Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(45)

“Betrayal.”

Santi didn’t miss the fury that ignited in the young man’s eyes, or the hand that went automatically to his side; if he’d had the fancy blade there, he’d have drawn it. Which was why it now lay on the table behind Santi. But Dario checked himself and said, “Be careful how you say that, High Commander. I’m loyal. Not a lapdog. What do you want?”

“I want you to tell your cousin that you need to borrow his spies.”



* * *



—

The Archivist summoned Santi for a personal report after Dario was dispatched on his way, and she’d put aside her formal robes and headdress for a simple, clean kimono of pale green with pastel flowers. Murasaki looked calm and ordered, and she was gracious enough to allow him to sit as their tea was poured. It was a tea almost the shade of her gown, and though he wasn’t prone much to tea, it drove his weariness away again. For a while.

“The reports tell me your preparations were effective,” she said. “The damage to our heritage buildings is minor, and even in the unprotected streets your firefighting teams minimized the losses.”

“Ten dead,” he said. “Two of them librarians. Twenty-one injured seriously enough to summon Medica. I don’t consider that minimized, Archivist.”

“We’re at war, in all but name. You must adjust your expectations. As must I. I have lived much of my life in Spain; I have served at the three largest Serapeums there, and I have a great love for the country and people. And my own home country has taken arms against us. It leaves me in a difficult position, but I will do what I must. As will you. Whatever the cost in lives and property, we have a greater responsibility—to knowledge. To the world.”

He bowed his head. “Yes. I know that.” He wanted to tell her about Dario’s mission, but he didn’t dare, not here. There were staff members around, and worst of all, Khalila Seif, who would not take this well at all. “I have a question, Archivist, if you would allow.”

“Ask.”

“Will you place this war completely in my hands? Trust me to follow a strategy, even if it seems wrong to you?”

“That is your position, High Commander. I would only overrule you if I saw imminent disaster.”

“I need you to promise me: don’t do it even then. We’ll need our nerves steady, both of us, to do what I plan.”

“And I suppose you will not tell me what it is?”

“I can’t,” he confessed. “Not because I don’t trust you, Archivist. But because I am risking the life of someone who also trusts me. But I will tell you, I promise. When it’s time.”

Her gaze was cool, heavy, and assessing; she reminded him of Christopher in that moment. No fools suffered in this room. “Very well,” Murasaki said. “But you know the consequences if this goes badly.”

He toasted her with his cup of tea. “Are you telling me to return with my shield or upon it?”

“Thirty-six plans of how to win the battle are not as good as one plan to withdraw from it,” she retorted. An old Japanese proverb. “But I will trust you. And you must trust me. Or we both lose.”

He touched his fist to his chest—not quite a salute, but a suggestion of one, and she accepted it with a nod.

He had his approvals.

After thanking her for the refreshment, he rose to leave. The Archivist stopped him. “Distasteful as this is, we must discuss one of our own. My understanding is that Jess Brightwell is involved with the young woman who has inherited Red Ibrahim’s shadow empire. True?”

“He knows her,” Santi said. He didn’t tell her that he did as well, if only slightly. It didn’t seem a proper thing for a High Garda commander to admit.

“And Brightwell’s father controls much of the illegal book trade of England and Europe?”

“Yes.”

“Yet this boy was accepted to the High Garda? And we wholly trust him?”

“Jess is not his father,” Santi said. “And his brother died fighting with us.”

“But for what reason? I doubt his altruism.” The Archivist had a very traditional view of book smugglers, and he couldn’t blame her; he’d had the same opinions until Jess had introduced him to some of the players. Though he’d cheerfully knock Callum Brightwell flat any day of the week. As if she’d just read his mind, the Archivist continued. “His father has sent several messages demanding we hold an immediate funeral for his son, and that he and his wife attend. I am reluctant to admit him to our city, especially in this time of uncertainty. Or, frankly, at all. Your opinion, knowing all of these people better, would be welcome.”

Funerals. Santi hadn’t thought about them, hadn’t even considered the need for them yet. But of course funerals would need to be held, particularly for those whose religions required immediate burial or cremation. He wasn’t sure what religion the elder Brightwell followed. Or Brendan, for that matter. The Great Library always honored the traditions whenever possible. “And when is his funeral to be held?”

“I haven’t yet decided,” she admitted. “I would prefer to return him to his father in England for whatever rites are required, but . . . I think his brother should also have a choice in this.”

“Brendan died for us, and his brother,” Santi said. “I agree that having Callum Brightwell here is an invitation to chaos, but I will say this for him: he saved our lives during the Welsh conflict in London. And gave us shelter when we were on the run from the Archivist.”