Sword and Pen Page 13

  “Leave it,” Thomas said. “We won’t get a second chance. The Great Library needs this to work.”

  Morgan disagreed, though only slightly. “Wait for half an hour,” she said. “If by that time nothing has happened, then we’ve failed. Try to bring us out of it.”

  “How?”

  “A sudden shock should do. Cold water, for instance.” Morgan looked down at the lapping ocean water. “It should break my concentration and sever Thomas’s link.”

  “I’m not pushing you into the sea!”

  “Well, it would probably work.”

  “Do you even know how to swim?”

  “Of course,” Morgan said. Thomas, tellingly, said nothing.

  Half an hour. Khalila didn’t like the idea of that, not at all, but she had no better suggestion. She didn’t dare sabotage this effort, not if it was as all-important as both her friends seemed to think.

  She’d just have to use her best judgment. Power in her hand, again. Heavy and fearful.

  She realized with a start that noon had struck, and as Morgan reached for Thomas’s hand, and both bowed their heads, she got to her feet and moved back. Facing east put her at an angle to them, but she could see them well enough; she had a little flask of clean water that she habitually carried with her, and now she performed the ablutions, cleaning carefully as she did, but with no wasted motions. She could wait on her friends while conducting her dhuhr prayers with all the earnestness she could find; today, of all days, the prayers were vital. Show us the straight path. The words resonated strongly; they had never meant so much to her. Today would be the day of judgment for the Great Library. And for all of those who loved her.

  As she finished, she added an extra plea to Allah for protection for her friends, and then she went to look at them anxiously. They were so very . . . still. Though as she watched, she saw that Thomas was moving very slightly: twitches of his big hands, his fingers, his chest moving in deep, painful heaves that were almost gasps. His face had gone quite pale and strained. Morgan, beside him, looked almost as strange.

  Whatever they were doing, it was difficult. Very difficult.

  And as she looked out to sea, she saw that the enemy navies were starting to move.

  They were sailing for the harbor.

  Khalila felt a sudden wave of dizziness and quickly grabbed for the protective rail to hold herself steady. You should have eaten, she chided herself, but there was no help for it now. She was tired, hungry, worried . . .

  The dizziness hit again and it was worse this time; holding to the railing only helped her control her collapse to her knees. She breathed in deep, hungry gasps. There was a terrible sense of . . . injury. Almost as if she had suffered a wound and was now losing blood, though as she looked down at herself she saw no sign of such a thing.

  But something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  It’s Morgan, drawing power from my very essence. She knew it, knew it, and tried to rise. Could not find the strength, no matter how much will she put behind the effort. It felt like she was a piece of cloth being unraveled into ragged threads. Did Morgan even know what she was doing? Did she care?

  Khalila let go of the railing, pitched forward, and managed to crawl a few feet before she lost the will to do even that. She felt loose inside, gray, exhausted. Oddly unafraid. She had done her salat; she had meant it. Surely Allah would be kind if this was her last day in the world.

  No. I will not surrender.

  She couldn’t.

  She wasn’t sure how long it took her to move again—moments? longer?—but she began to slowly inch her way toward Morgan. If I can only wake her, she’ll realize what she is doing. How wrong it is. It was agonizingly slow progress, but finally she could just touch the windblown fabric of Morgan’s shirt. A few more inches, one strong push to plunge Morgan into the water, and this might end.

  Or she might kill her friend.

  Whatever Morgan was expending so much dreadful power to do, it wasn’t working, and Khalila felt a tight panic spread inside as she realized that Morgan might actually kill her in this quest for—for what? She didn’t even understand what they were trying to achieve.

  Khalila made it to her knees, with an effort that felt like her last, and just as she did, the harbor’s waters began to boil, as if they’d suddenly been heated over a huge stove. She paused, struck by the spectacle, and felt her strength ebbing more. No. I have to stop this.

  Something told her to hang on. To wait. And she did, vision going gray, strength fading.

  She saw a god rise.

  The sharp golden points of its crown broke the surface first; it looked like a strange, sharp island emerging with seaweed dangling wet and green from its edges. Khalila stared as the head emerged: a massive riot of metallic bronze curls cascading down the automaton’s back. It was dark from the sea, crusted with dead coral like bone jewels, and it kept rising, up and up and up, until it was taller than the Lighthouse. Taller than the Serapeum. It was massive, incomprehensibly huge, and as it turned its head toward them she felt a horrible urge to hide herself from that incandescent blue gaze. The human face seemed impossible at that scale, the prominent cheekbones and pointed jaw so perfect they blinded. Every muscle showed in definition on the automaton’s neck, shoulders, arms, chest, legs. It was nude except for a rich golden loincloth, and the deep water of the harbor came only to its knees.

  In one hand it held a three-pronged spear, a trident.

  Poseidon had risen.

  And it belonged to them.

  Khalila felt the last of her energy sliding away. “Morgan!” Her voice was barely a thread, but she heard the desperation in it. “Morgan, let me go!”

  She had no hope that Morgan would hear, or obey, but she felt the heaviness in her chest, the slowness of her heartbeat, and knew she was moments from death. If Morgan would not stop, she’d have to save herself.

  The god strode forward, waves building before it with each step. It took it six strides to reach the wide mouth of the Alexandrian harbor, and then it reached down, bent almost double, and plunged its left hand into the water.

  What it brought up was a chain. An ancient, massive chain that it held at about the height of a man above the lapping surface. Its action brought up pillars on either end where the chain was anchored, and there was a loud, audible snap as the chain pulled taut, shivering.

  The harbor was closed. The chain would rip in half the hull of any ship that tried to ram it. By itself, the chain would have been enough, but now Poseidon stood with its trident raised above its shoulder, ready to bring it down on any who dared approach. Its feet were set wide, and its massive thighs blocked half the entrance. Between the god, the trident, and the chain, there was no possibility those ships would cross that boundary.

  The leading ships in the fleet heeled sharply off their courses, and the entire invasion fleet began to turn like a flock of birds.

  Defeated, for now. But that almost certainly wouldn’t last.

  Morgan broke from her trance with a cry, and Poseidon froze in place. Waiting. Khalila could only see it from the back; she didn’t know if its eyes were still alight with that eerie glow she’d seen, but she hoped so. It would terrify the people on those ships even more.

  Morgan fell backward into Khalila, and both of them went down. Khalila rolled weakly onto her side and just . . . breathed. She had never been so grateful to be alive. Her heartbeat was speeding fast, finally able to express her fear, but she treasured every panicked beat. I’m here.

  They raised a god from the sea, and we’re all still here.

  Thomas hadn’t quite collapsed, and he stumbled up and away from the edge of the dock before he suddenly went to his knees. He looked dazed, and altogether awestruck. He said something in German that her tired brain couldn’t quite grasp for a moment, and then it came clear. We have done it.

  The
y certainly had. She heard the screams and shouts and cheers from the city. She heard the alarms sounding on the ships out at sea as they rocked in violent waves propagated by Poseidon himself.

  The harbor was secure.

  “Thomas? Are you all right?” Khalila asked. He nodded. He still seemed lost in a dream, but he crawled over to her and put his arm around her. When Morgan groaned and stirred, he pulled her up to hold her close, too. She looked shockingly bad, worse than Thomas. Worse even than Khalila felt.

  And Morgan was weeping. She curled in on Thomas, holding to him and rocking in her misery. As awful as Khalila herself felt, she could not help but feel her heart go out to the other young woman; she could not fear someone in so much pain. With much effort, she rose to her feet, walked to Morgan, and sat beside her. Put her arm around Morgan’s trembling shoulders.

  She and Thomas enclosed her in warmth, in love, in comfort, and Khalila thought, This is the straight path.

  She stared out at the huge bronze automaton crafted so very long ago, and thought, Surely they cannot fight us now.

  That was when the first volleys of Greek fire began from the Welsh ships.

  EPHEMERA

  Text of a late-period report by Heron of Alexandria (fragmentary) mentioning the city’s defenses in a communication to Pharaoh Ptolemy Djoser VI

  . . . Pharaoh’s wisdom in appointing a special class of guardian soldiers for . . . Archives of the Great Library . . . nothing certain. We have ever been under threat for our . . . next we may expect invasion.

  To this end, I have crafted in the metalworks an automaton the rival of any since great Talos . . . harbor. For a mighty construction such as this, partnership with . . . Pharaoh’s priests and magicians . . . though I dislike . . . secret. A creature such as this could as easily be our destruction as our salvation.

  . . . best hidden until it must be used. Instructions . . . Archivist’s hands. There it must remain until a threat to the very . . . Library.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SANTI

  It was the first quiet moment he’d had to grab a cup of hot coffee and find some solitude, and so it transpired that Santi sat on the highest steps of the Serapeum, just a few feet below the golden capstone.

  He watched the foreign navies clustered there. The Portuguese had chosen the northern side, as far from the Spanish fleet as it was possible to be; the English, Welsh, and Japanese fleets made up a solid bulwark in the middle, the Japanese a calming force between the two ancient enemies. A formidable assembly, certainly. And one his troops would have to face, sooner or later, unless a miracle occurred.

  My troops. He hadn’t adjusted to it quite yet. He was comfortable as a captain, with knowing the names and faces and skills of every soldier in his command. But this? Lord Commander of the High Garda, responsible not just for taking orders but for giving them, not just for fighting the war, but for planning it. He did not feel ready. But he thought that every single Lord Commander in history—the good ones, at least—had felt the same on their first day.

  Of course, they had not been forced to deal with the dethroning of an Archivist, a possible civil war within the Great Library, and a foreign invasion that could destroy Alexandria completely. It was rather a lot.

  And he missed Wolfe’s bright, sharp presence. And he couldn’t allow himself that distraction. Not now. Not in this chaos.

  Stay safe, my love, he thought, and he hoped Wolfe was sending the same back.

  He’d just drained the last of his coffee and stood up to descend back to his strategy room when the water in the harbor began to roil and tumble, and he stopped to stare at it, barely daring to hope. From this height he couldn’t make out individual people below, but he imagined that one small form, far out toward one end of the crescent-shaped harbor, had bright blond hair. Thomas. Was this his doing?

  He watched in disbelief as the automaton rose out of the harbor, shining dully in the sun. Vast. Magnificent. Dangerous. How could anyone control such a thing? This was enormous. As familiar as he was with the mechanicals in all their deadly forms, this . . . this felt vastly different.

  The size of it made him suck in a startled breath. He’d seen the drawings, discussed the dry, academic option of activating the city’s ancient defenses, but he’d never imagined it would be like this. The thing—Poseidon?—stood tall, and the dizzying height of the top of the Serapeum only came even with the thing’s pointed chin. It dwarfed even the most massive warships; the city, docks, and harbor looked like toys in comparison.

  He watched it drag the chain up and freeze in place with its trident at the ready. No captain with any sanity would dare attempt a crossing. Not now.

  And in the next instant he thought, They don’t have to.

  He dropped the cup he was holding and ran down the steps, heedless of his own safety. Every second passing was deadly. He could hear the city starting to react to the presence of the automaton guarding their city; some were shouting, many cheering. No time, no time . . .

  He jumped the last three steps and landed running, flat out, shouting at surprised Scholars to make way. He arrived at the strategy room halfway down the pyramid and saw all his captains crowded together at the windows, looking toward the harbor.

  “Shutters down!” he snapped, and pointed to the Obscurist who was standing nearby. She was a young thing, and he hoped to Heron she was competent. “Do it now! Emergency security for the Serapeum, the Iron Tower, the High Garda compound, the Lighthouse, and the Archives. Execute!”

  She seemed dazed for an instant, then snapped upright and said, “Yes, Lord Commander,” and stepped away. He had to trust it would be done. He had other concerns. As his captains turned toward him, the shutters began gliding down over the windows—solid metal, treated to resist Greek fire.

  “Captains,” he said. He sounded sharp and urgent, and in this moment he wanted that. “As planned. Tier one defenses, secure our approaches. Tier two, deploy into the streets with balm for the barrage of Greek fire we’re bound to draw. They’ve had all the time of their crossing to map out their battle plans. Our response is in place. Stay loose, stay ready, and above all, defend our people and the Great Library from anyone, anyone who would threaten either one. If you need resources, all clerks are on duty to monitor the Codex for all requests; use the code previously issued. We will do all we can to support you. Expect the Obscurists to provide you with automaton support as soon as they can.” He hesitated for one second, and said, “You know me, and I respect you. I trust every one of you to uphold your oaths and honor the ancestors who’ve guarded this city for five thousand years. Spend lives if you must. But make the enemy spend theirs first.”

  The sound of fists hitting chests made a palpable wave through the room. He saluted them back and watched his captains go. “Captain Botha,” he said, and motioned his former lieutenant over on the way out. “I give my company into your care.” Botha had command of his people now, and Santi was content with that. Botha nodded and allowed a thin, dangerous smile to emerge.

  “Lord Commander, you’ve trained them well enough that no one could lead them wrong. We will prevail.”

  “I know.”

  They gripped hands for a moment, and then Botha was gone. The room was almost empty, save for the phalanx of clerks and Santi’s newly minted aide, Senior Captain Nofret Alamasi. She stood calm and poised, waiting for orders. He had none to give at the moment, but he exchanged nods with her that told her to relax. She did with a visible sigh. “It begins,” she said.

  “Any moment now,” he agreed. “May gods great and small be with us. We’ve word of the Russian infantry advancing fast from the north. The Saudis are standing firm in our defense, as are Turkey and India, but I don’t like our odds if that fails. If Turkey or India turn to join the Russians . . .”

  “I don’t think that will happen,” she said. “We all know without the Great Library they’d
be at each other’s throats. It must have taken all the diplomacy in the world to put English and Welsh ships within firing distance of each other, not to mention Spanish and Portuguese. How long do you think those truces will hold when bodies start to fall?”

  “Excellent question,” he said. “But unfortunately, not our greatest concern just now. I’d love to set our enemies against each other, but we have bigger problems.”

  She cocked her head, eyes narrowing. “Which are?”

  “Something I’d rather not commit High Garda troops against. This is best done with misdirection, and I know just the person for that. Contact Dario Santiago and get him here. Quickly.”

  She took out her Codex and dispatched the orders. If Dario ignored the summons, he’d be met with High Garda escorts who would force the issue. The young man would come, like it or not. Almost certainly, he would not.

  There was nothing about the current situation that Santi liked, either. He could at least spread the discomfort around.

  The first wave of Greek fire hit only moments later. He knew it by the choking reek of the stuff that drifted in, and the alarms booming from the Lighthouse. They’ll be aiming for the Lighthouse first. He hoped the Obscurists had enough will and power to defend their landmarks, both for the sake of history and to protect a vital strategic advantage. The Lighthouse wasn’t merely offices, or the ancient beacon that had burned, in one form or another, for most of recorded history. Today, it became a weapon.

  If Thomas’s plans proved out.

  “Updates,” Santi snapped. Some of the clerks were coughing, unused to the stench of the firebombs. One stumbled to a corner and retched. “If you can’t work, leave and send someone of stronger constitution. We can’t afford gaps.”

  The clerk gulped, wiped his mouth, and nodded. He went back to his station. “Update from the Lighthouse, sir. The Artifex advises that the device installation is complete, but she can’t guarantee it will work as promised.”