Paper and Fire (The Great Library #2)(27)
“And my dagger sharper? Yes, scrubber, I do have a brain. I know what we face here.” Dario pulled a piece of paper closer and picked up a pen. His fingers were shaking. He put the pen down again and flexed them, as if they troubled him. “Anything else?”
“Enjoy the pastries.”
He was opening the door and preparing to leave when Dario said quietly, “Jess.” It was rare that Dario called him by his first name. “Do you think they’re hurting him?”
“Yes,” Jess said. “And I think they’ll keep hurting him until we get him back. So let’s get him back.”
He closed the door, said a polite farewell to Scholar Prakesh—that sign, at least, he knew—and headed back down the stairs. He was halfway down when his Codex chimed for attention, and he paused in the middle of the stairs to open it and check, as others moved around him with impatient looks.
It was from Glain, written in her sharp, impatient printing. Get your bum back to the barracks before someone misses you. NOW. That last was underlined with vicious black pen strokes. He could almost feel the anger and worry smoking off the page.
He reached for the stylus and replied, On the way.
EPHEMERA
Text of a treatise from Heron of Alexandria on the uses of automata in Library service, in the second century of the Library, in response to minor damage made to the Alexandrian Serapeum by vandals
. . . insofar as the mechanical sentries are concerned, I see no reason that such devices cannot be used to frighten away evildoers bent on mischief inside the grounds of the Library precincts, and those of the museum, university, and zoo. It would be whimsical to fashion these automata on the shapes of creatures both familiar and fabulous to us. Lions have long been seen as noble beasts of tremendous power and cruelty; I should imagine a mechanical lion would turn away any casual vandal in search of easier targets, and it reflects well on the ideals of our Library.
There might also be made use of the sphinx, for this wise and legendary creature is everywhere a symbol of royal power and strength. To go a bit more fanciful, serpent automata might coil on columns, and perhaps such devices in the shapes of horses could one day even carry our soldiers to battle. Think of the possibilities!
I shall establish herewith a new field of study into this matter, with the express purpose of developing such methods of defense for the Library and those who understand and support our noble purpose. Of course, this will need to be done in secret. Such devices are of no possible use if their inner workings are made public.
May the gods bless our struggles, and our light ever push back the darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Getting out of the Lighthouse meant, in the end, waiting for a whole flock of Scholars to leave at once, and striding along with them as if he were one of them. Jess quickly offered to carry a heavy load of equipment for the small, overweight man leading the party, and that had earned him instant friendship—at least, until he handed it back at the end of the road and headed for the High Garda compound at a run. Running felt good on such a bright and perfect morning.
When he arrived back, he searched for Glain. Her quarters were empty, but he finally spotted her walking the halls in the company of Captain Feng. He couldn’t read her expression, but he doubted she was with the man by her own choice. The conversation seemed one-sided.
Despite Glain’s worries, no one seemed intent on ordering him today, so Jess indulged in some much-needed sleep, then rose with the intention of doing some reading. As he stepped into the hall, he realized that the door at an angle to his on the other side—Tariq’s room—was standing open. He’d gotten halfway across the hall to say hello before the memory caught up with him of Tariq slumped against the wall. Tariq was dead, and someone was in his room. He stopped in his tracks.
Inside the room, Tariq’s closest friends, Wu and Bransom, packed up his few belongings. Jess felt it like a hammer to the chest as he watched Recruit Bransom—as sturdy and muscular a young woman as Glain—wipe away tears as she picked up Tariq’s personal journal, embossed with his name. The cover, even at the distance from which Jess observed, was smeared with dried blood, and she scrubbed restlessly at it with the sleeve of her own shirt. Her hands were shaking.
Someone will write the final lines in that journal, he thought, detailing the dates and circumstances of Tariq’s death. Jess might even be mentioned by name. Then Tariq’s family would read it, weep over it, hold a memorial to read aloud from it, and finally send it on to the Library’s archives, where he would become a permanent part of the knowledge of humanity. Immortality, of a kind.
We’re just paper on a shelf, in the end. Jess felt an unexpected surge of anger, because no matter how honest and forthright Tariq had been in his journal, it couldn’t encompass him—the sharp humor, the way he’d cleverly cheated at dice, the shady jokes he’d loved and often told. The way he’d died. And for what? Tariq was gone, and Jess still felt the tension and release of pulling the trigger and sending Tariq sprawling against that wall where he’d died. Never mind that his shot hadn’t been fatal in itself; it had left his friend helpless for the slaughter that came after.
Bransom looked up unexpectedly and saw Jess. She looked wounded and vulnerable, and tears glided down her cheeks . . . And then he saw the flare of real rage.