Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(32)

“Captain wants you,” the soldier said. “Now.” His Greek was excellent—better than Morgan’s—and she nodded and got up without a word. Resisting would only bring more of the guards, and this wasn’t the time for a meaningful fight. Besides, she was curious what possible interest a captain of the Iron Tower High Garda could have in her.

Her answer was even less clear when she was presented to the captain, who proved to be a tall, severely dressed woman. Skin the color of the bark of an olive tree, and a prominent nose that looked to have been broken at least once. In her middle age, with threads of gray beginning to dust her dark, sleek hair. The High Garda captain’s office was on the ground floor of the Tower, temptingly close to the exits, but it wasn’t the time to consider running, either. So when the captain nodded to a chair in front of the plain desk, Morgan took it.

“Morgan Hault,” the captain said. “That’s your name?”

“It is.”

“Mine is Captain Nofret Alamasi.” The captain had a Codex open on her desk, and Morgan suspected that what was written there contained reports of her prior behavior and misconducts—and escapes. “I am known for two things, Morgan. I am not friendly, and I am loyal to the Great Library beyond question. Which is why this is my posting. The last High Garda captain had a tendency to befriend Obscurists. I do not have that failing. If you keep faith, I will treat you as an honored guest in this tower. If you break it, you will be a prisoner.”

“I’m already a prisoner,” Morgan said. “We all are.”

“It doesn’t have to feel that way unless you make it so.” The captain closed the book. “I wanted to see your face, and for you to see mine, when I give you this message: if you seek to escape this tower again, I will confine you to a single room, feed you through a slot in the door, and you will never see the light of the sun again. Are we clear?”

“Clear,” Morgan said. “Captain Alamasi, how long have you held this posting?”

Alamasi gave her a level stare before she said, “Not long. Why?”

“You might look into how long your predecessors lasted. Your new Obscurist Magnus is not a patient man, and he isn’t a good man. You’d do well not to put your faith in him.”

“I don’t,” the captain said. “I put my faith in my orders. Which I will carry out without fail. You may count on me to do that. I don’t need warnings, and I don’t need conversation. I’ve warned you. And that’s all the grace you’ll get.”

Interesting. It sent Morgan’s mind careening down a path she hadn’t thought of before, and she was a little distracted when she said, “Yes, Captain. I understand.”

The captain nodded at her waiting soldier, who ushered Morgan out again, up into the lifting chamber that rose through the levels of the Iron Tower. He was returning her to her room, she realized, and not to the dining hall. She didn’t object.

Annis was waiting for her, and when the door swung open, the older Obscurist jumped from the bed, where she’d been sitting, to stand in awkward silence, looking from Morgan to the soldier. Not sure of what her response should be.

“It’s all right,” Morgan told her. “I’ve just met the High Garda captain. She seems nice.”

The soldier gave her a look that told her he almost appreciated the joke, and then he turned and marched away, leaving her to Annis’s care.

“Christ above, I thought they were marching you off to . . .” Annis didn’t finish the thought. “Well, at least you’re safe. Just a warning, then?”

“A warning,” Morgan said. “I’ve gotten nothing but warnings since I stepped into this Tower. What exactly are they afraid I’m going to do?”

“What aren’t they afraid you’ll do? Here. Orders came for you.” Annis handed her a Codex. The first page held a message from Gregory in the man’s cramped, inelegant hand. It read, Tell Morgan Hault to report to the Master Copyist. She will serve there until I decide she can be trusted with more vital duties.

Serving under the Master Copyist was one step above kitchen duty—mind-numbing work, hand copying scripts developed by more gifted Obscurists. It was reserved for those who were too low powered to do anything more creative.

“Annis,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “You work under the Master Copyist, don’t you?”

“For my sins,” Annis said. “Why?”

“We are going to the same place.”

“No!” Annis looked horrified. “He wouldn’t! You? What a waste of talent that is!”

“I expect it’s to teach me humility and make sure that I understand how to obey,” Morgan said. “I don’t suppose it’ll be very effective at either, but I’ll copy for him. As much as he likes.”

“Will you, now?”

Annis’s regard this time was steady and interested, but Morgan didn’t satisfy her curiosity. She simply couldn’t afford to do so. Annis might be an ally in what was to come. Or she might be a dire problem.

Either way, Morgan didn’t intend to involve her any further than necessary.



* * *





Settling in as a copyist was ridiculously simple, and it gave her time to construct advanced formulae in her mind, which she wrote out on a mental Codex in letters of fire while her hand copied down simple mirror scripts, over and over, for inclusion in the bindings of Blanks. There were about fifty Obscurists set to the task, all copying the same mindless string of symbols and imbuing the scrap of paper with a brush of talent to link it to Aristotle’s universal liquid. He’d been right about this, if wrong about many other things: there truly was an undercurrent of power in the world, one that those with specific skills and gifts could access to shift the nature of a thing from one state to another.