Sword and Pen Page 15

  “Let’s just say that you probably shouldn’t put anything in your journal you wouldn’t want the Archivist to read over tea.”

  “Oh. But I thought . . . I thought they were to be locked until after our deaths.” That wasn’t scandalized; that was purely horrified. “Too late to burn it, I suppose?”

  “Far too late,” Santi said. “I’ve been making mine incredibly boring for many, many years. You might want to do the same.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rolleson gulped and tried to regain his composure. “Sorry, sir, you were saying?”

  “Orders. Post Captain Botha’s company at the Lighthouse. I want his best defending the Ray of Apollo, but soldiers at all strategic levels and approaches, from the ground up. Some uniformed, some plainclothes. Spies will almost certainly come as Scholars. Check every band. Ask the Obscurist Magnus to divert two sphinxes to guard the door access to the Ray, and make damn sure we don’t rely on them completely. Tell Botha to try not to kill any spies they find; I’d like them as trading chips.”

  “Yes, sir. What else?”

  “Send a message to Scholar Wolfe. Ask if he has any word on the old Archivist. I need to know where the old man is and what he’s doing.”

  And tell him to be careful, he thought, but didn’t say. Sentiment would make Rolleson uncomfortable. And Wolfe wouldn’t welcome his mothering right now.

  But as they passed a statue of Isis, Santi sent up a silent prayer for his lover’s safety, anyway. He wasn’t a believer in the old Egyptian gods; he remained a staunch Catholic. But that really didn’t matter so much at the moment; Isis was one of Wolfe’s gods.

  Surely, she’d look after him.

  EPHEMERA

  Excerpt from the text “Of the Imperishable” by Archivist Gargi Vachaknavi

  The ancient scholars, honored though they must be for their accomplishments, should not be deified with the belief that they were all knowing. As wise a person as the great Greek physician Galen subscribed to the notion that a woman’s womb was not a natural organ, but instead a living thing within the body that wandered from point to point. Aristotle mistakenly believed in many things, not the least of which are that a vacuum cannot exist and that memory exists in a fluid. So we must acknowledge that knowledge is ever expanding, ever changing, and so we must also change with it.

  This is my theory of the Imperishable, which the Greeks also named apeiron: a force that is potential in all things, that exists and does not, that underlies even the quintessence of force that makes up the basis of all matter. The Imperishable exists beyond our understanding, and always shall; it transmutes the impossible to the possible, and we can witness the results but only rarely influence them.

  Today, touching the Imperishable is impossible without losing one’s life in the process. But one day, a person will exist upon this earth who can manipulate the Imperishable, the apeiron, and will redefine the rules by which our very existence continues. On that day, that person may no longer be a person at all, though we may continue to regard them as such. And that is a troubling and difficult thing, that any should be so close to godhood, and yet possess all the ignorance and base impulses of our flesh.

  I wonder if even the Imperishable could end.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JESS

  Jess needed to sleep, but he lay awake, thinking about leaving Morgan behind him, thinking about the soft intake of breath she’d made. He’d almost turned around. Almost. But he knew there was no going back to where they’d once been.

  She’s better off without me.

  One more lifeline, cut.

  You’re being morbid again, Brendan whispered to him. I’m dead. You’re only dying. Try to have a little fun.

  Shut up, Scraps, he thought, but his heart wasn’t in it. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but his lungs felt stuffed with feathers again, and trying made him cough. He sat up and used the mask again; the Medica was right: the more he used it, the less effect it had.

  But he couldn’t rest.

  He got up, showered, dressed, paced. Played dice with some of Anit’s men and lost consistently; he suspected they’d broken out the loaded set to clean him out of his pocket money, but he didn’t really care. It was something to do.

  At sunrise, he checked on Scholar Wolfe, who—predictably enough—was arguing.

  With Glain.

  “No,” he was saying when Jess walked in. “You are not going with us. You are staying here to recover, and that, soldier, is an order. If you want me to message Santi and waste his valuable time in confirming that—”

  “Don’t bother the Lord Commander,” Glain said. “But I refuse to just lie about like some broken toy. I’m fine!”

  She was, in fact, standing. And dressed in her uniform. She—or Anit’s people—had washed the blood from it, and the bullet holes in it were almost unnoticeable. Almost. “You were inches from death yesterday,” Jess said. “Just this once, why don’t you admit it?”

  “Why don’t you?” She glared at him. “You’ve looked like something grave robbers dug up since you breathed in that gas. Why don’t you rest?”

  “I’m better today,” he lied. “And the Medica cleared me.” Only barely true. He hoped Wolfe hadn’t checked. But Wolfe said nothing. He was studying Glain with those bitter dark eyes, looking for weakness. And even Jess had to admit that he didn’t see much in her. Not yet.

  “You can’t leave me here in a nest of thieves!” she said. “No offense meant. Some of my best friends are thieves now.”

  He gave her a sharp-edged grin. “Too little, too late,” he said. And realized that he was still taking on the mannerisms of his brother. He’d been doing it for survival here in Alexandria for long enough that it had become second nature. And, in truth, it felt . . . right. Maybe being a little bit Brendan would balance the darker shadows in his soul. “We should have gone last night, Scholar.”

  “No one was in shape to do that,” Wolfe said. “And Anit needed time to gather her people. Today will do.”

  “We’re targets, traveling in a group.”

  “We won’t be seen.”

  Some Obscurists, Jess knew, could hide themselves from notice. It wasn’t quite invisibility; it was misdirection. Morgan could. But hiding even one other person was a strain. Hiding groups? Even if Anit had the rare treasure of a rogue Obscurist, or an undiscovered one, he doubted Wolfe’s assurance.

  And then he didn’t. “She’s got tunnels,” he said. “Yes, of course she does. I should have realized.”

  “They’re extensive,” Wolfe said. “I’ve gone over the maps. They’ll take us all the way to the entrance to the Necropolis. They’re normally guarded by sphinxes where they come out. I’ve put in a request for them to be coded to ignore us, but the Obscurists are obviously busy. Pity Morgan had to leave so soon.”

  “She was needed,” Jess said. “Harbor defenses.”

  “Ah. Of course. I hope . . .” Wolfe stopped talking, which was unusual enough to make both Jess and Glain turn to look at him.

  “Hope what?” Jess asked.

  “Hope it goes well,” Wolfe finished. And Jess knew that wasn’t what he’d originally intended to say at all. “Glain. I’m not arguing with you. If you want to come, fine. But if you fall behind, we leave you.” He turned a glare on Jess. “Same for you.”

  “Understood, sir,” Jess and Glain said in crisp unison. Unintentionally.

  “Get your kit together,” Wolfe said. “Five minutes. Meet me in the atrium.”

  He left without waiting for a reply. The two of them looked at each other. Glain sat down on her bed. “You should move,” she told him. “When he says five minutes, he means two.”

  “I know. I have everything,” he said. He hesitated over what to say, and finally decided.

  “I thought we’d lost you, Glain. I can’t afford that. So if you’re not up to this, don�
��t risk it. All right?”

  “You’re worse than my brothers,” she said.

  “I’ll take it as a compliment. I need more siblings.”

  She sent him a slightly horrified look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” he said. “It still hurts, and I’ll still flinch when anything brushes that wound. If you want me to feel better, don’t die on me, Glain.”

  “I promise,” she said. “Let’s make it a pact. I can’t afford fewer friends, either. Hardly anyone likes me as it is.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Don’t get soppy, Brightwell.” She held on to his hand, though, and met his eyes squarely. “Are you all right? Truly?”

  He took his life in his hands and kissed her swiftly on the forehead; her reactions were slower than usual, and he got away with it. Barely. “Don’t be late,” he said, and escaped.

  Wolfe was, of course, already in the atrium. He was huddled with a scarred older man talking in hushed tones. Before Jess reached them, the other man scuttled off, and Jess watched his departure, frowning. “Who’s that?”

  “Street beggar,” Wolfe said. “Anit’s put out word among the less legal Alexandria residents, and they’ve reported a number of sightings, not of the Archivist, but of some of his most trusted High Garda. And Zara Cole. Look.”

  He unrolled a map onto the table nearby, and Jess saw that he’d already inked in some colored dots. “What’s the code?”

  “Red for unconfirmed sightings of members of either High Garda Elite or individual Curia members. Blue for confirmed sightings.”

  “And black?”

  Wolfe put his finger on the single black spot. “Zara. You notice anything about the pattern?”

  The blue and red covered much of the city. Randomly distributed. He tried to make sense of it and failed. “I don’t see it.”

  “Look at the one quarter of the city where they were not spotted. Because I think he arranged for these sightings quite deliberately to confuse what he was planning.”

  It came into focus as soon as the Scholar said it: there was a single neighborhood of the city where absolutely no sightings had been registered. Jess studied it, but failed to remember anything remarkable about it. “What’s there?”

  “Dyers and papermakers, butchers and tanners,” Wolfe said. He moved his finger to a particular anonymous street. “And the highly classified and secret High Garda workshop for producing and storing Greek fire.”

  Jess felt that go through him like an icy stab. “How much?”

  “How much do you think the High Garda holds in reserve?”

  Jess didn’t really want to think. “But it’s guarded.”

  “Of course. And Santi would have tripled whatever the normal complement would be. The Archivist in Exile will want to burn this city if he can’t own it. That’s the kind of man he is. Better the emperor of ashes than of nothing.”

  “You’ve warned Santi?”

  “He’s aware,” Wolfe said.

  “Shouldn’t we—”

  “No. Let Santi handle defenses. We must hunt the Archivist in his den, at the Necropolis.”

  They were lucky the old man hadn’t managed to recruit any Obscurists to his cause, Jess supposed. If he had, the odds would have been thoroughly terrible instead of just overwhelming. Bad enough they were facing, by his count, at least thirty High Garda Elite—fewer, if some had since defected, which Jess profoundly hoped—who were all heavily armed and trained to be deadly to anyone, even to their own fellow soldiers.

  He knew the old ex-Archivist wouldn’t hesitate to kill, and order others to do it for him. His rule of the Great Library had been a long, bloody, brutal one. And even the cruelest dictators had allies . . . and could buy or compel more. Jess didn’t doubt the old man had plenty of wealth he’d siphoned out of the Great Library’s coffers. Money enough to buy his escape and permanent safety if they didn’t find him, and soon.

  “You’re not wearing that Scholar’s robe,” Jess said. Wolfe allowed the map to roll up again and put it in a pocket inside the jacket he wore beneath the robe. Then he removed the robe, folded the thin silk up with practiced, expert motions, and slipped it into a small pouch that went in another pocket.

  “I’ll wear it once we have him,” he said. “I want him to see the silk on my back, despite everything he’s tried to do to rip it away.”

  And then the old man dies. For killing his innocent assistant, Neksa, if nothing else; the Archivist needed to know when the Brightwells held a grudge, they nursed it like a treasured child. He wanted that so much he was willing to die for it. Reckless, like his brother. Brave, like his brother.

  Dead like me, too, he heard Brendan whisper. You can choose your own path. You always have. Don’t follow me into the tomb, Jess.

  Jess had never let his brother tell him what to do.

  * * *

  —

  The tunnels they took were surprisingly clean, wide, and spacious, fitted with glows that kept them well lit. He’d seen far worse.

  Anit had changed into trousers and a close-fitting tunic, a style borrowed from countries farther east; her tunic was matte dark blue silk, and the trousers matched. That particular blue, Jess recalled, was considered the best for moving unnoticed in the dark. He supposed that even though dawn had broken, they’d spend most of the day in the shadows. If all went well.

  “You didn’t need to come with us,” he told her as they walked.

  “I most surely did,” she said. “In case my crew decides they don’t like to follow the orders of a dusty old Scholar. Why, are you worried about me?”

  “I think you know how to survive,” he said, and coughed. They’d been walking nearly an hour, and his lungs were struggling now, swollen and tender. He covered the cough and tried not to see Glain’s gaze, which was focused on him like Thomas’s light gun. “Sorry. Dust.”

  “We keep our tunnels quite clean,” Anit said. “Do you need to rest?”

  “No,” Jess said. “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t argue, but she didn’t believe him, either; he could see that from the glance she sent him. “Only about another twenty minutes,” she told him. “We’ll come to an intersection soon, then take the branch to the left. It’s not far from there to the Necropolis.”

  “And exactly why do you have tunnels built to the Necropolis?” Glain asked.

  Anit didn’t answer that question, but Jess knew well enough. The Necropolis, with its underground city of tombs, was an ideal place to hide things; few ventured there after their dead were sealed away in their miniature houses. “Red Ibrahim had a false tomb built,” Jess guessed. “Valuable books?”

  “Very,” Anit said. “The rarest of them all.”

  “And . . . where will you lay him to rest? Not there, surely.”

  “No,” she said. “Another tomb, under a different name. He left instructions.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me see the cache . . . ?”

  She smiled a little. “Perhaps I will,” she said. “Since I know we share a love of forbidden things. But not today. Today is for more serious things.”

  He nodded. Another cough threatened, and he swallowed it back as best he could. He could hear himself wheezing as he breathed, and hoped it wasn’t as noticeable to anyone else. He couldn’t use the mask here, out in the open; it would signal to everyone—including Wolfe—that he wasn’t fit to fight. I’ll manage, he thought. He slowed his pace a little, dropping back, and found that Glain adjusted her speed to match him. She wasn’t looking at him. It seemed entirely coincidental.

  “You’re not well enough,” she said.

  “Oh, and you are?” In the eerie green glow, everyone looked faintly ill, but Glain’s face was shining with sweat.

  “We’ll look after each other, then,” she said, and he nodded. Toge
ther, they might just make it through. “And Wolfe, of course.”

  Always.

  “How many know about these tunnels?” Glain asked him. Jess shrugged.

  “No idea, but Red Ibrahim would have kept this one close to his vest. His most trusted lieutenants might have known about it, but few others.”

  “And what odds do you give that the Archivist didn’t know about it?”

  “Good ones,” he replied. “If he had, he’d have seized the books. And probably wiped out Red Ibrahim and everyone who knew him. Those were his standing orders.”

  She didn’t seem convinced, but she accepted that, and as they arrived at the turn, they’d fallen to the back of the company, away from Wolfe and Anit. Anit’s picked crew consisted of about twenty, ten of them women who looked just as capable and focused as Glain. Mostly Egyptians, but a few drawn from paler lands, and at least a portion of the crew hailed back to origins farther east. Even criminals in Alexandria were cosmopolitan.

  When the company paused, Jess and Glain caught up and pushed through to rejoin Wolfe. He stood with Anit at what seemed to be a blank, blunt end to the tunnel, and the gloom at this end—far from the last glow—made the situation seem even worse.

  Anit pressed her small hands against the stone in a special pattern with her fingers spread. There was an audible click that rolled through the tunnel, and then the stone began to slide away to the left. It was almost silent, but almost, Jess thought, wasn’t good enough. He unslung the rifle from his back and saw that Glain had already done the same. Without speaking or even glancing to confirm, they moved out as a team ahead of Wolfe and Anit.

  The Necropolis was dark. Very dark. The only light came from a single spot far above at the top of the chamber—a hole that poured light down in an almost solid stream. It was meant, Jess thought, to be bounced from a mirror; he could see other mirrors set on the walls of the cave, glimmering in the dimness. But someone had moved the mirror that caught the incoming light and distributed it.