Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(61)

“They’ve taken him away,” Saleh said. He was trying to sound calm, but the worry gave his voice a tremble it didn’t normally have. “What are they going to do to him, Scholar? Is this because of my sister? Because of you?”

It was, without any shadow of a doubt. Wolfe knew he bore a great deal of responsibility, if not guilt, for what was happening to the Seif family; he’d have to carry that, too, without flinching.

“Yes,” Wolfe said honestly. “It’s why I’m here, to help you.” Please, all the gods of Egypt, let that be the plan.

“Then, help! My father is an honest man, a Scholar, loyal always to the Library. You can’t let them hurt him!”

Wolfe closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t.” He raised his voice. “Guard! I need a guard!”

The man who came at his call wasn’t alone; he was paced by one of the sphinxes. Their stares were equally warning. “What do you want?” the soldier asked.

“I want to speak with the Artifex Magnus,” he said. “Immediately. It’s important.”

“We’ll get to you,” the soldier said. “Wait your turn, Stormcrow.”

“All right. I will. And I’ll be sure to tell the Artifex what you said when he finally sees me, so that he knows who to blame.”

“Blame for what?”

“My old students are planning an attack,” Wolfe said. “A daring and potentially ruinous one for the Library that will happen in just a very few hours, now. I know when and where. But by all means, continue uselessly interrogating prisoners who have nothing to do with it. I’m sure that’s highly effective.” His contempt, he’d long ago learned, had a special sting to it, and he deployed it now to good effect. It wasn’t an act. He really did find these High Garda Elites to be contemptible. They’d long ago compromised their true loyalty to pin it to the person of one man. When they’d lost, their path wasn’t material anymore, and all the excuses in the world meant nothing. They were corrupt, and on some level, they knew.

“Why should I believe you?”

Wolfe shrugged. “Then, don’t. As I said: I’ll make sure the Artifex hears the full story. Including how you failed to report an imminent threat against the Library. Never mind. I’m happy to wait.”

He turned away from the bars and stretched out on the bunk. He even added a tuneless hum.

It took only fifteen seconds, counted in fast pulse beats, for the soldier to turn the key in the lock. “Out,” he snapped. “Now. If this is a trick, you’ll suffer for it.”

“Of course,” Wolfe said. “Naturally.”

He sat up, fought against a wave of very real nausea and dizziness, and forced himself to his feet. He would show none of it—none of the exhaustion, the fear, the screaming panic. He’d had years of experience now at concealing it from everyone except those who mattered to him.

A broken bone heals twice as strong, he told himself. Santi had taught him that mantra the night he’d stumbled in the door of their house. He could still hear the soft, insistent whisper of it if he chose. Santi had bathed him, dried him, clothed him, held him through the night to whisper it in a constant, bracing refrain, because Wolfe had been unable to speak or explain where he’d been.

Stay with me, Nic, he thought, as the shackles closed around his wrists. I need you more than ever.

As they passed Saleh’s cell, Wolfe locked gazes with the young man and nodded. Saleh nodded back. He’d keep things moving forward here; there was no doubt. Khalila’s brother could be counted on.

Even if Jess Brightwell’s could not.

“Scholar? Scholar Wolfe?” One of the librarians—Kima; he remembered her from his circuits; she’d been the senior at the Serapeum in Leeds—leaned against the bars and held out her hand. He brushed her fingers with his, which resulted in a warning to Kima and a push between his shoulders to quicken his pace. He passed every cell and marked every face. They were all watching. Trusting him to do something to redeem them.

One thing about being a Research Scholar, as he’d been for almost all of his lifetime: he knew things that those who had no such background couldn’t imagine.

And he knew the Alexandria Serapeum better than even the guards who patrolled it. If he could get there, he knew exactly what to do.

But first, he was going to have to spin the most fabulous, compelling tale he could to take to the Artifex, and then to the Archivist. It would have to be the best lie of his life.

He knew what it would have to be.

Brendan Brightwell is not who you think he is. You’ve been misled.

That would certainly set the Archivist’s teeth on edge. As lies went, it was just bold enough to work.





EPHEMERA



From a treatise by the Medica Phlogistes written in 1733. Interdicted from the Codex to the Black Archives upon review in 1881.


Although there are a great many of my very learned colleagues who disagree with me on every point, I contend that while the number of Obscurists is, without a doubt, decreasing over time, there is no evidence that the trait that makes an Obscurist so valuable—the ability to sense and manipulate the universal fluidic energy that lies beneath everything—is not latently present in all of us. A gifted metalworker is not thought to possess the Obscurist talent, and yet, he is able to fashion metal in ways that no one else can duplicate. A Scholar able to tell a story in a unique and involving way . . . is that not also such an expression? And many Medica know full well that we have a touch of the talent, and we can use it to enhance our cures and treatments. In many religions, this is known and accepted as fact.