Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(71)

The golden collar hung loose as he moved back, and he left it up to her to take hold of it, pull it free, and let it drop to the floor with a harsh metallic ring. She felt the vulnerable, raw circle where the collar had been and felt a rush of tears first, and then something else, cleaner, sharper: freedom.

“And me?” Annis asked quietly.

“And you,” he said, and easily broke hers, too. “Don’t be afraid, Annis.”

She let out a shaky laugh and took the collar off. Instead of letting it drop, she looked at it. Turned it over and over in her hands, running her fingers over the incised symbols, and then crouched and put it carefully down. The skin it had covered all these years was ghostly, and at the edges, ridged with scars. “I’ve not been without it since I was a wee lass,” she said. “A child. I never knew how heavy it was.”

Somewhere below them, an alarm began to sound in sharp, rhythmic pulses.

“They’ll know. They’re coming,” Morgan said.

Eskander smiled. “No. They won’t. Not until I’m ready for them to know. Now . . . let’s begin.”





EPHEMERA



RESTRICTED ACCESS TO THE ARCHIVIST MAGISTER ONLY, from the Artifex Magnus


The creature is finished. I understand why you desire new automata; I understand that new improvements are necessary to respond to ever-growing threats and keep the population respectful of our power. It’s certain that this does convey that as nothing before ever has, not even the statues of the gods.

The technical challenges have been considerable, and while I know that it’s taken five years beyond our original estimates, your new automaton is finally ready to be tested.

I hope you know what you are doing. I don’t scare easily, but this . . . I am scared of this.

And we all should be.

It could end everything.





PART NINE





JESS





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE




There was a new uneasiness in the air in Alexandria. Even Jess could feel it. He woke early—middle of the night, actually—and had spent his time after washing and dressing in sending messages out in family code. He owed an explanation to Red Ibrahim. The name traitor had been thrown at him along with Greek fire, and he didn’t much like either of them.

Morgan still hadn’t written, but that would have to remain a mystery; he knew time was running out, and fast. The Alexandrian newspaper was tightly censored by the Library, but there were other sources of news, and now that he was finally trusted by the Archivist—though, honestly, he knew he couldn’t count on it for long—he’d left to seek the gossip out well before dawn. He didn’t bother about the trailing High Garda eyes assigned to him, because he simply went to the local bakeshop and bought breakfast and thick, hot coffee and engaged in quiet conversation with the other patrons.

“I heard that Spain has completely broken free,” one old man said, leaning close. “There’s some treaty between the rebel countries, too. Like they’ll be marching on us. High Garda will put a stop to it.” But he hadn’t sounded confident. Others told him of rumors of some great invention, but they were uncertain what it could be. Most assumed it was a war machine of some sort.

He thought it likely to be the whisper of Thomas’s press. Those whispers reaching Alexandria meant the speculation had to be a roar already on the borders, as tight as the Library locked down the flow of news here.

He found out when an anonymous woman wearing librarian robes took a seat at the counter next to him, ordered pastries, and left a printed piece of paper in her wake. It could have been dropped by anyone, but Jess had seen the expert dodge, and he retrieved it before anyone else could see it.

The printing was vastly inferior to the quality Thomas had achieved; the block type was clumsily lined up, and the spacing terrible. But it was a fresh-printed page with ink that still smudged when he rubbed on it, and it read, THE LIBRARY IS LYING TO YOU. A LIFE IS WORTH MORE THAN A BOOK. The symbol on the bottom was a new one, but he thought it had a passing resemblance to the flames the Burners used to sketch on their handwritten flyers.

Anit, he thought, had wasted no time in arranging for the construction of a press right here in the city . . . and taking payments from the Burners to upgrade their propaganda leaflets. There was a little touch of satisfaction, but it was quickly chased away by the memory of the Archivist’s warning.

The Archivist wanted to exclusively direct the use of Thomas’s invention. He wouldn’t take kindly to the news that upstarts were already taking advantage and the invention he was paying so heavily for was already spreading without him.

Jess folded the paper small and put it into his pocket for disposal somewhere safe . . . but then he didn’t need to, as the next young man who slouched at the bar muttered, “You have a message for His Excellency?” Spanish. To confirm it, the man signed, under cover of the counter, Scrubber.

“We really need a new word,” Jess said. He took the paper from his pocket and a pen, and wrote on the back, Find out where my other friends are. Tell them things are moving quickly. The Archivist is bound to move up the executions.

He passed the folded paper on, and the young man claimed his morning roll and coffee and sauntered off looking like he had not a care in the world.