Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(59)

“We can’t afford mistakes,” he told her. “Not here, not now. We have to be perfect. And fast.”

She nodded, but he could see the worry in her expression. He knew how he looked: tired, shadows under his eyes and lurking in them, most likely. He knew this had to be done. He just wished it was anyone else’s responsibility.

“Go,” she told him. “I’ll arrange for the crystal cutting. Good luck, Scholar Schreiber.”

He thanked her and left. Instead of using the lifting chamber that ran on cables from the lens chamber to the ground, he took the long, winding stairs. Physical activity helped him think and rid himself of the dark storm of anxiety that was still blowing inside him. By the time he reached the bottom he felt almost normal.

He’d managed to avoid thinking about the damage done to the city until he left the walls that surrounded the Lighthouse, but there was no missing it then. Still a dull smudge of smoke hung over the city, though the growing breeze blowing in from the sea was carrying that away. Mass warships still bobbed on the horizon. Poseidon still stood firm in its protective stance, trident poised to spear any ship that ventured too close.

The dark storm clouds looked like a wall, and the distant brilliant threads of lightning stitched through them. It was going to be a very dark night, and the ships out there would want—no, would need—to enter the harbor or risk being utterly destroyed.

The city of Alexandria had to survive that threat. It was up to him, the Artifex, and the entire array of Scholars working on the problems to ensure that happened. And the job of the High Garda to defend them while they worked.

He had a guard now, he realized; two uniformed High Garda soldiers followed him at a distance. He supposed Lord Commander Santi had decided he was important enough to assign protection, but it still made him feel uncomfortable. He decided to ignore them and continue on his business. Nothing else to be done. He concentrated on what was his to do: go to the workshop at the Colosseum. Work with his team of specialists to design and craft the reconfigured casing. If they worked at top, careful speed, they could have it ready within hours—plenty of time, surely.

“Sir,” one of the High Garda said as they caught up with him at a jog. “We’d prefer it if you took a carriage. We’ll fetch you one.”

“Hurry up,” he said, and didn’t stop walking. Waiting was a thing he couldn’t bear, not now.

It was just seconds before a carriage pulled up beside him, and he stepped aboard without waiting for it to glide to a stop. “The Artifex Magnus’s forge,” he said. “You know where it is?”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said. She had on a traditional niqab, covered except for a slit that exposed her dark eyes. “I’ll get you there quickly.”

As he sat, his two guards piled in on either side. It was a tight fit.

“Sorry, sir,” the one on his right said. “We’re ordered to stay with you.”

“Fine,” he said. “Don’t jog my elbow.”

He was already jotting down notes in his Codex as he spoke, and he called up three books for reference and checked his assumptions as he sketched out the design. He was heavily absorbed in planning, so it was a surprise when he glanced up and realized that he didn’t recognize the street they were on.

“Driver? Where are you going?”

No answer. He started to rise and rap on the ceiling.

The High Garda soldier to his right produced a sidearm and jammed it into his side. A second later, he had another gun pressed to his left flank.

“You make a large target,” one of them said. “I’d be very careful, Scholar Schreiber.”

He stayed very still. “I really don’t have time for whatever you are doing. It’s important that I get to the forge. Why would the Lord Commander prevent me—” He stopped himself as a grim realization settled in his stomach. “You aren’t High Garda.”

“Smart boy,” the one on the left said. “Sit your clever ass down.”

“What do you want?” The driver, he realized with a sinking feeling, must have been in on it as well; the carriage was still clattering along at a high rate of speed. Taking him . . . where?

“You,” the soldier said. “And I’d like to keep you alive, but if that can’t be done, then I’m just fine with the alternative. Are we understood?”

“You’re very clear. Who do you work for? Not the Archivist, surely.”

“Not the one you call Archivist, no.” The man who was talking now had a cruel smile on his lips. The uniform made him anonymous, but Thomas memorized his face: long, narrow, pale. A vulpine sort of shape, with clever dark eyes and very dark hair. An accent that implied Russia, or one of the Slavic countries; it was difficult to say, since the man was speaking accented Alexandrian Greek. “Stay compliant and stay alive, Scholar. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

“I don’t have time for your games,” Thomas said. “Please don’t make me kill the two of you.”

The two soldiers exchanged looks past him and laughed. “Scholar. Don’t be stupid.”

Must be fast, Thomas told himself. He mapped his movements out before he executed, the same way he planned an intricate machine, this, then this, then this, and by the time his hands moved with a snap he was already at the end of the equation, in which two High Garda imposters lay unconscious or dead.