Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(43)

“Updates,” Santi snapped. Some of the clerks were coughing, unused to the stench of the firebombs. One stumbled to a corner and retched. “If you can’t work, leave and send someone of stronger constitution. We can’t afford gaps.”

The clerk gulped, wiped his mouth, and nodded. He went back to his station. “Update from the Lighthouse, sir. The Artifex advises that the device installation is complete, but she can’t guarantee it will work as promised.”

“No time like the present to try,” he said. “Alamasi? Direct them to fire it. Target close to the Spanish fleet, but don’t damage any ships. Warning shot only.”

“Acknowledged, sir, a warning shot,” she said, even as she wrote down the instruction. “They advise two minutes to align and power the device.”

He walked to the last set of windows and looked at the Obscurist. “Raise this set of shutters only. Alamasi, if I’m burned alive, then all this becomes your problem.”

“Sir,” she said reproachfully. “That’s not the inspirational speech I need.”

“I’m not in an inspirational mood.”

The shutter rolled up, and he saw hell.

He’d watched the bombardment of Philadelphia under the orders of the old Archivist; he knew the devastation Greek fire could wreak, and he knew he’d hesitate to ever use it against a vulnerable target. But the Welsh—who had used it on London, heedless of civilian casualties—had no such qualms. They’d raised flags on their ships: black ones, with a red bar across them. The Welsh signal for no quarter.

So much for diplomacy. The Welsh, at least, intended to destroy whatever they could, reduce the Great Library to ashes if they had to. And the Spanish weren’t turning on them. Weren’t supporting their efforts, but certainly weren’t demanding a stop.

The only saving grace was that the plans the High Garda had so carefully prepared were working. Stores of denaturing powder that could quell Greek fire were at every corner of every main road, and on many of the smaller ones, too. Special fire brigades were in place with dispensers to fire the powder over larger areas. So as many vile fireballs as streaked through the air toward the beautiful Alexandrian streets, few did more than land, spread, and be promptly smothered. Of course there was damage, unavoidably, but he saw only a few fires that were spreading, and those had plenty of attention.

So far, it was only Welsh ships firing ballistas. But if the other ships in that fleet joined . . . “They said two minutes,” he said. “Is the Lighthouse aware of how much damage could be done by then?”

“Yes, sir. They’re working.”

As he watched tensely, one of the Welsh ships got the range and began to hammer at the Iron Tower. So far, it seemed unaffected. It was torture to stand here and watch the bombardment and deliver no answer. A barrage came at the Serapeum, hit the ancient stone, and slid away. The ancients had built their defenses well. We rely on the past accomplishments far too much. Must do something about that.

“Sir!” Alamasi’s voice was vibrant with excitement. “Lighthouse signals ready!”

“Fire,” he said. He hoped he sounded calmer than he felt.

A thick beam of red light cut from the top of the Pharos Lighthouse. It was as broad as a warship, as hot as the sun’s fiery skin, and it sliced straight through the water in a line that only just missed the bows of several Spanish ships, including the one flying the flag of the ambassador.

Steam blew up in a blinding cloud, creating instant fog and confusion; through the mist, Santi saw one of the ballistas go wrong on the deck of a Welsh ship, and Greek fire exploded and spread. They’d have precautions, but the heavy, sudden fog did them no favors in organization. Ships drifted too close together. The crews were disoriented in the reduced vision. And the unholy green glow of the spilled Greek fire burned like angry spirits, creating a hellish vision of chaos.

The red beam cut out. Santi watched for a few seconds, and then said, “Senior Captain, please send a message to the Spanish ambassador. Tell him that the Welsh are to cease their bombardment immediately, or the next thing that the Lighthouse burns will not be seawater.”

“Yes, sir.” He heard the fast scratch of her stylus. Alamasi had a rare gift for quick communication matched with perfect script; he couldn’t have done it himself. His scrawl would have been incomprehensible to the Spanish under this type of pressure. Much depended on precision.

The silence within the room felt heavy, overlaid by the distant screams and cries from the city below.

There were two more bombs fired toward the city, and then the bombardment stopped. The fleet sat quiet in the drifting fog.

And Alamasi said, “The Spanish ambassador writes as follows: Our Welsh allies acted with reckless haste and have been reprimanded. We are willing to signal a truce and assist with the injured within the city.”

“Thank him for his gracious offer,” he said. “Should the fleet wish to remain against the orders of the Archivist and threaten our borders, we will respond with all weapons at our disposal to any hostile intention.”

She was transcribing as he said it, and he felt a moment’s light-headed weakness. I’m no diplomat. But in this moment, he did as he had to do, and he knew that was what the Archivist expected. Whatever mistakes he made would be discussed later, but for now, he knew weakness could only bring the wolves.