'What was yours?'
Thomas looked reluctant to say it, but Jess's stare finally dragged it out of him. 'Nine hundred twenty-five.'
'What?'
'Students from Berlin have always done well on the examination.' Thomas made it sound both proud and apologetic at the same time.
'Done well? Mate, I'm sure none of the Scholars in London could have scored that. Must be the highest score of the year!'
'No,' Thomas said. 'That would be hers.' He looked around the train and nodded towards a young woman sitting near the back. Jess belatedly recognised her. She'd boarded earlier, with a flurry of relatives who'd clustered around her and departed only when the conductor had given them a warning.
She was as small as Thomas was large, and from the little Jess could see of her, she seemed darker skinned, with a closely pinned black cloth covering her hair. Hard to see anything, really, because she was engrossed in a book.
'That one,' Thomas said. 'She was the first in the history of the examination to have a perfect score, they say. Not the first girl. The first anyone.' He sounded impressed, and respectful. As Jess stared back, the girl lowered her book and returned their gazes with forthright brown-eyed intensity. Thomas, embarrassed at being caught out, quickly turned face forward again.
Jess, on the other hand, kept looking. She was pretty, not beautiful, but there was something about her that he found interesting. She cocked one eyebrow higher than the other, just like his brother's favourite trick, and he tried to mirror it back. Still couldn't.
So he settled for standing up and climbing past the mountain range of Thomas's knees.
'Where are you going?' Thomas whispered.
'To say hello,' Jess said. 'Smartest girl in the world? Worth knowing.'
'I wouldn't ...'
Jess was already walking back towards the girl, who was still watching him with that challenging dark stare, when a man moved over to take a seat next to her. He was a rounded fellow, older, expensively dressed in traditional Arab robes.
Jess stopped and bowed politely to the girl. She nodded back. 'Wanted to introduce myself,' he said. 'Jess Brightwell. That's my mate Thomas Schreiber, the big shy one back there.'
'Khalila Seif,' she said. 'May I present my uncle Nasir? He is accompanying me to the Alexandrian border.'
The uncle gave Jess a warm smile, rose, and gave him a bow in return. It was all very civil, but he wasn't leaving the girl's side, that much was obvious.
Jess turned back to Khalila. 'Highest score on the test,' he said. 'You'd be guaranteed a place, I suppose.'
'Nothing in life is guaranteed. I may not be able to handle the work, after all. Some people prove fragile.'
'Fragile,' Jess repeated. 'Yeah, you don't strike me that way.'
'You are also a student, sir?' her uncle asked.
'Nowhere near as bright as your niece, sir, but yes.'
'And from where?'
'England, sir.'
'Ah. Are you not at war ...?'
'Not the part of the country I'm from,' Jess said. The man was too well mannered to say it, but he clearly thought England was a hotbed of trouble. 'Well, I'll let you read, then, Miss Seif. Pleasant trip.'
'Thank you for your courtesy, Mr Brightwell,' she said. 'I wish you a smooth journey as well.' Very formal, but the smile less so. Not warm, exactly. But not afraid.
And definitely not fragile.
Jess climbed back over Thomas to his seat and said, 'Well, that's one placement spoken for; she'll end up a Curator one day, if not the damned Archivist. My future's looking dimmer all the time.' He didn't mean it. He liked challenges, and this ... this was turning out to be one of the best challenges he'd faced in his life. It was boring, always being smarter. Already, he felt he'd have to work for it here.
You're never coming back. Brendan's words suddenly returned to him. They were prophetic, because already his family seemed like a fading dream. He felt good here.
He felt right.
As the conductors outside the train windows cried last boarding, a raw-boned young woman ran hell-bent for their car. Not a graceful sort of movement, but those long legs ate up the platform's length, and she leapt for the still-open door in the last second before the conductor slammed it shut and the train's whistle blew. She leant against the panelling, flushed and sweating, and overbalanced and fell onto Jess and Thomas's laps as the train lurched into motion.
No lightweight, this girl. And sharp elbows. Jess winced and rubbed his chest as she fought her way back to her feet and glared at him and Thomas as though they were guilty of an assault on her person.
'Welcome,' Thomas said. 'Thomas Schreiber. Berlin.' He offered her a hand. She clawed disordered, curling brown hair back from her face, and her glare turned to an outright frown, but she shook. Grudgingly. 'And you are ... ?'
'Glain Wathen. Merthyr Tydfil.' She shut up fast as her eyes fell on Jess.
'Jess Brightwell. London.'
She gave him a sour look, then pushed off and found a seat near the back.
'She doesn't like you,' Thomas said. 'Does she know you?'
'No need,' Jess replied. He could feel Glain's stare boring into the back of his head. 'By the sound of her, she's Welsh. She's probably making a plan to stick a knife in my kidney before we get to the border.' When Thomas just continued to look confused, he said, 'I'm English. Blood feuds. Makes people irrational.'
'Ah,' Thomas said, but he didn't seem particularly illuminated. Not up on his current wars, Jess thought. Or didn't seem to understand that the Southern Conflict had been going on for more than fifty years, with bloody losses on both the Welsh and English sides. Of late, the Welsh had been handily winning the day.
Glain looked like one of those unpleasant firebrands who couldn't just leave it at the border. Jess didn't mind, really. At least that was one fellow student he wouldn't mind cutting out in competition for a spot.
The miles clacked on, towards their uncertain future.
The Alexandrian border crossing meant that anyone without commissions into Library territory had to disembark, which meant the departure of Khalila's uncle. He clearly didn't like leaving his girl to the unwashed masses - and to be fair, they were all fairly unwashed, at the moment, on this train - but he went with good grace.
Jess nodded a polite goodbye, then turned and winked at Khalila. She ignored him. She'd fallen into a hushed, intense conversation with the Welsh girl, Glain, though whatever they had in common he couldn't imagine. Glain was as plain as Khalila was pretty, and her manners seemed rude where the Arab girl had grace and charm to spare. No accounting for taste, he supposed. He and Thomas played cards, and drew in a few more players as the hours clicked by; even one of the Library's silver bands sat in, and though his English was dodgy and spiced with Chinese accents, he was a right madman for a bet, and Jess lost half his cash before he bowed out and slept.
When he woke up, Thomas had won back most of the money, had a contented, cherubic look on his face, and they were pulling into Alexandria, in Egypt.
Jess wasn't the only one gawking out the windows; most of those in the car were doing it, even adults with their bands of service on their wrists. Because this city ... it was worth seeing.
They were arriving at Misr Station, all gleaming white marble and buff-coloured stones; it was blinding in the noonday glare. The station itself rose three graceful stories of fluted columns, with ancient Egyptian statues of the old gods reaching to the same height. When the carriage stopped, they were facing hawk-faced Horus's massive feet, and Jess craned his head to look up. The beaked head blocked out the sun, and the gold leaf and blue enamel gleamed brighter than anything Jess had ever seen.
'Amazing,' Thomas breathed. 'Do you think it's an automaton? At that size?'
Jess shuddered. 'Perish the thought.'
Thomas scrambled up, grabbed his bag (twice the size of Jess's, but then, he was twice Jess's size) and rushed for the train car door. He was onto the platform before Jess could p
ull his own case from beneath his seat, but he caught up with the German quickly, and against his will, his steps slowed and stopped. The two of them stood together, just drinking it in. The sun felt different here: relentlessly hot, but strangely welcoming just the same. Humid ocean air blew in and ruffled Jess's hair, drying the sweat that was already beading on his face. And the silent, majestic rows of gods stretched on in a cleanly ordered march that seemed to go on for miles, each one of them different. They've all got stories, Jess thought. I need to know them. Best of all, he could know them. He could learn anything here.
It felt like limitless possibilities.
Khalila had joined them, he realised, and was gaping just as openly. Even Glain seemed stunned as she climbed down off the train steps and landed in this new, alien, intimidating land.
It seemed so clean.
Soon enough, they'd drawn a real cluster around them, as new postulants disembarked. Maybe it was just because Thomas was so tall and made a good centre pole, but when Jess looked around there must have been thirty of them together, and they were all milling about, uncertain of their next steps ... until a man strode out from the shadow of Horus's feet towards them.
He drew everyone's attention: black Scholar's robes that billowed around a plain black day suit. A gleaming gold band on his wrist, chased with elegant hieroglyphs and the Library seal. Dark shoulder-length hair swept back in a mane from a fiercely intelligent face. Narrow, dark eyes, and nut-brown skin. The students fell silent as he approached, and pulled closer together. Gazelles facing a lion, Jess thought.
The Scholar looked them over with unforgiving assessment. The silence stretched until Jess thought it might shatter poor old Horus's legs, and then the man said, 'My name is Scholar Christopher Wolfe, and I take it you are incoming postulants. Let me be clear; most of you might as well turn around and board the train now for home. I have six slots to fill, if I decide to fill them at all, which at first glance is unlikely. Does anyone want to book a return now and save themselves the time and pain?'
No one stirred, though several made twitchy moves, as though they were considering it. Not Jess. Nor Thomas, nor Khalila, nor Glain. Rock solid. For now, Jess thought.
This had just got very interesting.
EPHEMERA
Text of a letter by Thomas Paine of the Territory of America, written in 1795. Consigned to the Black Archives; not available to the Codex. Access strictly controlled. Marked as SEDITIOUS CONTENT.
There are three parts to learning: information, knowledge, and wisdom. A mere accumulation of information is not knowledge, and a treasure of knowledge is not in itself, wisdom.
The Library holds itself to be the keeper of both knowledge and wisdom, but it is not true. So much should never be held in the hands of so few, for it is a natural, venal habit of men to hold to power. And knowledge is the purest form of power.
The Curators mete out knowledge and progress in drips and drops, and see their duty to the people as that of a parent to an infant. As a parent will keep danger from his child, so then does the Library seek to protect us from what it deems dangerous knowledge.
But there is no wisdom without knowledge, no progress without danger, and I am not the Library's child! I must acquire my own information, build my own knowledge and, through experience, transform it to the treasured gold of wisdom.
To this end, I say that the greatest good that can be done for mankind is to shatter the doors of the Great Library and make off with its storehouse of knowledge, spread it far and wide, for though the Library's history is vast and deep, even the greatest invention can turn upon its creators. And so the very institution we thought would bring the most light to the world has instead drowned it in shadows, and claimed that shadow as full sun. And we, poor blind creatures, have believed the lie.
It is a fine thing to preserve knowledge, but to set the Great Library above men, above nations, above life? This is not wisdom.
I will not believe that life is worth less than ink on a page. Let that be our rallying cry. Let us shout it where we can. Let us raise our hands against the false idols of the Serapeums wherever they rise.
Let us burn our life's work before they seize upon it and lock it in the darkness.
Let us burn it down and bring new light into the world.
A handwritten annotation to the tract, in the hand of Archivist Magister Alessandro Volta, 1795:
The American Territory has become a fetid jungle in which grows a dangerous heresy. See that it is rooted out by whatever means are necessary.
The Burner philosophy must, for our continued survival, be destroyed.
CHAPTER TWO
London had been, to Jess a sprawling modern metropolis. It had been impossible to imagine anything more majestic than the buildings that had challenged that low, grey sky. On some very basic level, he had always believed that England, and London, was quite simply better than the rest of the world.
His first indication that he was wrong had been when his new friend Thomas shared the news that students in Berlin regularly scored far better than he did on the tests, but that might have been simply a fluke ... until he began to talk to his fellow postulants, and began to realise that every one of them, every one, was as good as he was, or better.
And then, there was Alexandria. Oh, Alexandria.
London had been a warren of narrow, winding streets, tiny alleys, blind corners. Crowds. Dirt that never quite seemed to be scrubbed away, even in the cleanest of places. It was a wonder, but a wonder that had the sweat and dirt of humanity ground deep for more than two thousand years.
Alexandria, for all its long, turbulent history, gleamed like heaven. Everywhere it was sparkling and spotless, with broad avenues for steam carriages and wide, flat pedestrian walkways that led past preserved ancient monuments. Priceless gold-decked statues commemorated a rich and ancient legacy, and it stunned Jess, once he thought about it, that no one sneaked about at night to pry the precious stuff away. Even the poor seemed to have respect for history here. Every building was carefully maintained and fresh-painted each year in what he was told was a riotous public festival, and the streets were lined with beautiful gardens, flowers, trees, fountains, all carefully groomed. The city even smelt good.
For the most part, the people matched the place: exotic, clean, attractive, polite. Cosmopolitan.
He felt like a rude country lout, compared to most of those he saw on the trip to their lodgings. Scholar Wolfe had commissioned a large carriage to carry them all, and as it chugged smoothly along past overwhelming wonders, Wolfe stood in the aisle and talked.
'You will be quartered at Ptolemy House,' he said. 'You are treated as adults; there are no childish rules, no one to coddle you. You will share rooms. The accommodations are not luxurious. There will be a staff on duty, but they are not your servants and they will not clean up your messes. Tomorrow you will begin your studies. Am I clear?'
They all murmured agreement, then shouted it when he demanded more volume. And when the carriage parked, he was the first off, gone before Jess could think of a single question to ask. Not, he sensed, that Scholar Wolfe would have been inclined to answer one.
Ptolemy House proved to be an unremarkable squared-off building near the Alexandrian University. It was not luxurious, as Wolfe had said, but Jess had dossed in far worse places in his life. It was clean and cool, and that was what counted.
Room assignments were posted in the hallway. He found his number, opened the matching door, and half-carried, half-dragged his train case inside before he collapsed boneless on the first bed he came to.
It never occurred to him that it might not be his own bed until the bathroom door opened, and an impossibly good-looking young man in a crimson robe said, '?Quien diablos es usted? Who the devil are you?' The maroon of the robe went well with his bronzed skin, and his eyes were almost as dark as his hair.
Jess had already met his fill of new people, but he dragged himself upright to a sitting position, rubbed swe
at from his palm, and offered it to the new boy. 'Jess Brightwell,' he said. 'I suppose we're to share the space.'
'No,' the other boy said. 'I have a private room. Get out.'
That was it. Nothing but the cold words. Jess slowly lowered his hand back to his side and wondered for a moment what exactly the right move would be, and then he just let himself fall back to the pillow. It felt good. 'I'm too tired for it, mate,' he said. 'I claim this bed for England.'
That lasted about five seconds, before the Spaniard grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and heaved him bodily upright again, and threw him on the floor. 'Out!' he said, and showed very white teeth. 'Final warning. This is my room. I don't share.'
Jess had his measure now, and the shove hadn't actually had much force behind it; the boy clearly never expected to really fight. He'd been born rich, and was used to those around him deferring to whatever he wished.
Jess rolled into a crouch, exploded upward, and slammed the boy hard against the wall with a forearm like a bar against his throat. 'Let's start again,' he said, and bared his teeth this time. 'I live here because my name's posted on the bloody list outside. If that's your bed, I apologise, and I'll take the other. Fair enough?' He emphasised it by leaning forward. The Spaniard struggled a little, but their gazes locked, and he must have seen that Jess was serious.
'Keep the bed,' the other boy said. His voice sounded rough and strangled under the pressure of Jess's arm. 'You've got your sweat all over it. I wouldn't touch it now.'
'Fine.' Jess let go and stepped back. He offered his hand, again. 'Let's start over. Jess Brightwell.'
The Spaniard continued to stare at him with a slight frown grooved above those sharp eyes, and he finally took Jess's hand and gave it a too-firm squeeze. 'Dario Santiago,' he said. 'We won't be friends.'
'Probably not,' Jess said. 'But we will be sharing this room.'
Dario's lips suddenly curved into a truly amused smile. 'You may not prefer that, in the end.'
For some reason, Jess had assumed that Library classes would be held, well, in the Library, though that institution was more of a sprawling, vast complex than any single building. He'd expected a steady diet of classrooms and essays and tests, the same as he'd had back in London at the Library-administered public schools.