Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(52)

“I did.” Khalila sat on the back step of the truck and stared out at the street. They were looking at the sweep of the Cadiz Serapeum, which had been designed by the famous architect Gaudí; it was a fabulous structure in the shape of a coiled dragon, with shimmering blue-tiled scales and a snaking roofline that outlined the dragon’s back. Beautiful, and somehow very suited to this odd, lovely country. The rain was still falling in a steady, relentless mist, but at least the winds had passed, and the temperature was a bit warmer. She was still grateful for the heavy coat that the palace guards had pressed on her.

She was also grateful for the weapon in the coat pocket. A Spanish pistol, heavy and full of brutal promise. She preferred swords, but she’d studied with pistols as well. She could do what was needed.

“I think we’re going to need prayers,” Glain said. “The king was right. We’ve opened the gates of hell, you know. And what comes out now is our fault.”

“Is a fire the fault of the man who drops a match, or the one who spilled the oil all over the floor, knew it, and left it there?”

“Scholar arguments. I’m practical. We started this, and now it’s a war. We need to prepare for that.”

“You don’t think we have a chance?”

Khalila looked directly at her friend. Glain’s hair had grown out and was curling at the ends. Glain had little time for appearances or romance, though in her own way she did love those around her; it was only that the love she felt was expressed as loyalty, fidelity, and friendship.

“I think we haven’t begun to understand the costs of what we’re doing,” Glain said. “But you point me at what needs to be done, and I’ll do it. I’m a soldier. You, Khalila: you’re a politician.”

Khalila laughed. “I am not!” But she was, of course. She’d grown up moving through a political family, in a highly developed political society in Saudi Arabia. And the politics of the Great Library had simply seemed familiar.

Glain sent her a look that was part wry amusement, part exasperation. “When they talk about who will lead the Library, you realize that the Curia will have to go, don’t you? Not just the Archivist. They’ve all been complicit in what he’s done, all these years. At the very least, they’re weak. At the most, they’re as bad as he is. So we have to find not just his replacement, but the heads of all the specialties, unless they break ranks and join with us—and even then, we’ll have to be careful of spies and traitors. Some of them will want us dead, even in defeat.”

As usual, Glain and Santi had the same view of the tactical situation, and Khalila had to admit that it was . . . not encouraging. “We need to preserve. That’s our first objective. Protect the books.”

“It’s what we swore to do,” Glain agreed.

“But we also should protect our brothers and sisters who might not understand what they’re fighting for. We didn’t. Not until it was too late.” Glain nodded, but it didn’t look like wholehearted agreement, either. “You don’t want us to do this.”

“I don’t want any of us putting ourselves out as easy targets,” Glain replied. “There’s brave, and then there’s stupid.”

“Which am I?”

“That depends.”

Khalila turned to meet her eyes over the rifle. “But you’ll look after me.”

Glain pulled in a breath and slowly let it out. “Stupid, then.”

She stood up. “Don’t tell them until I’m gone.”

“Khalila—”

She shook her head. “We can win this with force, or we can try to win it with the power of an idea. I want to try that first. I need to do that first, for my soul.”

Glain muttered something in Welsh that Khalila only vaguely understood, but it sounded grim. “I’ll see you buried according to your faith, if it comes to that. And shoot the brains out of anyone who hurts you. That’s all I can do, for my soul.”

“I know that, Sister.”

Glain’s grin came like a burst of sunlight, and was just as quickly gone. “Chwaer,” she said. “If you want to be accurate. Though I don’t suppose you’ll ever learn to pronounce it properly.”

“Chwaer,” Khalila said back, with what she thought was a surprisingly good attempt. “Don’t let them stop me.”

She stood up and walked around the truck, keeping it between her and Santi, who’d be the first to spot her movement and guess her purpose. She was aware of Glain moving behind her—finding a good vantage spot, she thought. Something high.

There was an automaton pacing in front of the gates of the Serapeum. It was a sphinx, which meant they’d likely brought it from Alexandria; it froze when it saw her and turned its pharaonic head in her direction. She didn’t pause. She walked steadily forward. The sphinx didn’t attack, but it crouched lower, those baleful red eyes glowing brighter.

“I have come to talk,” she said. “I am Khalila Seif, Scholar of the Great Library, and I come to talk.”

She heard a shout from behind her in the distance. It rang down the street, from wet cobbles and the looming stonework of the buildings rising on both sides. She was afraid and trembling, and she wanted very badly to turn and run back to the safety of her friends.

Dario was calling her name in a sharp, panicked voice.