Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(55)

“Probably,” Mondragon replied. He swept Dario with a look, head to toe. “You seem prepared enough for the mission.”

“I’d prefer a weapon,” he said.

“Then you should have brought one.” Mondragon’s tone reminded Dario of Scholar Wolfe’s at his most irritated, but the young spy snapped fingers, and one of the men in the shadows—all men, as far as Dario could tell—stepped forward and handed Dario a gun. He raised his eyebrows and examined it closer. It wasn’t High Garda issue.

“Russian?” he guessed.

“Yes,” Mondragon said. “Always nice to have allies who are fine weapons manufacturers. Don’t lose it. You won’t get another. Now, come on, we don’t have time to waste. The storm that’s approaching the coast poses a real danger to our ships and crews. We need to have them safely docked before it arrives.” Mondragon unrolled a map and spread it against the wall. “Show me the location.”

“Here.” Dario pointed to the precise spot. Mondragon studied it and let the map roll up with a snap of stiff paper.

“Very well. Then let’s move out.”

Dario nodded and did as he was told. That included a trip through the warehouse to a side door that opened on a blind alley; there was a dilapidated steam carrier there with a large covered box rolling behind it. Big enough, Dario realized, for all of the Spanish team, which proved to be fifteen strong, including him. All anonymous. The most recognizable thing about any of them was Mondragon’s eyeglasses, and those could, in a crisis, be discarded. He had no idea if Mondragon actually needed them at all.

There were not a lot of steam carriers abroad today, but Dario supposed there must be a few; life went on, even in a city under siege. This unremarkable carriage wouldn’t be noticed. He sat with the others crowded in on the floor of the bare carrier box and paid close attention as they got underway. He had his own mental map of the city streets, and as the steam carriage made the necessary turns, he knew that Mondragon had taken him at his word. They were going to the right place.

And that was dangerous, even if it was what he wanted. There was a battle ahead, and it could be a bad one.

As the carriage slowed and the rumble of the wheels subsided, Mondragon said, “Santiago, you’re in charge of stopping any automata. Villareal, you’re backup. If Santiago fails, you succeed. Understood?”

“Yes,” the man beside Dario said. He was older, and he radiated calm competence. “Time to come clean, Scholar. What’s the secret to disarming the things?”

From his accent, the man was Catalonian. Dario felt a surge of homesickness. Now that he had no guarantee of living through the day, he had a sudden fondness for Madrid. For Barcelona. For food and spices he hadn’t even missed, until this moment.

He cleared his throat and said, “If they’re lions or sphinxes, under the arm, here.” He pressed a finger to his armpit. “Most automata built with human or animal faces will have that installed. Not all, unfortunately. So be careful. Get in close, strike that button quickly, and move. It’s the only way.” He felt sick saying it. He’d just lied to the man, and with a smile, too.

Villareal didn’t seem reassured. “I’ve seen these things gut men in less than a heartbeat. How quickly?”

Dario shrugged. “Well, if you miss the timing, you’ll know.”

“You’re not amusing, Highness.”

“You remind me of a friend of mine.”

“You have friends?”

“Oh, now you really remind me of him.” He wondered where Brightwell was right now. Probably lying in a nice warm bed, if the Medica had anything to say about it. He’d be all right. Jess was a survivor. Thinking of Jess was better than considering what he’d just done. It was a contingency only. He prayed he wouldn’t have to see it triggered. “Good luck, Villareal.”

Villareal nodded slowly. “You, too.” He reached for the doors.

“Not yet,” Mondragon said. “We’ve got a scout looking around.” He opened a small peephole in the side, then checked his Codex. Wrote some words. From what Dario could tell, Mondragon had accessed the street plan for this area. He studied it carefully. When the message came back from his spy, Mondragon read it and frowned. “The property you indicated has closed gates,” he said. “And nothing moving inside, as far as my scout can tell. It seems deserted.”

“Of course,” Dario said. “It would. High Garda would have this spot completely locked down. Nothing coming or going. Not even more High Garda.” He took out his own Codex and a stylus and wrote a message. It was an entirely innocuous message to an entirely anonymous Codex, one that had been carefully erased from the system by no less than the Obscurist Magnus himself. He was careful about the height of the letters, the extra scrolling on the ends.

He wrote, Difficult day here in Alexandria, and a storm on the horizon. Pray for us.

The translation of the code was, I’m here. Ready.

The reply was immediate, though the handwriting was far too messy to read any letter-height coding. I will.

The signal came a moment later—not from the Codex, but in the form of a scream and distant gunfire. Dario snapped the book shut, put it in its holder, and looked at Mondragon. “We should go now.”

“Once we know what’s—”