Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(63)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “He doesn’t have a knife. He’s been searched three times.”

“I’m not letting him in to see the Archivist without making sure. You can afford to be careless. I can’t.” There was something unspoken hanging in the air. They don’t like her, he realized. Maybe because she’d been elevated to their company by the Archivist’s decree. Maybe because they knew she’d betrayed her own once before.

“I said—” Zara’s voice had gone cold and sharp as a frozen blade, but she was stopped when the tent’s flap pushed back, and the Archivist—former, Thomas reminded himself—stepped out.

“Let them in,” he said. “Schreiber won’t kill me. It’s not in his nature.”

He doesn’t know me very well, Thomas thought. That was useful.

The Archivist wore a golden robe, but it was simple, not ceremonial; maybe he hadn’t had time to loot the Great Library’s treasures during his escape. He seemed older than Thomas remembered. And less well kept. Unbrushed, tangled, oily hair. Deep, dark bags beneath his eyes, and weariness cut so deep into his face the lines looked like wounds. He hadn’t slept easy, if at all. He is an old man, Thomas thought. Fragile. I never thought of him that way before.

The soldier didn’t like it, but he stepped aside and let Zara take her prisoner into the tent. There were, of course, more guards within, standing silently at the four corners, but these were automata. Spartans, with shields and spears and expressionless metallic faces beneath their helmets. They all turned toward him, eyes kindling red.

“If you’ve actually got a weapon concealed on your person, Schreiber, you have seconds to say so,” the Archivist said as he walked to a small folding desk. It had an equally plain folding chair behind it. Hardly the opulence to which he was accustomed, Thomas thought. “Unless you’d like your little joke to be your epitaph.”

“I’m unarmed,” Thomas said. That didn’t change the red eyes, or the focus the Spartans kept on him. Perhaps they could smell his rage. He felt it hissing in his veins like venom. “I don’t need a weapon to kill you, if I wanted to do that. And certainly she couldn’t stop me.”

“Couldn’t I?” Zara pressed a knife to his back, just above his kidneys. “I think I could. But you’re too smart to try.”

He was. But all his thinking, analyzing, observing . . . it was all to control his anger. I have engineered my rage, he thought. Focused in, like the Ray of Apollo, to turn it lethal and beautiful. And one day, this tired old man would know that.

But not when there was no way to survive it. I’m needed, Thomas thought. If he didn’t get back to his duties, if the Ray of Apollo failed in the Lighthouse . . . that would be the beginning of the end. He hated to think of himself as indispensable; there were many competent engineers, designers, mechanics. But he was the one with the vision, and that had to be preserved through this crisis. After that, he would be relieved to be just another engineer. Just another Scholar.

He fixed the old man with a stare and said, “What do you want from me?”

The Archivist restlessly moved a pile of loose papers from one corner to the other, as if it irritated him merely by existing in his presence. “I started out like you, bright and overly optimistic about the world. I thought knowledge could solve every problem, heal every wound. But we flawed, foolish humans have to decide how to use knowledge, and we rarely choose for the better. There is no absolute good. No absolute evil. Every cure can also kill.”

“So killing you will not be evil,” Thomas said. “That’s good. I was not worried, but—”

“I’m trying to explain to you how we got to this point. Don’t be impertinent.”

“Oh, I understand,” Thomas said. “I made a weapon that can kill thousands in the blink of an eye. I installed it in the Lighthouse today. I know about the dangers of excusing anything to reach a goal, but you? You took an oath to protect and distribute knowledge. Instead, you killed Scholars rather than see their work shared. You upheld a system to hide inconvenient discoveries. Everything you’ve done is to keep yourself in power. I know.”

The old man shook his head. “You understand nothing. Every year, I meet with the heads of every kingdom and country, high and low. I convince them once again to pledge their loyalty to the Great Library. What does the world look like without that, Thomas? It’s a burning wreck, fueled by madness, sectarian violence, ignorance. I save the world. Every year.”

“You make it in your own image. There’s a difference.”

“Thomas—”

“I liked it better when you were calling me by my last name. If you’re trying to convince me to help, you’re just wasting breath.”

The Archivist sat back and stared at him, and the cold glitter in his hooded eyes put Thomas on guard. “Very well. Here’s what I want from you, Schreiber: pick some locks for me. That simple. Once you’ve done it, I’ll even let you leave alive.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“Well, unfortunately, your lock-picking friend Brightwell is busy dying at the moment, so I can’t ask him. You’ll have to do.” It was a blow delivered carelessly, but intentionally, too. Thomas felt himself go tense and hot all over, and he leaned forward. He had to resist the urge to smash through that flimsy desk and grab the old man by the throat and demand answers. He also knew it was suicide.