Sword and Pen Page 17

  He added a very plain, short dagger of Alexandrian design, and no sword; the lack of it made him feel a pang for the family blade he’d damaged this morning. He didn’t actually regret doing that; it had saved Jess’s life. But still. A loss. If he lived through this, he’d have to see about having it repaired.

  Two steps away from the mirror he recalled that he needed to change his Codex. He’d purchased a new one and had it registered to the possession of a fictitious person named Bernado Allamante, an immigrant from Granada. It had been used, but only for entirely innocent book requests and innocuous messages. A clean tablet, so to speak. And one that wouldn’t betray his movements, should the High Garda choose to look into it.

  He put aside his fancy jeweled Codex with regret. He’d grown up with it, and it was precious to him . . . but not as precious as his life. With any luck, he’d come back to retrieve it. If the Lighthouse still survived.

  So much uncertainty.

  He put on a plain Spanish leather hat to shade his face and disguise him from casual glances, and nodded at his reflection. He didn’t look like a nobleman anymore, but he was about to do the work of one. Bloody, terrible, cruel work that would cost lives. But that was why people acceded to royalty; someone had to do it. And it was cowardly to avoid one’s duty.

  Deep inside, he knew he wanted to run from this. Grab Khalila and drag her off to live a quiet, anonymous life somewhere on a remote, peaceful farm, growing—crops of some type. He didn’t know how it worked, really, but it sounded like bliss to him at the moment. It seemed very real to him: Khalila next to him by a warm fire, children gathered around.

  A normal life.

  You and that beautiful woman will never be normal, he told himself, and settled his hat at a cockier angle. She’d never cooperate for a moment in a mad plan like that. You must accept that this is your destiny. And learn to like it.

  The second part of it would be much harder than the first, but he came from a long line of people who had all done their duty . . . pleasurable or not. He sighed, shrugged, and checked his old Codex when it shivered with the arrival of a message. Finally.

  His cousin Alvaro wrote back, Of course I understand fully that your primary loyalty must remain with the Great Library; Spain could ask nothing else. The code, however, said Iberia Warehouse, dock seven. Go now.

  Dario took a deep breath and headed for the door. He’d almost reached it when he realized that there was one thing he’d forgotten, a thing so central to his life now that it seemed like part of his skin.

  He opened his desk drawer, removed his gold Scholar’s band, and placed it gently inside. Let himself feel the loss of it, and all it meant to him.

  You can still change your mind, something whispered. You don’t have to do this. Put it back on. Forget this idiocy.

  Impossible.

  He shut and locked the drawer, hid the key in his old Codex, and turned his back on all of it.

  The Lighthouse security was extreme at the moment, but it was designed to stop and search anyone entering; he’d been subjected to that indignity on the way in. Going out, both the High Garda soldiers and the automata ignored him. Not a threat if he was departing. That was good. It also meant coming home, minus his Scholar’s band, which guaranteed him passage, was next to impossible.

  It felt like a book closing.

  He walked around the harbor’s long, sleek curve. All the fires were out, though smoke still curled up from one or two distant spots. The sun was shining, the sea shimmering brightly. Clouds still massed on the horizon, but the storm wouldn’t arrive for another few hours. Hopefully. The day felt unnaturally hot, and the air heavy in his lungs. As clean as Alexandria was, the docks always had a taint of rotten fish to them, and it wasn’t a pleasant walk . . . but it was a lonely one. Few had dared the streets after that bombardment, and fewer were out of High Garda uniform. The Scholars were all at work, he thought; the common folk were all hiding in their houses. It made him feel exposed and itchy, and the spot where his golden band had been seemed especially irritated.

  He walked faster. Like almost everyone, he imagined, he spent much of his time gaping at the wonder of the automaton of Poseidon, risen from the sea to guard the entrance; it seemed impossibly large and threatening. The chain seemed like an impenetrable barrier, too. But he knew that the fleet out there would be considering new tactics. They might be down, but not yet departed.

  Dock seven was on the far side of the harbor, and it was almost wholly deserted. The Iberia Warehouse was one of the smaller buildings, a long two-story structure of freshly painted white stucco with a tiled roof, and the seal of the kingdom of Spain embedded on the side. The door was locked, of course, but he tried it anyway; he knocked. No one answered. He knocked again.

  This time, the door opened, and a hand pulled him inside, into the dark. The door slammed behind him. Dario put a hand on his dagger and turned, fast, to face the person who’d drawn him inside. The windows were shuttered, but a green glow kindled and showed him a tall young man. Eyeglasses that reflected the light in an eerie shimmer. “Codex,” the young man said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Codex.”

  There were others in the shadows, and Dario caught the glint of steel and eyes. All right. He was outnumbered. He slid the Codex from its holder and handed it to the young man, who checked it and nodded. He handed it back. “We wanted to be certain you remembered. And your band?” Dario showed him the spot where it had been. He received another sharp nod. “Good. Well thought-out.”

  “And exactly who are you?” Dario asked. He was fuming at the way he’d been patronized, but also knew better than to indulge his attitude just now. He kept his tone unsharpened.

  “Cesar Mondragon,” he said. “But you wouldn’t know me. My trade is not being known.”

  “Spy.” That got a slow smile in reply. Nothing else. “All right, I’m here. Now what?”

  “Now you’ll help us put the Great Library in a position where they have to see the patently obvious: they can’t survive alone.”

  “Which means what, precisely?”

  “We intend to take the Archivist prisoner,” Mondragon said. “Your access and knowledge are important to this, and your willing cooperation.” He stressed willing. Dario nodded slightly in acknowledgment. “Thoughts?”

  “It’s a stupid plan,” Dario said. “The Archivist has a heavy guard. So will all the targets you’ve likely considered: the Lighthouse, the Serapeum, the Iron Tower, the Great Archives, and the High Garda barracks. You won’t succeed in any of those places. And I can’t make those odds any better.”

  Mondragon’s smile vanished. “Then what use are you to us?”

  “I can tell you the single most vulnerable spot you’ve never heard of,” Dario said. “The one few even know about. If you do it well, you can take this entire city without a fight. That’s what I’d prefer. I don’t want idiots like you destroying it while saving it.”

  “Careful, Don Santiago,” Mondragon said. “You may be royal, but you’re not immortal. The king didn’t order me to kill you. He didn’t order me not to, either.”

  Young as Cesar Mondragon was, he clearly knew his business; Dario had to give him that much. He said nothing to that. Just waited. And eventually, Mondragon said, “Very well. Where is this magical place only you know? What use does it have for us?”

  “It’s where the High Garda produces and stores Greek fire,” Dario said. “In a quiet, anonymous backwater of the city. Everyone believes it’s made and stored at the High Garda compound, but that would be ludicrous; you don’t keep volatile, potentially disastrous equipment like that in the same spot as your main fighting force. The liquid is made at a secret plant, stored nearby, and sent in small, regular deliveries to the High Garda compound for use. It’s a well-kept secret. And once you take control of it, you can dictate terms to the Archivist, the High Gard
a, the Obscurists . . . everyone. The city will be yours.”

  “And you learned of this place how?”

  “I’ve been traveling with Captain Santi for years now,” Dario said. “He’s careful with his secrets, but nobody’s careful enough. Not constantly. I saw it in his private journal.”

  “How would you come to see his private journal?”

  Dario smiled slowly. “The same way you would, in my position. Borrowing it when he was asleep.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Because it might be useful one day. And turns out, it is.”

  Mondragon didn’t altogether like his answer, but there was nothing to prove or disprove about it. Dario had read some private journals, including Captain Santi’s, when he was still a student back in Ptolemy House and trying to understand the best strategies for survival in a hostile, competitive environment. He’d been searching mainly for blackmail material that he could use on either Scholar Wolfe or Captain Santi to ensure his elevation to full Scholar status. He’d found a great deal more than he’d expected. And he’d never used any of it, or admitted that shameful tactic to anyone until this moment. He supposed it didn’t reflect well on his character. Not that he cared what Mondragon, or any of them, thought about it.

  “Let’s say I accept your idea,” Mondragon said. “What exactly are you proposing to do with that information?”

  “It will be guarded; it’s always guarded,” Dario said. “But if we can take possession of it, the Archivist will have to grant our request to open the harbor, land our ships and troops, and allow us to secure the city.”

  “Why would they do that?” Mondragon asked.

  “Threaten to ignite the stores. If you do, the explosion will be . . . well. Like nothing this city, or indeed the world, has ever seen.” He opened both hands from fists to palms, and Mondragon got the message. Eloquently.

  “Surely the High Garda have guards, and safeguards to prevent just such an explosion.”

  “Yes, and yes. Automata and, of course, human soldiers. Probably triple guard posted, though they ought to be tired by now. And complacent, as much as High Garda can be.” He paused. “As to the safeguards . . . there are alchemically treated doors separating the warehouse itself into smaller compartments that can be contained in case of fire. But once we take the complex, we can open all the suppression doors at will.”

  “Triple guards.”

  “There might be, yes.”

  “I don’t like might,” Mondragon said. “And I particularly don’t like automata.”

  “Who does?” Dario grinned. “That’s the point of them. But I know how to turn them off. Well, most of them. It’s not easy, or safe, but it can be done. That just leaves the human guards, and I trust you can handle that.”

  “Probably,” Mondragon replied. He swept Dario with a look, head to toe. “You seem prepared enough for the mission.”

  “I’d prefer a weapon,” he said.

  “Then you should have brought one.” Mondragon’s tone reminded Dario of Scholar Wolfe’s at his most irritated, but the young spy snapped fingers, and one of the men in the shadows—all men, as far as Dario could tell—stepped forward and handed Dario a gun. He raised his eyebrows and examined it closer. It wasn’t High Garda issue.

  “Russian?” he guessed.

  “Yes,” Mondragon said. “Always nice to have allies who are fine weapons manufacturers. Don’t lose it. You won’t get another. Now, come on, we don’t have time to waste. The storm that’s approaching the coast poses a real danger to our ships and crews. We need to have them safely docked before it arrives.” Mondragon unrolled a map and spread it against the wall. “Show me the location.”

  “Here.” Dario pointed to the precise spot. Mondragon studied it and let the map roll up with a snap of stiff paper.

  “Very well. Then let’s move out.”

  Dario nodded and did as he was told. That included a trip through the warehouse to a side door that opened on a blind alley; there was a dilapidated steam carrier there with a large covered box rolling behind it. Big enough, Dario realized, for all of the Spanish team, which proved to be fifteen strong, including him. All anonymous. The most recognizable thing about any of them was Mondragon’s eyeglasses, and those could, in a crisis, be discarded. He had no idea if Mondragon actually needed them at all.

  There were not a lot of steam carriers abroad today, but Dario supposed there must be a few; life went on, even in a city under siege. This unremarkable carriage wouldn’t be noticed. He sat with the others crowded in on the floor of the bare carrier box and paid close attention as they got underway. He had his own mental map of the city streets, and as the steam carriage made the necessary turns, he knew that Mondragon had taken him at his word. They were going to the right place.

  And that was dangerous, even if it was what he wanted. There was a battle ahead, and it could be a bad one.

  As the carriage slowed and the rumble of the wheels subsided, Mondragon said, “Santiago, you’re in charge of stopping any automata. Villareal, you’re backup. If Santiago fails, you succeed. Understood?”

  “Yes,” the man beside Dario said. He was older, and he radiated calm competence. “Time to come clean, Scholar. What’s the secret to disarming the things?”

  From his accent, the man was Catalonian. Dario felt a surge of homesickness. Now that he had no guarantee of living through the day, he had a sudden fondness for Madrid. For Barcelona. For food and spices he hadn’t even missed, until this moment.

  He cleared his throat and said, “If they’re lions or sphinxes, under the arm, here.” He pressed a finger to his armpit. “Most automata built with human or animal faces will have that installed. Not all, unfortunately. So be careful. Get in close, strike that button quickly, and move. It’s the only way.” He felt sick saying it. He’d just lied to the man, and with a smile, too.

  Villareal didn’t seem reassured. “I’ve seen these things gut men in less than a heartbeat. How quickly?”

  Dario shrugged. “Well, if you miss the timing, you’ll know.”

  “You’re not amusing, Highness.”

  “You remind me of a friend of mine.”

  “You have friends?”

  “Oh, now you really remind me of him.” He wondered where Brightwell was right now. Probably lying in a nice warm bed, if the Medica had anything to say about it. He’d be all right. Jess was a survivor. Thinking of Jess was better than considering what he’d just done. It was a contingency only. He prayed he wouldn’t have to see it triggered. “Good luck, Villareal.”

  Villareal nodded slowly. “You, too.” He reached for the doors.

  “Not yet,” Mondragon said. “We’ve got a scout looking around.” He opened a small peephole in the side, then checked his Codex. Wrote some words. From what Dario could tell, Mondragon had accessed the street plan for this area. He studied it carefully. When the message came back from his spy, Mondragon read it and frowned. “The property you indicated has closed gates,” he said. “And nothing moving inside, as far as my scout can tell. It seems deserted.”

  “Of course,” Dario said. “It would. High Garda would have this spot completely locked down. Nothing coming or going. Not even more High Garda.” He took out his own Codex and a stylus and wrote a message. It was an entirely innocuous message to an entirely anonymous Codex, one that had been carefully erased from the system by no less than the Obscurist Magnus himself. He was careful about the height of the letters, the extra scrolling on the ends.

  He wrote, Difficult day here in Alexandria, and a storm on the horizon. Pray for us.

  The translation of the code was, I’m here. Ready.

  The reply was immediate, though the handwriting was far too messy to read any letter-height coding. I will.

  The signal came a moment later—not from the Codex, but in the form of a scream and distan
t gunfire. Dario snapped the book shut, put it in its holder, and looked at Mondragon. “We should go now.”

  “Once we know what’s—”

  “Now!” Dario barked, and shoved the doors open. He jumped out, and the rest followed. Mondragon didn’t like it, he could tell, but then, Mondragon was uncommonly smart. He was probably trying to work out what was happening and how the power had just shifted.

  Dario didn’t give him time to think about it.

  One of the Spanish spies had a spray device that directed a thin, intense stream of Greek fire onto the lock of the gate; it was a one-use device because it self-destructed as it was fired, and he dropped the empty as he kicked the iron gates open. They creaked back, and Dario heard the shouts and screams and gunfire even more clearly. The sounds came from within the main building, which was made of thick stone and had thin vents near the roofline but no obvious windows. The doors were shut, and when he tried them, they were still locked. He gestured, and the same spy who’d taken care of the gates used another of his ingenious devices on the door. The lock melted, and a boot on the doors slammed them open.

  Inside was a war zone. For a moment, Dario couldn’t take it in, even though he knew what to expect; the sphinxes who guarded this place were ripping apart the men and women who had been set to hold it. Some of the sphinxes had already been destroyed or frozen in place; two were half-melted from Greek fire bombs, and as he stared, one of them clattered to a halt midattack and toppled over.