Ash and Quill

by Rachel Caine

  "Is that why you're here?"

  She put the back of her hand to his cheek, and he held it there as he closed his eyes. Soft and warm. "No, you fool, that's not why I'm here, but maybe it's why I ought to be here. Where were you?"

  He shook his head. I have two more days before I need to tell her, he thought. Two more days of her seeing me this way, as the Jess she likes. But that would require lying to her in a way he didn't think he could do. Not anymore. He moved her hand away from his face and captured it in both his hands. Rough hands, hard used lately in the workshop.

  "My father's selling you and Wolfe to the Archivist," he told her, and watched the fragile peace in her break like dropped glass. "He's got some way to send you there. That's not all; he's planning on selling the rest off to Red Ibrahim, so our business partners can use them for leverage inside Alexandria, to save their own operations. Khalila's family is going to be executed in twenty-one days. It's all falling apart, Morgan."

  Saying it out loud felt like relief, but it was just transferring the burden, not getting rid of it; he saw the shock in her, the anguish, then the resolution. "All right," she said, and the grip of her fingers on his was almost painful in its strength. "Then we fight. I can do that, Jess, I can--"

  "You don't understand. We can't fight. My father's ready for that, and we've nowhere to go. No friends. No allies to magically swoop in to our rescue."

  "What--what are you saying?" Morgan's voice had gone soft now, and unsteady. "We can't give up."

  "You don't fight a battle you can't win," he said. He didn't sound strong now, either. But he did sound certain. "You take a loss to set your pieces where you need them. The Archivist won't hurt you, Morgan. He wants you in the Tower. And--we need you there, too. If we're going to get to him at all, in Alexandria, it can't be done if he still controls the Obscurists."

  She took in a sharp breath, ready to argue with him, and he saw the anger flash in her eyes, and burn away. "You want me to take it from the inside for you."

  "Because you can," he said. "You're stronger than Gregory. And you want what the rest of the Obscurists want: to be free. Once you're Obscurist Magnus--"

  But Morgan was shaking her head now. "Not me," she said. "I can win the fight. I can't lead them, Jess; they don't trust me. They'll never trust me, and I can't blame them for that; I never made any secret of the damage I'd do if I had the chance. But . . ." She pulled in a breath and let it slowly out. "You understand what you're asking me to do? Go back in there? And if this fails . . ."

  If it failed, he was sentencing her to a lifetime of slavery inside a prison. Alone. And he couldn't bring himself to admit that to her, out loud, so he only nodded.

  "There might be someone else," she said. "Eskander."

  "I don't know who that is."

  "Some say he's more powerful than Gregory," she said. "But he locked himself away. Refuses to work or to speak with anyone. The only person he ever spoke to, as far as I know, was Wolfe's mother, when she was Obscurist. I've never seen him, not in person. But if I can convince him to help me, there might be a chance. A small one, but--" Her smile was beautiful, and shattered. "But you've been thinking this all along, haven't you? This was never about finding shelter. It was about planning the war. You're using your father as much as he thinks he's using you."

  "Not from the beginning," he said. "But . . . yes. In a way, I suppose you're right."

  "And Scholar Wolfe?" Her eyes searched his, looking for something he wasn't sure she'd ever find. "You know sending him there means sending him back to his death. And Santi will kill you."

  "I'm sure he'll try," Jess said. "But I won't be the one taking you. That will be my brother."

  Her lips parted, and then closed again, and it was strange: just as with Brendan, he didn't need to explain it to her. She knew. He saw the flash of it in her eyes, and the horror, and the understanding. She knew what was coming. And now he did feel lighter. A burden shared, at least. Neither of them worrying what would come next, because for this moment, at least, they had no more secrets.

  "You can't tell the others," he said. "Not even Wolfe. He'd never be able to hide it from Santi, and . . ."

  "And Santi would never accept it," she finished. "Agreed. Dario knows?"

  "Yes. We'll need him." He didn't explain why, or how; it didn't matter just now. "But nobody else. The fewer of us, the better. I didn't even want to tell you, but--"

  "But you knew I'd kill too many fighting," she whispered. "Of course." There were tears in her eyes, brief and bright, and then she blinked them away.

  "I would have waited to tell you, but--"

  "No. No, this is better. It gives us time. I knew--I knew you were keeping something from me. And now this is right again. We're right again."

  "For as long as it lasts," he said. "Morgan--"

  She put her hands on his chest, slipping beneath the fabric of his half-open shirt, and stopped his words, and thoughts, completely. All he could think of in that moment was the warm trail of her fingers moving on his skin, and then the tug as they released another button, and then the last, and eased the fabric off his shoulders. She leaned forward and kissed his bare skin, and his arms went around her and held her close.

  "For as long as it lasts," she said, "let's make it something to remember."

  And then she was kissing him, and it was all whispers and silence and heat, and no thought at all, and for the first time, when he fell asleep in this soft bed, it felt like heaven, and heaven included the young woman curled against him as if they would never again be apart.

  EPHEMERA

  An excerpt from a historical letter on the importance of chess as a guide to war in the reign of King Noshirvan of Iran Even as the wise have said, victory must be attained through wisdom and forethought upon the field of battle. In this, we look to chess, for the play of chess is that one must not wait for, or react upon, the movements of the other player, but rather comprehend one's opponent in his person, and thus shape a game to his defeat.

  As in war, chess requires one should preserve what one can, and sacrifice what one cannot.

  Even to the sacrifice of the most valuable of pieces to win the game.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "I think we've made a terrible mistake," Thomas said. He looked awful, Jess thought--pallid, sweating hard enough to paste little tendrils of blond hair flat to the sides of his face. His hands were steady, though. That was a good sign.

  The bad sign was that he was using those steady hands to pluck at the knot of his silk tie. He looked very elegant--the Brightwell tailors being what they were--and the sober dark blue velvet of the jacket suited him well, but he seemed to really hate the tie. He couldn't leave the thing alone, and he'd already jerked it nearly out of position.

  Glain slapped his hand away from his collar and stepped closer to pull the knot back into the right position. "Stop yanking at that, you baboon," she said. "Even my brothers aren't this bad at looking good."

  "Easy for you to say. You get to wear what you like!" Thomas's gesture took in the thick leather jacket that poured sleekly around her in graceful, dangerous lines to her thighs. Beneath that, she wore a loose dark shirt, fitted dark pants, and heavy boots, and in her own way, she looked elegant. Deadly, but elegant. "Maybe if I put on the robe--"

  "No Scholars' robes today," she reminded him. "This isn't a time to remind anyone about the Library, now, is it? Even the captain is out of uniform. You need to be, too."

  Her brisk, matter-of-fact sureness settled Thomas, finally, and he took in a deep breath and nodded. He took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face and attempted a vague smile. "I hate speaking in public," he said. "Jess, would you--"

  "No," Jess said. He was dressed, like Thomas, in elegantly cut clothes; his tie was a dark purple to Thomas's wine red, and his jacket was black instead of navy blue, but they looked quite a bit alike. He hated the tie, too, but knew to keep his hands off it. "Pretend it's your first lecture. You'll do fine."r />
  "Lecture," Thomas repeated, and paced a little. It was the sign of very well-done tailoring, Jess thought, when someone of Thomas's size could clasp hands behind his back and not create a wrinkle in the coat. "Lecture, yes, that's better than speech. Much better. And it is a lecture, you're right. I'm simply--"

  "Explaining the principles and demonstrating the function," Jess said. "You have it. You'll be all right." He kept smiling. He'd split himself into two halves over the past few days: one half had wolfed down double portions of every dinner and kept them down. Had coldly calculated every aspect of this night and made all the arrangements. That half was howling with rage and anguish, silently. It was more than a little insane.

  The other half--the half that smiled and talked and laughed and pretended that everything was all right--that half was a liar. A good one. Maybe the best that Jess had ever been at deceiving everyone, even himself. The only person he'd been able to become real with had been Morgan, and only in secret, in the darkness. Magic and regret and fear, and a longing that only grew stronger with the knowledge that it was all coming to an end.

  "Just remember that these are murderous criminals who won't hesitate to kill us and dump our bodies down a well. Talk in small words," Dario said, and shook him out of memory. If Jess and Thomas looked elegant enough, Dario looked . . . well, like Dario, only intensified. He wore a black-and-gold brocade coat that swept from neck to ankles, and beneath that, like Glain, he'd favored a dark shirt and trousers, but he'd added a brocade vest in a black-on-black design that was both decadent and subtle.

  Good enough to be buried in, Jess thought, and choked off the thought. The emotion. He needed to be silent inside. And empty.

  "He doesn't mean that," Khalila said with an apologetic smile directed at him. Don't; don't smile at me. Of all of them, I can't stand it from you. She looked especially vivid tonight; the beautiful fine silk of her dress--wine red this evening, with a matching hijab with gold embroidery--was far better than what she'd been wearing for at least the past six months. She looked . . . happy. "And he certainly doesn't mean to insult you or your family, Jess."

  He felt his lips stretch. He could see from the look in her eyes that it was right, that this empty mannequin was still convincing. "I'm sorry, did Dario say something? I never notice," Jess said. Dario grinned with bared teeth. Friendly, with an edge, as ever. There was a wild light in his eyes, a suppressed panic. And for a terrible moment, Jess was afraid that he was going to say something to upset everything.

  He couldn't forget how Dario had looked this morning. For all his talk of chess moves and strategy, cold-blooded calculation and hard choices . . . when Jess had put the final plan to him, he'd flinched. Hard. There's got to be another way.

  He'd convinced Dario there wasn't, and he could see the horror of it in his friend's face. He had to believe that Dario was steady enough to do this. He was the only one Jess could trust with it.

  The only one, except for the other, vital piece of the puzzle.

  "Is Morgan coming?" Khalila asked. "I expected her--"

  "Now, I hope," Morgan said, and swept in the doorway. She looked magnificent--dressed in a long, fitted dress in dark gold velvet, with a black velvet jacket that hugged her in soft curves. Her hair spilled down in shimmering curls, and he remembered how it felt, having her hair in his fingers, her lips pressed to his. He didn't want to remember it, but there were some things, sharp things, that cut even through the darkness.

  Her smile shattered him into a million pieces, and he had to turn away, to pretend to pick up a book he deliberately knocked from the table, because the reality of this was closing in around him and stealing the oxygen from his lungs. He wanted to scream. Seeing the strength in her eyes, the acceptance, even though she knew what was coming . . . it was harder to take than he'd thought.

  Morgan knew. Dario knew. Brendan and Anit knew. But that was all. Everyone else, everyone, would smash into this at speed, and the results would be . . . unimaginable.

  Jess swallowed and tasted the smoke of Philadelphia again. Walls closing in. Saw the tower collapsing.

  Steady, said the other part of him, the mannequin with the smile and the straight back and the lies. It's almost done.

  They stood in the huge, brooding, dark-paneled expanse of the great hall, waiting for the others. For Wolfe and Santi, Brendan and Callum Brightwell.

  Wolfe and Santi arrived together. Both were dressed, as the orders from Callum had specified, in formal clothing; Wolfe, in utter defiance of the spirit of things, wore his Scholar's robe over his black velvet coat. Except for the coat, he looked much as he always did.

  Santi, like Dario, wore a brocade jacket. His was a mix of navy and black, subtle enough, but just a little flash, with silver buttons that winked down the front and on the cuffs.

  "You look very fine, Captain," Glain said.

  "I've worn my share of dress uniforms. It isn't so different." Santi seemed on edge, Jess thought, as if he scented something in the wind. Jess faded back a step, put himself next to Morgan and at an angle. If Santi was searching for signs of trouble, he didn't want the captain reading his blank expression, any more than he wanted Glain to study him closely.

  He was going to break, and it might just be for an instant, but if either of them saw it--

  "Jess." He looked at Morgan, and she put both hands on his face and pulled him to her for a kiss. The shock of it stilled all the turmoil for a long, sweet moment, and when the kiss ended, she stayed close, lips touching his, to whisper, "We can do this."

  He nodded, took her hands in his, and held them. Breathed in and out and found his balance again.

  At the far end of the hall, wide double doors opened, and Brendan stepped inside. He was dressed formally, too, only his jacket was a dark gray, and he wore a bright blue silk vest beneath it. No tie; he'd substituted a loose cravat instead. "Ladies and gentlemen," Brendan said, and his voice rolled and echoed through the cavernous space, over the bookshelves and the ornate couches and chairs and walls. "Dinner is served. Follow me."

  "Pretentious prat," Jess muttered, and offered his elbow to Morgan. She took it, and the light touch of her hand on his arm, even through the coat, seemed to tingle against his skin.

  "I heard that," Brendan told him as they passed.

  "Meant it," Jess replied. The backs of their hands brushed, and when Jess glanced at him, he saw that his brother's face was pale but calm. He'd carry this through.

  The dining hall's formal table was set for forty, and almost all of the chairs were already filled with Callum Brightwell's guests, save for the ones reserved for Jess and his friends, and Brendan. No Anit; she was waiting at her ship.

  As Jess led them in, with Thomas and Glain, Dario and Khalila following, the men and women at the table stood silently, waiting. Once they'd all reached their chairs, and Brendan had gone to Callum Brightwell's right hand at the top end of the table, Jess's da said, "Welcome, all of you," and took his seat. There was a great rush of scuffling and rustling, and then they were all seated, and the meal was under way. Jess found himself next to a scruffy old man in a suit that had seen better days; he vaguely remembered him. Another smuggler, named Argent. Morgan, across the table from him, was next to a younger, scarred man called Patel, who seemed completely at ease in his very fine evening dress. Dinner proceeded with perfect elegance, course by course, and Jess couldn't force himself to do more than pretend to take bites. He made small talk as best he could. Morgan fared better.

  They were halfway through the main course--lamb, though Patel had received a vegetarian option--when the old salt next to Jess said, too loudly, "It's said you were at Philadelphia when it was destroyed. Likely they meant before it was destroyed, eh? Couldn't have been there when the bombs fell, could you?"

  It was probably meant for casual conversation, but it hit their end of the table like, well, a globe of Greek fire. They all froze in place, knives and forks stilled. Everyone looked at Jess, who slowly put his utensils d
own and reached for the wineglass. He took a generous gulp, didn't taste it, and said, "We were there." It was just three words, said softly enough, and he was proud that they didn't signify any emotion at all. Morgan was looking at him with wide, worried eyes. "When the bombs started falling." He picked up his knife and fork and began cutting meat again. He chewed and swallowed, and that was a mistake, because the sweetish taste of rank smoke came back to him, and he nearly coughed. He reached for the wine again.

  "Well, young lads and ladies, that is a truly remarkable thing," said the old man at his left elbow. "The cleverness of smugglers, eh? Come out by one of the cousins' tunnels, did you?"

  Patel was more sensitive to their stillness, their silence, and he leaned forward and said, "Perhaps not the time, Mr. Argent."

  "We didn't have any help from smugglers," Dario said. He had his wineglass in his hand, too, and fire in his dark eyes. "We got ourselves out. Together."

  Not entirely accurate; Brendan had helped, but Brendan was twenty chairs away and couldn't hear, and Jess didn't feel the need to defend him.

  "You were prisoners of the Burners?" Patel asked, very politely indeed. Jess fervently wished he'd abandon the topic. They all did. But Khalila nodded, equally polite.

  "For a time," she said. "And while we don't like what they stand for, the destruction was--" Khalila, of all people, was suddenly at a loss for words. She glanced at Jess, but he had nothing to say. Even Dario stayed silent.

  It was Morgan who said, very quietly, "It was inhuman. And none of us wish to remember it. I'm sorry. We're lucky to be alive, and we know that."

  Patel said, "Of course. I'm sorry." When Argent began to ask something else, Patel shook his head so sharply that the old man, too, fell silent, and the next comment was some grumble about the cold northern weather, which they could all agree to.

  After dinner, it was time for the show.

  They, of course, were the show.

  Argent was right about the weather; even swathed in coats at the door, crossing the open space to the carriage house workshop was a reminder of just how unfriendly England could be; tonight, it was icy rain and fog, and they moved quickly into the warmth of the workshop. Thomas had tidied it up a bit, but even so, there was just barely enough space for everyone to crowd in out of the cold . . . but unlike Philadelphia, there was no expectation of destruction to come.