia. She'd wanted to be certain she was stronger, and more in control, before risking it again.