Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(99)

“Well,” Annis said. “Don’t you look fancy this morning, your worship. Is it your birthday again?”

“You tampered with the formulae written into this room.” Gregory wasn’t speaking to Annis. He’d ignored her completely. He tilted his staff toward Morgan. “I know your barely capable companion hardly has the wits to light a candle, so it must be you who’s done it.” The staff slowly moved to point at Annis, who sat up straighter but didn’t speak. “Do I need to make another sacrifice on the altar of your pride?”

“No, Obscurist, I’ll confess,” Morgan said. “I stopped eating the food prepared for me. I stole food where I could. After a day or so, I was able to adjust the formulae you used to spy on me. It’s not her fault. She had nothing to do with it.” She swallowed a real taste of dread. “She’s well loved in this tower, and you know that. If you kill her for no good reason, do you really think it helps the rest accept you as their lord and master?”

He didn’t like that, and for a second she felt terror he’d actually do it, order Annis murdered in front of her . . . but he must have realized she was being truthful, at least about the consequences. Annis knew everyone, and everyone liked Annis. Many loved her fiercely. If he hurt her, he’d never truly rule here.

“You’re coming with me,” he told her. “I want you to see the end of your Scholar Wolfe, and all your friends.”

“But you’ll bring her back,” Annis said. “Won’t you? Safe? Please, Gregory.”

“If she behaves herself,” Gregory said, and glanced back at the High Garda captain, who was standing just at his elbow. “Hold her.”

Before Morgan could realize which of them he meant, the captain had hold of her in a bear hug that trapped her arms at her sides and lifted her off the ground. Morgan kicked and shouted, but another soldier stepped forward, jammed a metal brace into her mouth, and wrenched it wide-open. She tasted iron and blood and let out a muffled scream. She reached for power, but Gregory’s was already there, blocking her.

“Hurry it up,” Gregory said. “She’s fighting me.”

The guard poured a liquid down her throat, and she felt it cascade through her like a fall of silk, smoothing out the alarm, the tension, the resistance. Annis was on her feet now and shouting, and Gregory backhanded her contemptuously when the woman came at him. When she tried to get up from the bed where she’d fallen, a High Garda soldier stepped forward and pointed a sidearm at her. “Stay down,” the soldier barked, and Annis slowly held up her hands.

Morgan couldn’t fight back. She felt numb, barely anchored to her body now. As the soldier removed the mouth brace and the captain lowered her to her feet, she hardly noticed the changes. She struggled to keep her thoughts from sliding away like silvery fish in a stream.

Gregory grabbed her chin in his fingers and tilted her head up. He peered into her eyes, and she felt a snap of power around her but couldn’t reach for it. She could walk and see and hear, but the path to any resistance was dark and impassable.

She looked desperately at Annis, and Annis stared back at her. The fear and anger in her friend’s eyes told her that there was nothing to be done, for now, but submit.

She nodded slightly and hoped Annis understood . . . and then Gregory was leaving and she was being pulled along by soldiers in his wake, to the Feast of Greater Burning.





PART THIRTEEN





JESS





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR




When Anit led them into a deserted warehouse by the port, Jess was all but certain she intended to have them killed. He was considering whether it would be wise to draw a weapon when his twin brother took the choice away from him by drawing first and putting the muzzle of the High Garda pistol against the back of Anit’s skull as she unlocked the door. “Let’s be clear,” Brendan said. “If you’re planning anything, you die before we hit the ground. And I’m not my brother. I won’t hesitate.”

Jess was mildly offended by that, but in all practical senses his brother was right; he did take an instant to weigh the consequences, where Brendan dealt with whatever came, regardless. Odd, because back in their childhoods, Brendan had been the planner, the schemer, the watcher.

People changed. He was only starting to realize how much and how quickly.

Anit didn’t so much as flinch. She finished unlocking the door as if he hadn’t just threatened her life, and swung the entrance open as she pocketed the keys. “I’ll go first, shall I?” From the weeping, guilt-ridden girl at the temple, she’d become something completely different now. Jess wasn’t sure if it was a good change, but it was useful for now. She stepped over the threshold, and Brendan followed close behind, while Jess closed the door and engaged the heavy lock, which on this side didn’t require keys.

Lights went on, row after row of chemical glows suspended from the tall ceiling, and it seemed to stretch on forever. Below each band of lights were huge multilevel storage racks loaded with crates and boxes.

Not a soul in sight.

It was a stunning sight, and a testament to Red Ibrahim’s wealth. “Is all this books?” Jess asked. If so, it dominated his father’s own vast operation.

“No,” she said. “Legitimate trade goods. My father’s real business has always been storage and shipping; it’s profitable, and it makes an excellent shield for our smaller operations. This way.” She cut a mazelike path between the shelving, and Jess wondered how, exactly, the workers retrieved those crates stacked thirty feet above their heads . . . until he saw the neatly stored gantries along the wall, wheeled platforms with hand cranks to push the height of the platforms up or down as needed. No Obscurist magic here; this was simple, efficient gear and human ingenuity.