Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(2)

Jess felt no impulse to care. “I’m surprised you think I’m useful.”

“Self-pity doesn’t become you, boy. I’ll be leaving now. The world doesn’t stop because the one you loved is no longer in it.”

Jess almost snapped, What do you know about it? but he stopped himself. Wolfe had lost many people. He’d seen his own mother die. He understood. So Jess swallowed his irrational anger and said, “Where are you going?” Not we. He hadn’t yet decided whether staying in this bed would be his best idea.

“The office of the Archivist,” Wolfe said. “You’ve been there. I could use help in locating his secure records.”

The office. Jess blinked and saw the place, a magnificent space with automaton gods standing silent guard in alcoves. The view of the Alexandrian harbor dominating the windows. A peaceful place. He wondered if they’d managed to scrub the dead assistant’s blood out of the floor yet. The Archivist had ordered her killed just to punish him. And Brendan.

Brendan. The last time he’d been in that office, Brendan had been with him.

Jess swallowed against a wave of disorientation and nausea and sat upright. Someone—Thomas, again—had helped him out of his bloody clothes and into clean ones. An informal High Garda uniform, the kind soldiers wore at leisure in the barracks. Soft as pajamas. It would do. He swung his legs out of bed and paused there, breathing deeply. He felt . . . unwell. Not a specific pain he could land on, just a general malaise, an ache that threaded through every muscle and every nerve. Shock, he supposed. Or just the accumulated stress of the past few days.

It might even be grief. Did grief hurt this way? Like sickness?

“Up.” Wolfe’s voice was unexpectedly kind. Warm. “I know how difficult that is. But there is no other way but onward.”

Jess nodded and stood up. He found his boots—neatly placed at the foot of the bed—and slid them on. His High Garda weapons belt was nearby, with his sidearm still in place. Heavy and lethal, and he felt a bit of comfort as it settled on his hip. We’re at war. It felt like he’d always been at war—his family had always warred with the Great Library, and then he’d fought for a place inside it. Then he’d fought to preserve the dream of the Great Library. And for the first time he wondered what peace would really feel like.

His hair was a spiky mess; he ran his fingers through it and ignored it when it refused to comply. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Wolfe could have said anything to that; Jess expected something dismissive and caustic. But Wolfe just put his hand on Jess’s shoulder, nodded, and led the way.

The house, Jess thought, must have belonged to a Scholar—there was a cluster of black-robed Scholars around a wide table in the main room, anxiously chattering in Greek, which must have been the only language they had in common. A tall man with skin so dark it took on cobalt tones; a small, elegant young Chinese woman; another man, middle-aged and comfortably round, with distinctively Slavic features. There must have been a dozen of them, and Jess recognized only two of them immediately. None of his friends were here, which came as a vague surprise.

All the talk stopped when Wolfe approached the table. No question that he held authority here. “We’re going to the Archivist’s office,” he said. “Thoughts?” His Greek was, of course, excellent; he’d grown up speaking it here in Alexandria. Jess wasn’t as comfortable, but he was more than passable.

“Traps,” the young Chinese woman said. “The Archivist was very fond of them. He certainly would have many waiting there, in case he lost his hold on power. Is there any word on where he is—”

“No,” Wolfe said. “We assume he has loyalists who’ll do anything to protect him. Our advantage is that the less savory elements of this city are firmly on our side, and without criminals to smuggle him out past the walls, he’s trapped here. With us.”

“Or we’re trapped with him,” said one of the Scholars—Jess wasn’t sure which.

That earned a sharp look from Wolfe, and Jess knew the man could cut a person to ribbons with a single glance. “Don’t think he’s all-powerful. Without the apathy and passive consent of Scholars and High Garda, the Archivist would never have felt free to murder as he liked,” Wolfe said. “We’ve taken that from him. Don’t grant him more power than he ever earned.”

“Easy for you to say, Scholar.” That grumble was from the Slav, whose Greek was only lightly accented.

“You think so?” Wolfe’s voice had gone sharp and dry, his face the color of exposed bone. “Easy. For me. Search the Archives. I was erased by him, like hundreds of others you’ve never even noticed missing. None of this is easy. Nor should it be. Killing a god-king ought to be difficult.”

It hit Jess with a jolt that the Archivist had another title: Pharaoh of Alexandria. The god-king. And no doubt the bitter old man took that deification quite seriously. But we will kill him. Somehow.

For Brendan, if for nothing else.

“Look for pressure plates under the floor,” the Chinese scholar said. “He took most of his cues from the great inventor Heron, who built so many wonders of this place. The Archivist took his lessons seriously; his traps will be ingenious, but also quite conventional. He may also have a specific command you’ll need to give to freeze the automata, should they be triggered for defense. I have no idea where you’d find that, but it should be your immediate priority.” She hesitated. “Perhaps . . . you should let the High Garda do this, Scholar.”