by Rachel Caine
He'd hated every moment of that long, solitary voyage, and not only for the miserable hours he'd spent seasick.
Brendan piled in behind him and took the seat facing him, then reached out a hand to pull in Anit. Red Ibrahim's daughter shut the carriage door and tapped the roof as if she were born to the practice, as at home here as she was in the streets of Alexandria and the smugglers' markets below them. "Thank you for the hospitality."
"Surprised you're not staying with your ship and on your way," Jess said. "I'd think this diversion put you off schedule."
"A small delay. I am to pay your father my sincere respects," she said. "As you would if visiting my father's home."
Jess would have, of course; there was nothing to it but business courtesy. But it still set him on guard, and he saw the brief flash in Brendan's eyes before he turned to look out the carriage's window at the rough, rocky coast. Anit wasn't here just to smile prettily and offer family greetings, and his brother well knew that.
"You seem at home away from home," Jess said.
"You mean, considering my age?" Anit said coolly. "I have traveled with my father since I was old enough to remember. But this trip to Mexico is the first I've taken alone on his behalf."
"And we landed you in it, didn't we?"
She looked away and lifted her shoulders in a very small shrug. "I think none of us have ever been out of it."
Morgan laughed. It had a bitter little edge to it. "You and I already have much in common, Anit. It isn't just the smugglers who spend their lives hunted."
"No doubt." Anit glanced back at Jess. "Thank you for the lions. I will hold them in trust for you, as I promised."
"We'll be along to get them. Sometime."
"Of course," she said. "You may count on me, Jess."
She sounded all right when she said it, but she was still young, and he sensed that hint of falseness in it. Lying was as easy to smugglers as respiration, normally, but not among family. She wasn't quite comfortable with it yet.
Morgan sighed and leaned her head on Jess's shoulder. "I need a bath. A hot bath, with rose soap. And a meal that isn't military rations."
"I think that can be arranged," he said. "One thing I know about my da: he won't be living in a tent and eating beans from a metal can if it can be helped."
"I think I'll like it, then."
"Oh, you won't," Brendan said. "But I don't think he'll care."
There was a certain relaxing quality to the ride, the sway of the carrier, the hiss of the tires . . . at least until they hit a bump that lifted everyone in the vehicle six inches into the air, and slammed them down hard. They'd all been through enough to take it in stride, but even Brendan had to wince. The driver's cheerful cry of "Sorry!" didn't seem very sincere.
Nearly an hour later, and (by Jess's count) more than twenty similar bounces, they finally squealed to a halt, and the back doors flapped open to admit gray daylight. No rain, and though Jess had expected to step out onto mud, he found himself standing on clean, ancient flagstones. The sight of the brooding old walls that rose thirty feet into the air made the breath in his lungs turn sick and tainted. He turned, staring. The walls circled the court in which the carriage had parked. Another carriage had already come to a halt beside theirs, and a third rattled over a wide wooden bridge and in through an enormous arched door.
And then, as the bridge cranked up with a hiss of powerful hydraulics and a clank of iron chains as thick as his legs, as it sealed shut with a boom and inner doors were pulled closed, Jess realized that his brother hadn't been exaggerating.
His father was living in a castle. And the sight of the walls made him feel sick and hot and short of breath, and he didn't know why, until he thought he smelled a phantom whiff of rotting plants and Greek fire.
I'm past Philadelphia. I'm over it.
But it left him shaking and sweating, with a sick taste in the back of his throat, and he flinched as Morgan put her arm in his. "Sorry," he murmured.
"This is your home?"
"I've never seen it before," he said. The fortress proper consisted of gigantic, brooding buildings and towers. The London town house he'd grown up in could have fit within the entry hall, he imagined. The place was large enough to hold an entire High Garda company. Pity they'd had to leave theirs behind. "I thought Brendan was exaggerating."
"Not a bit," his brother said, and lifted Anit down from the carriage. "Da's owned this place for twenty years, give or take. Never in his own name, of course. And this is the first time he's felt threatened enough to make use of it."
"Jess! Oh, my dear boy!"
He turned toward the voice, and his mother came rushing down the narrow stone steps of the castle's main door and threw her arms around him. He froze for a long second, staring in blank panic at Brendan, who'd crossed his arms, and then tentatively hugged her back. Celia Brightwell had always been a distant presence in his life; Callum had married her for position and money, not love, and though she'd been a dutiful enough mother, she'd never been a warm one. She'd certainly never embraced him like this before. If it weren't for her familiar features and the expensive cut of her dress, he'd have thought it was someone playing her.
"I was afraid you'd never come back," she told him, and put him at arm's length to stare at him. He realized, maybe for the first time, that he'd inherited the color of his eyes from her, as had Brendan. He couldn't remember what color their dead brother Liam's had been. More like his father's, he thought. "Callum hasn't told me much, you know, but I know you've been in terrible danger. Oh, Jess!"
"I'm all right," he said, and it sounded awkward; he cleared his throat and tried to make it sound warmer. "I've missed you, Mother."
She'd always been Mother, never anything more affectionate. Then again, Callum had always been Da, and there was little enough affection there, either . . .
"I've missed you so," she said, and kissed his cheek, which was shocking. "Welcome home, my dear."
She went to greet Brendan with the same outpouring of emotion, which must have surprised his twin just as much, but Jess didn't have a chance to observe it. His father was coming down the steps at a much more sedate, lordly pace, and he was using an ebony cane that he probably didn't need. Knowing his da, there'd be a poisoned blade inside it.
"Jess," his father said, when they were face-to-face.
"Da," he replied, and was unprepared for his father--like his mother--to sweep him into a strong, crushing embrace. It was confusing, and at the same time, he felt some war that had been waging inside him go silent, too. Had he needed this? God help him if he had, because it was very likely that it wasn't real at all. His da was perfectly capable of putting on a show for those he wanted to impress . . . which would be who, exactly?
Ah, of course. Anit.
Callum let Jess go and gave Brendan the same greeting, and then gave Anit a decorous, formal bow. "Your father always said you were as beautiful as the dawn," Callum said. "I see that for once his genius for poetry failed him, because you're far lovelier than that, my dear."
She bowed, too, and stepped forward to offer him the kiss of greeting between friends--one on each cheek, then one lightly on the lips. "My father sends you warm greetings, my uncle. I am honored to be welcome in your house."
"Ever welcome, my dear. You're part of the family, after all." Callum--still bluff and strong and barrel-chested, still expensively togged out, only a little thinner and a little grayer than Jess remembered him--offered Anit his crooked elbow, and she took it with the calm assurance of a princess. "And I see the lovely young Morgan is with us again." He bowed to her--shallowly--and she gave him a little nod back. "Have all your friends survived your journey? That's a credit to your skills. A considerable achievement."
This smarmy flow of compliments, Jess gathered, was all for Anit's benefit. He glanced at Brendan and saw the answering glint in his brother's eyes. Cynical, but weirdly reassuring. His memories of the chilly distance with his mother weren't wrong. And neithe
r were his recollections of the slaps his father dealt out to teach him the proper way to run a smuggled book through London.
Their parents moved on to greet the others with a good deal more restraint, and then led the way up into the castle.
"Quite the show," Brendan said, falling into step beside his brother, and Jess made a throwing-up sound in the back of his throat. "What? Are you saying it isn't good to be back in the bosom of the old family?"
"I feel welcome as ever," Jess said. "Do you actually live in this great pile of rocks, or is it just a stage for whatever play they're putting on?"
"Oh, I live here. For now, anyway." Brendan shook his head with a crooked smile on his lips. "Come on, brother. I'll help get everyone sorted for sleeping quarters. There are twenty extra bedrooms in the place that can sleep three in a pinch, and ten more in the guesthouse--"
"Guesthouse?"
"And you don't need to worry about our safety. Besides these castle walls, the entire grounds stretch on for miles in every direction. The borders are surrounded by walls and sentries. Plus, we're remote here, and we have spies on every road and approach who'll send word immediately if anyone starts our way. Unless the damned Library has learned how to fly, they won't be able to get here without ample warning, and a hell of a fight."
"You have troops."
"We have . . . hired men. And a great deal to defend. You know how it goes."
What Brendan was really telling him, in so many words, was that this was a prison, and every escape route was guarded.
Dario came up the steps, where Brendan and Jess were locked in communication, and said, "You never told me you lived like a real grandee, scrubber. I'm impressed."
"Yes," Jess said, "you would be."
The warm welcome lasted through a receiving line of uniformed servants--all armed, Jess noted, even the maids and cooks--and stepping inside the hall was like taking a trip a thousand years into the past. The place was obviously well maintained, but ancient, from the enormous carved beams that rose far into the shadows, to the three huge fireplaces big enough to burn half a tree at a time. There were giant feasting tables that could seat at least a hundred, and tattered old battle flags hanging from the walls.
Best of all, the hall was lined with bookshelves, double Jess's height, that stretched the length of the room on both sides. A dizzying archive, and everything in it original. Callum Brightwell's warehouse, right out in public view.
That, for the first time, made him feel less trapped.
"Mr. Grainger will show you all to your rooms," Jess's father announced, and then beckoned to Jess. "Not you, boy. I'll need reports. And I'll need to speak with you and your big friend Thomas. Oh, and I understand you have books you've rescued from the Black Archives of Alexandria. I'll be needing those as well."
"There's my father," Jess murmured to Thomas. "I was afraid someone had taken his place."
"Do you trust him?" Thomas asked, just as quietly.
"Do you?"
"I trust everyone. Until I see I shouldn't. But you know him."
"Yeah," Jess agreed. "I do."
That wasn't an answer, but Thomas didn't push for one; they walked together after Callum, through the great hall. A grand stone staircase big enough to march five across up it lay beyond, and split to the left and right. Callum went right, and Jess had been correct: he didn't need the cane at all.
The top of the stairs led to another grand hallway lined with tapestries and paintings, and at the end of it, with a fine lord's view of the deer park and gardens beyond the walls, lay his father's office. It was surprisingly familiar. Jess remembered the desk, with its carved crouching lions. Da must have had it rescued out of London. More shelves of books, expensive warm rugs, and a smell of leather and old paper.
This was like coming home.
"Sit," his da said, and took his own advice. His winged desk chair was new, and quite like a throne. Jess took one of the three matching seats that faced the desk. The one Thomas chose was almost big enough for him. "Books?"
"They're coming," Jess said. "Dario and Khalila will deliver them."
"Good." His father sat back and studied them. Warm smile, but his eyes were like cold pebbles at the bottom of a frozen lake. "I understand that you built the unfortunate Philadelphians your press. And it worked."
"We did," Thomas said. "And it did." He had his bag with him, and now he pulled out a copy of the blueprints that he'd sketched aboard the ship. "Here is what we built. Of course, we can improve on it."
Brightwell picked up the paper and peered at it closely. Jess knew that frown. It was mostly for show, done to get the best deal in any negotiation. It was so ingrained that he doubted his father even noticed he was doing it. "Doesn't look like much, to be changing the world. That's what you're promising?"
"Yes," Thomas said. "If you give me the tools, Jess and I will build one for you. We'll need supplies. I can make you a list."
"Then, do that." Somehow, Callum made it sound like a failure that Thomas hadn't done so already. "You find my son an adequate assistant, or do you need someone better trained?"
Thomas looked up, and for the first time, his smile flattened and his blue eyes seemed darker. "I don't take your meaning, Mr. Brightwell. Do you not think your son is good enough for such a job?"
"I suppose he's bright enough, but--"
"He is bright enough," Thomas said. "And I don't need anyone else."
For the first time that Jess could remember, his da didn't have a ready response. He parted his lips and looked at Thomas curiously, then shook his head. "If you're satisfied," he said. "Of course."
Thomas stood up and took the plans back, to Callum's astonishment--and, if he had to admit it, to Jess's own surprise, too. It was a bold move. One that Callum debated challenging, and then clearly decided to let pass. "When can you start building this wonder?"
"As soon as we come to an arrangement," Thomas said. "You are a negotiator, I understand. So what do you offer?"
"You don't think saving your hides from the High Garda and the Archivist is payment enough? You do set a high price on yourself, Scholar."
Thomas gave him a pure, and purely alarming, smile. "Not on myself, sir. But on the knowledge I have to share, yes. On the lives of my friends, yes. On the future of the Library . . . yes. That, I put a high price on."
Callum shot a glance at Jess. "Last I met this one, he was a featherheaded optimist. You've had a bad influence on him."
"He's right," Jess said. "What he has is valuable. Anit sold us passage here. What are you selling?"
"Safety and shelter! A place to conduct whatever inventing you plan to do, at my cost, so long as I share in these discoveries! Isn't that enough?"
Thomas didn't answer. He left it to Jess, which was wise. "We're going to need a way back to Alexandria," he said. "Something secure and secret. That's part of the deal, when we want to go."
"For how many of you?"
"All of us."
"That's a stupid waste," his father said. "Dragging your friends right back into the hands of executioners. Unless you have some larger plan . . . ?"
"We can discuss it later," Jess said. "Thomas and I will build the press for you, to pay for the cost of our protection here. Thomas gets to build anything else he wants, and you pay for the costs of that. We'll discuss payment for the plans."
"Payment!"
"I know exactly how much money you're going to be making from this." Jess smiled slowly. "Did you really expect us to give things away for free, Da?"
Callum glared at him for a long, red moment, and then, quite suddenly, laughed. Slapped the surface of his desk so hard a sheet of paper curled into the air in surprise and floated back down. "My son," he said. "I used to think you'd never be good for much in our trade. I might have been wrong about that."
From the corner of his eye, Jess saw Thomas flinch a little at the casual insult; he'd come from a different sort of family, and that had stung him, on Jess's behalf. But it hardl
y even registered, really. Growing up in the Brightwell household had meant being coldly judged, measured, trained, slapped, and corrected. Not encouraged.
By Callum's standards, that had been a real compliment.
"Do we have an accord?" Jess asked.
His father reached for a piece of paper, pulled it over, and wrote rapidly. Signed with a flourish. Handed it to him with the pen. "Sign," he said.
Jess scanned the text of what his father had written down. Flawlessly phrased in his own favor, of course, but it didn't much matter; Jess nodded and signed his name. His father took pen and paper back, sealed the document with wax, and filed it in a drawer that probably held a hundred similar agreements, some going back decades.
"Now," Callum said, and sat back in his chair. "I expect you'll want to get yourselves off to a decent bed. Dinner's served at eight in the small reception room; they'll fetch you for it. Clothes in your rooms. Had to guess at sizes, but I think our tailors did well enough. Go on with you. I have other business."
Callum had already pulled a stack of paper onto his desk and was rifling through it, ignoring them completely. Jess shrugged when Thomas sent him a baffled look.
This was the kind of welcome he'd been expecting all along.
They walked out together and closed his father's office door behind them, and Jess said nothing. Felt nothing, really, until he glanced at his friend's face and saw the anger there.
"I don't mean to offend, Jess, but your father is a fool if he thinks so little of you. Is that how he always treats you?"
It was an odd question, and Jess shrugged. "He's had his moments of fondness, I suppose. Swings between that, benign indifference, and from time to time, the back of his hand when he felt he needed to make a point."
Thomas was staring at him with the oddest expression. "It's wrong, you know. For a father to be so cold."
"I know," Jess said. He forced out a grin and wondered if it looked as false as it felt. "Whatever doesn't kill you, isn't that the saying?"
Thomas shook his head. "You are strong in spite of him. Not because of him."