Ash and Quill

by Rachel Caine

  It was, Jess thought, the kindest thing anyone had said to him, and for a moment he didn't say anything at all. Didn't quite know how. Then he said, "Come on. If I don't find a bath and a bed, I might not live until dinner."

  With the help of one of the maids, Jess was shown to his bedroom--a cavernous, ornate thing with a bed larger than the cell he and Thomas had shared in Philadelphia. There was a bathroom attached, and Jess made good use of the shower until he was certain he was finally clean of every trace left of his time in Philadelphia. His burns had healed, but the scars still showed, and beneath them, like shadows, he could still see the faint lines of the cuts from the glass he'd gathered up. Good. That was like a badge of honor, those cuts. He wouldn't like to see them disappear, because they reminded him of what was lost.

  The closet yielded too many choices, so he grabbed something at random that proved to be plain black trousers and an equally plain shirt in white, with red stripes on the edges of the collar and cuffs. He put it aside and tried the bed, but the softness of it felt wrong to him. He was drowning in it, after all the deprivations. The bare accommodations on the ship had seemed luxurious. This felt overwhelming.

  So he dressed, found that his father had provided a new pair of soft leather boots, and went to wander the castle. One thing he'd learned not from his da, but from Wolfe and Santi: landing in a new place represented an entirely new set of challenges, and knowing the terrain might mean the difference between life and death. He'd rather make his map than sleep.

  Not that he thought he could sleep, anyway.

  His circuit made it through only six rooms on the ground floor, because that was where he opened a set of doors and found a small old library, and Morgan curled in a chair, reading. She didn't hear him come in.

  The soft light of late afternoon fell gently over her as she turned pages, and for a moment he just looked at her. He'd seen paintings that weren't as beautiful; the glow of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the drape of the simple dress she wore, all demanded study. The dress was the blue of a perfect sky, and perfectly flattering to her.

  "I see you found my father's rarest books," Jess said, and startled her into a flinch, which he regretted. Seeing her peaceful was a gift. She marked her place with a ribbon and closed the volume. "And did you find that bath?"

  "I did. Rose soap and all," she said. "And I think you did, too."

  She put the book down and came toward him. He ended up with his back to the shelves, and her warm lips on his. The dark floral scent of her rolled over his senses and blotted out everything else but the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth. It was a long, sweet, burning kiss. They'd been so careful, since Philadelphia; they'd barely touched on the ship. She hadn't trusted herself not to hurt him, and he hadn't trusted himself to push her away, if he had to.

  They parted with a shared gasp for air, and he pressed his forehead to hers as she let out a breathless giggle. "Like champagne on an empty stomach," she said. "Ah, I've missed you."

  He curled his fingers in with hers and pulled her tight against him, as if they were prepared to dance. "You seem much better."

  "I am stronger," she said. "Better is a different subject altogether. Being at sea was . . . good for me. All that energy, all that possibility. But . . ." She took her fingers from his and lifted her hand. A thick glimmer of power formed around it, but it was shot through with dark, shifting stars, like a handful of black glitter. "I'll never be what I was. Dr. Askuwheteau said as much. It's not a matter of strength as much as it is . . . a change of instinct."

  It was dangerous, he knew that, but he reached for her hand again. The buzz of power felt like bees against his skin, and when he threaded his fingers through hers and pressed their palms together, he felt the sting. And then it cooled. Vanished.

  But he still felt a little wave of weariness ripple through him. Just a little.

  Her smile seemed sad. "I can control it. To a point. But what you saw--the black spots--they may lessen over time, but they'll never quite go away. I'm stronger, and I'm more dangerous. But we knew that would happen."

  "And it might be needed," Jess said. He hated himself for saying it, but it was true. "You know what we discussed? On the ship?"

  She seemed to stop breathing for a moment, and he hated the flutter of panic he saw pass across her face. Then it was gone, and she seemed entirely calm. "We're not safe here."

  "I don't know that for certain, but--" It was an instinct he couldn't fully explain, built out of history and hints, memories and feelings. "If we aren't, I need you to be on your guard. Ready for whatever we have to do. All right?"

  "Yes." Her fingers curled in the collar of his jacket, and her smile seemed sweet and unreadable. "Not all Brightwells are as honest as you?"

  "No."

  "And you're an unrepentant criminal."

  "Exactly." He wondered whether the doors locked properly, and if that curved divan across the room was sturdy enough to hold them both . . . until Morgan stiffened and stepped back out of the embrace.

  "Should have known I'd find you where the best books are kept, Jess," said a voice from the door, and Jess realized with a savage pulse of fury that Dario stood there, arms folded. Enjoying the show, no doubt. "Though I admit, finding you doing something other than reading them is a new experience. This must be the most excitement this room's ever seen."

  "Oh, shut up. What do you want?" This was one of the moments, Jess thought, when punching Dario until his hand got tired seemed very, very tempting.

  Dario's lurid delight slid away, and he stepped in and closed the door behind him. Bolted it. Jess moved away from Morgan and in front of her--protecting her, though he didn't know why, or from what. But Dario only walked to the divan that Jess had been so recently considering, and sat down. He must have had a closet full of clothing waiting, too, and he'd chosen the most opulent thing he could: a rich black velvet coat with gold buttons, thick cuffs, and a wine red silk shirt beneath it. Boots so shiny they seemed coated in glass. He'd had his hair cut and his beard trimmed back to a precise goatee, and somewhere, he'd found a single ruby stud to wear in his left earlobe. Somewhere--possibly from Jess's father's collection--he'd found an ebony walking stick with a golden lion's head.

  He looked like he belonged in a castle. Like he owned at least two.

  "Jess. Sit down," he said. "We need to talk."

  "Get up," Jess said, "and walk out."

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Dario crossed his legs and sat back, clearly refusing. "I know you're not stupid enough to think we're safe," he said. "And this might be exactly why we started our discussions back in--back there." The little hesitation, the way he avoided the name Philadelphia, told Jess that Dario wasn't over it, either. He just hid it better. "So sit down."

  "I'll go," Morgan said. "I should rest." Jess turned to face her, and she positioned him so that she could kiss him with his back to Dario, and Dario wouldn't see her whisper, "Careful, whatever it is you're plotting. I still don't trust him."

  He nodded, just slightly, and let her go.

  Once she'd gone out the door, he locked it behind her and turned, leaning against it, arms folded. "This isn't the time."

  "It's the only time there is. Anit received word while I was loitering near her--close enough to hear her captain deliver the message. I credit you with spying skills, but I grew up eavesdropping."

  "Get to the point, if you have one."

  "The Archivist has announced the closure of the city of Alexandria."

  "What?"

  "A defensive measure against Burner attacks. So he says. But the Welsh-run newspapers--your father keeps quite a good collection of them, by the way--say differently. There's been a defection of treaty countries--more than the Archivist can safely try to punish at once. America's in open rebellion, and the New York Serapeum fell to the Burners yesterday." Dario inspected his fingernails. Manicured, Jess noticed. "Your rescued doctor seems to be their new spokesman. Better t
han the last cabron. But the important thing is that it's starting. Even without Thomas's press working yet, there are rumors of it. The Welsh and the English only agree on one thing, and that is that they both want the Library to stay out of their affairs. The French queen may be in exile, but Portugal agrees to shelter and help her. Add America to that boiling pot, and the Archivist will be wanting to crush resistance quickly."

  Jess, without really meaning to, found himself sitting in a chair across from Dario, elbows on his knees. Leaning forward and thinking hard. "He'll purge any dissenters from inside Alexandria. Go after anyone who opposes him in any way."

  "He's already started. There was an announcement in the Alexandrian paper--your father gets that, too--that they will celebrate a Feast of Greater Burning at the statue of Horus in thirty days. Pomp, circumstance, and sacrifice."

  Jess slowly raised his head and met Dario's dark gaze. Neither of them blinked. "They'll be killing prisoners at the Feast of Greater Burning. And Khalila's family--"

  "Is in cells at the Serapeum," Dario finished. "We have thirty days to find a way to stop it. And we can't do it from here."

  "And do we tell the others?"

  For answer, Dario reached in his coat pocket and took out a rolled sheet of thin paper. He let it fall open. It was the Alexandrian newspaper--a Library-linked document that refreshed itself with new words and illustrations every few hours. "I took the liberty of lifting it," he said. "Until we decide, you and I, what we will do. Because we know what our beloved friends will do, don't we?"

  "Run straight into a trap," Jess said. "Like heroes."

  "And you and I, we are not heroes." Dario gave a small, ironic smile, mostly to himself. "Much as I hate to admit that. But what we are might save all of us, and I think we have to settle for that."

  "All right," Jess said, and leaned forward. "Then let's find out just how much of villains we're going to have to be."

  Jess had no taste for it, but dinner wasn't optional; he'd tried to beg off, but the servant had been calmly insistent, and in the end, he'd followed her off to find the rest already gathered. The small reception room was still vast, and ornately decorated. The table could seat twenty, and only half that many took chairs.

  His parents put on a good show of graciousness, but the strain was evident in every forced interaction. Wolfe maintained a chilly silence and left it to the more socially eloquent Santi to oil the conversational wheels; Jess elected to be seen and not heard, except for murmured comments to Morgan, who'd been seated to his right next to Brendan, and Khalila, on his left. Glain and Thomas seemed quiet, though in Thomas's case, it was because he was eating everything in sight.

  Jess seemed to be the only one with a lack of appetite, but he forced himself to eat. Roast beef, mushy peas, mash. A solid meal, uncomplicated, but that was probably by design. In this, at least, he could thank his mother, who seemed to understand that they were still recovering.

  It was toward the end of the meal that Callum Brightwell tapped his crystal wineglass with a knife and brought all the conversation to a halt as he rose to his feet. "I know this isn't a comfortable partnership," he said. "I don't like Library folk any more than some of you like me and mine. But we have enemies in common, and friends as well." He nodded to Anit, and then to Jess. "My son is more one of you than one of mine, and though that isn't a comfortable thing for a father to say, I'm proud of the company he's chosen. Tough and smart, all of you." He lifted his glass. "To our rebels. Confusion to our foes."

  They all drank--Khalila, her water, and the rest, the free-flowing Brightwell wine. Some even echoed his toast. Not Jess. And, he noted, not Santi or Wolfe. Maybe they didn't like to see themselves as rebels. Or foes.

  And, Jess thought, maybe they'd realized that it was entirely out of character for his father to be so grandly supportive.

  "Thank you for the most generous welcome," Wolfe said, once silence had fallen again. For once, he sounded less than mocking. A little less. "But we won't impose on you for long. Our place isn't here, hiding. It's in Alexandria, fighting for what we love."

  "Don't be daft--you'll be slaughtered two steps inside the city, if you can even get there," Callum said. "You lot, always thinking of a fight as a gentleman's duel instead of a proper throat cutting. Must be the Library training, eh? Makes you convinced you're invulnerable."

  Jess drew in a breath to say something, but he wasn't needed. Santi took another sip of his wine and beat him to it. "Some battles you have to fight face-to-face. Not in a dark alley."

  "Knifing your enemy in a dark alley's how you avoid the fight in the first place," Callum replied. "Which is something those of us who have to scrape a living outside the Library's generosity know."

  "Yes, we can all see the shocking poverty in which you live," Santi said. "Our fight is to free the Library to follow its real mission, not destroy it wholesale. That's for the Burners. And people like you."

  "Oh, it's in my good interest to keep the Library alive, too. At least until it's no longer necessary, which will be several lifetimes from now, I'd imagine. So you needn't insult me by lumping me in with bloody Burners."

  "He doesn't mean to insult you, sir," Khalila said. "But he's right. We have to bring light back to the temple where it's gone out. We can't kindle that fire from here."

  "And you can't go there," Callum said, "or anywhere else, until it's safe. But not to worry, you're well protected, and we'll provide you with everything you need. Jess and Scholar Schreiber have seen to that. They'll be paying for your keep with a few jobs for me."

  "Building the press," Wolfe said.

  "Among other things. So have no fear--all the plans are under way for your safe departure. Until then, enjoy the hospitality." Callum picked up a small bell next to his plate and rang it. "Ah. Dessert."

  Khalila left the table first, pleading weariness, and she took Thomas, Glain, and Morgan with her. Jess stayed, even though he longed to see Morgan to her room; he wanted to watch Santi and Wolfe and his father. Besides, his twin had stayed, gleefully tucking into the sweet pudding that had been served, and though Jess could barely manage a mouthful, Brendan gestured meaningfully at it. "Go on," he said. "You need some cushion back on those bones. You look half-dead."

  Felt it, too, Jess realized; he was aching in every muscle. He forced down three more bites, until Brendan finally sighed and took the rest of it from him to finish.

  Wolfe and Santi exchanged a few more words with the elder Brightwells, but not many, before they rose to leave. Jess intended to follow, but Brendan got up with him and said, "We're off to bed, then. Good night."

  Callum mumbled the same back, concentrating on his pudding. Their mother looked at them both with distant sadness and nodded.

  They hadn't gotten to the stairs before Jess pulled Brendan off into a side room. A dark one, until he dialed the glows up a little. It was cold and damp and was lined with shelves and neatly ordered crates and boxes. Storage, Jess thought. There was a lingering smell of spices, so likely it was for the kitchens.

  "What are you not telling me?" Jess asked him. "Come on, Scraps. I know it when you're hiding something."

  Brendan tried to look innocent. He failed miserably. "The usual Brightwell intrigue, old son. Nothing out of the ordinary, is it?"

  "Brendan."

  His twin went quiet, staring at him, and then turned away. Picked at a rough spot on a shelf, winced as he gained a splinter. And finally said, "You know our da. One profit isn't enough. Neither is two. He wants it all, and you've handed it to him on a silver platter, with a gift note."

  "We're not guests," Jess said.

  "Well, you're not a guest; you belong here."

  "You know what I mean! They're not guests!"

  His brother's shoulders rose and fell in a faint shrug. "They're fugitives. What exactly do they expect, that everyone will be rushing to join their army? Even us? Come on, Jess. When has Da ever done anything for anyone who isn't family?"

  "They're my fa
mily."

  "They're prisoners," his brother said. "And when they leave, it'll be because Da's made a better deal. You know it. We both know it."

  It wasn't anything but confirmation of what Jess had already suspected, but he still felt the trap closing with an almost audible snap. Another set of walls. Another set of cells. Luxurious ones, with soft feather beds and plenty of food to distract them, but Callum Brightwell was no different from Willinger Beck, and never had been, really. For all that he was their father.

  "And you're going along with it," Jess said.

  Brendan looked at him for a long, telling moment, and then dropped his gaze to his finger. A red dot of blood welled there, and he wiped it away. "I haven't decided," he said. "But I'll let you know. Go on, Jess. Nothing will happen tonight. Da wants that bloody machine of yours. Maybe you can convince him the lot of you are assets worth keeping, not selling."

  Jess didn't try to argue with him. He wasn't sure he could even speak. All of the darkness had rolled up inside him, all the rage he'd felt since Philadelphia, all the fury of being trapped and hounded and threatened and helpless.

  But he wasn't helpless here. And there was another, darker game to play.

  He silently left and went up the stairs to the hall where they all had rooms, intending to knock on Morgan's door, but changed his mind when he heard soft voices and realized that the room at the end of the hall still had its door open. Not fully open, as if inviting others in, but cracked, as if it hadn't been fully latched.

  Men's voices. Wolfe and Santi. Jess knocked lightly and pushed the door open.

  He wasn't surprised to find them standing close, as if they'd been arguing fiercely. There was a strong sense of emotion in the air, something that immediately made Jess wish he'd kept on to his own door, but it was too late now. Without looking at him, Wolfe said, "Well? What?"

  He told them about what Brendan had said. Neither of them seemed surprised by the news that Callum Brightwell had plans for them. That they'd escaped Philadelphia only to land in yet another net.

  "We have time," Wolfe said, and it sounded as if he was continuing the argument that Jess had walked in on. "Your father wants this press as much as Willinger Beck ever did. We made it out of Philadelphia. We'll leave this place on our own terms."