Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(44)

But that was a fight he couldn’t possibly win, and he had little choice but to limp inside.

The door slammed behind him, but he hardly noticed. He was too surprised by what spread out before him.

He stood on an overlooking gallery, and beneath it spread out a neat, orderly, modern workshop, with hundreds of tables and Scholars and mechanical technicians moving among them. Automata, half-built or under repair, occupied most of the space: sphinxes, both large and small. Lions. Spartans. Something in the back, veiled behind cloth, that looked more massive than any of the rest, but he couldn’t make out any details except a ridged back.

The Archivist waited at the railing.

“The mission yesterday was not what I’d hoped for,” said the Archivist. “Though I understand I can’t legitimately blame it on you.”

“Did you blame it on Captain Wahl?”

“Captain Wahl understands that failure is not acceptable for High Garda Elites,” the old man said. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to be our stalking-horse for the next raid. Your father was informed of the . . . difficulties. He was very plain that you were to be treated as a guest.”

“I’m sure he asked very nicely.”

“In his way.” The Archivist looked out over the workshop. “This used to be the space where condemned criminals were held before they were brought into the amphitheater to fight for their lives. Savage times. We’ve put it to better use.”

“Thought I was going to the lions,” Jess said, in Brendan’s slightly sarcastic tone. “Is this supposed to frighten me?” He leaned on the railing beside the old man. There were, of course, guards, guards everywhere, and off to his left and behind them sat a massive automaton lion, ready to spring if he made the slightest mistake. Tempting, to think about tossing the old man over the railing. He imagined how easy it would be.

But it wouldn’t save anyone else, either.

“Caution you to mind your step,” the Archivist said. “The rigorous questioning you went through has established your identity. Whatever doubts I have now are simply to do with the general untrustworthiness of your . . . type.”

“Criminals?” Jess let loose a fierce grin. “Reasonable. But we’re in business. And I’ll keep my word because it’s in my da’s best interests.”

“Perhaps. As you know, it’s unwise to cross me. I made the promise to empty France of its pernicious rebels, and I did it. Destroying your entire family would be a wave of my little finger.”

“And I could shove you off this balcony,” Jess said. “But I won’t.” He leaned back from the rail and faced the Archivist fully. “When do I see the books?”

“Soon. But first I thought you’d be amenable to telling me more about this smuggler operating so effectively under my nose. Since he and his band almost took your life yesterday.”

Risks of doing business, Jess thought. That applied to his danger yesterday and what he was going to do now. “That will cost you. It’s no small thing for me to betray someone like him.”

“If you are loyal to me and to the Library, you will be protected. You won’t need to pander to your rivals anymore. All I want is for you to—”

The Archivist paused at a cry of alarm from below in the workshop, and Jess had a bare second to glance in that direction and take in the sphinx that had launched itself into the air, gliding on metallic eagle wings. Its back legs were not a lion’s; they were knife-sharp talons.

It was coming straight for them.

The Archivist’s guards reacted with admirable speed, as unexpected as it was; a hail of gunfire shattered the air.

It bounced off of the armor that coated the sphinx. This was no ordinary automaton, Jess realized. And when he took his riveted gaze from it and looked back at the workshop, he saw that the Scholar who’d been standing by that table was still watching, unafraid. Unmoved.

This is an assassination. The Scholar had been waiting for this opportunity. And now, all Jess had to do was stand back and allow it to happen. Most of the workshop below was in chaos, technicians and Scholars scrambling for safety. There were a dozen guards in the room, and they were all focused on firing on the sphinx circling above, to little effect. No one would fault him for saving himself.

But if there was one thing that would earn him his freedom to do as he pleased, it would be this. No more questions. No more doubts.

Much as he wanted to see this old man’s guts strewn on the floor, he needed to save him.

He reached a lightning-fast decision, grabbed the Archivist, and shoved him away from the banister an instant before the sphinx’s talons sheared through the metal and cracked the stone floor. He kept the old man moving, running, dodging, on the gallery as the soldiers poured more fire into the attacking automaton. Off switch, he thought. Must be an off switch!

He turned and threw himself back at it, hand grabbing for the neck of the thing as the smooth bronze face contorted, the needle-sharp teeth snapped at his arm. His searching fingers slid on smooth, featureless metal.

No off switch. Not there, where it should be. Unless the Scholar had deliberately removed any chance of shutting the evil thing off. I’m dead, he thought. Time seemed to stretch. He saw the sharp claws extruding out of the lion paws; they were an instant away from gutting him, and if those teeth got a good hold, it would rip his throat out in a bloody spray.