Jess sipped coffee, but he tasted only bitterness. His pulse threatened to race, but he breathed deeply, the way that his friend Khalila had taught him, and felt the pressure slow. Wait it out, he thought. Brendan would.
At last the Archivist said, “Tell me, Mr. Brightwell—have you ever heard of the Feast of Greater Burning?”
Jess’s skin went cold, and he felt muscles tighten in his back. Tried to keep it from his face. “Not familiar with it,” he said, because he was fairly sure Brendan wouldn’t have known. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”
“Our ancestors here were not known for the savagery of many other cultures, but the occasional sacrifice was known to occur. We give many offerings during the Feast of Greater Burning, and these days, they are symbolic and ceremonial. A thousand years ago, the feast was a practical way to both continue tradition and dispose of . . . particularly troublesome individuals. If you understand my meaning.”
“You’re threatening to burn me alive? Don’t dance around it, sir. I’m not likely to faint. Or beg. Kill me, and deal with my father. More to the point: don’t.”
The Archivist had been unnaturally still and composed, but he slapped his hand on the shining surface of his desk with a report like a gunshot. He didn’t move like an old man, Jess thought. There was real strength behind the blow. “Don’t presume to threaten me, boy. I am the Archivist of the Great Library! I command the respect, wealth, and loyalty of the world!”
“You did once,” Jess agreed, and it sounded quite calm. “But the world is changing. And this is your only chance to control it.”
The Archivist went as still as the Horus statue looming in the corner. Those eyes caught the light from the windows and turned an eerily hollow shade. Got him, Jess thought. The one thing that every Archivist for nearly a thousand years feared was change, and it was upon this one whether he liked it or not. With a working press to print copies of books, people would no longer be beholden to the alchemically mirrored copies from the Great Library. They could own books, not merely borrow them. They could write books without the oversight of Scholars and the censorship of the Library. The Library had started as a preserver of knowledge, a beacon of light, but through the centuries and millennia, it had become a center of power.
Power rotted from within.
If the Library was going to survive at all, the one thing the Archivist needed to stop was the printing press.
Jess sighed. “Let’s not pretend you don’t want what my father has. You’ve killed a hundred Scholars to keep the secret over the centuries. We’re willing to trade it to you, with all the plans. But if you’re not interested, I expect we can sell the idea elsewhere.” He stood up.
The Horus statue turned its gleaming golden head in a sharp, birdlike gesture, staring down at him.
“Careful,” the Archivist said softly. “If I made you disappear, no one would ever find your bones.”
Jess put both palms flat on the man’s desk and leaned forward. He had some satisfaction in knowing he was ruining the shine. “If you make me disappear,” he said, “you’ll be the last Archivist of a ruined Library. If you think that’s an empty threat, unleash your metal god.” He heard the rush of human footsteps as the guards came forward, but the Archivist lifted a hand and they stopped.
Silence. Edges and humming tension. When a full ten heartbeats thudded past, Jess stepped back to his chair and settled in, as if he were at home. “We can be powerful allies,” he said. “Burners are rising all over the world against you. Kingdoms are on the verge of rebellion. Your High Garda troops are stretched too thin to protect your vital outposts. We can help.”
“I do not deal with smugglers and thieves.”
“You’ve dealt with rulers and kings for years. My father’s crown is shadows, but it’s real enough. Think of it in those terms, and swallow your pride if you don’t want to lose all . . . this.” Jess gestured around at the office and the great central pyramid in which it stood: the home of the Great Library of Alexandria, in a city devoted to its glory, in a country made incredibly rich by it, protected by armies and tradition, automata and alchemy.
It was all more fragile than it seemed, and they both knew that.
The Archivist made a small gesture, and the Horus statue’s head returned to its neutral position . . . but once you’d seen it move, Jess thought, you’d never forget it again. The point had been made.
Mutual destruction.
“What does he want in return for such . . . consideration?”
“Books,” Jess said. “Rare and valuable. It’s nothing to you; you’ve got vast storehouses of things no one’s ever seen.”
“How many?”
There it is, Jess thought. They had an agreement. Now they were only arguing terms. He relaxed a little, but only a little. “For the press and plans? One hundred thousand rare volumes, and I’ll inspect each one.” He smiled. Brendan’s cynical smile. “Believe me, I’d rather be doing something else. It’s my brother who’s the bookworm.”
“That will take weeks,” the Archivist said.
“Are you in a hurry?”
That earned him a sharp glower. “Your answer implied you have more to barter.”
“Well, the press and plans are worth that much, to be sure, but the mind of the one who built that wonder . . . that’s worth more, even if it’s just to ensure he doesn’t build more.”
If the Archivist was aware of it, he kept his own counsel. “Schreiber is valuable to us.”
“Then that’s another hundred thousand books. And the others?”
“What others?”
“Captain Santi. Khalila Seif. Glain Wathen. Dario Santiago,” Jess said. He tried not to think of their faces. Tried to care nothing about them, as Brendan might have done.
The Archivist flipped a dismissive hand but then thought better of it. “Santi deserves punishment,” he said thoughtfully. “An example should be made of him. Dario Santiago’s family is royal. Pardoning him could earn us the renewed loyalty of Spain and Portugal.”
“And Khalila?” Jess tried to keep his voice calm and light. Difficult.
“The Seif girl made her choice. She can rot with her father and brothers in prison, until their execution.”
Jess’s chest began to burn as if he were holding his breath, but he was pulling in plenty of air. Khalila, Khalila, executed without a thought for her brilliance and compassion. “That leaves Wathen.”
“Drop the Welsh girl into a well somewhere and be done with it. She’s not important.”
You bastard. You cold, stupid bastard. She’s your next High Commander.