"At least it means slow going for the Welsh," he pointed out. "London's probably the hardest city to conquer in the world."
"Yet they are managing," Dario observed. It wasn't smug, just practical. He was watching the southwest, where the muddy glow of buildings on fire made the night shimmer. Jess could hear the sound of fighting, very dim and distant. Khalila gave him a glare. She still wasn't speaking to him, not at all. "I hope this hiding place isn't far."
"Just up there," Jess said. Their group kept to the shadows; other London citizens hurried by in the opposite direction, many carrying suitcases or bags full of belongings, dressed in thick layers of clothing to lighten their loads. "Stay out of sight of the Garda if you see any."
They'd picked up the others a few blocks back, but now Morgan eased by Dario to take a place at Jess's side. She took his hand and looked him up and down, then over at his brother. "Remarkable," she said. "It's hard to tell you apart."
"Really?" Jess asked.
"Well. Not for me, of course."
"That's better. I wouldn't like you mistaking the two of us at a critical moment."
Jess adjusted his heavy burden of books. It felt larger with every step, or maybe it was just that he was growing tired.
"The fighting looks to be moving closer," Santi said from behind them. "We should go as quick as we can. I'd rather not renew our acquaintance with our friends from Wales. They let us go once; I doubt they'd feel any obligation to do it again."
"And we're not even Library anymore," Khalila said. "We've got the same protection as anyone else on these streets."
"Welcome to the rest of the world," Brendan said. "We rely on ourselves out here. Always have done, since the Library told us a book was worth more than we are."
"But it is," Khalila said quietly. "A book outlives us all."
"That's a legacy," Brendan said. "I'd rather have a life, if you don't mind."
"Philosophy later," Wolfe said. "Run now."
It was more of a walk, and though Jess worried their stuffed packs might attract attention, the growing chaos of the Welsh invasion worked to their advantage. Almost every person on the street carried something--a bag, a pack--and some even trundled carts. The wealthy, of course, steamed by in carriages loaded with all manner of valuables. He considered the merits of waylaying one of them and forcing the owners out at gunpoint, but that might set off a tinderbox of rioting. In the distance, looters broke windows and carried off abandoned goods. That was tragic, but would they fare better if left to burn? Probably not.
The only bad moment came when they rounded a corner four blocks from the warehouse and faced a troop of perhaps a hundred London Garda. The redcoats looked exhausted and filthy, and huddled in groups as they shared food and water. Fresh from the fight, it looked like there were plenty of wounded stretched in a row on the sidewalk, and Medica attending to them. Jess kept his gaze down as they moved around the soldiers, and hoped that nobody had thought to circulate their descriptions; together in a group, they were hard to miss.
Brendan, on the other hand, walked right up to an officer crouching against a brick wall, eating dried meat. "Brightwell," the soldier said, and glanced at Jess. "I stand corrected. Brightwells. And I thought this day couldn't get worse."
"Captain Harte," Brendan said. He reached in his pocket and slipped out a silver flask that assuredly didn't hold water and passed it over. "How goes the war?"
"We're trying to hold them at the bridges, but, to be honest, I don't think we have a hope. Bloody citizens are running like scared rabbits, and the army got themselves cut off in another battle. I'm surprised to find you lot still here." He uncapped the flask and took a long pull, sighed in satisfaction, and handed it back. "Look to your people. Get them out of here. I doubt we have more than an hour or two before this district's overrun."
"Anything about my father?"
"Aye. Your da was almost taken, but he got clean away. Not surprised, really; old Callum's always been able to slither right out of a trap. I expect you'll meet up with him again sometime."
"All right. Luck to you."
"You as well."
Brendan led them a step or two on. Harte called after him. "Brendan. Library Garda's looking for your friends. Offering rewards."
"Are you tempted?"
Harte shrugged. "I know you'll make it worth my while to forget."
"That I will." Brendan touched his forehead in a mock salute and led them on.
The warehouse was an entirely unassuming structure at the end of a blind alley, hard to see and harder to find. It was usually guarded with lurkers out on the main streets and deadly bruisers at the doors. Not today, though. Today the doors stood open, and Brendan led them straight on inside.
It was empty.
Jess had never seen his father's warehouse empty before; there were always bolts and bundles of imported silk, pieces of fine furniture, boxes of expensive trinkets. His father had expensive tastes, but his real treasures had been concealed behind false walls and up high in the rafters--boxes and stacks of rare, original books. Beauties that ranged into antiquity, from the hands of the original authors or the most accurate copies. His father always sold quality, whether the items were legal or criminal.
There was nothing there now except a squad of hard men. Most were armed with knives and some with stolen guns liberated from either Garda or the army. Finding weapons wasn't a challenge for someone well-known in the shadow markets.
"Come out, Da," Brendan said. "I know you're here. They would have already run to the hills if you weren't."
There was a laugh from the shadows, and then Callum Brightwell stepped out--grimy, thinner, with a cut on one cheek that had barely begun to heal. "My boys. Come here to me."
Brendan walked over and received a bear hug. Jess didn't move.
"I think I'll stay where I am," Jess said. "I can see you're overcome with joy that I'm alive."
"I am," Callum said, though there was no real sign of it.
"How did you get away from the Garda?"
"Hard fighting, boy. They got my Codex and twelve of my men. But they lost me. And you, apparently. Clever lad." His father had lost his smile. "Stop dithering. Your place is with us. I didn't send you to the damned Library to become a rebel. There's no profit in it."
"There might be," Jess said. "If you'll listen to what we have to say."
"Sure," Callum said. "But first I have a job for you. Tell your High Garda friends to lower their weapons or I'll have my men shoot and use the ones who survive it."
That was a cold, clear threat, and Jess turned to look at Santi. Santi shifted his aim to rest on Callum Brightwell's forehead. "I don't think so," he said. "Shoot me, I'll still pull the trigger. You know that."
"I have two fine sons to carry on for me. Do you think I'm worried, Captain Santi? Yes, I know who you are; I like to know who has influence over my son. Including you, Scholar Wolfe."
"Stop this," Jess said, and took another step toward his father--but not far enough to interfere with Santi's aim. "I'm not some Brightwell asset. I make my own decisions."
"Yet you come running to me for help."
"I'm bringing you an opportunity you'll never see again. It's business."
"And we thought you didn't have the Brightwell heart," Brendan said. He was smiling and his eyes were bright, and in that moment Jess knew his instincts had been right. He couldn't trust his family. Ever. "We've got business for you to do first. Show us you're trustworthy, and then we'll look at this opportunity of yours. Or don't, and we'll kill some of your friends, if not all of them. Your choice."
"Jess?" Santi said. "I'd like very much to shoot this man, but he's your blood. You decide."
"Don't." His heart was pounding and he felt sick to his stomach. The air still smelled of that faint trace of spices and old books that were so much a part of his childhood, but overlaying them now was the muffling scent of smoke. London was burning. So was his past. "What do you want from us, Callum?"
>
"Callum, now, is it?" Two years ago, his father's glare would have cowed him. Not today. He met it with one of his own.
"It is," Jess said. "I'm not going to call you Father anymore. Be grateful I don't call you worse." He turned to Santi and Wolfe. "You could kill them, maybe a few of the men, but they'll get some of us, too. It's not worth it."
It took a long, tense moment, but their guns went down. So, unwillingly, did Glain's.
"Good," Callum Brightwell said. "Glad we sorted out our particulars. Come with us. We need the help of a Scholar."
It was a long ride in an uncomfortable freight wagon to St. Paul's, and while they rattled around inside the hard, empty space, Brightwell explained what he wanted. It was ominous and daring, and Jess could unwillingly agree that it might well be the chance of any self-respecting smuggler's lifetime.
St. Paul's Serapeum had long been an unattainable target, though it contained some of the rarest, choicest volumes on display. But in the growing chaos, with the High Garda fanning out across the city searching for Jess and his friends, it was as vulnerable as it would ever be.
"It'll take a Scholar's robes to get us past the Garda barricades," Brightwell explained. "And a bright, shiny bracelet. Once you're in the building, they're busy boxing up things to send them to the Archives. A few liberated volumes might find their way clear with an enterprising thief in a black robe."
"You expect us to help you rob the Library?" Santi asked. He looked at Jess's father as if he were a particularly unpleasant sort of bug he'd found in his stew. "Are you completely mad?"
"You're no longer part of the Library, is what I'm hearing. You're on the run from it, like the rest of us poor criminals, so don't play the proper High Garda captain with me. I could turn you in as easy as dropping a handkerchief. You're lucky I'm generous, and you can be of some real use."
"Nic," Wolfe said. He was staring at Brightwell with flat, dark eyes, like he wanted to take a bite out of him, but his voice was calm enough. "I'll do it."
"No, you won't!" Santi shot back. "You're too recognizable. One look at you, and you're in the hands of the Artifex."
"Of course it's got to be me. You don't have another gold-banded Scholar to--" Wolfe realized his mistake, but it was too late. Khalila held up her wrist, and her sleeve slipped down to reveal the gold bracelet. "No."
"I'm not as recognizable as you, and there are plenty of female librarians wearing hijabs. I will be fine." She managed a smile. "Of all of us, which one looks least like a thief?"
"No!" It wasn't just Wolfe this time objecting; it was all of them, talking over each other. Khalila looked at Jess, who wasn't objecting. He just nodded at her. She nodded back.
"Quiet, all of you," she said, and opened her pack to dig out her black Scholar's robe. It was a little wrinkled and worse for wear, but in the current conditions of London, Jess doubted anyone would notice. "Tell me what you want me to find."
"Oh, use your best judgment," Brightwell said with a deceptively kind smile. "Something lucrative and rare. Two at least. Three if you can manage it."
"You're not going alone," Dario said, and grabbed his own robe from his bag. "Jess, weapon?"
Jess ignored him. Glain glared but silently offered a knife, and Dario nodded and slipped it into the back of his trousers, under the cover of the robe. "Once it's done, we'll meet you back here in the freight hauler."
"Oh no," Jess's father said. "We're all going in. While you steal the books, we will be opening a way out."
"Way out?" Jess echoed, and then he understood, just before Callum pointed a thick finger at Morgan.
"She," he said, "is the magic key to our escape. She'll send us to Lancaster, or as close as can be managed. Then we'll talk about opportunities, if you like, once we're safe in family territory."
"I can't," Morgan said. "I'm just a student. I'm not--"
"You're an Obscurist, and by all accounts that I've heard, you're far more powerful than the ones trying to teach you anything useful. Imagine what we could do with you, Morgan. You're going to open many doors for us, all over the world."
The bad taste in Jess's mouth went sour. Morgan, too. She'd only just escaped from the Iron Tower, and already his own family wanted to put another chain on her, make her their pet Obscurist. Maybe she'd been right to run and hide before. Even from him.
"All right," Morgan said, with a calm that surprised him. "I'll send you to safety, if you let me send the others first."
"I'm not as naive as I look, sweeting. You'd get them through and refuse to send the rest of us." He took on a calculating look, glancing from Morgan to Jess and back. "But I'll compromise. Never let it be said I'm not a fair man. You can send all of them ahead except Jess. Then you send me, Brendan, and my men. You and Jess leave last."
It was a clever way to exploit the two of them again, and Jess knew it would work. It couldn't fail. She knew it, too, and nodded.
"You two Scholars, your job is to get inside and get the books without being noticed. Never mind what the rest of us do. Make your way to the Serapeum's chamber--what do you call it?"
"Translation Chamber," Morgan said quietly. "It's hidden behind a statue of Queen Elizabeth toward the back of the Scholar's Reading Room." She caught Jess's eye. "I studied ahead, in case we needed to escape."
He loved her for that. For many things, just now. "And how do you plan to get past the lions?" he asked his father, whose grin never slipped.
"With help," he said. "You don't need to know."
Jess exchanged a quick glance with Thomas. His father had a frightening amount of inside knowledge, but he clearly didn't know that Jess could turn off the lions or that they could potentially convert them to their own cause.
Something to keep in reserve.
There was a rap on the front of the freight wagon, and Callum nodded. "Get up," he said, and rose, grabbing for a handhold as the truck lurched. "Don't cross us. Trust me, this is the best deal you're going to get."
"I'm sure it is," Wolfe replied. "You strike me as such an honest man." The sarcasm is heavy enough to drown in, Jess thought, and in looking between the two men, he knew in his heart he'd choose Wolfe over his own father anytime. As difficult and prickly as the man could be, at least he was honest.
The wagon wheezed to a lurching halt, throwing them against one another, and Jess all but lost his footing when Thomas bumped him. But then the back of the wagon clanked down and his father's men were rushing out with a purpose, shouting.
They were nosed against the Garda barrier, and the Brightwell bullies made quick work of the two London Garda soldiers on duty. There was almost no one at the barricades, but those who were there ran. By the time the second Garda soldier hit the ground unconscious, the area was all but deserted.
Jess heard screaming from somewhere frighteningly close, and as he turned that way, he saw a distant pinpoint of greenish light arcing through the dark, growing larger. It was a ballista pot of Greek fire, and it hit no more than five blocks away, exploding and splashing the rooftops with luminescent liquid that began to burn instantly.
"The Welsh army is coming close," Wolfe said. Brightwell nodded. "Well?"
"We're waiting," he said.
"For what?"
"For them." A group of men and women ran toward them from a side street--ten of them, by Jess's quick count. They looked grimly serious as they exchanged nods with Callum. "You're late," he said. "Go on, then. You've been paid well enough for it."
The leader--a woman with black hair twisted in a thick braid to one side of her head, with features and skin that reminded Jess a bit of Joachim Portero--flashed him a smile, but without humor. "We don't do this for money, criminal. We do it for principles."
"I don' t care why you do it," Brightwell said blandly. "So long as you succeed."
She led her small force up the street toward the Scholar Steps, where Jess had once run for his life from lions--and those lions, he realized, were still there, crouched, waiting. They were t
he massively muscled English sort--shorter manes than the Italian version, without barbed tails. Designed to crush and tear. One rose to all four paws, turned red eyes toward the intruders, and let out a chilling roar.
The woman let out a bloody cry of challenge that was almost as chilling, reached into a bag at her waist, and drew out a glass globe.
Burners. My father's working with Burners.
He felt Morgan's hand closing hard around his arm and reached out to hold her closer. "Nothing we can do," he said.
The leader's throw landed accurately right on the lion's head and spread caustic chemicals down the metal face and into the red eyes. Glass popped and sizzled, blinding it as the chemicals ignited and began to burn with a fierce intensity. The lion shook its head, trying to throw it off, but the thick stuff clung and melted, turning the automaton's face into a hideous, twisted mask of skeletal cables and clockwork.
The other Burners were throwing now, too, targeting the other lions. One automaton managed to dodge the rain of bottles and landed hard on a screaming victim--man, woman, Jess couldn't tell, and in the next instant it didn't much matter, because the scream cut off quickly. Some of the Burners weren't much older than him. Jess shut his eyes as the lions thrashed and roared, the bottles of Greek fire flew and broke, and another Burner yelled in fear and pain.
Then Morgan said, in an unsteady, hushed voice, "It's over."
He opened his eyes again to see the last of the lions had collapsed on its side. It was melting into a tangled mess, cables twisting and snapping, gears and springs deforming. The metallic roaring faded to a strange, distorted whimper, and then . . . nothing.
Four lions lay dead--did automata die?--in a shimmering pool of Greek fire, with two Burners bloody and crushed nearby. It was a terrible sight, and the street and steps scorched black from the rippling heat.
"Well," Callum said from behind him. "That was well worth the price."
Jess didn't even think. He rounded on his father, fist pulled back, and as Morgan shouted his name, his brother grabbed his arm and held it while Jess shouted and struggled. "Let go! Let me go!"