Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(23)

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll get you to Cadiz.”

“Then we have no quarrel,” she said, and released him. The relief that spread over his face, as she stepped to the side to watch him, convinced her he meant what he’d said. “Salaam alaikum, brother.”

“Alaikum salaam,” he replied with a wary nod.

“You find friends in the oddest places,” Dario observed. He’d drawn close to her, and she noticed that in the press of the moment, his nausea had receded, maybe for good. He seemed to be riding the sharp slip of the waves much more easily now. “How did you know he was Muslim?”

“A sailor without tattoos?”

“Oh. I forgot. Tattoos are haram.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But that aside, he was reciting the shahada while Santi held that bottle. In case he might die.”

“The shahada?”

“The profession of faith.”

“And with all that was happening, you thought to notice.” He didn’t make it a question. “Honestly, flower, sometimes I find you quite frightening.”

“Good,” she said, and stretched up to kiss his cheek, just a modest and soft brush of lips on skin. “You really must wash. You smell like death.”

“Bathing will have to wait until I’m sure one of these fine new friends of ours won’t knife me in the tub,” he said. “Thomas? I think you can let the poor girl go now.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, as if he’d forgotten he held Anit. “Sorry.” He released her, and Khalila noted that despite the apparent ferocity with which he’d held the girl, she had not even a reddened mark on her neck.

And, more significantly, the girl didn’t look angry. “Thank you for not crushing me,” Anit said. “I suppose I deserved it.”

“Before we start that conversation, please tell your captain that I’m a man of my word,” Santi said. “And he’d best be a man of his, because I will keep this bottle ready until we’re off this ship.”

“He isn’t in charge here, Captain. I am. And I tell you that we have a bargain. This ship sails to Cadiz. Whatever comes there, I will bear the responsibility for my father’s anger.” Anit, Khalila thought, was pleased. She’d hoped for an opportunity to change her mind.

Which they’d given her. We are pawns in her game, Khalila thought, but she didn’t mind. Red Ibrahim’s daughter had a dangerous road to walk, and she traveled it bravely. Let her have her victories where she could.

Their own victories would be longer in coming.

As they steered on, the storm’s fury seemed to lessen a little. Allah’s will, Khalila thought, though she knew he had far too many concerns to be directing the wind and fury in their favor. Their success, or failure, would depend on their own grit, luck, and intelligence.

And Santi’s very credible threat.

“Leave my bridge,” the captain said. “I follow the orders of my mistress. I’ll see you safely where you’re bound. But my bridge is my own.”

“From now on, you’ll have to consider me crew,” Santi said, and folded down one of the built-in seats. “I’ll be here until we’re safely in dock, because while I trust the word of Red Ibrahim’s daughter, I don’t trust you.”

“He stays, we all stay,” Khalila said, and settled wearily in the corner. She was shivering now, soaked, and the ebb of adrenaline that had carried her through this was making her feel sick. Now that the crisis was over, she was forced to remember that she had killed two men today.

She closed her eyes and began to pray for their souls as the ship carried them on to the shore of Spain, and whatever might come next.





EPHEMERA



Text of a report by Thomas Qualls, Master of Cells, to the Artifex Magnus. Not submitted to the Codex, and marked as private correspondence.


I have enclosed the last round of direct transcription of Scholar Christopher Wolfe’s interrogations. There is little point in wasting your time reading it; there is no variety in his responses to questioning, whatever the particular tools we chose to employ. He rarely speaks at all now.

As I told you six months ago, I believe we have long since gathered all useful data from this prisoner regarding his invention, his process, his research, and each and every associate who might have factored into the development of the device in question. He has been steadfast that his lover, Captain Niccolo Santi, has no knowledge of, or responsibility for, the invention, building, or operation of the device, and in fact has never seen this machine, or even been told of its existence. As I’ve told you, I don’t think it’s worth killing a High Garda captain.

I don’t know why you hate this Wolfe so much, but I assure you that if your plan was to break him, he is long past broken. You have destroyed his invention, destroyed his research. Erased all his writings from the Library’s records. You have done everything short of killing him, and that is no favor. I am, as you’re aware, not a merciful person, or a kind one; I would not last long in this job if I had even a shred of such fine qualities.

So understand that when I tell you I have had enough. I will not subject this prisoner to more pain.

There are limits, and he has reached them. So have I, surprisingly.

Therefore, I have personally released Scholar Wolfe, and I have seen the Archivist in person and explained my decisions. The Obscurist Magnus has also been told. The Archivist was not happy with this, but he agreed—based upon my extensive knowledge of other prisoners kept in our Roman cells—to allow me to exercise this one, small, almost meaningless act of mercy. Or, at least, he didn’t dare stop me, given the rage of his Obscurist.