Jess hesitated for a long time before signing his name at the end, which inked his final answers. The sheet went blank, and the elegant writing that next appeared told him that results would follow soon, and he was free to depart the Serapeum.
When he left, Queen Anne was still judging those who passed, and he tried not to look directly at her as he took the steps two at a time. The day was warm and sunny, pigeons fluttering up in front of the courtyard, and he looked for the Brightwell carriage, which should have been parked nearby. It had moved down the block, and he jogged towards it. He was nervous, he realised. Actually nervous about how he'd done on the test. He cared. It was a new sensation, and one he didn't much care for.
'Sir?' Jess's driver looked anxious from his perch, clearly wanting to be gone; he was one of his father's musclemen, and had spent most of his criminal career staying well clear of the Library. Jess didn't blame him. He got into the back, and as he sat down, his Codex - the leather-bound book that mirrored a list of the Core Collection straight from the Great Library in Alexandria - hummed. Someone had sent him a note. He cracked the cover to see it spell itself out in ornate Library script, one rounded letter at a time. He could even feel the faint vibration of pen-scratch from the Library clerk who was transcribing the message.
We are pleased to inform you that JESS BRIGHTWELL is hereby accepted for the high honour of service to the Great Library. You are directed to report tomorrow to St Pancras Station in London at ten o'clock in the morning for transportation to Alexandria. Please refer to the list of approved items you may bring with you into service.
It was signed with the Library seal, which swelled up in raised red beneath the inked letters. Jess ran his fingers over it. It felt slick like wax, but warm as blood, and he felt a tingle to it, like something alive.
His name stood out, too, in bold black. JESS BRIGHTWELL.
He swallowed hard, closed the book, and tried to control his suddenly racing pulse as the carriage clattered for home.
His mother, much affected (or feeling that she ought to be), presented him with a magnificent set of engraved styluses, and his father gifted him with a brand-new leather-bound Codex, a Scholar's edition with plenty of extra pages for notes, and handsomely embossed with the Library symbol in gold.
His brother gave him nothing, but then, Jess hadn't expected anything.
Dinner that night was unusually calm and festive. After the half-measure of brandy his mother allowed, Jess found himself sitting alone on the back garden steps. It was a clear, cool night, unusual for London, and he stared up at the swelling white moon. The stars would be different, where he was going. But the moon would be the same.
He never expected that the prospect of leaving home would make him feel sad.
He didn't hear Brendan come out, but it didn't surprise him to hear the scrape of his brother's boots on the stone behind him. 'You're not coming back.'
It wasn't what Jess had expected, and he turned to look at Brendan, who slouched with his arms crossed in the shadows. Couldn't read his expression.
'You're clever, Jess, but Da's wrong about one thing: you don't just have ink in your blood. It's in your bones. Your skeleton's black with it. You go there, to them, and we'll lose you for ever.' Brendan shifted a little, but didn't look at him. 'So don't go.'
'I thought you wanted me gone.'
Brendan's shoulders rose and fell. He pushed off and drifted away into the darkness. Off doing God knew what. I'm sorry, Scraps, he thought. But he wasn't, not really. Staying here wasn't his future, any more than the Library would be Brendan's.
This would be his last night at home.
Jess went inside, wrote in his journal, and spent the rest of the evening reading Inventio Fortunata.
Which rather proved his brother's point, he supposed.
The next day, his father accompanied Jess to St Pancras, and waved off servants to personally carry his case to the train ... all without a single word, or change of expression. As Jess accepted the bag from him, his father finally said, 'Make us proud, son, or by God I'll wallop you until you do.' But there was a faint wet shine in his eyes, and that made Jess feel uncomfortable. His father wasn't weak, and was never vulnerable.
So what he saw couldn't be tears.
His father gave him a hard, quick nod and strode away through the swirl of passengers and pigeons. The humid belch of steam engines blew towards the vaulted ceiling of the station and intertwined in ornate ironworks. Familiar and strange at once. For a moment, Jess just stood on his own, testing himself. Trying to see how he felt caught between the old world and the new one that would come.
Still twenty minutes to the Alexandrian train, and he wondered whether or not to get a warm drink from one of the vendors in the stalls around the tracks, but as he was considering tea, he heard a commotion begin somewhere behind him.
It was a man raising his voice to a strident yell, and there was something in it that made him turn and listen.
'--say to you that you are deceived! That words are nothing more than false idols at which you worship! The Great Library may have once been a boon, but what is it today? What does it give us? It suppresses! It stifles! You, sir, do you own a book? No, sir, not a blank, filled only with what they want you to read ... a real book, an original work, in the hand of the writer? Do you dare, madam? The Library owns our memories, yet you cannot own your own books! Why? Why do they fear it? Why do they fear to allow you the choice?'
Jess spotted the speaker, who'd climbed on a stone bench and was now lecturing those passing by as he held up a journal. It wasn't a blank from the Serapeum, stamped with the Library's emblem. What the man brandished was far finer, with a hand-tooled leather cover and his name on it in gilt. His personal journal, in which he would write daily. Jess had one quite like it. After all, the Library provided them free on the birth of a child, and encouraged every citizen of the world to write their thoughts and memories from the earliest age possible. Everyone kept a record of the days and hours of their lives to be archived in the Library upon their deaths. The Library was a kind of memorial, in that way. It was one reason the people loved it so, for the fact it lent them a kind of immortality.
This man waved his personal journal like a torch, and there was a fever-light in his face that made Jess feel uneasy. He knew the rhetoric. The Garda would be on the way soon.
People gave the lecturer a wide berth, scared off by his passion and his wild eyes. Jess looked around. Sure enough, a knot of red-coated London Garda was heading towards the spot. The Burner saw them coming, too, and Jess saw his face go pale and set under that untidy mop of hair. He raised his voice even more. 'A man cannot be reduced to paper, to lines and letters! He cannot be consigned to a shelf! A life is worth more than a book! Vita hominis plus libro valet!'
That last rose to a ringing shout of victory. The man reached under his coat and took out a bottle of poison-green liquid, thumbed off the cap, and poured a single drop on the cover of the personal journal he held. Then he threw the book down to the stone floor, and in a second it ignited with a shocking burst of flame that burnt emerald at the edges and bloomed in a towering column straight up into the air. Those closest stumbled back with alarmed gasps and cries of surprise.
'Greek Fire!' someone screamed, and then there was a scramble, a full-on rush of people for the exits. It impeded the progress of the London Garda, who were heading against the tide.
'The Library wants you to live blind!' the Burner shouted. 'I die to show you the light! Don't trust them! They lie!'
Jess should have run, he supposed; he was buffeted on all sides by those with more sense, but he lingered to watch the man with frozen dread and - yes - fascination. The book, burning on the stones, held a ghastly echo for him of helpless fury and horror, as if the pages themselves were screaming for rescue. It was an original work, an only copy, written in ink on paper. It was the man's thoughts and dreams, and it was ... dying. It wasn't On Sphere Making, but Jess had to fight the im
pulse to rush to save it, regardless.
'Out of the way!' a Garda cried, and pushed him almost off his feet, towards the exit. 'Get clear! Don't you know Greek Fire when you see it, you fool?'
He did, and he also realised - all too late - that the Burner didn't just have the drop that he'd used on the book for his demonstration. The man had a full flask-sized bottle of the stuff, and he was holding it high. It glittered in the dim light from the windows like a murky emerald.
Jess took a step back, and stumbled on his train case. He fell over it, still watching the Burner. I should get out of here, he thought, but it felt as if his brain had gone to sleep, lulled by the mesmerising rush of the fire. He wanted to leave, but his body wouldn't respond.
'Cork that bottle, son,' one of the Garda said as he approached the Burner. He was older, and he sounded authoritative and oddly kind. 'There's no need for this. You've made your point, and if you want to destroy your own words, well, that's your burden and no one else's, sure enough. Cork that and put it down. No harm done. You'll only have a fine, I promise you.'
'Liar,' the man said, and for the first time, Jess realised that he was, in fact, only a little older than Jess himself. Twenty years old, at most. He looked serious, and desperate, and afraid, but there was something in his eyes, something wild. 'You're a tool of the Library, and I will not be silenced by you! Vita hominis plus libro valet!'
It was the Burner's motto: A life is worth more than a book.
They were also his last words.
The young man upended the bottle of Greek Fire over the front of his clothes and then poured the rest on his head, and the men who'd been advancing on him backed up, then turned and ran.
Jess saw the chemicals glow, spark, ignite, and consume the Burner in green fire that blew up towards the vaulted ceiling in an awful explosion of light. The sound was like nothing Jess had ever heard before - an indrawn breath of sucking air, and the crackle and fizz, and then the screams.
Oh, God, the terrible screams.
One of the Garda grabbed Jess and bowled him over the edge of the platform to crash hard down onto the gravel bed of the tracks, only a few feet from the iron skirt of a locomotive. The man's weight crushed him down on a rail, and he struggled to breathe. From the corner of his eye he saw the firestorm billowing over their heads, a torrent of green and yellow and red.
The screaming stopped, and the horrible banner of flame drew back in, though the fire still raged.
The Garda who'd pulled him over the edge kept him down when he tried to stand up. 'No,' he said, panting. His face was pale under his black helmet. 'Just stay down, the air's toxic up there until it burns completely out.'
'But he's--'
'Dead,' the man said, and held Jess's shoulder tightly. 'And nothing we can do for him. The stupid boy, he didn't need to--' His voice was unsteady, and then it failed him altogether, and for all that Jess had grown up as enemies with the Garda, in that moment they were united in horror. 'Damned Burners. No reasoning with 'em. Getting worse every year.' The man blinked back tears and looked away.
Jess sat back against the rough stone wall and stared at the flickering glow of the fire above them until, at last, it died.
The Garda questioned him - not that they suspected him of anything, but he'd stayed while others fled, and he was of an age when young men might turn to such causes. He answered truthfully and showed them his Codex, which contained his travel papers to Alexandria, and his official acceptance letter. He worried about missing the train, but nothing was running, not until the Garda were satisfied the danger was gone.
It took several hours, and he supposed they'd sent word to his family, but no one came. He remembered his da being told that his older brother Liam had been taken while running books, and the grief and resignation on his father's face. His father hadn't stood up to claim Liam. He'd not be visiting the Garda to retrieve Jess, either, should the worst come to pass.
Jess's nerves were as tight as wires, but the Garda finally let him return to the tracks, where scrubbing had removed all trace of the Burner's death, except for discolorations. The book, Jess thought, as he stood and looked down at the smaller stain on the floor. This is where the book died. It was the same ugly black scar as where the Burner had ignited himself on the bench.
Books and men left the same traces where they burnt.
The idea that the young man had taken his personal journal with him into the flames left a sour taste in the back of Jess's throat; it wasn't just that he'd given up his life, it was that he'd given up any hope of people understanding his purpose. Maybe nobody would have ever read it; maybe his reasons would have been found utterly mundane and useless. But by burning it, he'd erased himself as completely as anyone could. To a modern man, growing up with the comfort of knowing the Library would keep his memories intact, it seemed ... inconceivable.
Jess realised that he was getting strange looks as he stood there, and picked up his train case to move to his platform.
They'd delayed the schedules, and the station was once again full to bursting. Funny how normal it all was again. Trains chuffed their pale mist into the air, and men, women and children strolled or bustled, absorbed in their own business. The pigeons had returned too, to peck at crumbs falling from hastily eaten pies and sandwiches. The only difference, as far as Jess could tell, was that there were more Garda scattered around the station, looking out for more Burners come to imitate their newest martyr.
Brutal as it was, it seemed to Jess that the man's death had been nothing but a rock dropped in a fast-moving stream: a brief splash, then no trace left. He didn't know whether that was appalling, or comforting.
He moved onto the platform and joined the long queue for boarding the long, sleekly silver train. At the gate, the elderly uniformed conductor said, 'Best make yourself comfortable, my lad. Long journey ahead. Under to France, through to Spain, across to Morocco, then on to the city. Be sure to keep your papers handy to show at the last Alexandrian border. Sure you have everything?'
Jess thanked him, and looked for his spot. He wasn't surprised his father had bought him a cheap fare; the fancier travellers had plush seats and tea trolleys, but the car he settled in was well used, and smelt of mould and stale food and feet. Crowded, too; more and more bodies jammed on, taking space to pile their bags and cases. Jess rested his feet on his own luggage. He hadn't grown up trusting the good intentions of strangers.
He wrote in his journal about the Burner, about the trip and his fellow passengers, then put away his pen and slept and ate as the miles clacked by and stops ticked off. Travellers disembarked, and fewer got on than off, which was a relief. The make-up of those around him changed slowly as they left England through the underground tunnel to the Library territory of France; there was nervous talk of danger all the way to the coast, and many breathed a sigh of relief when they made it to the safety of the tunnel without incident; the Welsh army had been pushing in, closer and closer. No one took safe passage for granted, though so far the trains had been spared any threat.
By the time they pulled close to the Spanish border a full day later, most of those on board seemed to fall into two types: new postulants like him, young and mostly nervous, huddled in small groups, or self-assured Library employees, easily picked out even in civilian dress by the bands they wore on their wrists in copper, silver and - a rare sighting - one in gold. Jess wondered what it would feel like, knowing you had a position that would last a lifetime. Would it free you, or make you feel trapped? Not that I'll ever know, he thought. The Library only offered gold to a select few in a generation.
The rest of the trip was long, but uneventful; some storms along the way, but a smooth enough ride all the way to the tip of Spain, where the entire remaining company disembarked, blinking in the fierce sun before boarding a large ferry for the trip across the water.
When they boarded the Alexandrian train in Morocco, a few new passengers entered. One of them was hard to miss. A blond, blue-eyed bo
y of about Jess's own age who looked big enough to bend iron ... which made it odd how he moved so carefully past others, and apologised for every bump. Too considerate by half.
Jess met his gaze for a second and nodded, and that was a mistake. The giant headed straight for him and said, 'May I sit here?' His English was good, but accented with German.
'Plenty of seats, mate. Sit where you like.'
He thought that might be a sign to the boy to move on, but instead, Jess was presented with a meaty hand to be shaken, and the other boy said, 'Thomas Schreiber.'
'Jess Brightwell.' They shook, and the boy wedged his big frame into the seat beside Jess and let out a lingering sigh of relief.
'Finally, room to breathe.'
Jess didn't much agree with that, as Thomas had just taken up most of his. 'Come a long way?'
'Berlin. You know Berlin?'
'Not personally,' Jess said. 'Nice place?'
'Very nice. And you? From?'
'London.'
'In England? But that is a long way also!'
'It is, yeah. Guess you're off to Library training too?'
'I am. I hope for a placement in engineering. My grandfather was a silver band for many years.'
'Engineering ... that falls under Artifex. Heard that was a hard one. Does having a silver band relative make you some kind of legacy, then?' When he received a blank look from Thomas, Jess tried again. 'Legacy means you didn't have to sit for the entry tests. Kids of gold bands get to go straight into training. Wasn't sure about silver.'
'Would be nice, yes? No, no, nothing like that. I had to take the examination.'
'Yeah? How'd you do?'
Thomas shrugged. 'All right.'
'I got seven hundred and fifty. Highest score in London.' He realised, as he said it, that it sounded like boasting. Well, all right. He was proud of it.
Thomas raised his pale eyebrows and nodded. 'Very good.' There was something in the carefully polite way he said it that made Jess glower at him.