"What's the mood in the city?" Khalila asked. She stood up and poured herself a cup of water from a pitcher sitting nearby, and Jess followed suit. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he saw her drinking it. It tasted clear, pure, and wonderfully cool. "Scholar Murasaki in Cadiz has been contacting senior Scholars all over the world, and her word is certainly influential. More and more outposts of the Great Library are declaring themselves neutral and refusing to allow High Garda soldiers through their Translation Chambers. It makes things much more complicated for the Archivist if he has to move troops slowly, through foreign lands and waters. Especially now, with more countries abandoning the treaty every day."
"Unsettled," Jess said. "But the news isn't reaching people here of much of that, and what is, is being dismissed as panic and rumor. The Burners are spreading word, though, and recruiting on it. And they have presses to print up their messages; Red Ibrahim must have installed a few across the city already. Have you spoken to him?"
"Not exactly," Khalila said, when no one else volunteered. "We left that relationship at a bit of an awkward point, in that Red Ibrahim wanted to sell us to the Archivist, and we did not wish to be sold. I don't think Anit took it personally. Why, haven't you spoken to him?"
Jess shook his head. "If I'd tried, I'd have led the Elites right to his door. I let my father do any communicating, but since it's my da, I don't know what he's been saying, either. He tried to change the deal two or three times already. I'd not put it past him now to tell Red Ibrahim to sell us out. He likely considers both his sons lost."
"Just like that?" It was Glain who said it, and unusually for her, it sounded quiet and almost compassionate. "Not much of a family you have, Jess."
"No," he said. "Not much. I'd have thought you'd figured that out by now."
He hadn't meant for Brendan to hear it, but when he looked up he saw that his twin was standing like a shadow in the doorway. "I didn't mean you," he said. It sounded false and awkward, and his brother said nothing. He poured water, gulped it, and poured again.
"So how do we kill him?" Brendan asked.
Silence for a moment, before Glain said, "You mean the Archivist."
"I didn't mean the man who runs the falafel concession. How do we kill him?"
They all looked at one another. Of course it would have come to this question eventually, but Brendan had gone right to the core of it. We're assassinating the most important man in the world, Jess thought. What other choice do we have, if we want to save anything now? Anyone?
"The Feast of Greater Burning is our chance," Dario said. "The Archivist will be there--"
"And very well protected," Glain muttered.
"--and so will his Curia. He's demanded for Scholars and librarians all over the city to attend. For all we know, he's summoned Scholars from all over the world. He intends this to be a brutal display of his power."
"Which is exactly why it's the wrong place to try to kill him," Glain argued. "He'll expect it."
"Doesn't matter," Brendan said. "Anyone can be killed. You just have to stop caring about surviving it."
Khalila looked at him, then at Jess, worry clear on her face. Jess just shook his head. "We want him to step down," she said at last. "If we can make it impossible for him to continue . . ."
"Dying makes it impossible for him to continue."
"Scraps--," Jess said.
"He has to be killed," Brendan said, as calmly as if Jess hadn't spoken at all. "He'll never give up power on his own. And, besides, all the harm he's done, the death he's ordered here and everywhere . . . he doesn't deserve the breaths he's drawing right now." He turned and met Jess's eyes. "Am I wrong?"
"You're angry," Jess said. "You feel guilty. But, no. You're not wrong. I'm sorry, Khalila, but he isn't. I've been here. You haven't. I've seen--seen the lengths he's willing to go to keep his power, and the Library's. Maybe my brother's right."
"Then it can be done," Glain said. "I'm a good shot. Santi's even better. If we plan this properly--"
"Always plans with you," Brendan said. "Never action."
He put his cup down and walked toward the door. Jess got up and followed, and stopped him just before he made it out. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'm not staying here," Brendan said. "And I'm not relying on your too-noble friends, either. Let me go, Jess."
"No chance," Jess said, and he meant it. "You go, I go. Together."
"You can't go," Khalila said. She'd gotten up, and though she hadn't approached, it was clear she wanted to. "Jess! You're safe here. At least rest for the night! Tomorrow--"
Jess was listening, but he was looking into Brendan's eyes, and he knew what he was seeing there. He slowly shook his head. "What are you thinking, Brother?" he asked.
"I'm thinking that all the honorable intentions in the world won't make the Archivist listen to a word your friends have to say," Brendan said. "You and I, we know people who aren't so honorable."
That was all true. And Jess knew that whatever Ambassador Santiago might personally wish, he was a politician . . . and politicians couldn't be relied on for long, because their will was not their own. Criminals, on the other hand, tended to be more straightforward. "If you're talking about our most prominent cousin, he might not be so well disposed toward us right now."
Brendan shrugged. He clearly didn't care about such details. And Jess recognized the smile that smoothed across his lips. It was deeply dangerous. "Then we'll be charming," he said. "Come on, Brother. Just this once. Let's uphold our family honor and do the wrong thing."
"Jess!" Khalila's voice was pleading.
"She's right, my friend," Thomas said. "You should stay here."
"No. We need a backup in case Spain fails us," Jess said, and let a grin that matched his brother's slide into place. "Brendan's right. It's time to do the wrong thing."
"We'll be back," Brendan said. "And if not, don't look. You won't find us."
With that, he was gone, and Jess moved fast to follow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Getting out of the embassy without being noticed wasn't going to be easy. He and Brendan both agreed that going out the front would walk them right into High Garda custody in short order; their only chance of getting out clean was to make their own way. Besides, it felt good to exercise all his athletic skills again. Brendan, for all his usual lack of enthusiasm for action, was strong and lithe; he found handholds up to the roof and gave Jess a lift, and together they lay flat on the warm clay tiles and watched the guard patrols until they found a gap. Not much of one, a narrow window that required skill and speed to take advantage of it, but then they were over the wall and into a no-man's-land of empty space before another tall fence, one with outward-curving spikes, appeared twenty steps down the hill.
"Don't like this," Jess said. "The ambassador isn't stupid. He'll have some kind of defenses--"
They both heard the barking at the same time, exchanged a look, and raced for the outer fence. This one was smooth iron bars set close together, with only crossbars at the bottom and top, well above their heads.
A pack of sleek black dogs crested the hill, spotted them, and began baying furiously as they came on.
"On my shoulders!" Jess shouted, and grabbed the bars for support. Brendan vaulted up and stood, and Jess grabbed his brother's ankles. "Lifting!" He put his hands under his brother's heels and pushed, panting against the tearing strain in muscles unused to this particular move. It worked. His brother scrambled up to the top, slung a leg over the crossbar, and reached down.
Jess backed up and took a running leap, and Brendan's hand slapped around his wrist. Jess braced himself against the fence and tried to take some of the strain as his brother pulled . . . and then his fingers curled around the cross brace and he was able to get up and over and make the leap down with Brendan to the other side, just as the dogs crashed to a furious, foaming halt against the barrier, leaping and barking and snarling.
Brendan kissed his f
ingers to the pack, rolled the strain from his shoulders, and said, "You know where to find our cousin?"
"He won't be happy to see us--I can almost guarantee that."
"Like I said: we can be charming. Come on, Jess. Sun's almost down."
* * *
Jess's High Garda uniform made it easier for him to blend in, especially in the late-afternoon crowds near the docks; he stole his brother a hooded jacket, the better to cover up their unmistakable resemblance, and took him through the shadier parts of the port, to an old, tumbledown tavern with a creaking sign painted with the face of a Gorgon. The Medusa was one of the first places Jess had learned to visit; it was a favorite of sailors, traders, smugglers, and criminals, and he wasn't surprised to find it open when most of the port's more respectable establishments were starting to shutter their windows and doors.
The mood in the city was hushed and grim, and no one--except the proprietors of the Medusa--wanted to take chances this evening.
Jess pushed his way in, and immediately their arrival brought stilled conversations and appraising looks. He scanned the room and saw the broken-toothed old man--by all appearances, a drunk who'd nearly grown himself into the table at which he sat--and eased in across from him. His brother squeezed in beside him and pulled back his hood.
"We need to talk to our cousin," Jess said, and the old man ignored them. His glass was empty. Jess looked at Brendan. "You've got geneih?"
Brendan dumped a handful of golden Library coins on the table, which brought a greasy young man in an apron immediately at the sound of ringing currency. "Gentlemen," he said. "What have you?"
"What he's having," Jess said. "Four of them." He pointed to the drunk. "He'll have two."
Like a magic trick, the cash was gone; it seemed the server had never come close to the coins, but they vanished all the same. Jess leaned forward and tried to see if the man was even conscious. His eyes were open and he was breathing, but when Jess passed a hand in front of the wrinkled old face, he got no response.
"This is your plan?" Brendan sounded impatient. "I'm not here to drink myself senseless. Or even sensible."
"Wait," Jess said.
The drinks arrived, and two of them were set down firmly in front of the old man, with one apiece for Jess and Brendan. Neither of them touched the stuff. Jess arranged the glasses in front of the old man into a rough triangle and said, "A life might be worth more than a book, but a book is worth more than your life if they catch you with it. You've got three on you right now."
The old man wasn't drunk. His eyes suddenly, sharply focused on Jess's face, and there was nothing vague about their gray depths now. "What do you want?"
"A friend," Jess said. "I'm a Brightwell."
"Obviously. I'm not drunk enough to see double," the man said. "You're the twins. You'd best get yourselves home to cold England if you know what's good for you. You've got no family here."
"Oh, come on, the best family wants to kill each other half the time," Brendan said. "We want to see him. Now."
"No." The old man bared rotten teeth, and Jess leaned back to avoid the smell of his breath. "He doesn't want to see you. Ever. You helped destroy one of his operations and burned his house down. You killed ten of his people. You're lucky I don't spill your guts right now."
"I didn't kill anyone. I was a prisoner. And the dragon almost burned me along with the house."
Brendan leaned forward and locked gazes with the old man. "You want to see your guts?" And Jess was suddenly aware that his brother held a knife under the table, pressed against the old man's stomach--probably the man's own knife, at that. Brendan always did have fast hands. "No more conversation. Get us to him or your last drink ends up on the floor the hard way."
The man, who was assuredly not a drunk, stared at him a moment, then looked past them and whistled. A high, sharp sound that echoed through the room and cut conversation dead. All around them, dangerous-looking men and women pushed back their chairs and rose, and Jess sent his brother a glare. Just had to push it, didn't you? "These young men want to go to the temple," the old man said. "Let them make their supplications. It's a night to get right with our gods, I think."
Before either of them could draw breath, much less put up a fight, there were cloth bags jammed over their heads, and Jess felt a heavy blow and sharp, lancing pain at the back of his head . . . and then nothing.
He woke up with the bag being dragged off. The smell of dried lentils from the bag's former contents made him sneeze, and that woke a headache the size of the Serapeum behind his eyes. Stupid, he thought, and tried to move his hands. Tied, of course. But as he pulled, he felt the bonds being sliced apart, and he was pulled to his feet. He found his balance and blinked away bleary tears.
He hadn't expected to find himself actually in a temple, but that was where he was: the temple of the Roman goddess Laverna. Not a very well-frequented temple. Small, dusty, kept up more for appearances than for actual rites. He'd never visited it in Alexandria and was a little surprised to even see the goddess included here. He looked around and found Brendan standing next to him. The man who'd cut his bonds had moved off and was somewhere in the columned shadows behind them.
"Strange, isn't it?" said the man standing a few feet ahead of them on the tiled floor. He was facing the graceful marble statue of the goddess, with a knife in her right hand and coins in her left. "The Egyptians never had a god of thieves. The Romans, on the other hand, not only had one but honored her as goddess of thieves, cheats, and plagiarists, and they even had a gate for her in Rome. I've seen it. Perhaps I'll go to Rome after this. It's a city that welcomes our brothers."
He turned to look at them, and Jess knew him as his vision finally sharpened: Red Ibrahim. Anit's father. The head of criminal enterprises, including book smuggling, here in Alexandria. He was a native of the city, and he had the shaved head of someone who might even aspire to be a priest . . . but his religion was more along the worship of Laverna. He was a hard man. A man who'd survived and flourished in the hardest place on earth to practice his trade. He'd lost two sons to it.
Before, Jess had faced him as a business ally, if not real family. But here, now, the feeling was very different.
"You shouldn't have come to me," Red Ibrahim said. "I have no mercy for traitors."
"Hear us out," Brendan said. "Please, Cousin. Our father--"
"Your father wants you home, immediately. Both of you. No more deals with the Archivist. No more playacting. Your place is with your family, and not here. Do you understand?"
"I'm going to kill the Archivist," Brendan said. "And you are not stopping me."
Red Ibrahim didn't answer. He shook his head and turned to Jess. "Your brother is a fool, and he's angry. I hope you are clearer of mind. I will see you taken to a ship and sent home, and you can forget about this place forever. The Archivist will win tomorrow, or not; your friends will achieve their goal, or not. But you will not be here to see it. I'm closing my operations in this city. Already, most of my people have set sail, or will today."
"Rats," Brendan said. "And the ship's not sinking. It's being set back on course."
"We're not going back to England," Jess said. "Not until this is over. Run if you like. But first you're going to help us."
"Help you what? Overthrow the Archivist Magister of the Great Library? I'm not a fool, and you're not a hero, young man. You should remember that, especially now. It will keep you alive."
"Alive isn't enough."
Red Ibrahim shook his head. "Then this won't matter. I'll tell your father I tried. But he'd rather you never come home than you spill what you know to the Library. And I agree. You are princes of our underworld kingdom. And you can't be taken alive."
He reached under the flowing Egyptian robes he wore and came out with a High Garda pistol. Jess watched him thumb the selector switch from stun to kill, and time seemed to slow to a trickle as his senses expanded. There was another exit from this shrine, behind the goddess's statue; he cou
ld see the glimmer of it on the dusty tiles. It meant going through Red Ibrahim to get to it, but that would have to be done. The accomplice behind them cut them off from that escape, and Jess could feel him moving up. He didn't look, but he knew that man, too, would be armed. He was heading for Brendan's back.
And Red Ibrahim was taking aim at Jess's head.
Jess dropped just before the shot came, and felt a hot burn along his scalp as it only just missed. His brother was moving, too, a blur in the air beside him, and he instinctively rolled to his right to put room between them. Red Ibrahim would think he'd hit his target, at least for an instant, and Jess used that instant to set his feet and launch himself straight at the man.
He hit Red Ibrahim squarely, and the gun tumbled free as they both fell backward to the floor at the feet of the statue. Jess reached for it, but it put him off-balance, and quick as a striking cobra, Red Ibrahim flipped him on his back and pinned him there with a sharp right knee on his upper arm and a left knee compressing his chest. The older man caught Jess's left hand as he launched it in an attack and twisted it down at a painful angle. The gun was out of reach now of both of them; Red Ibrahim would have to shift his weight to get it, and Jess was alert for any hint of that.
But Ibrahim simply drew a knife and reached to cut Jess's throat.
The scream and shot came simultaneously, and for a confused second Jess was sure that the statue of Laverna had moved and punched a red hole through Ibrahim's skull . . . but that wasn't right. Ibrahim's eyes went wide and surprised, and then blank. His weight slithered bonelessly to fall heavily away, and Jess finally put the pieces together: the spray of blood on the white marble of the goddess's statue, the shot, the scream.
And he turned his head toward where the gun had been and saw Anit kneeling there, trembling, as the gun fell to the floor. It bounced close to him, and he grabbed for it and came up to his knees just in time to see that Brendan was against a column and the man holding him was about to stab him in the heart.