"But--"
"Gregory will leave the Tower in a procession with the Curia. Once he's out of the doors, I'll amend the wards, and he'll never cross this threshold again. Whatever happens to him from there isn't my concern."
"I thought you were going to set us free!"
"And I will. As soon as I amend the wards, any Obscurists who wish can come and go as they please. Is that fair?"
"No!" she shouted. "It isn't fair! You have the power to protect everyone, not just Obscurists!"
"I couldn't protect Keria," he said, and it stopped her cold. Not the words, but the tone. The bleak, obsidian-hard reality of it. "I've learned bitter lessons about limits. I wish I could be what you all want. But I don't think that's my fate."
"You make your fate! We all do! And if you turn your back on him . . ."
"Wait until sunrise," he said. "As for the Iron Tower soldiers, you'll need to deal with them yourself--and you, unlike these other hothouse flowers, are fully capable of doing that. The doors will open for you. After that, you're on your own. May the gods keep you, Morgan."
"Eskander, you have to help--"
She was talking to his back. Eskander was walking away. He firmly, but calmly, opened the door and ushered her out, and shut the portal behind her. She felt the hot rush of the wards locking back in place. She could see them now, a marvel of power and intricate planning.
She knew she could break them. But that wouldn't solve anything. Eskander was so like his son.
Except that in one important sense, he wasn't like Wolfe at all. Wolfe was a hero. Wolfe stepped forward.
And his father had just disappointed her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Morgan stood on a padded bench to look out of the window of their room. It didn't face east, but she was watching the Lighthouse, which would show the sunrise first in a dazzle in the reflective mirrors at its top. The sky had turned a beautiful, delicate blue, something neither morning nor night, and as she watched, it continued to slip lighter. She toyed with the collar clasped around her neck, but it didn't feel like a trap anymore. Though it still resonated as active--Eskander's doing--she could unsnap and remove it at any time. Like most of what she was doing in this tower, it was a misdirection. A lie.
"You remind me of Keria," Annis said from below. She was up and dressed, and instead of comfortable Tower robes, she'd put on a pair of thick canvas trousers, a red silk shirt, boots, and a thick belt loaded with the travel case Obscurists carried when sent on missions for the Library . . . something with pens, paper, ink, and Translation tags to carry them back to safety in the event of emergency. The case was beautifully worked leather and embossed with the Library symbol.
"I don't look anything like her," Morgan said.
"No, of course not, but she liked it up there, watching the sunrises and sunsets. She liked to imagine being out there. And, of course, once she became the Obscurist Magnus, she was free to live out those dreams, in some part. But more than that, you remind me of Keria because you're so unhappy."
Morgan watched the Lighthouse. She couldn't command the sun to rise any faster, but she couldn't look away, either. "My friends are going to die today unless miracles happen. Why wouldn't I be unhappy?"
"You're unhappy because you feel guilty."
"About what?"
"That you're worried you're not in love with a young man who's in love with you."
Now she did look away, because that was a truth that lanced straight through her. She instinctively started to deny it--she did love him; she knew she did. The problem was that she wasn't sure she was in love with him. Or capable of that kind of feeling. He was as close as she'd ever been to the grand sweeps of emotion she'd seen others take. She wanted to be in love. Jess was everything she should crave: brave, kind, clever, and funny, and her heart fluttered and skin warmed when their eyes met.
She swallowed and said, "How do you know if . . . if he's the one?"
"Oh, that cherished old nonsense. For some people, there's only one, all their lives. For others, love comes twice, or three times, or more. For others, none at all. And, well, for me, I'm the latter category, but that doesn't make me unhappy or stop me from enjoying the men--and women, for that matter--around me. You see? Once you know yourself, you'll know how you feel." Annis's tone shifted. "It's almost dawn."
Morgan snapped her attention back to the window and, yes, there was a blaze of sun lighting the golden top spire of the Lighthouse and beginning to shimmer on the reflectors.
Morning, on the day of the Feast of Greater Burning.
She jumped down and reached for her robe. Annis's eyebrows arched. "You're wearing an Obscurist robe? Do you really think that's wise?"
"Not wise," Morgan said, and pulled the cloth on over the shirt and trousers she wore. "But I'm tired of hiding what I am."
There was a polite knock at the door just then, and after a quick look between them, Annis said, "Yes?"
Gregory opened the door. Behind him stood a full contingent of the High Garda. He wore the formal robes of the Obscurist Magnus, bright red silk covered with gold and jeweled alchemical symbols, and he carried a staff crowned with the eye of Horus.
"Well," Annis said. "Don't you look fancy this morning, your worship. Is it your birthday again?"
"You tampered with the formulae written into this room." Gregory wasn't speaking to Annis. He'd ignored her completely. He tilted his staff toward Morgan. "I know your barely capable companion hardly has the wits to light a candle, so it must be you who's done it." The staff slowly moved to point at Annis, who sat up straighter but didn't speak. "Do I need to make another sacrifice on the altar of your pride?"
"No, Obscurist, I'll confess," Morgan said. "I stopped eating the food prepared for me. I stole food where I could. After a day or so, I was able to adjust the formulae you used to spy on me. It's not her fault. She had nothing to do with it." She swallowed a real taste of dread. "She's well loved in this tower, and you know that. If you kill her for no good reason, do you really think it helps the rest accept you as their lord and master?"
He didn't like that, and for a second she felt terror he'd actually do it, order Annis murdered in front of her . . . but he must have realized she was being truthful, at least about the consequences. Annis knew everyone, and everyone liked Annis. Many loved her fiercely. If he hurt her, he'd never truly rule here.
"You're coming with me," he told her. "I want you to see the end of your Scholar Wolfe, and all your friends."
"But you'll bring her back," Annis said. "Won't you? Safe? Please, Gregory."
"If she behaves herself," Gregory said, and glanced back at the High Garda captain, who was standing just at his elbow. "Hold her."
Before Morgan could realize which of them he meant, the captain had hold of her in a bear hug that trapped her arms at her sides and lifted her off the ground. Morgan kicked and shouted, but another soldier stepped forward, jammed a metal brace into her mouth, and wrenched it wide-open. She tasted iron and blood and let out a muffled scream. She reached for power, but Gregory's was already there, blocking her.
"Hurry it up," Gregory said. "She's fighting me."
The guard poured a liquid down her throat, and she felt it cascade through her like a fall of silk, smoothing out the alarm, the tension, the resistance. Annis was on her feet now and shouting, and Gregory backhanded her contemptuously when the woman came at him. When she tried to get up from the bed where she'd fallen, a High Garda soldier stepped forward and pointed a sidearm at her. "Stay down," the soldier barked, and Annis slowly held up her hands.
Morgan couldn't fight back. She felt numb, barely anchored to her body now. As the soldier removed the mouth brace and the captain lowered her to her feet, she hardly noticed the changes. She struggled to keep her thoughts from sliding away like silvery fish in a stream.
Gregory grabbed her chin in his fingers and tilted her head up. He peered into her eyes, and she felt a snap of power around her but couldn't reach fo
r it. She could walk and see and hear, but the path to any resistance was dark and impassable.
She looked desperately at Annis, and Annis stared back at her. The fear and anger in her friend's eyes told her that there was nothing to be done, for now, but submit.
She nodded slightly and hoped Annis understood . . . and then Gregory was leaving and she was being pulled along by soldiers in his wake, to the Feast of Greater Burning.
PART THIRTEEN
JESS
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When Anit led them into a deserted warehouse by the port, Jess was all but certain she intended to have them killed. He was considering whether it would be wise to draw a weapon when his twin brother took the choice away from him by drawing first and putting the muzzle of the High Garda pistol against the back of Anit's skull as she unlocked the door. "Let's be clear," Brendan said. "If you're planning anything, you die before we hit the ground. And I'm not my brother. I won't hesitate."
Jess was mildly offended by that, but in all practical senses his brother was right; he did take an instant to weigh the consequences, where Brendan dealt with whatever came, regardless. Odd, because back in their childhoods, Brendan had been the planner, the schemer, the watcher.
People changed. He was only starting to realize how much and how quickly.
Anit didn't so much as flinch. She finished unlocking the door as if he hadn't just threatened her life, and swung the entrance open as she pocketed the keys. "I'll go first, shall I?" From the weeping, guilt-ridden girl at the temple, she'd become something completely different now. Jess wasn't sure if it was a good change, but it was useful for now. She stepped over the threshold, and Brendan followed close behind, while Jess closed the door and engaged the heavy lock, which on this side didn't require keys.
Lights went on, row after row of chemical glows suspended from the tall ceiling, and it seemed to stretch on forever. Below each band of lights were huge multilevel storage racks loaded with crates and boxes.
Not a soul in sight.
It was a stunning sight, and a testament to Red Ibrahim's wealth. "Is all this books?" Jess asked. If so, it dominated his father's own vast operation.
"No," she said. "Legitimate trade goods. My father's real business has always been storage and shipping; it's profitable, and it makes an excellent shield for our smaller operations. This way." She cut a mazelike path between the shelving, and Jess wondered how, exactly, the workers retrieved those crates stacked thirty feet above their heads . . . until he saw the neatly stored gantries along the wall, wheeled platforms with hand cranks to push the height of the platforms up or down as needed. No Obscurist magic here; this was simple, efficient gear and human ingenuity.
"Can't we take a straighter course?" Brendan asked after the twelfth turn and a zag in the opposite direction, again.
Anit didn't answer, but Jess said, "Pressure-sensitive floor, am I correct? The path has to be perfect." She didn't answer, but in two more turns, they reached a huge wall of shelves stretching along the side . . . and one small section let out a pressurized hiss and slid inward and off to the side on a track. Anit led the way inside.
The hidden entrance sealed itself behind them, and lights flickered on--bright lights, bright as yellow suns, and aimed into their eyes. Jess threw up a hand to try to peer past, and Anit said, "Stop where you are. Don't move. Brendan, put your gun away."
Brendan looked prone to argue. Jess said, "Do it," and his twin finally complied.
"Clear," Anit said in a completely normal tone of voice, and walked forward. More lights came on, and the spotlights that had pinned them in place faded; looking up, Jess saw they were odd glass globes with thin metal inside, not at all like the usual comfortable chemical glows. He'd seen something similar before, and it took him a second to place it.
The Iron Tower. Morgan had explained they ran on a forbidden technology: electricity. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that Red Ibrahim had taken advantage of it as well.
The lights coming on in the hall beyond revealed a tight group of men, all armed. They'd been aiming, Jess realized, while he and Brendan were blinded in the glare. Anit could have easily stepped aside and had them shot dead . . . but she hadn't.
"Anit? Is that blood? Are you injured?" A tall man stepped forward. He had a reddish tint to his dark skin, and an accent that, to Jess's ears, placed his birthplace along the African coast. Somalia or Kenya. A shaved head and gold rings in his ears.
"No, Tadalesh. It isn't my blood," Anit said. "It's my father's. He's dead."
These were Red Ibrahim's people, and all of them took the news as Jess could have expected: angrily. "Who killed him?" Tadalesh demanded, and took a step forward, aiming the gun at Brendan, who of course raised his, too. "Was it you?"
"No," Anit said, and pushed Brendan's arm down. "It wasn't him." For a second, Jess was sure she was about to confess, and that might get them all killed . . . but Anit, guilt ridden or not, had better sense than that. "If you want someone to blame, forget the hand that pulled the trigger. It's the Archivist who's our real enemy, and theirs as well. We have common cause now. This is Brendan Brightwell and Jess Brightwell, and they are cousins in the trade from England."
"Why's that one wearing a High Garda uniform, then?" asked a hard-looking woman who held a High Garda rifle.
"As you well know, not every High Garda soldier is our born enemy. Some of them make our lives easier. Consider him a friend unless he proves me wrong." Anit took a deep breath, looked down at the blood on her dress, and said, "My father is gone. His sons are gone. But I remain, and you answer to me. Serve me well, and I will see you all rich, safe, and happy. Cross me, and I promise that you won't live long enough to regret it. I may be young, but I am not naive, and I am not stupid." She looked up again, and her eyes were burning with determination. She looked very much like her father now. "By the blood of my father, I will see him avenged, and I will carry on his business. If any of you disagree, say it now; for the next minute, and the next minute only, I will allow you to walk away without penalty. But if you go, you will never work for me, or with me, ever again."
Time ticked by. Red Ibrahim's smugglers--the top ranks of his lieutenants, Jess thought; surely these were his most trusted associates--looked uneasily at one another, and though a few shifted their weight, none of them walked away.
When the minute was up--and Jess was certain Anit had counted it to the second--she said, "All right. We have an opportunity, and one that won't come again. Come with me."
"Did she mean that for us, too?" Brendan asked as Anit strode away through the circle of her lieutenants--hers now, not her father's--and down the hall. Jess shrugged and followed. He didn't know what she planned, but he knew one thing, and only one: she was their only ally just now.
And one way or another, they needed to get to the Feast of Greater Burning.
* * *
The secret area of the warehouse went down into the rock, tunnels that opened into a warren of rooms, passages, and (or so Jess assumed) entrances and exits. Red Ibrahim had built this place to preserve not just business, but lives; there were rooms where fugitives could live in comfort for extended periods, and even bathing facilities and a small kitchen.
Anit led them past all of it to a large round room filled with books and scrolls. She went straight to a honeycomb of wood that held scroll cases and checked tags and pulled out a leather holder that seemed ready to fall to pieces.
"The cow that came from remembers the first Pharaohs," Brendan said. Anit nodded, cleared a space on a table, and unrolled the scroll carefully. Tadalesh turned up the lights in the room, and the lieutenants crowded around.
"What is it?" one of them asked, craning his neck to make sense of it.
"The Colosseum," she said. "Where the Feast of Greater Burning will be held. Every Scholar and librarian in Alexandria is required to be there. The full Curia will be there. And the Archivist."
"So . . . we're going to strike the Archives," Tadalesh
said. "Finally."
"No."
"It's the best chance we've ever had to--"
"No," she said. "We leave the Archives alone. I've made a deal with the Brightwells. There are cousins of our own going to their deaths in that arena today. And who cares about them? No one but us. We have one objective, and only one: rescue our people." She smiled, but it was a chillingly cold sort of thing, and it matched the drying blood on her dress. "If the Archivist or any member of his circle of sycophants stands in the way of that, then I'll pay a fortune for the knife, arrow, or bullet that takes them down. I'll spend my father's fortune to avenge him and to save his people. Is that clear? Profit can wait. Revenge comes first."
Forgoing profit was almost certainly a completely new idea to the men and women Anit was speaking to; in Jess's family, profit--or at least, avoiding a loss--had been central to every action taken. Loyalty had always been second on the list. From the glances among Anit's people, he could see their experience was no different . . . but revenge was a powerful incentive. These same people had worked for Red Ibrahim for years, to be standing here. They had cast their fortunes with him. And even if loyalty came second to profit, it still finished ahead of anything else.
"If you take down the Archivist," Jess said, "then I can assure you that the way will be clear to earning profits with those presses you've built in secret . . . and doing it legitimately. But only if the Archivist isn't standing in the way of it."
"And, of course, the Brightwells get a portion," Anit said. "Since they developed the entire technology."
It was useful for them to grab on to that; it explained the Brightwells' presence here, and they understood business dealings just fine. They wouldn't understand that this was personal for Jess, and now for Brendan, but Anit had given him a perfect opportunity to conceal that.
One by one, the lieutenants nodded. Tadalesh seemed the most reluctant; clearly, he'd been dreaming about getting his hands on books from the Archives for quite some time. But he finally agreed, and bent to look at the plans.