"You already knew this, didn't you?" That got both Wolfe and Santi's attention, and though Wolfe was hard to read, Santi, in that moment, wasn't. "God. You did know Thomas was alive."
"No," Santi said. "We didn't. Not for certain."
Wolfe removed all doubts when he said, "I believed that he was. And no, before you scream at me, I had no real proof, not like this book of yours. The pattern follows what they did to me: arrest, torture, prison, erasing me as if I never existed. The Archivist doesn't like to waste talent. Thomas Schreiber is gifted, and he knows that. He'll want to . . . use him, if he can. The greater good of the Library and all that."
There was a bleak sound to that, and Jess felt chilled as he remembered the entries in the journal, the shock he'd felt on seeing the name Scholar Christopher Wolfe written there, early on in the book. The guard had seen Wolfe arrested and taken for questioning, but had never seen him executed.
Wolfe had simply disappeared from the records.
Just like Thomas had disappeared, taken from the safety of their student housing. Gone in a whisper.
Dead, they'd been told.
"Is Thomas being kept here in Alexandria?" Glain's voice had gone hard and cold. She leaned forward to put her weight on elbows braced on knees. "Where did they hold you, Scholar? What happened to you when they--"
"Stop," Santi said. It was just one word, but the force behind it--not a shout, just pure menace--made her look at him in surprise. "He doesn't need to relive any of this."
"He does if it's the same place Thomas might be held." Jess stood up, and Wolfe's gaze followed him. It seemed black and remote, but there was something behind it Jess couldn't understand. "Where are they keeping him? Here?"
"No. They wouldn't keep him in Alexandria, knowing he has friends such as us." Wolfe leaned forward, and his shackles dragged across the wood. "Let me see it."
"No," Santi said.
Wolfe's voice stayed warm. Almost kind. "I know you are trying to protect me, but, Nic, I see all this every night in dreams. You can't protect me from memories."
Santi finally gave up. The anger and frustration radiated off him like waves of heat. He wanted to act, and Jess understood that; he'd felt the same for the past months, knowing about this tantalizing book, hearing of its list of prisoners and executions. He'd intended only to punish himself by finding out exactly how Thomas had died, but instead . . . instead he'd found hope. And hope hurt.
Jess held out the book, and Wolfe took it. They were all silent a moment while he flipped the pages. Jess found himself watching the man's face, waiting to see him react, but he might have been perusing some dusty academic work instead of reading about his own darkest hours. When he was done, he closed the book and sat back with a sigh.
"I suppose I should begin with what Glain doesn't know," Wolfe said. "Three years ago, I invented and built a device--something that threatened the entire foundations of the Library, though I didn't see it at the time. My device was destroyed, and I was charged with heresy. My work was erased. I was made to disappear, too." He glanced at Santi, who was still staring hard at the floor. "Nic was a fool and risked himself trying to find me. He nearly died himself in the attempt. At any rate, I was finally released, under the condition that I never again publish or pursue any lines of research that the Library deems dangerous. I live on sufferance."
Jess knew all this; he'd learned it from Santi and Wolfe when Thomas had disappeared. He'd never breathed a word of it to the others, and it jolted him that Wolfe was speaking of it now.
"But you got out!" Glain said. "That means there's hope for Thomas."
Wolfe was already shaking his head. "My mother is the Obscurist Magnus, and her influence and power meant that the Archivist couldn't execute me out of hand, no matter how badly he wanted to. Even so, I didn't just get out, though I was a man of high standing, of many accomplishments, with honors and friends. Thomas was just a student. A postulant." Wolfe paused a moment, and Jess thought he was censoring himself about what to tell them. "If Thomas is still alive, it's because the Archivist recognizes his worth to the Library. That means they'll keep him until his will and spirit are thoroughly broken, and then they'll put him to work in some secret corner. Eventually. It won't be a life, but he will still be breathing."
That was a horrible thought, but it was one Jess had already experienced. Thomas wouldn't simply be held. It would be far worse than that. He didn't want to imagine how much worse, but he could see from the lightless look in Wolfe's eyes that the Scholar remembered. There was something not quite right in that stare, and Jess shivered. Maybe Santi had been right: maybe involving Wolfe in this was a mistake.
But we need him, Jess thought. For the first time since he'd held that book and read the account of Thomas's arrest and questioning, he felt less alone. Less helpless. He knew Glain wouldn't let it go; despite Santi's reluctance, the captain wouldn't, either.
And with Wolfe's guidance, Thomas's fate seemed more and more like something they could change. Together. He'd never once, since realizing Thomas still lived, thought about leaving him where he was, to whatever mercy the Library might have.
Thomas was his friend. And he would find him. It was as simple, and dangerous, as that.
Glain, in the silence, turned to Santi. "Captain. Do you really think Thomas is dead? Or are you more afraid that Jess is right and it sends us all down a dangerous path?"
That was a pointed and perfect question, and Jess had to give Glain credit: she was much more clearheaded about this than he could be. For him, it was a raw, personal wound; he'd loved Thomas like a brother, and he still felt responsible, in no small part, for what had happened to him.
Santi chose his words carefully--too carefully, maybe. "I don't want Christopher dragged back under this threshing machine. The book could be faked. They might be waiting to draw us in. There's every reason to believe Thomas is dead, and almost none to believe he's alive."
"Almost none," Glain repeated, still in that calm, quiet voice. "Which means there is, in fact, some. Do you really think we wouldn't want to know that? That we wouldn't want to find out?"
"It may get us all killed," Santi said. "Think what you're doing."
Jess exchanged a look with Glain. A long one. And in it, he could see they were perfectly in agreement. "We have thought about it. We need to rescue Thomas," he said.
"No matter what it costs," Glain said. "We don't abandon our own."
Santi and Wolfe exchanged a look. Wolfe inclined his head a little to the side, with a strange, crooked smile. "You see? They're as bad as we are."
"Worse," Santi sighed. He rose and unlocked Wolfe's restraints, and packed the flexible cuffs back into the holder on his belt. "They haven't even got a proper sense of fear. But that will come."
Hadn't got a proper sense of fear? They'd survived the bloodbath of Wolfe's choosing of his postulants to the Library; they'd survived Oxford. They'd just this morning survived ambush, attack, and the death of one of their own, even if he'd been a traitor to them. They definitely knew fear. Jess just didn't intend to let it stop them. "So, where did they hold you when they were questioning you?" he asked Wolfe.
Wolfe sighed. "That, you see, is the problem. I don't remember. Can't. Believe me, I've tried. I can see pieces, but not . . . not anything significant. And I will admit, it's not a memory I'm eager to relive in detail."
"Even for Thomas?"
Wolfe looked away. "I'll do what I can," he said. "But you'd best try to find another way to get the information you need."
"Do it carefully," Santi said. "Unless you want it to be buried along with you."
Jess spent the rest of the evening locked in his room with Anit's little coded book about the automata. It wasn't much, he realized: hastily written notes, likely a simple memory aid for someone in the Artifex division of the Library who'd worked on the design or repair of the machines. Some of it was utterly incomprehensible to him, even when he'd translated it from the code. Much of it would t
ake an engineer of Thomas's caliber to understand.
There was a notation of some kind of script that had to be changed when orders were altered, but it was a passing mention that noted the change could only be done with the help of an Obscurist. Interesting. Not helpful.
The one golden fact that he picked from the volume was that there was a way to turn an automaton off. In hindsight, it was obvious; anyone who had to work on these devices would need to shut them off for safety. But somehow, Jess had always thought of automata as having a sinister, independent, immortal life of their own. In the end, they were mechanical marvels . . . but still mechanical.
Maddeningly, the book didn't give specifics; it wasn't so much of a manual as an aide-memoire, and it assumed the reader already knew most of the inner workings. All it said was that there would be a manual override located on the exterior of the automaton. Not terribly helpful. Jess could suddenly understand how Anit's brothers had come to a bad end if they'd experimented with this particular, tantalizing clue: a Library sphinx wouldn't simply stand there while you ran your hands over it, looking for the hidden switch. It would claw you to death for taking liberties.
Not to mention the fact that there were many kinds of automata: sphinxes, lions, the Spartan that watched Jess balefully in the courtyard. Surely different models had different locations for such an override. Morgan might be of some help, he thought, but he had to wait until she contacted him; there was no way he could write directly to her. Frustrating.
What would Thomas do? Jess closed his eyes and imagined the automaton that was most common to Alexandria: the sphinx. From pharaoh's head to lion's tail, it was a fearsomely intimidating creature the size of an actual lion, and armed with the claws and power of one, too. He'd never seen one with an open mouth; did they have lion's fangs, too? Or human teeth? Somehow, imagining them with an open mouth and human teeth to bite with made them more frightening. Where would Thomas put an off switch?
Thomas had never built automata like the Library's versions--his had been toys, dolls, chess sets--but one thing he'd said seemed significant now. You never put the activation button on top, Thomas had said when he was constructing a miniature horse. You see? Anywhere it could be accidentally pressed would be bad design. It must go underneath.
Underneath. But what engineer in his right mind would want to slither underneath a sphinx to turn it off? Has to be somewhere the average-sized person can reach, Jess thought. He was imagining the sphinx so vividly now, he could see its blank eyes staring straight into his own. A pharaoh's stiff headdress. A human face with a nose and mouth. A chin. A neck flowing down into the broad, muscular body of a lion.
Does that mouth open? Would Thomas have put a switch inside? Not if there was a risk the jaws might close, Jess thought. The idea was efficiency and safety.
He just didn't know, and he thought, with a tired shudder, that Anit's brothers had likely done this same mental exercise and gotten it wrong. When it had come to their final test, they'd lost their lives. No wonder Red Ibrahim didn't use this information. He'd sacrificed enough to it. And Anit gave it to me to let me try, at a considerable profit. Clever girl. No risk to her family, and if Jess managed where her own brothers had failed, she'd probably buy that information back from him.
Jess tucked the book and translation back into his smuggling harness, curled up, and fell asleep for a blissfully quiet night. His dreams, though, were not so restful, full of blood, fire, death, Thomas's screams as Jess ran down an endless tunnel toward him, never quite arriving.
He woke up with the bitter taste of ashes coating his tongue, and realized it was well before dawn. Good, he thought. He'd told Glain, Wolfe, and Santi what he knew about Thomas. There were others who needed to know, too.
And he needed the feeling of motion, even if it was only an illusion of progress.
Breakfast came from a sleepy street vendor with a tray full of warm almond pastries, and he ate one on the long walk down gently sloping streets to the harbor. Alexandria was a breathtakingly beautiful city, and no matter how long he'd been here, it never failed to grab his attention. This morning, ships floated in shadow, while the tallest point of the pyramid of the Serapeum flared with the brilliant glow of sunrise. It was promising to be a clear morning, and the sea looked as calm as milk.
A long, straight road ran to the far end across the bay to the island of Pharos, and there, covering a huge part of that island, stretched the massive Lighthouse of Alexandria. It was shaped like a graduated stack of three square buildings, one atop another, tapering to a graceful tower in the upper third of its height. It sparked golden at the tallest point, where a statue of Hathor lifted her hands to the sun, and the dawn's color shaded down the tower from soft orange into twilight blue at the base. Even at this early hour, figures moved in the large, open courtyard in flowing robes: no doubt they were Scholars and attendants, heading to their work. There were four main entrances, one on each side of the square--open, but with automaton sphinxes standing guard.
He had no particular reason to think the sphinxes would attack, but he also didn't want a record of his visit here, in case someone was watching his movements. No one doubted he was High Garda, after all; he wore the bracelet of service, prominently visible on one wrist, and a crisp, official uniform. He wasn't actually sneaking in or evading security. Merely . . . blending.
All it really took was a stack of five pastry boxes high enough to conceal his face, and to wait for a group of uniformed High Garda soldiers to arrive for duty. He fell in with them and kept his walk and posture as relaxed as he could.
The sphinxes turned their heads to track him, but with his face blocked by the boxes, they quickly lost interest and began scanning the rest of the incoming rush of Scholars, guards, and assistants. The automata were trained to detect Greek fire and the delicate scent of original books, but the pastries would have more than covered any hint that escaped the smuggling harness's pouch.
The pastries smelled delicious enough to make his stomach rumble again.
Jess paused in the courtyard to get his bearings. It was still night-shaded inside the thirty-foot walls that served as defense both from sea and enemies, though some glowing lamps hung in alcoves. The outer edges were furnished with long marble benches and expertly maintained little contemplation gardens, each overseen by a god statue with some connection to scholarship. There, in the far corner, Athena lifted her spear with her familiar owl on her shoulder. Saraswati had her own quiet garden, where her statue sat with lute in hand by a little fountain. Nabu of Babylon and Thoth of Egypt presided over their own groves, each a patron of the written arts. The Lighthouse courtyard had the feel of something incredibly ancient, and, at the same time, something vital and alive, walked and enjoyed by thousands every day. Antique and modern together.
The Lighthouse rose in a stacked spire toward the heavens. It had looked large at a distance, but it was truly massive--and, more than most things he'd seen in Alexandria, it had the look of ancient wear. It had been rubbed by so many hands and shoulders that the corners at the base to the height of his head were almost rounded away. The stone steps leading inside dipped in the center, the mark of hundreds of thousands--if not millions--of feet.
Jess began the long trip up the winding stairs. There was a steam-powered lifting device in the center, but it seemed slow and crowded, and he didn't altogether trust mechanical things today. By the time he reached the twenty-second floor, he was only a little out of breath. Brutal as it might be, the High Garda's conditioning certainly worked.
He rapped on the closed door, balancing the boxes in one hand, and heard a muffled voice invite him to enter. He stepped in, closed the door, and put the stack of pastry boxes on the desk, careful to avoid any of the loose pages littering the top.
Then he looked up into the wide, startled eyes of Scholar Khalila Seif.
She was just as he remembered, as if the months had never passed: pretty, composed, modestly dressed in a loose floral-patterned dres
s beneath her sweeping Scholar's robe. Her pale pink hijab lay neat and perfect and framed her face to accentuate her large brown eyes.
After that shocked, frozen stare, Khalila let out a girlish squeal and launched herself around the desk and into his arms, hugging him with a ferocity that was surprising for a girl her size. "Jess! It's so good to see you! What are you doing here?"
"Bringing breakfast," he said, and gestured to the tower of pastry. "I thought you might be hungry."
"Did you think they starve me? Or are you expecting a famine?" She swatted at him with a small, elegant hand and pushed him toward a pair of chairs near the windows. Her view was of the city of Alexandria, and it was spectacular. Seabirds glided at eye level, while the streets and buildings climbed up the hill around the harbor. The giant structure of the Alexandrian Serapeum dominated the sky, along with the black, rounded gloom of the Iron Tower. She ignored the sights. Her smile was full of delight, and she leaned forward toward him with her hands clasped together in her lap. "Whatever are you doing? Really?"
"I wanted to see you," he said. It was true and it was untrue at the same time. Khalila was a friend. A brilliant mind. A rising star of the Library. When they'd all been together in Wolfe's class, she'd been as much a part of the team as any of them, and more than some, but now . . . now she was fast-tracked to the highest levels of scholarship. One day, she'd rise to greatness. Power. Maybe even fill the chair of the Archivist.
If he didn't get her killed. I shouldn't do this, he thought. I'll ruin everything for her. Everything.
But he knew Khalila well enough to know that she'd find out, and when she did, she wouldn't thank him for that protection.
Jess slowly reached over and took one of her hands in his, and said, in a very low voice, "Is it safe to talk here?"
"Yes," she said at the same quiet level. "They don't monitor my conversations. Still, we should be careful. And fond of you as I am, you should not stay here long."