“Your cousin’s ships are in that fleet,” Jess said. “I don’t suppose you’re feeling some family loyalty today?”
“If you’re asking if I’m going to betray the Great Library to the Kingdom of Spain, then no. I won’t,” Dario said. “But I don’t want to fight my cousin, either. Not just because I like him. Because he’s a good king, but he’s also clever and ruthless. He’ll win, unless we make the cost of winning unacceptably high. And I’m not altogether certain what he’d consider too high.”
My brother already died for this, Jess thought. The price is already too high. But he didn’t say it. He swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat and said, “Where are the others?”
“Glain and Santi are organizing the city’s defenses. Thomas . . . God knows, most likely off tinkering with one of his lethal toys—not that it isn’t worthwhile. Morgan is with Eskander at the Iron Tower; they’re getting the Obscurists in line.”
“And what are you doing that’s useful?”
“Nothing,” Dario said. “You?”
“Same, at the moment. Want to come with us to the Archivist’s office?”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Very.”
Dario’s grin was bright enough to blot out Brendan’s absence, for just a moment. “Excellent. I’m as useless as a chocolate frying pan at the moment.”
“In that jacket?”
“Well, it is a very fine jacket, to be sure. But not useful.” Dario’s smile faded. He looked at Jess, straight on. “I really am sorry about Brendan.”
Jess nodded. “I know.”
“Then let’s get on with it.”
First Wolfe, now Dario. There was something comforting about their harsh briskness today. Thomas would be different, as would Khalila and Morgan; they’d offer him the chance to let his grief loose. But Wolfe and Dario believed in pushing through, and just now that seemed right to him. Eventually he’d need to confront his demons, but for now, he was content to run from them.
Wolfe joined them, took in Dario’s presence without comment, and simply swept on. Jess shrugged to Dario and they both followed.
Off to defy death.
Seemed like a decent way to start the day.
* * *
—
The sunrise was cool and glorious, reflecting in chips of vivid orange and red on the harbor’s churning waters; the massed fleet of warships that had assembled out in the open sea still floated a good distance away. The Lighthouse had sounded a warning, and it was well-known—at least by legend—that the harbor’s defenses were incredibly lethal. None of the assembled nations had decided yet to test them.
They would, eventually. And Jess wondered how they were ever going to defeat such a navy. The Great Library had ships of its own, but not so many, and certainly if it came to that kind of a fight, they’d lose.
Dario was right. The trick was to make the cost too high for anyone to dare make an effort.
The residential district of Alexandria where they walked had a street that led directly to the hub of the city: the Serapeum, a giant pyramid that rose almost as high as the Lighthouse. The golden capstone on top of it caught the morning light and blazed it back. As the sun rose, it bathed the white marble sides in warmth. From where they walked, Jess could see the Scholar Steps, where the names of Scholars who’d fallen in service to the Library were inscribed. He’d never have his name there, of course; he wasn’t a Scholar or likely to become one. But if there was any justice left in the world, surely one day Wolfe would have that honor. And Thomas. And Khalila.
Dario would no doubt believe he’d deserve it, and he might even be right.
“Jess,” Wolfe said. “Heron’s inventions. You’re familiar with them, I would assume.”
“Which ones? He had thousands. He was the da Vinci of the ancient world.”
“The lethal ones.”
“Well, I know as much as anyone, I suppose. Except Thomas, of course. He’d probably give you a two-hour lecture about it, and tell you how to improve them.”
“A fascinating lecture for which I have neither time nor patience. This isn’t a quiz, Jess. I will depend on you—both of you—to think. Because we go into extremely dangerous territory.”
“Do you know how to reach the Archivist’s office?” Jess had been brought there several times, but there were precautions: hallways that moved, a maze that constantly shifted its path. The Archivist would have had good reason to fear assassination.
“His private office? Yes. I know how to reach it.” Wolfe didn’t offer an explanation. “Then things get more dangerous. One doesn’t hold power as long as he did without being prepared.”
The city seemed so quiet. “Where is everyone?” Jess asked. Normally the streets were crowded with people. Alexandria pulsed with life, had a population in the hundreds of thousands: Scholars, librarians, staff, not to mention all of the people who simply called it home. But today it seemed silent.
“No one knows what’s going to happen. They’re staying inside, and safe,” Dario said. “Sensible people keep their heads down. Unlike us.”
He shared a grim smile with Wolfe. “Well,” Wolfe said. “It isn’t the sensible people who get things done in these situations, is it?”
That describes us perfectly, Jess thought. Not sensible. He imagined Brendan would have been right with him, eager to be reckless.
The walk was good; it drove the shadows back and made Jess feel almost human again. Sore, of course; the fight to survive had been hard, and he still bore the wounds. Someone—Morgan, he suspected—had applied some healing skills, or he’d have still been confined to a bed. But he felt loose, limber, ready to run or fight.
He wondered why Morgan had left him, but he knew; she believed her place was with the Obscurists just now. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, he told himself. But she hadn’t been there when he’d awakened, hadn’t been there when he needed her most to heal his broken soul, and he knew that did mean something.
It meant that he would never come first to her. Be honest, he thought. If she came first for you, you’d have done things differently. You’d be with her right now.
He wasn’t sure what that meant and was too thin and tired inside to think it through. Better to focus on a problem he could solve, an activity he could complete. Leave the difficult questions for later.
They passed a company of High Garda troops—no informal uniforms there; every soldier was dressed sharply and looked as keen as knives. No one Jess recognized, but he nodded to the squad leader, who returned the greeting with crisp acknowledgment. A second later, he realized how wrong that was, and turned to Wolfe. “I should rejoin my company.” He was wearing the uniform. The wrong uniform for the day, but nevertheless.