Ash and Quill

by Rachel Caine

  "Enough," he said. "Taunt me about anything else. Not her. Understand?"

  Brendan lost his cocky edge, and there was a flare of anger in his face, quickly damped. He nodded. "Maybe I'm just out of sorts, you having got a girl to comfort you, and me having nothing but mocking you for it," he finally said. "You remember what I left behind in Alexandria, don't you?"

  Jess had forgotten, but Brendan had spent months there, wooing a young woman who worked for the Archivist . . . a lovely, intelligent woman whom he'd professed not to care about. But there was something he recognized, twin to twin: heartbreak. When his brother had left Alexandria, he'd left his chance of happiness behind, too.

  "When all this is over, go and find her," Jess said. "I imagine she'll forgive you. Everyone does, for some insane reason."

  "Even you?"

  "Even me, Scraps." Jess patted him on the cheek, none too gently; it was half a slap, and then a scuffle when Brendan retaliated, and soon he had his slightly younger twin in a headlock. He marched him to the breakfast room door and sent him packing with a boot in his ass, and when he turned back, he saw Glain still placidly eating her egg.

  "Brothers," she said, and shook her head. He grinned and slid into the seat across from her with his toast and coffee. "Unbearable creatures. Though at least mine were straightforward. It must be close to hell, having one nearly as clever as you. Like watching an angel struggle with a demon."

  "I'm no angel."

  "I didn't say which of you was which, did I? Shut up and eat, Brightwell."

  "You seem uncommonly cheery."

  "I'm not. All this"--Glain gestured at the hall, the tapestries, everything--"makes me itch. How long before you and Thomas have that press built and working?"

  "We'll start today," he said.

  "Good. Because I don't half trust all this. Or you."

  Jess sat back and stared at her, because he hadn't expected that. It was blunt, and utterly serious. "Why?"

  "I can see you thinking. And I know that look, Jess. It's not a good thing. You and Dario, whispering together--that isn't good, either."

  Jess ate his toast and tasted none of it. She was waiting for an answer. He didn't have one to give.

  Glain didn't take that well. She stood up, pushed her plate away, and came to loom over him, one hand on the back of his chair, one pressed flat against the table. "Don't," she said. "Don't lock me out. You can't trust Dario."

  "I don't," he said. "I don't trust anyone." He sat back and looked up into her face. He could see the look that came into her eyes. "Disappointed?"

  "Angry." She almost growled the word. "Furious that after everything we've been through, you're this stupid. And you're not doing this."

  "No?" It hurt, looking into her eyes this way. Seeing everything he liked about her. Everything he knew wasn't going to agree with him. "What exactly am I doing, Glain?"

  "I'll be watching you," she said. Her voice had gone low and calm, and it reminded him of how Santi got still and strangely happy when things were the worst. "And if it comes to it, I'll break your bones to convince you not to be ridiculous. Because that's how much I like you, Jess: I'll hurt you to save you. Count on it."

  She shoved his chair forward, bruisingly hard, and then she was gone, abandoning her breakfast to stride out with hard thuds of boots against wood. Jess pushed himself back from the table, rubbed his sore ribs, and finished his toast.

  He'd hoped that it wouldn't come to this, but he wasn't much surprised. Glain was observant and decisive, and he was going to have to take that into account. She expected no better from him, though she hoped for it.

  The only one he was absolutely certain he could fool, when it came down to it, was Khalila, and only because of all of them, she was the one who trusted without reservations. He remembered her in the cell in Philadelphia, claiming them as family. For her, trust, once given, was unbreakable without real proof of betrayal.

  He wished he didn't have to break that trust so completely.

  But you must. So let it begin.

  He drained his coffee and went in search of Thomas.

  The workshop they'd been given was set up in the vast old carriage house, where a blacksmith's forge had been replaced with a more modern furnace, something capable of producing high-tempered metals. Jess found his friend hard at work already, which didn't surprise him at all.

  "How long have you been up, if you've chopped down half the forest?" Jess asked as Thomas swung the furnace door closed with a heavy clang and spun the wheel to dog it shut. He was already sweating in the cool air, and the light shirt he wore clung to him; he wiped his forehead and gave Jess a full, unhindered smile.

  "Long enough to tell you hardly had enough sleep at all," he said. "Here. Your father had a gift for us. Look."

  In the place where the horses, in older days, would have been stabled, the area had been cleared to a large open space, and along one wall a long trestle table held a row of wooden crates. Jess grabbed a pry bar and opened the first one, uncovering a supply of small, finely made gears. The next box held larger ones, and the next still larger. Another box held bars of lead, for casting movable letters. Jess checked off each one against the list in his memory. There was nothing lacking. His father had given them everything they needed, even strong oak boards to build the frame. How he'd done it in the space of less than a day was something Jess didn't care to think about.

  He watched Thomas pick up gears, fit them together, run admiring hands over the fine craftsmanship like a miser who'd found a cache of gold. "Perfect," Thomas murmured. "Well. To start, anyway. Nothing is ever quite perfect once you start to build, yes? And we'll need a good watch. As small a one as you can find. Can you get one?"

  "A clock? Why?"

  "Because I have something to repair," Thomas said. "Go find one. Two watches would be even better. And ask Captain Santi for as many extra power capsules as he can spare from his weapons."

  "You want me to run errands."

  "Well. Someone has to. And I can be at work, constructing--" Thomas suddenly fell silent, looking past Jess. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Gone quiet. "Scholar Wolfe."

  "Schreiber," Wolfe said. He stood in the doorway of the workshop, looking at them in a distant kind of way that Jess found unsettling. The Scholar had left off his robe today and wore plain clothes, suitable for work, just as Thomas and Jess wore. "I was thinking that I might help you."

  "I--" Thomas glanced at Jess. "Of course, sir. If you wish."

  Wolfe nodded and moved to look over the boxes. The gears. Ran his fingers over a board, testing its straightness. "I need something to do," he said. "You understand. Rooms grow small. Silence gets heavy."

  Thomas nodded slowly. "I know. And you are welcome here. You created this, too."

  "My version was crude. You improved on it," Wolfe said. "But I'm not unskilled. Between us, I think we might do very well."

  "Yes," Thomas said. "I would be glad of your assistance and knowledge."

  "Don't butter me, Schreiber; I'm not a piece of bread. You're a rare kind of genius. I'm not your equal and never will be in this particular area. Tell me what to do. Show me plans. I'll do the rest, without complaint."

  It was a new idea, thinking of Wolfe as someone who wasn't in charge. But as Jess watched him pick up a thick leather apron and put it on, he found himself smiling. It didn't altogether lift the heavy cold inside him, but for a moment, for this moment, he saw the delight in Thomas's expression, the answering spark in Wolfe's eyes, and warmed just a fraction.

  "Then, here," Thomas said, and unrolled a huge drawing over the trestle table, while Jess and Wolfe shifted boxes to make room. "Get started. And you." He leveled a finger as Jess put his heavy box on the floor. "Go and find me those parts."

  Jess saluted crisply. "Yes, sir."

  He'd already been forgotten by the time he reached the door, and when he looked back, Wolfe and Schreiber were bent together, pointing and talking and already starting to make not
es on the paper.

  Scholars, doing what Scholars did.

  Jess wasn't a Scholar and realized that he'd accepted somewhere along the line that it wasn't what he really was suited to, after all. So he went to do what thieves did.

  He went to acquire what was needed--and not necessarily ask permission.

  When he arrived back with two clocks and a couple of pocket watches he knew wouldn't be missed, Thomas and Wolfe had already constructed the frame of the machine. Wolfe was working with a grinder that spat huge red sparks across a stone wall, and he didn't stop for Jess's arrival.

  "Watch your step," Thomas called out to Jess without looking up from his work. "No, no, little Frauke, friend Jess is allowed. You may let him be."

  Jess almost dropped the loot when he realized that one of the shadows behind Thomas was moving. It was nearly invisible where it crouched, but as he watched, he saw the outlines of it. "Thomas," he said. "You built an automaton? When?"

  "I didn't build it. Anit sent one along for me. To keep me company. And, I think, to keep us safe." Thomas seemed distracted but amused. He nailed a crossbar together with a single fast blow of his hammer and sat back on his haunches. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

  It was one of the camouflage automata from America, and as Jess watched, it stretched, yawned to show bright, sharp metal teeth, and stretched out in a lazy sprawl by the furnace. It hadn't stopped watching him. "I thought you named the one we had in Rome Frauke."

  "I did."

  "And that one was male."

  "No, it was a machine. She is a machine. I may call them as I like. And her name is still Frauke. Did you get the watches?"

  Jess put the clocks down and pulled the watches from his coat, and Thomas stopped what he was doing to open the backs and examine the works.

  "Yes," he said. "Yes, this is exactly what I need. Good quality. Thank you." He stood back and stared down at the clocks with his big hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers. "I never expected to have to make anything but things of peace, you know. Things to better the lives of others. But that is not what I am doing, is it? Even this, the press . . . it's a weapon of war. A different kind of war, perhaps, but people will die for it. They already have."

  That was a hard thing to acknowledge. Jess changed the subject. "What did you want the clocks and watches for?"

  "I'm building another Ray of Apollo," he said. "And a few other things that require delicate parts. If I have enough time, I might repair Morgan's bird for her. I know she prized it." Thomas put the watches on the workbench. "Take those apart. Sort the parts into sizes. That should keep you too busy to frown at me. You are frowning at me, aren't you?"

  "No," Jess lied. He was, of course. "You don't want me working on the press?"

  "The press is the least of what we need to do. With these tools, with Wolfe's help, with a little time . . . I think we can do a great deal. And we'll need to, if we're planning to take on the Archivist. We need a different kind of genius to do that, I think."

  That sounded eerily like things that were taking shape in Jess's head. He thought he could fool Thomas, with a little work. A little luck. But he wasn't sure.

  So instead of trying, he sat down, took the set of delicate tools that Thomas set out, and began dismantling watches. "So is there anything else you might need?" he asked, slipping on magnifying glasses to better navigate the inner workings.

  "Yes, when you have time," Thomas said. "I don't suppose your mother would part willingly with the three largest of her gemstones?" He drove home four more nails with sharp, perfectly aimed blows.

  Jess unscrewed a gear from the watch assembly, picked it free with tweezers, and put it aside. "Let's just say that it's a good thing you have a thief for a best friend."

  Stealing from his mother was a line Jess found himself unwilling to cross. He wouldn't have thought himself capable of such squeamishness, but he finally had to admit, after arguing with his worse angels for a few hours while breaking down the clocks and watches, that he didn't want to do it. Not alone.

  So he asked Dario.

  "No!" Dario exclaimed, far too loudly. "Who do you think I am, scrubber?"

  Jess had brought him to the old library at the farthest end of the castle from his parents' quarters, and he'd hoped to find it deserted. He hadn't quite succeeded there, because Khalila was curled up on the lush old divan, book in her hands, and of course she'd heard that indignant outburst and looked up, and there was no use in pretending otherwise.

  "I thought you were someone who might be able to exercise some discretion, but I see I was wrong," Jess shot back. "Never mind."

  "No, just a minute, what is it you want me to, ah . . ."

  "Steal," Khalila supplied. She set her book aside, stood, and came toward them. "Oh, don't bother--I heard it quite clearly, and I know you're aware of the word. For all your protests, you're probably the second-best thief in our circle; don't pretend otherwise for my benefit. So what exactly is it you wish for us to steal?"

  "Us?" Dario said, at the same time Jess blurted out, "You?" They were, in that moment, identically shocked.

  Her eyebrows formed perfect little arcs to frame the amusement in her gaze. "I admit I don't have much experience, but it seems to me that I could help. Somehow."

  "You," Dario said, "have been around our pale little smuggler far too long. What would your father say about--" He caught himself, but too late, and Jess saw the amusement drain out of Khalila's expression, and her light turn to ashes. Dario reached out and took her hand and, in a very genuine motion of apology, pressed it to his lips. "Forgive me, my rose. I wasn't thinking."

  "No more than I was," she said, and swallowed, and raised her chin as she reclaimed her hand. "From the cell where my father sits now, I imagine he would understand the necessity of doing whatever must be done. What are we stealing, then?"

  She put him to shame, Jess thought; he was wincing like a child at the thought of losing his mother's affection, and Khalila was enduring so much worse, and still willing to go on. "My mother has a walnut jewel box in her room. Last I remember, she had a very large ruby in a necklace, an equally large emerald, and a diamond pendant big enough to choke on. Those are the three I'll need."

  "From your mother?" She seemed less comfortable with that. "But--"

  "It's only three pieces," he assured her. "And believe me, she has more. Many more."

  "I'm happy enough to do it," Dario said. "I think your whole family should be behind bars, but as they're not, I'm happy to lift from the pockets of your father."

  Khalila gave him an exasperated glance. "It's his mother!"

  "And I very much doubt Jess's father allows her to own anything outright. I know the type; he's very much like my own father. Except my father is an arrogant, blue-blooded noble, of course, and not some jumped-up housebreaker."

  "Is this you trying to say we're friends?" Jess asked. "Because I wonder how you think that sounds."

  Khalila put a finger to Dario's lips to shush his reply. "Stealing is wrong, of course. A sin. And your mother has been quite kind to me," Khalila said, and then took in a deep breath, as if ready to plunge into deep waters. "But I'll take care of keeping her occupied in conversation. You and Dario can, I hope, carry off this daring adventure by yourselves?"

  "Of course," Dario said instantly.

  "If he doesn't arse it up," Jess said at the same time, and almost laughed at the glare Dario gave him. That was vintage, straight out of the Ptolemy House, in their more innocent postulant days. "We'll meet after lunch. Once Khalila draws my mother off, we'll do this quickly. Right?"

  "Right," Dario said.

  "Wrong." They all turned. Wolfe stood in the doorway. He was sweaty and disheveled, straight from the workshop. "I was on my way to clean up for lunch. I met your mother in the halls."

  He pitched something toward them. Jess effortlessly caught it out of the air with sheer reflex before Dario even raised a hand to intercept. When he opened his palm, he was looking at a le
ather pouch, snugged tight with a drawstring. Jess opened it and spilled out three loose stones: two diamonds the size of pigeon eggs, and a ruby as dark as claret that blazed bright in a stray ray of sun. He looked up at the Scholar, not quite sure how to even phrase the question.

  "I overheard Thomas asking you for these. Not everything needs to be a crime," Wolfe said. "As Khalila said, your mother's been kind enough. I don't know what troubles you have in your household, but one thing I do know: mothers love their sons, however flawed that love might be. And a few gems is a small price to pay."

  "She gave them to you."

  He shrugged. "She'd have given them to you, if you'd asked. But I knew you wouldn't."

  Jess felt a wave of shame so strong he nearly gagged on it, and felt his face go hot, then cold, as a flush took hold and receded. He clenched the stones so hard in his fist that they cut. When he tipped them back into the pouch and tossed everything to Wolfe, his blood was still on them. "She gave these to you for reasons you don't understand," he said. "And it isn't out of generosity. Don't presume to know my family. Sir."

  Wolfe caught the pouch without even looking at it. Nimble and focused. "I know you," he said. "Don't forget that, Jess. It might save you, in the end."

  Khalila and Dario were watching in silence, and it continued while Wolfe walked away, leaving Jess with that flush again rising in his face and a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. My mother doesn't just give things. He's wrong.

  "Are you all right?" Khalila asked him. "Jess?"

  "Fine," he said, and smiled at her. Offered her his elbow. "May I have the honor of escorting you to lunch, desert flower?"

  "That," Dario said, "is not fair."

  Khalila slipped her arm into Jess's. "The honor is mine, dear thief. But only because you didn't actually have to steal."

  As they walked away, Dario followed and muttered, "I didn't steal anything, either, you know."

  "I know," Khalila said. "And now you won't."

  "Is it finished?"

  Glain leaned over Thomas's shoulder to stare at the small, elegant-looking weapon that lay on the workbench, under the merciless glare of a light almost as bright as the sun. Jess stared, too. He'd been watching the thing come together for three days now, piece by carefully crafted piece. Thomas had cut the three stones into shapes his mother would never have recognized--taking away any flaws, he'd told Jess, who'd winced at seeing so much smashed away--and built the rest of it around those three focal points.