If he was right, of course. If this was some plan that Jess and his miserable twin had conjured up. If this was not simply betrayal, but betrayal to a purpose.
The question then was what he was expected to accomplish, locked up here. Morgan, he could understand. But if this was a plan, by rights one of them should have whispered at least a hint to him before it was too late.
Then why would it profit any scheme--and he sensed Dario Santiago's Machiavellian hand behind it--to send him back to a hell he'd never have agreed to return to? Wolfe had worked hard to keep his trauma silent and secret from the younger members of their little band, but Jess, in particular, had been privy to details. The young man knew at least the edges of that particular knife, if not the terrible wounds it had left.
No way to solve this puzzle without information, he told himself, and concentrated on the one he could solve: the security of this prison.
Here in this passage, he saw more of the dull metallic gleam of moving sphinxes than he did human High Garda. An overdependence upon automation, he thought. The sphinxes could be gotten around. Jess had worked out how. Even Dario had managed it.
Human guards were more difficult, if less lethal. They adapted. The sphinxes at least operated upon a set of rigid orders.
But surely his feckless students hadn't put him here just to escape; no point in that. No, there was a purpose behind it, just as there was behind putting Morgan back in the Iron Tower.
That was when he heard the murmurs from another cell. He recognized the words, and they were echoed from other locations--one farther to his right, and one almost directly to his left. Prisoners at morning prayers.
And suddenly, Wolfe knew precisely why he'd been placed here. It started with those prayers but would hardly end there.
He sat cross-legged on his narrow bunk and ran through where, precisely, these prisons were located. They'd not taken the precaution this time of moving him to another city. He was in Alexandria, in the cells buried far beneath the Serapeum. Holding pens for those sentenced to death. Ignore that, Wolfe thought, as he felt a small crack run through his resolve. Just another problem to be solved.
He listened. Sat for the better part of an hour and simply listened, pinpointing coughs, shuffles, rustles, the distant sounds of moans and sobs. This place is full of dissidents. Normally, it would not be; the Library's opponents ranged from Burners--who normally killed themselves rather than end up here--to smugglers, who were usually killed quickly.
This prison, he realized, had been packed with individuals the Archivist thought might go against him. We did this, he thought. Our small act of rebellion, rescuing Thomas from Rome, echoing across the entire Library system . . . it forced him to tighten his grip, eliminate those who could do him harm. He had no doubt that the individuals jailed near him were Library sworn . . . Scholars, librarians, High Garda soldiers.
The core of the Library, now seen as its enemies. Tyrants turned on their own, in the end; it was the only way to keep power.
The prayers ceased, and Wolfe stood up and went to the bars of his cell. They were heavy, cold iron, and he thought of a thousand ways to break them. All required things he didn't currently possess, but that had never stopped him for long. "My friend next door," he said. "Are you by any chance a relative of Khalila Seif?"
There was a moment of silence, and then a guarded reply. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I know her well," Wolfe said. "And a more brilliant, clever student I've never taught. She's that rare combination of a great mind and an even better heart."
He heard the release of a breath. It sounded shaken. "That's my sister," the man said. "My younger sister. I'm Saleh. She's well?" The young man--he was young, perhaps a few years older than Khalila--sounded shaken. "She's not here?"
"Safe I can't guarantee, but last I saw her, she was well, and far away from here."
"I pray she stays far away, too." He hesitated a moment, then said, "My apologies. I've given you my name and not asked yours."
"Christopher Wolfe."
"The rebel Scholar." Saleh's voice had turned brittle. "The one who brought all this on us."
"Blame can wait. Survival first," Wolfe said. He had no patience for fools, now or ever; the only thing he'd ever done to deserve the blame was to invent a machine the Library didn't want. Everything, everything, followed from that. His imprisonment. His release, and erasure from Library records. His penance as lowly instructor. His determination to never allow the Archivist to destroy another bright mind. "Tell me who's here with us."
"My father, uncle, and older brother are farther down the row," Saleh said. "Arrested on suspicion of treason against the Great Library. Which is nonsense, of course. We were arrested to force Khalila to come back."
"Who else is here?"
"A Scholar Artifex, Marcus Johnson. Le Dinh, Scholar Medica. Captain Ahmed Khan, High Garda. Two or three Scholars from the Literature ranks, one a beloved author whose recent works are considered heretical. A host of librarians, for various crimes including concealment of original works, and Burner sympathies." Saleh paused to think. "There's one at the end of this corridor I don't know. He never speaks. My father tried sign, but there was no response. But that only accounts for this one hallway."
"How many other High Garda are confined in here?"
"Six more. Ahmed's the only one of significant rank, though."
Wolfe had forgotten about the bars around him now, the chill in the stones, the evil smell of the place. He found a small chip of stone and used it to begin scratching out a list on the wall. "Start methodically," he said. "Are you at the end of the hallway?"
"No."
"Then tell me who is next to you."
When he was done with Saleh, he engaged the woman to his right, Ariane, who'd been listening. She was High Garda and delivered her account in a crisp, calm voice that he quite liked. It reminded him for a terrifying second of Nic, and he had to pause and push that need away. Niccolo is safe, he told himself. And on his way. Your job is to be ready when he arrives.
The word spread slowly down the hall, and passed back to him, as he drew a complete map of the prison hall, with names attached. By the time the meager ration of lunch arrived, he'd memorized the placements and rubbed away the map.
"Eat it, don't throw it," advised the High Garda soldier who handed him the tray of food. Meat, bread, cheese, figs, a small portion of sour beer and a larger one of water. "Throw it, you get nothing else today or tomorrow. Doesn't take long for people to learn the lesson."
Wolfe glanced up at him and had a second of doubt. Did he know this man? Recognize him? It was possible, but he couldn't be sure, and the soldier gave no indication at all of knowing him.
"I'll throw it when I'm tired of the food," he said.
That got him a bare thread of a smile, and the young man--he was young, nearly as young as Wolfe's students--tapped fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. "That's why you're a Scholar," he said. "You get right to the bottom of things."
I do know him, Wolfe thought. He couldn't place the boy in proper context; surely they wouldn't put one of Santi's people on duty here? Unless, of course, there was more going on in Alexandria than he'd previously suspected--eminently possible, considering the shocking number of Scholars and librarians imprisoned. Perhaps the stronghold of the Great Library was no longer holding quite as strongly. An interesting theory to chase.
Wolfe ate his food slowly, not to savor its taste--it had little--but because he was involved in assessing the residents of this prison for their potential value in any escape attempt. The Artifex Scholar would certainly be useful. The writers could certainly come up with distractions. He was most concerned about Khalila's father, who suffered from a delicate heart, which these conditions certainly hadn't improved.
He was still deep in thought when he scraped the last of the watery meat from the bottom of the bowl.
There was a message written on it, barely visible now and disappearing fast.
It said, Lieutenant Zara sent me.
Wolfe paused, closed his eyes a moment, and took in a deep, slow breath. Brightwell had not, after all, abandoned him here without a word, without a plan. Santi's lieutenant--not a woman he cared for a great deal, but competent nonetheless--had been alerted to his plight. And knowing Zara, she had plans.
Now he had a messenger, and possibly even an extra ally.
Wolfe used his thumb to scrub the rest of the message from the bowl and put the tray through the slot outside the bars after downing the ale and most of the water, which he desperately needed.
When the young man came back to collect the dishes, Wolfe finally placed him in his proper context. A lieutenant, one who'd been in charge of the Blue Dogs in Santi's squad. Troll. His nickname was Troll. A competent young man, and fearless, which would be an asset here. Wolfe nodded. Troll glanced down in the bowl, gave that thread-thin smile again, and left without a word.
Wolfe sat back on his bunk and began to methodically catalogue every item in this bare, depressing cell for its usefulness.
Because soon, he'd need every possible asset to find a way out of this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He woke in the dark, disoriented, and for a moment he reached out to touch Santi's sleeping form, only to hit cold stone. Memory struck a second later, along with the stench of the place, and he groaned and tried to put himself back to sleep. He'd be better off unconscious.
"Oh, wake up, you waste of skin," said a voice that did not sound like it came out of his nightmares . . . or did it? The lines had blurred considerably recently.
"You're not real," he mumbled, and turned over to face the cold stone wall.
"The woman in the cell next to you is named--what is her name, boy?"
"Ariane, sir. Ariane Daskalakis," said a second voice. "Lately a lieutenant in the High Garda."
"Tragic, the talent that is being wasted in these dark days. Very well, Wolfe, sit up and talk to me, or I'll order Daskalakis here shot right now."
He sat up. No denying that this was real now. He could see only a faint outline of the man standing beyond the bars, but he knew it was no spirit haunting him. The hiss of a glow igniting in the man's hand threw a faintly greenish light over both of them, and Wolfe threw up a hand to block the glare as his eyes struggled to adjust. Getting old, he thought. I'd have blinked that away easily a few years ago. It was an idle observation. He was currently unlikely to get much older.
"Artifex Magnus," he said. "I should have expected to see you, I suppose. You never could resist a chance to gloat."
"Do you really imagine that's why I'm here?"
"Well, I doubt you're here to kill me quietly in the dark. You've never been that kindly disposed."
The Artifex gave him a cynical grin. "I've never liked you; that's true. You're an arrogant, insufferable bully who believed he could do anything without penalties. As brilliant and driven as you are, you could have risen to sit in my chair, if only you'd kept your haughtiness under control. But still, this is a pity, the depths you've sunk to."
"Can we dispense with the pleasantries and get to the point? What brings you out of your warm, and no doubt very comfortable, bed?" Wolfe looked beyond the old man, into the shadows. No guards, just a very nervous young Scholar who clearly looked frightened out of his wits and wouldn't look directly at Wolfe at all. Odd. "And unescorted?"
"There will be no records that I came here," the Artifex said. "The automata will have no memory of it. I came to ask you a question. It's important."
"You really could wait until visiting hours."
"If you were ever allowed to see another friendly face, that might be clever. But since you're going to rot in this cell until you die screaming, I'd think you'd settle for an old enemy." There was something strange about the Artifex's tone now. Wolfe couldn't quite pin it down.
"I doubt I'll ever be that desperate," Wolfe said. But he was, of course. And the Artifex knew it.
"One question. Answer it honestly, and no one dies tonight."
Wolfe didn't answer directly, but he inclined his head just a touch. There was a very real danger that if he didn't comply, Ariane might be killed. Or Saleh. It would be one of his neighbors, close enough that he could hear the damage done.
"I knew you were smarter than you seem. Do the Brightwells really have a working press?"
"Oh yes," Wolfe said. "And it's better and faster than anything I've seen before. Better by far than what I built. Better than the first attempts Thomas made, too. It certainly will do the job."
"The job," the Artifex repeated.
"The job of destroying the power of the Great Library to censor and withhold information. Which is what you've feared all along."
The Artifex stepped closer and wrapped his free hand around a bar of the cell door. "Do you understand what you've done, Wolfe? What you're so arrogantly destroying?"
"Yes," Wolfe said. "We've finally opened a door you've kept padlocked for a thousand years. And there's power in what we have. Power you can't take away."
"You're worse than the Burners. If this machine spreads, it will tear the Library apart, piece by piece. Destroy something that has united the world for so many thousands of years." There were tears--real tears--in the old man's eyes now. "You think you're fighting for freedom. Freedom is dangerous. Give humankind freedom, and they will inevitably fall into chaos and war, religious zealotry and senseless violence. We have kept the peace. And we've done it by giving the people what they need, when they need it. Not what they want. Want is nothing but blind and selfish greed."
"Don't wrap yourself in virtue," Wolfe said. "You've killed tens of thousands in the consolidation of your power--and that's what it is: raw power. The power to decide for hundreds of millions of people what is good for them and what isn't. They don't need your godlike guidance. They need to grow."
"Cancer is a growth," the Artifex replied. "Is cancer a good thing?"
"If you've come to debate with me, for the love of the gods, leave me to die in peace," Wolfe said, and stretched on his bunk to put his face to the wall. "You're a sick man in a sick, dying system. And something healthier must replace it."
"Christopher."
Use of his first name made Wolfe turn over and stare. "We aren't friends. You don't have the right."
"We were. Once. Long ago. You remember. I was a mentor to you."
Unwillingly, he did. And wished he could block it out. "What I remember is that you didn't hesitate to send me into a trap when it benefited you. I nearly died."
"It did benefit me," the Artifex acknowledged. "And you, as it turned out. You came out of it covered in glory and awarded a Scholar's gold band. Do you think that happened by accident?"
"I think I earned it," Wolfe snapped, but suddenly he was no longer as certain as he sounded. The Artifex, even before he took the title, had always been a game player. "And it landed you the wealth you wanted, didn't it?"
"It did, at that. Christopher, my point is that we have benefited each other before. We could do so now. All I need from you is information."
"What, you don't mean to torture it out of me this time?" Wolfe kept his tone dismissive and acerbic. "How generous of you. And unusual."
"Torture didn't avail us well last time. I see no reason to think it would be any better this time. So I offer you a bargain, and, Christopher, you'd best listen closely, because you will not get a better one."
"Get it over with. I'm tired."
If his contempt threw the Artifex off, it wasn't at all visible.
For answer, the Artifex took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the floor. Wolfe frowned at it, then picked it up and unfolded it.
Written on it in the Artifex's hand was I will protect Santi if you take your own life.
It fair took his breath away, for a moment. But when he spoke again, his voice stayed steady. "And why would you want me to do that? I thought the Archivist had an entire elaborate execution planned."
r /> "Because I don't trust you," the Artifex said. "I don't trust that you're some helpless prisoner. I don't trust that the Brightwells mean what they say. And I most specifically don't trust that there is no plan to turn all this to your advantage. I believe that with you dead and gone, your students will lose their way, regardless of what orders they've been given."
Wolfe shrugged. "Flattering, that you think I have such vast control. But it's not much of a bargain, considering that you don't have Nic."
"Oh, but I do," the Artifex said. "And I promise you, if you don't accept this bargain, I will see that he suffers every torment you can possibly imagine in your place. I'll even have you brought along, so you can see it firsthand. I know you, Christopher. And I know what will destroy you. Do the right thing. I will give you three days. If you aren't dead by that time, then we'll begin this terrible journey together."
Wolfe balled up the note and threw it back through the bars. "Are we finished? Because I'm bored with your company." His tone remained just the same, but there was a crack inside him, an earthquake shift of horror. Did he have Nic? Had the entire plan--whatever it could have been--come completely apart? It was all too possible. He rolled toward the wall without waiting for an answer, and the Artifex didn't speak again. After a long few moments, Wolfe heard footsteps receding, and the burn of the glow went dark.
He lay there shaking in the dark, staring hard into it. He doesn't have Nic. And he won't. I know my little band of students better than that. Whatever plan is in motion, it can't depend on me kneeling to the Artifex. Or dying in this cell.
He wished he could believe it. He slammed the heel of his hand into the wall, again and again until he felt the skin break and smelled hot blood, and cursed the moment he'd ever laid eyes on any of the students of his Postulant class.
EPHEMERA
Text of a letter from Obscurist Eskander to Obscurist Magnus Keria Morning. Not submitted to the Codex, and marked as private correspondence. Destroyed upon her death.