Jess nodded and stood up. He found his boots—neatly placed at the foot of the bed—and slid them on. His High Garda weapons belt was nearby, with his sidearm still in place. Heavy and lethal, and he felt a bit of comfort as it settled on his hip. We’re at war. It felt like he’d always been at war—his family had always warred with the Great Library, and then he’d fought for a place inside it. Then he’d fought to preserve the dream of the Great Library. And for the first time he wondered what peace would really feel like.
His hair was a spiky mess; he ran his fingers through it and ignored it when it refused to comply. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Wolfe could have said anything to that; Jess expected something dismissive and caustic. But Wolfe just put his hand on Jess’s shoulder, nodded, and led the way.
The house, Jess thought, must have belonged to a Scholar—there was a cluster of black-robed Scholars around a wide table in the main room, anxiously chattering in Greek, which must have been the only language they had in common. A tall man with skin so dark it took on cobalt tones; a small, elegant young Chinese woman; another man, middle-aged and comfortably round, with distinctively Slavic features. There must have been a dozen of them, and Jess recognized only two of them immediately. None of his friends were here, which came as a vague surprise.
All the talk stopped when Wolfe approached the table. No question that he held authority here. “We’re going to the Archivist’s office,” he said. “Thoughts?” His Greek was, of course, excellent; he’d grown up speaking it here in Alexandria. Jess wasn’t as comfortable, but he was more than passable.
“Traps,” the young Chinese woman said. “The Archivist was very fond of them. He certainly would have many waiting there, in case he lost his hold on power. Is there any word on where he is—”
“No,” Wolfe said. “We assume he has loyalists who’ll do anything to protect him. Our advantage is that the less savory elements of this city are firmly on our side, and without criminals to smuggle him out past the walls, he’s trapped here. With us.”
“Or we’re trapped with him,” said one of the Scholars—Jess wasn’t sure which.
That earned a sharp look from Wolfe, and Jess knew the man could cut a person to ribbons with a single glance. “Don’t think he’s all-powerful. Without the apathy and passive consent of Scholars and High Garda, the Archivist would never have felt free to murder as he liked,” Wolfe said. “We’ve taken that from him. Don’t grant him more power than he ever earned.”
“Easy for you to say, Scholar.” That grumble was from the Slav, whose Greek was only lightly accented.
“You think so?” Wolfe’s voice had gone sharp and dry, his face the color of exposed bone. “Easy. For me. Search the Archives. I was erased by him, like hundreds of others you’ve never even noticed missing. None of this is easy. Nor should it be. Killing a god-king ought to be difficult.”
It hit Jess with a jolt that the Archivist had another title: Pharaoh of Alexandria. The god-king. And no doubt the bitter old man took that deification quite seriously. But we will kill him. Somehow.
For Brendan, if for nothing else.
“Look for pressure plates under the floor,” the Chinese scholar said. “He took most of his cues from the great inventor Heron, who built so many wonders of this place. The Archivist took his lessons seriously; his traps will be ingenious, but also quite conventional. He may also have a specific command you’ll need to give to freeze the automata, should they be triggered for defense. I have no idea where you’d find that, but it should be your immediate priority.” She hesitated. “Perhaps . . . you should let the High Garda do this, Scholar.”
“Because their lives are less valuable than mine?” Wolfe shot back, and she looked down. “No. I know what I’m looking for. They may not. I know the old bastard better than any High Garda could. He was my mentor, for a good portion of our lives. I know how he thinks.”
Jess tried to imagine Wolfe having the same relationship with the evil bastard Archivist that Jess had with Wolfe. He couldn’t bring it into focus. For one thing, he couldn’t imagine Wolfe as a young man. He abandoned the effort as a bad idea, and as he looked around, he spotted someone standing in the doorway, watching the discussion.
Dario Santiago.
Not his very favorite person in the world, but Jess felt much more comfortable about the Spaniard than he had before; they’d been enemies, cautious allies, friends, enemies again, but through all of that, Dario had been present. There was something comforting about that now, in this silent new world that lacked his brother. Jess walked over to join him. The young man had his arms crossed; he’d changed clothes, too, into a posh velvet jacket and silk shirt and finely tailored trousers. He looked rich and entitled, just as he was. But Dario had never pretended to humility.
“Brightwell.” Dario nodded.
Jess nodded back. “Santiago.”
They both watched the Scholars arguing for a moment. Odd, Jess thought, that though Dario was entitled to wear the black robes, he didn’t have them on. He wondered if that had significance, or if it was just because Dario didn’t want to take away from the cut of his jacket.
Dario finally said, “All right, then?” He rocked a little back and forth on his heels, as if tempted to move away from the question. Or from Jess. But he stayed put.
“All right,” Jess affirmed. He wasn’t, but Dario knew that already, and this was Dario’s way of showing some kind of empathy. It wasn’t much, but from someone like him it was a fair attempt. “Where’s Khalila?”
“With Scholar Murasaki,” he said. “They’re helping to organize a full Scholars’ Conclave. Word is we’ll elect a new Archivist today. Tomorrow at the latest. We need an unquestioned leader if we intend to hold Alexandria independent; the nations sending their ships are all too eager to help.” He shook his head. “They’re cloaking conquest as rescue, you know. Their strategy is to sweep in and claim Alexandria as a protectorate. Once they do that, they’ll pull us apart and squabble over the bones.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Jess said.
“No. Hence the election of a new Archivist.”
Jess felt the impulse to smile. Didn’t. “And you’re not in the running? I’m astonished.”
“Shut up, Scrubber.”
“Touchy, Your Royalness, very touchy.”
There was something comforting about the casual insults; it felt like home. One constant in this life: he and Dario would always be slightly uneasy friends. Maybe that was a very good thing. He trusted Dario . . . to a point. And of course Dario felt the same about him.