Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(5)

“Yet you didn’t deliver your brother along with them.”

“Well, family’s family. My father might. But not yet. Early days.”

The Archivist studied him, and those sharp eyes, faded with age but every bit as dangerous as they’d ever been, missed nothing. The old man’s skin might be rough and lined, his hair dulled, but he was a killer. A survivor. A ruthless and morally bankrupt absolute ruler. “You know, the resemblance between you two really is remarkable. Without the scar I couldn’t tell you apart.”

Brendan’s shrug was higher than Jess’s, and more fluid. “Really? Because we’re nothing alike. My brother’s a bookish idiot and always has been. I’m my father’s son. I’m not sentimental.” Brendan’s smile stretched his lips. “And you have my father’s assurance he sent me. But that’s your business, whether you believe me or not. Please yourself.”

The Archivist smoothly changed tack. “You realize that I do have bargaining leverage, boy. I have you.”

“And my father has another son. Not much benefit to angering him, either.” Jess took a sip of coffee to give himself time, and listened to the Archivist’s silence. Silences, he’d learned, had layers to them. Some were tense, on the verge of violence; some were slow and calm and peaceful.

This one had edges.

Jess moved his gaze away from the Archivist and studied the office as if he’d never seen it before—he had, once, but he’d been younger then, and desperately afraid. Brendan, having never seen it, would take it all in: the lush carpets in Egyptian motifs, the shimmering wall of glass that offered a view of the blue waters of the Alexandrian harbor and the boats sailing on it. The oversized automaton statue of the hawk-headed Egyptian god Horus, standing with one foot forward. It would be ready to protect the Archivist at the slightest threat, in addition to the waiting Elites.

Jess sipped coffee, but he tasted only bitterness. His pulse threatened to race, but he breathed deeply, the way that his friend Khalila had taught him, and felt the pressure slow. Wait it out, he thought. Brendan would.

At last the Archivist said, “Tell me, Mr. Brightwell—have you ever heard of the Feast of Greater Burning?”

Jess’s skin went cold, and he felt muscles tighten in his back. Tried to keep it from his face. “Not familiar with it,” he said, because he was fairly sure Brendan wouldn’t have known. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”

“Our ancestors here were not known for the savagery of many other cultures, but the occasional sacrifice was known to occur. We give many offerings during the Feast of Greater Burning, and these days, they are symbolic and ceremonial. A thousand years ago, the feast was a practical way to both continue tradition and dispose of . . . particularly troublesome individuals. If you understand my meaning.”

“You’re threatening to burn me alive? Don’t dance around it, sir. I’m not likely to faint. Or beg. Kill me, and deal with my father. More to the point: don’t.”

The Archivist had been unnaturally still and composed, but he slapped his hand on the shining surface of his desk with a report like a gunshot. He didn’t move like an old man, Jess thought. There was real strength behind the blow. “Don’t presume to threaten me, boy. I am the Archivist of the Great Library! I command the respect, wealth, and loyalty of the world!”

“You did once,” Jess agreed, and it sounded quite calm. “But the world is changing. And this is your only chance to control it.”

The Archivist went as still as the Horus statue looming in the corner. Those eyes caught the light from the windows and turned an eerily hollow shade. Got him, Jess thought. The one thing that every Archivist for nearly a thousand years feared was change, and it was upon this one whether he liked it or not. With a working press to print copies of books, people would no longer be beholden to the alchemically mirrored copies from the Great Library. They could own books, not merely borrow them. They could write books without the oversight of Scholars and the censorship of the Library. The Library had started as a preserver of knowledge, a beacon of light, but through the centuries and millennia, it had become a center of power.

Power rotted from within.

If the Library was going to survive at all, the one thing the Archivist needed to stop was the printing press.

Jess sighed. “Let’s not pretend you don’t want what my father has. You’ve killed a hundred Scholars to keep the secret over the centuries. We’re willing to trade it to you, with all the plans. But if you’re not interested, I expect we can sell the idea elsewhere.” He stood up.

The Horus statue turned its gleaming golden head in a sharp, birdlike gesture, staring down at him.

“Careful,” the Archivist said softly. “If I made you disappear, no one would ever find your bones.”

Jess put both palms flat on the man’s desk and leaned forward. He had some satisfaction in knowing he was ruining the shine. “If you make me disappear,” he said, “you’ll be the last Archivist of a ruined Library. If you think that’s an empty threat, unleash your metal god.” He heard the rush of human footsteps as the guards came forward, but the Archivist lifted a hand and they stopped.

Silence. Edges and humming tension. When a full ten heartbeats thudded past, Jess stepped back to his chair and settled in, as if he were at home. “We can be powerful allies,” he said. “Burners are rising all over the world against you. Kingdoms are on the verge of rebellion. Your High Garda troops are stretched too thin to protect your vital outposts. We can help.”