Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(38)

Neksa, without pausing or slowing her stride, held up her hand to show her bracelet, and he did the same. Horus tracked their progress with unnerving intensity but didn’t move, and once they were past the tree trunks of his legs, he allowed himself a little breath of relief. He’d been so occupied with Horus that he’d failed to check the other gods in the rows, but he had little doubt that they, too, were automata, which meant anyone invading this place would come to a bad, red end.

Not the sort of place you took by force of arms, the Serapeum.

“Impressive,” he said. Neksa ignored him. “In London we never see the like of these particular automata. Are they new?”

“Stop talking,” Neksa said. “Or you’ll get to inspect them all too closely.”

She sounded sincere, and he went quiet, absorbing the next hallway, and the next. It was a labyrinth in here. He wondered whether the hallways themselves were, in some form, automata; perhaps they moved and reconfigured on a schedule, to foil people like him memorizing the layout of the place. They all seemed the same, and confusingly indirect to the purpose.

For what it was worth, though, he kept a mental map until they’d arrived in an anteroom he recognized . . . one with four High Garda Elite on duty. They all looked strong and razor edged. One—he presumed the one in command—nodded to Neksa briskly and fixed a dark stare on him. “Against the wall,” the commander barked. She was a small woman, with the fair hair and skin of the Nordic regions, and greenish eyes that looked as cold as sea ice. Scars on her neck, her hands, and a particularly large one on the side of her face. She looked like she ate fear for breakfast.

He put his palms against the nearest wall and leaned. She searched him efficiently and thoroughly, finding nothing, and when she snapped her fingers to indicate she was finished, he turned and leaned back on the wall to give her an appraising look. She ignored him and returned to her post.

Neksa was already seated behind her desk and was writing in the Codex there.

“Well?” he asked. “Was I summoned to admire the decor?”

He might as well have been a bug for all the attention they gave him, and the minutes stretched by until Neksa suddenly rose and threw open the double doors to the Archivist’s office.

A man strode out, followed by a small army of retainers. He wore too-ornate Obscurist robes, as if he still hadn’t quite worked the stiffness out of them . . . and then the newcomer’s face went florid with rage and he pointed. “Arrest him!”

The Obscurist’s retainers moved forward instantly, but the High Garda commander stepped into the path and shook her head mutely. That ended the matter.

“What are you doing? That’s Jess Brightwell! He’s a wanted criminal!”

“Understandable mistake. I’m the other Brightwell son. Brendan. My brother does indeed resemble me. Makes for an uncomfortable visit here, I’ll tell you that.”

“Visit?” The Obscurist barked it out in bitter amusement. “I don’t care who you are; your whole family should be burned to the ground. You’re enemies of the Library, all of you.”

“Allies of the Library, you mean,” Brendan said, and bowed slightly. “Though I’ll grant you, it’s a strange turn of events for us, too. I’ve got no love for my feckless brother. If I lay hands on him, I promise, you can have him, sir.”

“It’s my lord. You are speaking to the Obscurist Magnus.”

“Oh.” He cocked the eyebrow with the scar in it. “Thought the Obscurist Magnus was a woman. My error, my lord.”

He couldn’t resist mocking the man, even though he knew how dangerous it was.

The Obscurist gave him a thin, angry smile. “She was,” he said. “Dead and forgotten now.” He took a few steps past, then made a show of turning around, as if he’d only just thought of something. “Please tell your beloved brother that his young lady, Morgan, is in good hands. I’ve matched her with our brightest Obscurist. I’m sure their children will be most gifted.”

It was obvious enough that the idiot thought that might goad him into some fit of temper, but he’d chosen the wrong Brightwell for that.

Brendan shrugged. “Well, doubt I’ll be talking to Jess anytime soon, seeing as how he’s cut ties with me as well as you. But I’m sure he’d thank you for your consideration.”

Whatever the Obscurist had been looking for, the bland answer didn’t please him. He stalked off without another word.

Neksa said, without looking up from the paperwork she was shuffling on her desk, “Don’t keep him waiting.”

Brendan nodded and noted the slight tremble in her hands, the color in her face. She still cares, he thought. He hardly deserved it, of course, and he wondered what she was so worried about. His father’s power protected him . . . and if it didn’t, there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent coming to a bad end.

He reached out and touched her on the cheek. For an instant, she froze, and her eyes moved to lock on his. “It’s all right, love,” he told her. “I’ll be all right.”

Her mouth opened, but she said nothing.

He walked into the Archivist’s office.

There was no one inside. Just the desk, the silent automata, and a chill in the air that might have just been his imagination.

His breath went cold in his chest. His fingers went numb. And he realized that the cold wasn’t his imagination at all.