Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(41)

“Yes, you made that very clear; thank you for clarifying. I meant, what is it you want my expertise for, exactly?”

She didn’t bother to answer, only lengthened her stride, which made Brendan simmer; his brother Jess enjoyed vigorous exercise as well as bookish pursuits, but Brendan only liked to run when chased. And her pace seemed designed to punish him for his lack of enthusiasm.

They came through a doorway guarded by two automata into a stone courtyard; this one wasn’t decorated with winsome gardens or floating lotus flowers. It was utilitarian, a rally point for soldiers, and Brendan took quick stock of it, noting the access points, the defenses, and where he stood in relation to the Lighthouse of Alexandria, which was plainly visible. He’d need to sketch a map later, but he had a facility for details. And plans.

Since Wahl seemed unwilling to part with details, he watched her. She seemed comfortable and assured, but there was something about the ten guards traveling around them, spreading out once they achieved the street outside the Serapeum, that made him wonder. She had them on a ranger patrol, looking for threats. Not looking at him. That seemed odd, if he was counted as any kind of threat.

They encountered nothing, and they made quick time as they jogged through the streets. People and vehicles made way for them, and he felt the heavy weight of stares and knew gossip would be flowing in their wake. Stupid way to travel, he thought, though at least he wasn’t out of breath yet. City’s full of High Garda carriers. This is doing nothing but flaunting the Archivist’s power.

“Where are we going?” he asked her again, more loudly this time. They’d passed the University districts, headed down from the Lighthouse, and now they were in one of the poorer, more anonymous sections of town, crowded with merchants and cheap, temporary housing that looked ripe to fall at any moment. Cleaner and brighter than London, but he knew the type of neighborhood well. It was where deals were made, both legitimate and criminal.

“I wanted you because you’re said to be connected in the smuggling trade. You might be able to convince your brothers in crime to give up peacefully.”

“We call them cousins, and, wait, are you mad? We’re going to raid a smuggler’s den? You should have brought more bodies. These won’t even provide a good shelter to hide behind once they fall.” She sent him an impatient glance and increased the pace, which was annoying. “I’m very serious, Captain. These aren’t just idiots hiding secret book collections in their private homes! These are hard people who survive in the hardest city on earth for their trade. You do not go after them like this!”

“This is just my personal escort, Brightwell,” she said. “My army is already waiting.”

“Where?”

She whistled, and the entire contingent of Elites shifted from a jog to a smooth, quiet walk as they approached a corner. Brendan’s nerves prickled, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“Up,” she said. “Look up.”

He did, and felt his heart shrink in an instinctive spasm of dread, because there were sphinxes perched motionless on roofs. Large ones. And as he looked down, he realized that they were on the ground, too, crouched motionless in shadows.

“Where are we going?” he asked her.

“Straight ahead. The building with blue trim.”

That was a generous description; the trim might have been blue an age ago, but it was a weathered, flaking, indeterminate color now, on a building that sagged as if it might melt completely in the next rain. A ramshackle thing made for knocking down, at least to the casual eye.

But he recognized the precautions.

The windows were, of course, barred; that was no surprise in such a neighborhood. But they were also dark, and he thought they were almost certainly covered by steel plates. The door looked old, but it would be reinforced and highly armored. Inside, the place would be a fortress, with dozens of tunnels for escape.

It was large enough to be a major storage point for Red Ibrahim’s business, though the old fox would be careful to keep visible traffic to a minimum.

“Well?” Wahl raised a fist, and her escort came to a halt along with her. “Go and make them surrender. That’s why you’re here.”

“They’ll kill me.”

She shrugged. “I assume you’re hard to kill. But if you want to stay here and refuse, we’ll find out fast.”

“Do I at least get a weapon?”

“Besides the dagger you lifted from me earlier? No.” She pulled her sidearm and aimed it straight at his chest. “Go on. I’m almost sure the sphinxes won’t tear into you.”

He felt sweat break out at the back of his neck. This was a death sentence, and it was blindingly clear to him in that moment that they intended to have him killed, but with the excuse that he’d been killed by smugglers. A neat solution to the Archivist’s puzzle of how to get rid of his annoying visitor, while also claiming innocence to his newly made ally.

He took two steps toward the building. A sphinx’s wings unfurled somewhere above him with a faint, metallic ring, and he glanced up.

He was aware of a flash of light from the building he was facing, and then a hammer blow to his chest, and being lifted off his feet and thrown like a toy. Fragments of images crowded in, all chaotic: a massive red fireball rising to the sky. A sphinx falling out of the sky and crashing to the pavement. Two High Garda soldiers cut to pieces by flying metal in splashes of vivid crimson.