Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(6)

“I do not deal with smugglers and thieves.”

“You’ve dealt with rulers and kings for years. My father’s crown is shadows, but it’s real enough. Think of it in those terms, and swallow your pride if you don’t want to lose all . . . this.” Jess gestured around at the office and the great central pyramid in which it stood: the home of the Great Library of Alexandria, in a city devoted to its glory, in a country made incredibly rich by it, protected by armies and tradition, automata and alchemy.

It was all more fragile than it seemed, and they both knew that.

The Archivist made a small gesture, and the Horus statue’s head returned to its neutral position . . . but once you’d seen it move, Jess thought, you’d never forget it again. The point had been made.

Mutual destruction.

“What does he want in return for such . . . consideration?”

“Books,” Jess said. “Rare and valuable. It’s nothing to you; you’ve got vast storehouses of things no one’s ever seen.”

“How many?”

There it is, Jess thought. They had an agreement. Now they were only arguing terms. He relaxed a little, but only a little. “For the press and plans? One hundred thousand rare volumes, and I’ll inspect each one.” He smiled. Brendan’s cynical smile. “Believe me, I’d rather be doing something else. It’s my brother who’s the bookworm.”

“That will take weeks,” the Archivist said.

“Are you in a hurry?”

That earned him a sharp glower. “Your answer implied you have more to barter.”

“Well, the press and plans are worth that much, to be sure, but the mind of the one who built that wonder . . . that’s worth more, even if it’s just to ensure he doesn’t build more.”

If the Archivist was aware of it, he kept his own counsel. “Schreiber is valuable to us.”

“Then that’s another hundred thousand books. And the others?”

“What others?”

“Captain Santi. Khalila Seif. Glain Wathen. Dario Santiago,” Jess said. He tried not to think of their faces. Tried to care nothing about them, as Brendan might have done.

The Archivist flipped a dismissive hand but then thought better of it. “Santi deserves punishment,” he said thoughtfully. “An example should be made of him. Dario Santiago’s family is royal. Pardoning him could earn us the renewed loyalty of Spain and Portugal.”

“And Khalila?” Jess tried to keep his voice calm and light. Difficult.

“The Seif girl made her choice. She can rot with her father and brothers in prison, until their execution.”

Jess’s chest began to burn as if he were holding his breath, but he was pulling in plenty of air. Khalila, Khalila, executed without a thought for her brilliance and compassion. “That leaves Wathen.”

“Drop the Welsh girl into a well somewhere and be done with it. She’s not important.”

You bastard. You cold, stupid bastard. She’s your next High Commander.

And suddenly, the burning in his chest turned to ice. He’d done it. It was agonizing, playing to this man’s vanity, drawing him into a discussion that dismissed people he loved to death and torment . . . but now, with the casual admission that murder was acceptable, the Archivist had shown his flank, and he was vulnerable. A fish on the line, Jess thought. Don’t let him wriggle off.

He nodded casually and tapped his fingers on his thigh. “I’ll convey all this to my father. He’ll want terms for the ones you want.”

“You may use my personal Codex, if you’d prefer. It is not monitored.”

Brendan’s grin hurt his lips this time, but he deployed it anyway. “I’m not a fool,” Jess said. “I’ll manage my own affairs. If we deliver Santi, Khalila Seif, Thomas Schreiber, return Dario to his relatives, and dispose of Wathen, what do you offer in return for all that?”

“Besides the two hundred thousand rare volumes you’ve already demanded? You go too far, young man.”

“I am my father’s son, after all. A fair offer buys you what you want. It’s simple commerce.”

“I am not in commerce.” The Archivist managed to make it sound like a mouthful of filth, but after a hesitation, he donned a pair of thin spectacles and opened a book on his desk. He appeared to scan its contents, though Jess doubted he had to check; a man in his position would know precisely what he had to offer, and what its value would be.

A moment later, the Archivist clapped the book shut and said, “I’ve wasted enough time on these fools and rebels. Two hundred thousand rare original books from the Archives, plus a full High Garda company’s shipment of weapons sent for the use of your father, including Greek fire. And the High Garda turns a blind eye to anything the Brightwell clan does from this point forward, so long as it doesn’t involve outright threat to the Library. Does that suffice?”

Despite everything, Jess found himself unable to reply for a long few seconds. The Archivist Magister is selling weapons and Greek fire as if it’s nothing. And guaranteeing protection to black market smugglers. The betrayal of the Library’s principles ran so deep, offended Jess’s soul so much, that for a difficult few breaths he couldn’t master his distaste.

He rose again, slowly this time, and nodded tersely. “I’ll tell my father,” he said. “I expect an answer within the day. Where should I wait?”