She heard nothing. Nothing at all.
Scholar Yang's office was sixteen doors down. He was a historian by inclination, or so she'd understood; surely a historian would understand better than anyone the risk of the Library hurtling blindly forward down this course. He would understand, she told herself.
She raised her hand to knock on the door, and as she did, she smelled something odd, and oddly familiar. The smell of sea air and stone, those were completely right, but that sharp, metallic scent . . .
She looked down and saw blood on the floor in a circle the size of her head. Hand-shaped smears of it, too, on the wall just to the right. The hem of her dress had fallen in the still-liquid pool, and as she stared, a thick red stain began working its way up through the fabric.
She stepped back with a gasp.
The hallway was silent. Whatever had happened here happened long enough ago that the prisoner--or body--was already gone, and only this silent evidence left.
She went back to the stairs and hurried down another flight, then another, with her heart beating so fast she thought she might fly apart . . . and then, with intense relief, she saw Glain rounding the lower floor and heading up toward her.
The relief didn't outlast the look Glain gave her. They met on the landing, and Glain didn't pause. She took Khalila's arm and said, "Go, go, we have to go now."
"Dario--" No. Not Dario. It couldn't be.
"They have him," Glain said. "Nothing I could do. I have to get you out before they lock the whole building and send sphinxes up to sniff us out. Move!"
Khalila wanted to protest. Wanted to argue. Wanted to stay.
But she knew Glain was right, and she knew that Dario would say the same. "Is he dead?" She didn't want to know that answer, but she asked. She had to ask.
"No," Glain said. "But we will be, if we don't keep moving."
PART ELEVEN
WOLFE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"They'll be all right," Santi said, and Wolfe thought he sounded certain of it. Half an act, surely, but Wolfe nodded in agreement without entering into it. Nic had a rare talent for reading him, especially when his nerves were so raw. All he could do was hope the others weren't as perceptive.
Not that there were any others left. Jess had hared off after his wild brother; Thomas had gone with the ambassador to look at the workshop facilities he'd been promised earlier. Glain, Dario, and Khalila . . . all risking their lives out there in the night.
And though he knew where Morgan was, he didn't know how she was. Or if she'd made any progress at all toward her goal of taking the Iron Tower out of the Archivist's arsenal. If she managed it--an enormous variable--then it would truly change the game completely. But so far, there'd been no word, no sign. The Codex and Blanks continued to carry on with their mundane tasks; out in the streets, word was that automata still roamed, stalked, and flew.
The one bright sign, according to Alvaro Santiago, was that the Translation Chambers seemed to be malfunctioning from Alexandria outbound. That, at least, was keeping the Archivist's plans to seed his troops in Serapeums at a standstill . . . and if that was all Morgan accomplished, it was still a great deal.
So it was him, Santi, and Santi's lieutenant Zara, who'd come to roost in the reading room in the chair that Khalila had left empty. She seemed confident, too. Perhaps it was a special class they taught at the High Garda officers' school.
"Tell me everything that's happened," Wolfe said. "Seeing as the children aren't here, you don't have to feather the truth."
"I wouldn't, anyway," Zara said. "And neither should you. They aren't children any more than we are . . . not with as much as they've done and seen. Protect them, certainly. But don't coddle them."
"And I'll thank you to not tell me how to behave around my own students."
"They were your students. Not anymore. Now they follow you because they hero-worship you, not from any desperate urge to learn from you. You do realize that, don't you?"
"Zara," Santi said. The tone was a warning. Zara sighed and changed subjects.
"All right. Since you came back here, it seems that the hornets' nest--which had already been kicked by the mess in Philadelphia--only buzzed and stung more. The Burners had been circumspect here, but within days of the news, they were organizing, recruiting, setting up cancerous little cells around the city. They staged public burnings of their journals, and a few suicides. When the High Garda cracked down, they retaliated with new attacks on the compound. A week ago, inked flyers began to appear all over the town--a few at first, then more and more. Combined with the rebellion in the provinces, the upstart kings and angry Scholars in the field . . . well, the Archivist has been struggling to put out more fires than he can safely handle."
"Is it true the High Garda Commander resigned?" Santi asked.
"Resigned and turned in his gold band. He left for his family home, so I'm told. The new commander . . . he's the Archivist's ugly little puppet, and if he's told to put the Archives to the torch, I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate, though how many of his men would follow I don't know. Enough, I suppose."
"Any progress with the other captains?"
"Your name has currency still, and at least three-quarters of the High Garda captains would support you and, at the very least, stand down their troops. But the Elites?" She shook her head. "No chance. They swear personal loyalty to the Archivist now. Not to the Library. They're five hundred strong, and they'll fight every step."
"That's better than I'd hoped," Santi said. "If we can have most of the High Garda refuse to act . . ."
"That leaves a good few thousand of them willing to cut our throats," Wolfe finished sourly. "It's not enough. We can't rely on Scholars to fight our battles, though most of the Research Scholars I know have field experience. And we still have the automata to contend with."
"Including the dragon," Zara said. "I saw it myself. It's a nightmare--breathes toxic gas that catches fire, and it can rend with teeth and claws, too. Armored and fast. I can't think of anything that could take it down. The sphinxes are bad enough, but this . . ."
Dragon. Wolfe hadn't seen it for himself, had only heard Jess's description . . . but it had sounded like a nightmare, indeed. His mother never would have agreed to such a thing . . . or perhaps she had. Perhaps it had been in the works for a very long time and required only Gregory's eagerness to ingratiate himself to make it a reality.
"We have something that can bring it down," Santi said. "Thomas's weapon. The Ray of Apollo."
"You have it?" Zara's eyes widened. "I thought it was destroyed in the escape from Philadelphia."
"He built another one. A better one," Wolfe said. "But we had to leave it in England. Unless somehow you worked a miracle, Nic?"
"No chance to," Santi said, and settled in a chair beside Wolfe. "We were chained and put on board the ship the same night. As far as I'm aware, Jess's father has the thing, and Thomas's pet lion, too."
"He might regret that last thing," Wolfe said. "I don't think Thomas told it to obey any of them, did he?"
"No," Santi agreed. "He didn't. With any luck, maybe they've shut it up in the workshop and not got their hands on the weapon, either."
"We can hope."
Santi looked at the clock, and Wolfe saw the flicker of doubt. Their children--and he would always think of them as their children; he'd given up on anything else--were late returning, and that was almost certainly not good news. "I could take a team out and look for them," Nic said.
"No," Wolfe said.
"He'd be safe enough inside the carrier," Zara said. "I can get a picked team together, Captain."
"No," Wolfe said again, and speared Zara with a glare. "You won't. We wait."
Santi launched himself out of the chair and paced to the back of the room. He was pouring a glass of wine, but that, Wolfe thought, was just a thing to do instead of arguing.
"You push him, Scholar," Zara said. She, too, was watching Santi. "I don't think you understand how
much he endures for you."
"You really think I don't?"
She swung her gaze back at him. As flat and alien as a tiger's. "I don't think you know how much he hurts for your sake. But . . . he loves you. And needs you."
"And you," Wolfe said, though it hurt to say it. "You keep him moving forward when he wants to turn back. He told me that once. When he thinks too much of me, you make him think about the goal."
"He always thinks too much about you," she said. "It'll be the end of him someday, Scholar. It's up to you to look after him."
Wolfe watched her stand up and leave; he wasn't sure how to respond to that, or if he should. Santi hadn't heard. He came back and settled in the chair he'd left, sipped some of the wine, and handed it over to Wolfe. "What do we do if they don't come back?" he asked.
"We go to the Feast of Greater Burning, and we do what we can," Wolfe said. "And tomorrow, we'll probably die. You know that, don't you?"
"I do," Nic said. Wolfe drank the rest of the wine; it was a thick marvel of a red, better than he'd tasted in years. The Spanish had a way with grapes.
"Did you tell your company to fight with us or to stand down?"
"I told them to act according to their conscience. What else could I tell them? I'm not even their captain, not anymore. I have no rank. No career. Nothing."
"Do you blame me?" Wolfe asked quietly. He put the cup down, and when he straightened again, he had Santi's full focus on him.
"No," Santi said. A harsh word, but it came gently, and with love. "I don't. Ever. What I've done, I've done because it needed to be done, and I accept whatever comes of it. Amore mio, I'll find a place in the world, if we live through tomorrow. Don't concern yourself with that."
Wolfe grabbed for his hand and held it, closed his eyes, remembered the horror of the nights in the prison when he'd imagined Santi in such detail, such life, to keep it all at bay. But that fantasy had been nothing compared to the reality of having him here, seeing that smile.
Something tugged at him, and for a second he felt a bubble of panic surface. Some memory clawing to the surface, something from the prison.
Then he remembered, and a flinch ran through him. I came so close to losing my mind. So close.
"What is it?" Santi asked, and moved closer. "Chris?"
"Nothing," he said. "I-- One night in the prison, I imagined something. Someone, actually. It seemed so real."
"Someone?"
"Him," Wolfe said, and could hardly hear his own voice. "From Rome. Qualls."
Santi went still. "The torturer."
Wolfe nodded. "I think it was just . . . my brain, playing tricks. He isn't here. He left the Archivist's service, didn't he? Retired far from here."
"You saw Qualls?"
"No. I imagined him." Wolfe wished there was more wine left in the glass, but he didn't have the strength to fetch himself more. "I don't know why I'd imagine he'd want to rescue me, though. Do you?"
They'd talked about Qualls once, and only once, months after Wolfe's release from the Roman prison. Santi had wanted very badly to hunt the man down and rip him to pieces. Maybe still did. "Do you think he was real?"
"He seemed real. I don't know," Wolfe said. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists. "But promise me that tomorrow, there's no prison. No Qualls. If it comes to that--"
"If it does," Santi said, "then it comes for us both."
Their fingers intertwined, and Wolfe leaned his head against Santi's shoulder. Odd, that the promise of death would sound so inviting when put that way. "I'd rather live with you," he said. "Let's try for that."
"Yes. Let's." Santi's head came up, and he looked at the closed door. "Did you hear that?"
"What?"
Santi was already up. "Carriage," he said, and was halfway down the stairs by the time Wolfe managed to make it to his feet. He followed as quickly as he could and was nearly to the floor of the grand entrance to the embassy when the doors opened and Glain and Khalila entered.
Glain and Khalila, alone.
"What happened?" Santi was asking. Khalila's face showed her distress, and Wolfe's eyes fixed on a heavy stain of blood at the bottom of her skirt. "Where is he?"
"Taken," Glain said. "I'm sorry, Captain. I should have been there. Stopped it."
"Where were you?"
The Welsh girl straightened to her full height and looked into the middle distance. An automatic, formal reporting stance. "Sir, I elected to accompany Dario; Khalila asked me to. He sent me to make sure she was all right. When I got back, he'd been taken by the High Garda. We couldn't get to him. I thought the best I could do was make sure she was safe." Her chin set itself at a more aggressive angle. "I'll go get him, sir."
"You won't," Santi said. "Does the ambassador know?"
"The ambassador does not know, and would prefer you tell him immediately," said Alvaro Santiago, coming at a brisk walk from what must have been his office. He looked grim, and lines formed at the corners of his mouth and eyes as he listened to the story. "He was caught with your letters on him, then. A clear sign of treason. I'll file a formal protest, but if they have him, they'll keep him."
"Can you find out where he's being held?"
"If I go and demand answers of the High Garda, the first question they will ask is how I knew," he said. "No. I can't reasonably find out until at least the morning. If they suspect you're hiding here, diplomacy won't save you, and I'd rather not have my entire staff slaughtered to protect you. We wait. Dario may not be especially likeable, but I promise you this: he has honor to spare. He'll say nothing to put you at risk. And tomorrow, we will find him. All right?"
"No!" Khalila shook off Glain's restraining hand. "No, it isn't all right. They hurt him. There was blood--"
"Not enough for a fatal wound," Glain put in.
"There was a great deal of blood, and I want to go find him! Let me go find him!"
"Khalila." Santi put his hands on her shoulders, and Wolfe saw the tense fury drain out of her. "He knew the risk. And if I know Dario, he'll be claiming every royal privilege from here to Spain, and the High Garda will have to take it seriously. They'll send word to the Artifex, and the Artifex will have him transferred to the prison as he considers his options. We can't get him. Not tonight. I'm sorry."
The breath went out of her in a wrenching sound that might have been a sob, but there were no tears in her eyes. "Where's Thomas?"
"In the workshop," Alvaro said. "He asked me for special tools and locked me out. I don't know what he's doing. Is he always so . . ."
"Strange? Yes," Wolfe said. "And brilliant. Work will help him. Leave him there." He exchanged a look with Santi. "All of you, go rest. There's nothing more we can do tonight. Morning will come soon enough."
"Has Jess come back?" Glain asked.
"No," Wolfe said.
And privately, he doubted they'd ever see the boy again.
PART TWELVE
MORGAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Somehow, Morgan had never anticipated that getting the most powerful Obscurist in the world on her side would be anything but a total victory. She'd thought of it as a lock to be picked, a door to be opened . . . but now that the lock had fallen and the door swung wide, there was a flesh-and-blood man.
Even though she'd known all along that he had voluntarily exiled himself for almost forty years, an act of will that no one she knew could duplicate . . . she'd never imagined he'd be so damned stubborn.
"That's simply a failure of your imagination," Annis said. They sat together in the reading room, where Eskander had sent them.
"We got him out of his room!"
"We did," she agreed. "But you see, you never knew the young Eskander. I did. He was wild and impulsive and full of passion. But he's had forty years of strict silence and self-control, and I think you can see that he's no longer a man who makes quick decisions. He heard us out. Now he's thinking."
"We don't have time!"
"We have nothing bu
t time," Annis shot back. "Here, in the Iron Tower, that's all we have. Here, read this. Is this what he was looking for? It's well above my ken."
Morgan took the Blank she held and skimmed the cramped, ancient writing, then shook her head. "That's a formula to undo familiarity links, but it's too specific. We need something broader."
Annis rubbed her forehead and wiped the Blank's contents. "I doubt they'll give us access to something so advanced."
"The Obscurist special library contains all the research that's needed to write new, highly advanced formulae; they can't leave out things if they expect us to invent properly. It'll be here. And likely look completely benign."
"Why can't he do this? He knows what he's looking for!"
"Because by accessing the contents here in the reading room, it doesn't track to a specific person," Morgan said. "If any of these texts are flagged as dangerous, then it's best to have none of our names appearing on any High Garda list, don't you think?"
Annis grumbled but went back to the Codex. "He might have given us a proper year instead of a range. This could take forever."
Morgan understood how she felt, but she knew Annis wouldn't understand the reverse. To the older woman, this was just annoyance and boredom. To Morgan, every minute off the clock was another minute the world turned closer to the Feast of Greater Burning, and she knew that she'd lose cherished lives there if they failed in this.
"We have to go faster," Morgan said, and Annis shot her a grateful look of agreement.
"It's a pity we can't have the automata search for us," she said. "Though I suppose ripping apart heretics is more in line with their mission."
Morgan paused in the act of turning a page, and her eyes widened. She jumped up and threw her arms around Annis, who seemed shocked, but laughed. "You're a genius!" Morgan said, and kissed her cheek.
"I have never in my life been told so," Annis said. "Why, exactly?"
"The Archives," Morgan said. "As newly discovered books come in, there are specially built automata, Scribes, who do nothing but read and transcribe the contents into the record. Isn't that right?"
"Of course. The words have to be meticulously copied into the Archives to become available."