Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)

Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)

Rachel Caine



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Special thanks to Zaheerah Khalik, Fauzia Ali, and Zahdia Anwer for their invaluable assistance.

To librarians and teachers everywhere who operate without funds, without support, without even basic acknowledgment much of the time: You inspire me, and so many other people. You touch lives and create hope. You connect our past to our future. Don’t forget how important you really are.





EPHEMERA



Text of a letter from Red Ibrahim in Alexandria to Callum Brightwell in England, delivered via secure messenger


My most honored cousin in trade,

I am advised by my daughter, Anit, that you have engaged in a dangerous game with the Archivist Magister of the Great Library.

I do not think, given your history and your legendary cunning, that I need to remind you of the danger this brings, not just to you but to all of us. While we sometimes use the Library in the pursuit of our trade, we must never allow ourselves to be used in turn. An ant cannot direct a giant.

You have placed your son in the gravest of danger.

As one loving father to another, I beg you: call off this plan. Bring your son home. Withdraw from any further engagement with the Archivist. I will likewise have Anit deliver her captives back into your custody, and you may do as you like with them, but pray do not continue to involve my family in this foolhardy venture.

The Archivist may talk most pleasantly with you. A viper may learn to talk, but it is still full of poison.

Blessings of the gods to you, old friend.


Reply from Callum Brightwell to Red Ibrahim, delivered via secure messenger


My son Brendan can well care for himself, but I thank you for your concern. Should the worst occur, I still have his twin, Jess. He’s not presently pleased with me for sending his brother in his place, but I expect that will pass.

If you plan to lecture me, you might have taken greater care with your own sons—both lost to you now, advancing the cause of your own business. Don’t lecture me on how to protect my own. As to your daughter, she entered into this arrangement on your behalf, and with your full authority; you may take up any misgivings you have with her, not me.

I expect you to uphold the agreement as she has made it. Anit and I are of like minds in this, and as she is the heir to your vast empire of commerce, you should listen to her. She’s clever, and as ruthless as you, in many ways.

And you wouldn’t like to make enemies of our families.

I think upon calm reflection you will see the wisdom of gathering the Library’s favour as chaos gathers around us. The world is more unsafe now than it ever has been in living memory. Being allies with the Archivist means that their guard will be lower when we decide to turn these tables to our advantage, as we might at any time.

Peace be upon you, my friend. Let’s see how this plays out.





PART ONE





JESS





CHAPTER ONE




It had all started as an exercise to fight the unending boredom of being locked in this Alexandrian prison cell.

When Jess Brightwell woke up, he realized that he’d lost track of time. Days blurred here, and he knew it was important to remember how long he’d been trapped, waiting for the axe to fall—or not. So he diligently scratched out a record on the wall using a button from his shirt.

Five days. Five days since he’d arrived back in Alexandria, bringing with him Scholar Wolfe and Morgan Hault as his prisoners. They’d been taken off in different directions, and he’d been dumped here to—as they’d said—await the Archivist’s pleasure.

The Archivist, it seemed, was a very busy man.

Once Jess had the days logged, he did the mental exercise of calculating the date, from pure boredom. It took him long, uneasy moments to realize why that date—today—seemed important.

And then he remembered and was ashamed it had taken him so long.

Today was the anniversary of his brother Liam’s death. His elder brother.

And today meant that Jess was now older than Liam had ever lived to be.

He couldn’t remember exactly how Liam had died. Could hardly remember his brother at all these days, other than a vague impression of a sharp nose and shaggy blondish hair. He must have watched Liam walk up the stairs of the scaffold and stand as the rope was fixed around his neck.

But he couldn’t remember that, or watching the drop. Just Liam, hanging. It seemed like a painting viewed at a distance, not a memory.

Wish I could remember, he thought. If Liam had held his head high on the way to his death, if he’d gone up the steps firmly and stood without fear, then maybe Jess would be able to do it, too. Because that was likely to be in his future.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture it: the cell door opening. Soldiers in High Garda uniforms, the army of the Great Library, waiting stone-faced in the hall. A Scholar to read the text of his choice to him on the way to execution. Perhaps a priest, if he asked for one.

But there, his mind went blank. He didn’t know how the Archivist would end his life. Would it be a quiet death? Private? A shot in the back? Burial without a marker? Maybe nobody would ever know what had become of him.

Or maybe he’d end up facing the noose after all, and the steps up to it. If he could picture himself walking without flinching to his execution, perhaps he could actually do it.