Ash and Quill

  This was what the Artifex had really planned. Not parlay. Not negotiation.

  Death.

  Jess couldn't shout, couldn't move for the shock of it . . . until the camouflaged lion lunged, sank teeth into Rafa's shoulder and cruel claws into his back, and dragged him screaming into the grass.

  "No!" Khalila shrieked, and would have lunged forward except that Glain caught her and held her back. It was a cruel choice, but wise; Rafa was dead already. A spray of ruby red blood clouded the air, and it seemed to Jess that he could see each and every drop with perfect, individual clarity . . . the way they rose, fell, spun, caught the light, splashed, dripped. The way the Scholar's heels flailed at the ground before they, too, vanished into the green hell of grass.

  Gone.

  Jess couldn't think about that, couldn't think about the sounds of flesh rending; he looked out, instead, at the large open field around them. Sunset was coming on fast, but the last gilding of light on the grass showed some of it shifting the wrong way. Seven of them, he thought. Seven at least, plus that damned bronze one meant to draw our attention. Another irrational fact stuck in his mind: the lion that had taken Rafa had no showy, flowing mane. That lion had been constructed to resemble a female.

  Female lions, he remembered, hunted in packs. They cooperated.

  "Circle!" he shouted, almost at the same time as Niccolo Santi, and they all drew together, arms nearly touching. It wouldn't save them, but it would be the best they could do. Jess had his sidearm out, still, and struggled to think where to shoot the creatures.

  It was Thomas who said, in a very cool, calm voice, "If you shoot, aim for their foreheads. There is a nexus of cables there that will disable their front legs if you hit it squarely. If you can't, try for the right flank. The script that powers it is the only other vulnerable point."

  "Off switch under the jaw, near the throat," Jess added, almost as an afterthought. His hand felt slippery and sweaty on the grip of his weapon. Zara might send reinforcements up to help; already, he could see one of the scouts racing away in the distance on his cycle. Still. Eight lions would kill them all quite efficiently before rescue could arrive, if they didn't do this on their own. "Go for the off switch only if there's no choice. You can do it if you're fast and don't hesitate."

  Dario let out a bitter bark of something halfway between a shout and a laugh. "Just shut up and let me die in peace, for the love of God."

  "We're not dying," Santi said. "Not here." There was something so solid, so certain, in his voice that Jess sent him a sidelong look, half-shocked . . . and then it was too late, because the sleek, grass-clouded shape of an automaton lion rose from a crouch and sprang right for Jess's throat.

  It was instinct, what he did then--instinct and repetition. Running was useless; so was dodging--she was too close. He lifted his arms and jammed his weapon sideways into her open jaws even as her weight slammed into him and carried him helplessly backward into the middle of the circle. Everything went razor clear again: the vividly red shimmer of her eyes, the way her metallic skin stretched as cables tightened, the way she bit down on the metal of the weapon with a bone-chilling crunch.

  Without his even directing it, his hand slipped under her jaw and felt for the switch. Please be there, please . . .

  By that time, he'd hit the grass, which was curiously like hitting a mattress; it might have even felt good, if the weight of the lion's cruel paw hadn't landed on his left arm, pinning it down. Her right raked down his chest, and he felt cloth and leather tear, but the chain armor built into the High Garda jacket blunted the attack enough that he got only bloody scratches, not fatal wounds. He didn't even feel them.

  He was too focused on the switch, and the switch wasn't there, it wasn't bloody there, and he tasted a horrible flood of nausea and terror as he realized that this time, this time he wasn't getting out of it, that Santi was wrong, that they would all end here, bloody rags in the grass . . .

  And then he found it. Not on the jaw, but on the neck, set farther back. A slight bump beneath the hot, flexible skin.

  He looked the lion in the eyes as she opened her jaws wider and the mangled remains of his weapon dropped away, and pushed the switch.

  The lion froze, and the open jaws cranked down to a snarl, but it was too late for her. The light faded from her eyes, and in the next breath, she was still--a horrible weight on his chest and arm, and he struggled to free himself. That wasn't as difficult as it might have been, since the slick grass helped, and he was able to slither to one side enough to overbalance her and send her crashing over like a felled monument.

  Jess rolled to his feet, staggered a little from the dizzy bite of adrenaline, and found the next lion. It was on top of Dario, who'd likewise sacrificed his weapon and was frantically slapping at the creature's throat as it snarled and clawed at him. Jess slid in place and hit the proper spot just as the automaton's claws ripped Dario's shredded jacket away, exposing his equally tattered shirt and a bloody chest. One more swipe, and blocked jaws or not, he'd have been dead.

  Dario was mumbling in Spanish, and Jess didn't wait for a translation; he moved on, looking for anyone else in trouble.

  Wolfe was still on his feet. So were Khalila, Santi, Thomas, and Morgan. Glain had somehow--the great inventor Heron only knew how--managed to get on top of her lion and was actually riding the thing as it twisted, snarled, and tried unsuccessfully to claw her off. She poured one shot after another into its head until it suddenly collapsed in a heap, sending her into a roll that she somehow made look graceful as it brought her back to her feet.

  Thomas had turned his lion off and must have done for Morgan's, too, because she stood close to him. Dead pale, his girl, but intently studying for the next target. No, Jess thought. Don't use your power. But he couldn't spare the breath, or time, to say it.

  Santi twisted loose from the lion that had come for him and ripped a glass vial from a loop on his belt. He threw it in the creature's face, and the distinctive, sickening odor of Greek fire blew into Jess's face and nearly made him retch. Where the liquid touched and clung, the lion burst into green fire and began to melt, but it was still moving. Santi fired into the thing's head but slipped and had to roll away as it leaped.

  It kept coming for him until all that was left of the automaton was a metal skeleton and rage, and as Jess watched, the cables melted through and the whole thing collapsed in a melting inferno. The grass, Jess thought in alarm; they were in the middle of the stuff, and if the fire spread, it would go up like tinder. Santi must have had the same thought, because he took out a pouch of powder and threw it into the center of the fire. It guttered away into a surly, smoking ruin.

  Wolfe's lion had one bullet hole in its head. Just one. And it was as still as the others, incredibly. Jess looked from it to Wolfe, who shook his head. "Nic shot it for me," he said. "I'm not that good. He took mine before he tried to take his. Stupid."

  "Incredible," Thomas murmured, but he wasn't talking about Santi's accuracy. He was running his hands over the statue of a lion in front of him. "A new version, so strong; you see how the cables are attached? That's new. Pack hunters, just incredible. And stealthy. Very dangerous. The artistry it takes to create these--"

  Khalila collapsed into a sudden sitting position, and Jess went to her, but she wasn't bleeding. Wasn't wounded. She was staring at the frozen lion in front of her, and her color had gone far too pale, her eyes too dead. She wasn't seeing the death she'd avoided, he thought. She was seeing that paper her cousin had brought.

  Jess crouched next to her and said, "It was a diversion; you know that. Rafa was only meant to keep us occupied while the lions closed in."

  Her lightless eyes shifted to lock on his face, but he didn't think she was actually looking. "Not just a diversion, though. None of the rest of us have family in service. He's taken them, Jess. He'll kill them."

  "We don't know that," he said. It sounded hollow, and it felt like a lie. "Khalila--"

  "I know. No qu
arter. I'm the first one to feel that bite. But I won't be the last. He'll come after everyone we love now. We'll have to get word to our families. Send them to safety." She finally looked up. "You're bleeding."

  "Scratches," he said. "Dario's got worse." He silently offered her a hand up, and she took it and walked to the young Spaniard. Jess thought he'd never seen a look so vulnerable--and so relieved--as the one that flashed over Dario's face at the sight of Khalila, alive and safe.

  Jess looked away and left them to it, whatever it was, because Morgan was rushing toward him.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," he told her. "All right." And he put his arms around her, just for a moment. He was afraid for her and afraid of her, too; that made him feel weak and exposed. But then again, risk made the safe harbor of her embrace all the sweeter. Standing here, with these people, with her, was like coming to something that was better, and more dangerous, than any home he'd ever known.

  It hit him in a rush that he did have family at risk here, too. "Brendan?" He pulled away and turned in a fast circle, looking for his brother. He'd been standing--where? There, near Glain and Morgan. "Brendan!"

  His brother rose out of the grass almost as quietly as an automaton. "I thought it was best to hide, since all of you seemed to know what you were doing." He looked over the scene: the destroyed or defeated lions, the blackened, melted skeleton of the one that Santi had burned. The look Brendan turned on Jess was purely and completely impressed. "That," his brother said, "is the most flash thing I ever saw. I thought for certain you'd all be stew meat. One lion is bad enough. This . . . this is . . ."

  "This is the Archivist coming after us," Jess said. "No more prison, no more captives. He just wants us all dead now. Even Thomas. Maybe especially Thomas."

  "Then they shouldn't send these poor creatures to do it," Thomas said. "Morgan? Do you feel able to help me with rewriting a script?"

  "No," Jess said instantly, but at the same time she said, "Of course."

  Thomas looked from one of them to the other. "Which is it?"

  "You need to save your strength," Jess told her in a fast whisper.

  "I can rest on the ship," she said. "And he's right. We can't leave these automata here for the Library to retrieve. We can use them." She gave him a smile. Forced, but it was a credible effort. "I'm all right. This is easy. I can do this."

  She went off to join Thomas where he crouched by one of the turned-off lions, expertly pressing panels to open the skin and expose the interior.

  Brendan looked far too fascinated by what Thomas was doing, so Jess turned him to look in the direction of the bloody grass where Khalila's cousin had died. "That's what we're fighting," he said. "They sent him to die just to keep us distracted while they set us up for the kill. This isn't a skirmish. It's the opening battle of the war."

  Brendan looked without expression on Rafa's corpse and said, "You didn't count them. You're one beast short."

  "What?" Jess asked, an instant before he realized what his brother meant.

  The lion that had ambushed Rafa rose out of the grass and lunged.

  Jess shoved Brendan one way, and he dived another; it never would have worked had there not been two of them, two nearly identical . . . The lion was confused, conflicted, trying to decide which of the two to kill first. As Brendan sprawled and slid, fighting to get back to his feet in the slick grass, Jess took a page from Glain's book. The lion turned toward his twin, and Jess leaped on its back.

  This is a mistake, he thought instantly, because the sense of power in the thing was eerie and horrifying, and all he could do for the next few seconds was wrap his legs under the belly and his arms around its neck and hold on, hold on for dear life as the lion thrashed, writhed, ran, tried to claw him loose. It ripped its own flexible metal skin in the effort. Jess heard shouting, screaming, heard someone--Santi?--ordering someone else to stop shooting for God's sake, and he heard Glain's deep-throated shout of encouragement as he hung on, tenacious and now desperate to make this hell ride stop at any price. She seemed to think it was fun. It was not fun.

  Switch, he told himself, and even though it went against every possible instinct to release his hands from their death grip, he forced himself to do it and nearly got flung off in the next stomach-lifting gyration the lion made. He had to grab hold again, and keep holding, as the automaton suddenly flipped itself end over end through the air in a vicious, athletic circle, landing hard on all four paws and then rolling on its side. It was only the softness of the grass that kept Jess from being crushed and broken. As it was, the pain was lightning hot and too big to think about, and then just as quickly gone as the lion sprang again to its feet.

  Now.

  He moved his nearly numb fingers, found the switch, and pressed it home just as the lion sprang forward, straight for his twin brother's throat.

  "Down!" Jess screamed at him, and Brendan threw himself forward, and flat, which was intelligent, because the lion landed just after him, took a wobbling step forward, and then froze.

  Jess felt the cables trembling beneath the lion's metal casing. It felt like fury, like thwarted rage, but he knew he was reading into it; the lion didn't feel. Couldn't. But he still thought he could sense the bloodlust pulsing just under that skin, in the unbeating heart of the thing--and it reflected the bloodlust of the man who'd set these automata after them.

  He slipped off and nearly toppled over; his knees barely held, and his balance spun wildly until he felt a firm hand grip his shoulder and hold him steady. He thought it was Thomas, but a glance backward showed him it was Glain, grinning from ear to ear. "Well done, Jess," she said. "What possessed you to do that?"

  "You did it!" he half gasped.

  "Don't be stupid. I broke horses as a child. How many have you been bucked off of, you blazing fool?"

  "None," he admitted.

  "Stupid." She tousled his hair, which hardly needed it after all that, and he shook it back out of his eyes. "Brave, but still stupid as a bag of stones." She stepped forward and offered a hand to Brendan, who was still facedown in the grass. "Well? Are you dead?"

  "Damn well ought to be," his brother said, and rolled over to look at her. "God, that was close."

  "You realized it before I did, or it'd have been a damn sight worse," Jess said. "Get up. You're not broken."

  "Only in spirit," Brendan said, and groaned when he clambered up. "Is this what you lot do all the time? Because I'm reconsidering my decisions very quickly."

  "Oh, you get used to it," Thomas said. He sounded maniacally cheerful, and of course he was; he had the skin loose from one of the lions and was poking around inside, moving cables and parts and fumbling in the bag at his side for tools.

  "What's he doing?" Brendan asked. Jess turned him away again. "Jess, enough with his tinkering. We need to go. Now. They'll be following up with worse; you know that. That Scholar must have reported in. High Garda will be on the way here. The lions, they sent on ahead."

  "If they're coming out of New York, they have a long way to go," Jess said. "And Boston's a hotbed of trouble. They haven't dispatched High Garda out of there in a year. We've got time to get aboard. Assuming your ship's still there."

  "It's there," Brendan said. "Already checked."

  "Then we wait until Thomas is done," Jess said. He plucked the gun from his brother's holster, ignored his objection, and walked over to Captain Santi. "Sir. Show me how you dropped that lion. If we're going to do this more often, we'll need to know how to hit them from a distance."

  They buried the Scholar's body before they left, and planted the banner as a marker. Wolfe wrote something on the back of the message and shoved it into the snarling open mouth of the bronze lion.

  Jess checked. The message said, We will see you in Alexandria.

  Thomas finished the last of the camouflaged lions and closed the skin back up. He activated them, one by one, and Jess waited with a sense of creeping horror to see if Thomas had made a mistake--or worse, if Mo
rgan had.

  But the lions gave a soft mechanical purr when Thomas stroked their heads, and followed him placidly when he walked.

  "Quickly," Morgan said. "Jess, say, 'I am your friend.' The rest of you, do it in turn."

  It felt stupid, but Jess said it, and as he did, he saw the lions turn as one to look at him. Remembering him, he realized, for later. All of them did it, even Brendan. His twin looked like he didn't half believe it, and Jess didn't blame him, but the lions ignored them all as Thomas sent them coursing out in a box formation around them. Their own nearly invisible metal army, to escort them back to the coast. Broken and reprogrammed.

  They had a pack of their own now.

  As he passed close, Dario said, "The Archivist is right, you know. We are dangerous."

  "We'd damn well better be," Jess said. "Or we're all dead."

  Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find that the ship moored in the secluded cove flew a familiar flag: that of the Great Library of Alexandria. The golden eye of Horus flapped and hissed in the strong breeze, and it seemed to blaze even in the cloudy light.

  But it wasn't a Library ship. Jess knew that, because he recognized the girl standing on the beach, surrounded by a small army of hard men and women of no particular uniform. "Cousin Anit," Brendan called brightly, and swept her into a twirling hug. "Good to see you!"

  "Put me down." She was stiff in his arms, and her voice was chilly, and Brendan let her go and stepped back. Well back. "I'll pretend you didn't do that." She ignored him and shifted her gaze. "Cousin Jess."

  The girl was Egyptian to the bone, and of no blood relation to him; she was a cousin in business, though, and those ties counted for nearly as much. Her father--implied, he thought, by those red stripes on the ships--was Red Ibrahim, one of the most powerful smugglers in the world . . . and the book smuggler of Alexandria, which was precisely the most perilous and impossible place to practice such a craft. Not one to be underestimated, her father . . . and young Anit, for all her demure prettiness, was just as dangerous and clever. She was apprenticing in the trade and was well on the way to mastery, all as barely more than a child.