Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(36)

They parted to reveal not a High Garda carrier, but a large, formal carriage with the seal of the Great Library on the side and glimmering gold on the brightwork.

“Archivist wants you,” the captain said. “Inside.”

Quest, you bastard, Jess thought. It was too late now. If the Spanish spies had gotten the message, if they’d passed it on, then Quest had been slow to respond, and there was no longer any use wishing. He knew that this meeting with the Archivist would be something far less cordial than the last.

This would be the real interrogation.

And he would have to survive it without help.

“Coming?” he asked the captain, as he climbed into the carriage. She shook her head. He held out his hand. “You’ve been fair. Thank you.”

For the first time, she let a tiny smile crack her hard surface. “I’m not fool enough to shake the hand of a skilled pickpocket,” she said. “Good luck, Brightwell.”

She slammed the door, and he heard the locks engage.

Trapped. Doesn’t matter, Jess told himself, though he felt the coil of wire in his guts pull tighter. Whatever comes next, you can outwit it.

He had to believe that. If he didn’t, this would be over quickly.

The interior of the carriage reminded him, quite darkly, of a carriage he’d entered at ten years old, when he’d first watched a vile man rip apart and eat a book he’d have given his life to save. Ink-lickers. Jess shuddered when the memory crawled up his spine; he hadn’t encountered that particular book vice in years, since the Library had been intent on stamping it out. It seemed a uniquely English obsession, so far, and by far the most disturbing one he could imagine. At least as it related to the written word.

He tried not to think about what was coming as the carriage rolled smoothly on. There was no point in trying the locks; they were clearly alchemical, and he was no Obscurist. With time, he might find a way to force them.

He didn’t have time.

The carriage had gone for a few minutes when the trap slid back on top of the coach with a bang that made him jump and look up; silhouetted by the sunlight, the driver was just another uniformed Library servant. Jess hadn’t looked at him twice before climbing in; he’d been utterly unremarkable.

More remarkable now that he said, “Right, let’s go on with it, boy. We don’t have much time.”

Jess blocked the light with his hand, and the features came into shadowy focus. “Who are you?”

The man sighed. “Truly, I have the curse of a forgettable face. Or the benefit, in my line of work.”

“Quest?” Jess felt a jolt of astonishment, with a healthy dose of chagrin; he’d completely missed the obvious. Then again, so had the High Garda, even the commander. Quest had a gift for blending in . . . and a rare nerve, to do it so boldly.

“Well, you did quite generously hire me for a small fortune, young man. Or have me hired, at any rate. I trust I can do as fine a job for you as I did for your Scholar Wolfe in the past, but without quite as much trauma, perhaps. What is it you require?” Elsinore Quest was a skilled Mesmer, capable of convincing almost anyone of almost anything; he’d helped Scholar Wolfe unearth the buried and agonizing memories of his time under Library captivity, in order to pinpoint where Thomas Schreiber had been taken. An ugly task at the time, but a very necessary one.

“Can you mesmerize me on the move? While driving?”

“It’s not ideal, but it will have to do. I only have this very special position for a few more blocks, mind you, and then I’ll have to exit the box and the regular driver will be restored quite peacefully and won’t remember a thing of leaving his post. Don’t worry. You won’t remember it, either.”

Jess opened his mouth to ask details of that particular feat, but Quest continued. “Your very fine Spanish friend relayed me quite a huge pile of Alexandrian geneih, or I promise you, I’d not be wearing this rotten livery and taking such a ridiculous risk, so you must trust me that I know my business. What is it you wish me to do for you?”

Jess told him. Quest was quiet for a long moment, and Jess had the sharp premonition that payment or no, Quest was about to disappear from his post atop the box without another word. Not even no.

Then the man sighed. “I suppose it’s possible. Very well. How long do you want it to last?”

“At least the rest of the day. How long will it take to achieve the proper—”

“Shhh,” Quest said, and there was something soothing about his voice now. Quiet and still. He was tapping a finger lightly against the roof of the carriage, and Jess’s attention was drawn by the rhythm. “Just a little further, Mr. Brightwell. Just listen to the sound of my voice. Listen and relax. Listen and relax, and we will have a chat about all of this, a wonderful and calming chat about your brother.”

Jess found himself collapsing back against the seats.

And then he didn’t remember anything else.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




It couldn’t have been more than a few moments before he opened his eyes, but he felt as if he’d slept a full night. All the dull aches drilled into his bones by the stress and worry were gone.

He looked up through the open trap of the door and saw a silent driver in livery. Something about the driver. He’d forgotten what he’d observed, and it no longer seemed important. He yawned and stretched and thought, Well, if I’m going to my gruesome death, at least I’m doing it in a damn cheerful mood.