Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(36)

“Well, you don’t have to follow him. Rest. Please?”

“I will,” he said. “You—why are you here? I thought you’d be at the Iron Tower.”

“I was. Eskander set me to work with Thomas, but we both were so tired. Then Glain—”

“You came for Glain. Yes, of course you would have. You always come when we’re in trouble.” He stepped toward her again, and this time he kissed her, and she melted into it. His lips were firm and soft and sweet and she loved the way he held her, but it still felt . . . wrong. Empty, in a way, as if the bridge that had once connected them had fallen away.

He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry.” He whispered it, as intimate as the kiss. “I wish we were . . . you know.”

“I—” She didn’t know what to say. What to do. She knew in her heart that the two of them fit, and yet they didn’t; they loved, and yet it was a patchwork kind of love with holes and gaps. He was what she should want; she knew that. But she also knew it wasn’t enough for her. Or for him. “I wish we were, too. I’m sorry, Jess. I think we were right for a while.”

“But not forever.”

“No. Not forever.”

The laugh he managed sounded mangled and rusty. “Aren’t we supposed to be in love forever? Isn’t that how it works?”

“I don’t know how it works,” she said, and she meant it. “Are you going to be all right?”

He stepped back, and she could see the armor go on. It wasn’t his own; this had a brassy, brash edge that was all his brother’s. “Me? I’m always all right,” he said. “Take care of yourself, Morgan. I do care. I always will.”

She nodded. She wasn’t sure she could speak. There was a panic whirling inside her, a wild, off-balance need to make this right, to fix it and go back to the way things were, to safety and comfort, and what was wrong with craving those things even if there wasn’t love along with them . . . ?

She forced a smile and said, “Good night, Jess.”

There were tears burning in her eyes as he walked away, and she wanted to stop him. She wanted to save him.

But she knew that wasn’t right, and she didn’t need the ring to remind her of it.

“Good-bye,” she whispered.

But he was already gone.





EPHEMERA



Text of a handwritten letter from Obscurist Vanya Nikolin, smuggled from the Iron Tower and delivered by courier to the Archivist in Exile. Indexed later to the Codex as historical record.


I have succeeded in your requests to a point, Archivist, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to make the changes necessary without attracting the notice of the Hermit himself or his apprentice. I am working as quickly as I can, but I must be cautious. One mistake and I will be removed from the Iron Tower completely, possibly even imprisoned. I think I can avoid that by shifting the blame to one of my assistants, and I have seeded some damning evidence in their journals should this occur, but please understand that we must go carefully.

I have not been able to rewrite any of the automata likely to come into contact with the new Archivist. There is no possibility of assassination through that route, and as I’ve said before, I will not risk my life in the attempt. You have paid me to do quiet work, and this suits me. But hire assassins if you want someone to get their hands bloody. I will not.

I’ve recruited a few allies, carefully, and they have proven useful, but the more support I gather, the bigger the risk of discovery. We must be very, very aware of what is at stake, and not move too quickly.

I can’t spend your money if I’m dead.





CHAPTER SIX





KHALILA

Khalila woke in predawn darkness, gasping and cold with sweat, and as she curled in on herself and tried to regulate her breathing, she didn’t know what had made her wake in such distress. If it had been a dream, it was gone like morning mist.

But there was enough tension gathering to frighten anyone. She sat up and listened. She’d slept on a camp bed in a small storeroom in the Serapeum; she hadn’t wanted to make the trip back to the Iron Tower and risk not being at the Archivist’s side in an emergency. The Archivist’s accommodations hadn’t been much more luxurious than this, either.

Khalila rose, stretched, slid her feet into sandals, and realized that she’d have to leave the room and find a toilet soon. She brushed out her hair and coiled it beneath the same hijab she’d been wearing for the last few days. She desperately needed more changes of clothing, and a night in her own comfortable bed. And a bath, though she’d made do with basins and washcloths so far. She felt grubby, though once she’d found the toilet and availed herself, she checked herself in the mirror and found herself adequate, at least. She scrubbed down, then added eyeliner and a dash of color to her cheeks, took a deep breath, and told herself, “All will be well.” She had to believe that. What choice was there?

The sun would be up soon. She went back to the small room she’d slept in, folded up the bed, and unrolled her prayer rug. Her prayers this morning were heartfelt. She badly needed Allah’s protection today, with what the city faced. The peace would not hold. She felt that in her bones.

After prayers, she set about the business of the day. The fact that no one had summoned her during the night meant that the ambassadors had continued their talks. On finding one of the passing Scholars heading home for rest, she found that they’d requested, and been granted, sleeping quarters of their own, but that they’d risen early and were now gathered back in the large, spacious room where she’d had them settled.