It was Niccolo Santi, and Scholar Wolfe beside him, and Jess saw Thomas's golden head towering above the crowd.
The two factions faced off, a neutral space between them, and Jess grabbed the rope he'd slid down and climbed, vaulted over the rail, and pushed into the empty center where Anit and Brendan were already standing.
"Captain," Jess said. "Good to see you."
Santi nodded. "Same."
"You followed us."
"We thought we'd let you lead the way."
"How many with you?"
"Fifty now. The rest coming," Santi said. "We'll have cover fire from high points nearby, but this will be a ground fight. You understand." He looked at Anit. "Why are you here?"
"To get our people back," she said. "Same as you."
"Common cause?"
"For now," Anit said. "Until it isn't. I think we'll know that moment."
It wasn't perfect, but they didn't have time for perfect. Just movement. The High Garda moved forward, and a team sealed the door behind them with fast, effective welders. Jess left his brother with Anit and joined his friends.
Naturally opposing sides, but for now, Santi was right: common cause.
They coursed through the workshop, moving past the tables, the dead automata, the curtain-covered, half-finished machines. Jess ripped down the curtain at the back of the room and found another dragon lying dormant on the ground. It looked ready to fly. We should destroy that, he thought, but the truth was they didn't have time. Up on the balcony, the doors were shaking under a relentless assault.
The back of the workshop was an enormous rolling door, and as they shoved it away on its rails, they were standing on a wide, up-slanting ramp. Jess ran toward the top of it and found another door, large enough to easily accommodate that dragon, or a horde of elephants, or a full-scale ship. There were controls on the wall. A simple push of a button, and they would be in the amphitheater.
Santi and Wolfe paused next to him. Anit, flanked by a hard crowd of her lieutenants. Khalila, Thomas, and Glain.
And his twin, who nodded and said, "Go."
No going back.
Jess hit the button, and the door opened into the Feast of Greater Burning.
There was no one to rescue. No one on the floor of the amphitheater. No automata, no prisoners, no one. They rushed out, and slowed, and Jess turned in place to look at what they'd just done.
The stands were full of Scholars. Librarians. In the gilded central box sat the Curia of the Great Library, all dressed in their formal robes, and standing at the railing were two people. The Archivist, dressed in heavy, jeweled robes, with a crown with the eye of Horus towering on his head.
And the Artifex, his closest ally and friend, wearing the robes of his office. He held a golden whistle in his hand, and he was smiling.
"Back!" Jess shouted, but it was too late. The doors were sliding shut, trapping half of their people in the tunnels. A hundred of them had made it through--a mix of Anit's thieves and Santi's High Garda. Instinctively, the thieves spread out, and the High Garda bunched together in a cohesive, protective formation.
He caught a look at Santi's face, and his heart stopped for a moment. That was the face of a man who knew it was over. Who knew they'd lost.
"Did you really think I'd have brought you to that workshop without a reason?" the Archivist asked him. "I knew you'd betray me, whichever Brightwell you proved to be. You did exactly what I wanted you to do. You delivered my enemies." He gestured, and another door opened. Jess's heart thudded back to life, and he took better hold of his rifle. Shoot whatever comes out, he thought, but what came out was a young woman in a white Obscurist's robe, and it was Morgan, who staggered a few steps and then dropped to her knees.
He broke ranks to run to her, grabbed her, and hauled her to her feet again. She was gasping for breath, and one glance at her face was enough to tell him that she was in no shape to help anyone, not even herself. "It's okay," he told her. That was a lie, but it was all he could give her now. He got her safely back to the High Garda lines, where Khalila took her and said, "What's wrong, Morgan? Morgan?"
Morgan tried to speak, but she couldn't seem to. She ripped away her collar and threw it onto the sand that covered the arena floor, and finally managed to say, "Drugged. Trying." She grabbed for Khalila's hand. "Together."
"Yes," Khalila said, and looked desperately at Jess. "We're together now."
Another door opened, and two High Garda Elites came through dragging another limp form. They left him on the sand and retreated. Khalila gasped, and this time she was the one who dashed forward. Glain was a step behind her, and together they towed Dario Santiago back to whatever safety this was. He'd been beaten and bloodied, but he managed to give Khalila a broken smile and say, "Hello, madonna," before turning to Jess and holding out his hand. Jess thought he was meant to take it, but Dario impatiently shook that off and said, "Gun, Scrubber. Give me a gun!"
Glain passed her sidearm over.
"Now," the Archivist said. "You're all present. I would have included Red Ibrahim with you, except that he was found dead yesterday. I wonder which one of you killed him. Not that I intended to let a single smuggler live after today, but it would have been a nice symbol, having him here. At least we have his heir. Anit, is it?"
She stepped forward, all of fourteen and as old as the stones of the city, and made a startlingly rude gesture up at the box. "Remember the name, old man," she shouted back. "We'll spit on your funeral fire!"
He shook his head. "You are stones in the shoes of history, and you will be shaken out. No more tolerance. No more black markets, Burners, rebels. The Library will continue, and you will not." He raised his voice into a shout. "Knowledge is all!"
The Scholars and librarians repeated it. No great shout of affirmation, Jess thought; it was almost a prayer, instead. They're waiting, he thought. They need something to show them there's hope.
Jess spun, raised his rifle, and fired straight at the Archivist.
The shot hit an invisible shield, and the bullet hung there a foot away from the old man's face, vibrating. The Archivist nodded to Gregory, who gestured, and the bullet dropped to the sand.
No one spoke. Jess changed targets and fired at the Artifex, then Gregory. None of the shots made any difference.
Santi reached out and pushed his rifle down. "Save your ammunition," he said. "This is only just starting."
The Artifex raised to his lips the whistle that Jess had noticed, and it made a high, thin, trilling sound.
Above them, the sky filled with birds, launching out of hollows in the top of the amphitheater. Circling and catching the light of the sun on metallic wings.
Jess felt a strange impulse to laugh. Birds. They'd brought down a dragon. He wasn't going to fear a few sparrows.
But it wasn't a few. It was thousands. They continued pouring up, blackening the sky, circling in a vast whirl . . . and then the Artifex whistled again.
And the birds dived.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
MORGAN
She could hardly keep her feet under her, but she felt the black energy of the birds circling overhead. Automata: small ones, light and simple, without much complexity in their formulae. One of them, ten of them, easily crushed.
Thousands of them shifted and came down in a deadly dive.
One narrowly missed her, burying itself in the sand, and as it did she realized that the beaks were long and sharp, like flying knives . . . and another sliced the skin of her upper arm as it arrowed down.
Next to her, a High Garda soldier was looking up, and a bird buried itself in his eye. He staggered, opened his mouth, and then simply died.
All around her, the birds were falling in a dead rain, stabbing and cutting and killing. And there were thousands more, and thousands more.
They were going to be cut to pieces.
Morgan fell to her knees and pushed. The drug that Gregory had poured down her throat numbed her, and she fumbled clumsily
for anything, anything to stop this.
She felt something responding. Something whispering and ghostly, and with an effort that made her gasp and reel, she caught hold of a thin trickle of power, shaped it, and thrust it at the bird hurtling down toward Jess's unprotected head.
It veered. It spread its wings and flapped to gain altitude. It circled, flitting among its diving fellows. She saw the script now. It was blindingly simple.
She changed one symbol, and the bird banked, gained speed, and folded its wings.
It ripped through the golden cloth that covered the Curia's box and buried its knife-sharp beak into Gregory's ear, all the way to his brain. She knew he'd lacked the imagination to build that barrier in a circle. He only saw a shield.
And now he staggered, screaming, flailing, and she grabbed for another bird. Another. As the Curia members scrambled out of the way, Gregory tried to protect himself, but it was too late, far too late, and when the last bird arrowed into his eye, he slumped back down to his chair in a fluttering heap of red robes.
It felt like someone had opened the door of a cell in her mind, and she pulled in a deep, clean breath as the numbness and fog rolled away. The world exploded into light and fire and power.
And the birds began to fall, smashing down without direction.
Dead. Thousands, hitting the sand, but not another one hitting the people standing in the arena.
She felt the paths inside her, the ones Eskander had so carefully recovered, scorch in painful streaks. Too much. She'd just wielded more power than anyone should at once, and when she tried to reach to stop the rank of Egyptian gods that stalked from the tunnels into the arena, each four times the height of a human . . . she failed. Her powers slid off them like oil from water, and she felt a wave of pain and nausea send her reeling to her knees.
"Morgan?" Khalila was beside her.
"I can't," she gasped. "I can't!"
Khalila took Jess's sidearm from his holster and began to fire at the goddess Bast, who approached them with relentless speed, crushing the lifeless automata birds under its feet. It wouldn't help, Morgan wanted to tell her. It would take power greater than hers to stop even one of these things.
"Scatter!" she heard Santi yell, and the High Garda troops exploded into motion, weaving between and around the gods. Some were caught. The giant figure of Isis swept up a soldier in its hand and crushed him, then reached for another.
The Scholars and librarians had come to their feet now, and the Archivist was shouting something and pointing at Morgan, specifically at Morgan. Jess shoved her behind him as Bast kept coming. "Khalila! Take her!" he shouted, and Khalila tried, but Morgan's legs had gone numb now, and she couldn't run.
The three of them fell under the shadow of the god. Its cat face showed no emotion as it raised a flail; it was razor sharp and would cut them apart with one blow. Khalila continued to fire, though she must have known it was useless.
Jess wouldn't leave.
He wouldn't leave.
And that was the moment she knew, after all her doubts and worries, that what she felt for him was love, because the strength of it took her breath away. She reached for him, and he took her hand and stepped back beside her. Khalila held her other hand. None of them spoke, because there wasn't any need. They'll remember how we die, Morgan thought. Maybe our fate isn't to change the Library. Maybe it's to die to show them how to continue.
She was almost, almost at peace with that . . . and then she heard shouts coming from the stands, from the Scholars and librarians, and she looked past the automaton and saw that a new column of people had walked into the arena, this time from the door that had admitted the gods.
Eskander, in a blindingly white Obscurist robe, led his people into the arena, just as he'd led them out of the Iron Tower, and next to him, looking entirely different from the smiling, happy woman Morgan knew, was Annis.
Eskander raised his hands, and the Obscurists raised theirs, and Morgan felt the breathtaking rush of power blast through the arena. The gods swayed, slowed, and turned toward the Obscurists.
And then, one by one, they knelt.
It wasn't one man's power, Morgan realized. It was all of them, blending and combining into an unstoppable flood. No wonder the Obscurists had been penned up in the Iron Tower, where the walls muted and confined them.
Together, and free, they were far more dangerous than anyone could have known. A dying breed, but a powerful one to the last.
One god didn't kneel. Just one.
Horus.
It stalked toward the Obscurists, and some of them broke and ran. Then more, as the automaton approached and raised its huge sword, capable of mowing all of them down.
But some stayed, and Eskander directed their power, amplified it, and Horus began to slow.
But it didn't stop.
"Fire!" Santi shouted, and all around the arena, Anit's people and Santi's company poured bullets into the machine. The golden skin began to dent, but it wasn't enough.
None of it would be enough.
"Jess!"
Thomas's voice rang across the amphitheater, and for the first time, Morgan realized with a shock that the young man was down, one leg at an ugly, broken angle. But he heaved himself up to a sitting position, and with all the strength in his upper body, he threw the Ray of Apollo toward them.
Toward Jess, who dropped his rifle, lunged, caught the falling weapon, and came up on one knee to aim and fire.
He cut Horus in half, a long, slanting cut from left shoulder to right hip, and the top half of the god slipped sideways, tumbled, and rolled on the sand.
Dead.
The Archivist and the Curia stood silently now. Shocked, and only just realizing how badly this trap had gone for them. Around the arena, automata raced from opening tunnels: Spartans armed with spears. Lions. Sphinxes, large and small. All deadly, all intent on killing.
But they're losing, Morgan thought. She didn't take her gaze from the Archivist as Jess stood and raised that Ray of Apollo again. The shield that had protected him had died with Gregory, and she doubted it would have stopped Thomas's solid light . . . but when Jess fired, nothing happened.
The weapon was empty of power.
He dropped it, grabbed his rifle, and fired once, but he missed as the Archivist finally realized his danger and raced for an exit.
"Stop them!" Shouts went up, from both Santi and Anit, but also from Scholars who were coming to the railings and vaulting down into the arena. Joining them. Scholars were joining them!
Morgan felt tears burn her eyes as she watched the Archivist and his Curia driven together into the center of their golden box by a ring of Scholars, High Garda soldiers, thieves. Santi's troops were quickly and competently destroying the automata; there were losses, but fewer and fewer. A lion bounded at them, and Khalila moved in front of it, stepped under the slashing paws, and turned it off with a single, accurate slap of her hand.
Khalila climbed up onto the back of the thing, balanced on the snarling head, and shouted at Santi. "Captain! Don't kill them!"
Santi relayed the order to his people, and when Anit's thieves didn't seem inclined to obey, they were thrown out of the box back to the arena with quick, efficient violence. The alliance, it seemed, was coming to an end.
That was when she saw Jess climbing into the box.
No, it wasn't Jess. Jess was here, with her.
It was his twin.
Brendan.
CHAPTER FORTY
JESS
Jess saw his twin climb the railings, but he didn't have time to wonder why; he was too busy slipping under the spear of a Spartan and finding the switch to stop the thing. It had already killed a few people, by the smears of blood on it, and he felt a surge of bitter triumph as it froze in its crouching lunge.
Then he looked for Brendan.
His brother avoided Lieutenant Botha's outstretched hand and went straight for the Archivist.
Yes, Jess thought. Kill him. As long as the
Archivist lived, there wouldn't be peace here, or progress. Killing Gregory had been a good start, but only a start. He knew Khalila didn't approve, and likely Wolfe wouldn't either . . . but he'd watched Neksa die.
Fitting, that his brother should be the one to end this.
He saw a shadow behind Brendan, and then as his brother grabbed for the Archivist, he saw his twin stumble.
He felt the knife, somehow. Its phantom shadow slid into his back, and he felt its cold presence tear his heart in two.
No. NO!
Jess must have shouted it, must have screamed, but he didn't hear himself doing it; he was too far away to get to his brother, but he ran, dodging the claws and spears of automata, launching himself up to grab the railing, and when he landed on the floor of the box, the Archivist was being pushed toward an exit that had opened in the floor. A trapdoor.
The black shadow was a High Garda uniform without insignia, and she was hurrying the old man into the escape hatch. As she looked back, her gaze caught Jess's.
Green eyes. A sharp, pale face.
In her hand, a bloody dagger.
Zara.
Anit lunged for the opening, but it slammed shut before she could reach it. Santi leaped over Gregory's fallen body and reached the trapdoor a second later, but it was seamless from this side.
"Find the exit!" Santi shouted. He'd gone sickly pallid, and Jess knew he'd seen her, too.
Zara Cole had betrayed all of them.
Zara Cole had murdered his brother.
Jess didn't watch the rest. He grabbed Brendan from where he'd fallen. His twin was still breathing, but his eyes were already blind and wide, as if he were trapped in a dark, dark room searching for an exit.
"Jess?" he whispered. "Jess?"
"I'm here, Brother," he said, and grabbed Brendan's trembling hand. No blood on Brendan's front. The wound was in the back, invisible. Deep. Deadly. "Medica! I need a Medica!"
"Jess," Brendan gasped. Blood on his lips. Foaming from his mouth. "Jess, tell Da--"
And then he was gone. Just . . . gone. Brendan lay heavy in his arms, and just a moment ago, seconds ago, he had been vital and alive and his brother.
"Brendan!" Anit was by him now. And Santi. Santi tried to take his brother away, and he shoved the man backward, hard.