Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(83)

“You’ve proposed Khalila for Archivist,” she said. “Eskander agrees.” She smiled, and Wolfe was struck with how much older she looked now than her years. Beautiful, but fading like a winter rose, and seeing that hurt. I failed her, he thought. But he knew he couldn’t have helped her, either. Sometimes there simply were no good choices to be made. Only costly ones.

“Morgan—” Khalila looked breathless, but then she steadied herself. Wolfe saw the change, the way her body shifted to fill that draping robe, the way her chin lifted and her breathing slowed. “I am humbled and honored, Scholar Wolfe, but I am still little more than a student of the Great Library. I’m not worthy of this—”

“Oh, quiet, girl, are you not a full gold-band Scholar? Were you not granted a lifetime appointment? You meet the requirements,” Vargas snapped. She tapped her stylus restlessly on the desk and studied Khalila with sharp, predatory eyes. “And you’re not ignorant of politics, which is the main requirement of this particular posting, I’ll allow you that. I agree with Wolfe; he hasn’t the inhuman patience necessary for the job. Neither do I, Christopher.” She sent him an unexpectedly cheerful smile, and he found himself nodding back. “Greta, our Artifex, is brilliant but quite raw in social skills; it seems to be a theme in that field. So that leaves Medica. Chen Shi?”

The Medica Magnus was a younger man, in his early thirties most likely; Wolfe didn’t know him. But he smiled and said, “I have absolutely no desire to be Archivist, and I wouldn’t be good at it. Let me do my own job. I do it well.”

“And Lingua?”

“No,” the old man in that seat said. Him, Wolfe recognized. Achim Ben David, a man of his father’s age who’d studied in the Great Library his entire life. He’d never taken a single posting beyond the borders of Alexandria, but that didn’t hold him back from being the single most learned man in the room. “I would not take the chair unless I was the last Scholar in Alexandria. I’m terrible at politics. From all accounts, even Murasaki relied on the girl for advice. To each their strengths.”

“I believe Archivist is the sort of job that disqualifies anyone who wants it,” Vargas observed. “But your point is well made. Lord Commander?”

“I’ve surrendered that title,” Santi said.

“And we’ve rejected your surrender. If the new Archivist wishes to take your resignation, then you can rejoice, but for now you are still the Lord Commander of the High Garda, and I need your answer. Do you want to serve as Archivist?”

Wolfe didn’t miss the revulsion that flared in his lover’s eyes. “No.”

“Do you support the elevation of Scholar Khalila Seif to the position of Archivist of the Great Library?”

Santi’s vote, like it or not, would carry the room. Wolfe knew it. They all did. Nic took his time, choosing his words, and finally said, “I wish it wasn’t necessary. In time she’d have risen to it, I have no doubt of that, but we’re out of time. I’d rather not place this heavy weight on her, but . . . yes. I support her elevation.”

“So say we all?” Vargas made it a question. One by one, the Curia nodded. “Then it’s done except for the ceremonies. Archivist Seif, you may have the shortest tenure in the Great Library’s history—”

“Except for mine,” Wolfe murmured. Vargas’s eyes flickered, and her lips twitched as if curving toward a smile.

“But for tonight, at least, you are the Archivist. Tomorrow, if the city still stands, we will see what can be made of that. I would say congratulations, but I don’t think they are much in order. We have the Russian army massed at the northeast wall. We may yet have the Spanish in our harbor once the storm clears, gods know. We have traitors in our midst, and the former Archivist planning to retake his power. A city to protect. Treaties to repair.” Vargas tapped the table again with her stylus, a sharp exclamation point to her remarks. “And now we await your orders.”

This, Wolfe thought, was the moment. The moment that would make or break his student. And it was a rare privilege to be here to witness it.

It also terrified him, because there was nothing he could do to help her.

Khalila was silent for a few seconds, and then she walked to the head of the table where a seat had been left vacant. The whole Curia rose to their feet. Even Vargas.

Wolfe leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

Khalila sat and nodded to the Curia, and they took their chairs. After a brief hesitation, Santi sat down as well. His demeanor had changed. His back was straight, shoulders square. He hadn’t come to terms with his failure—that, Wolfe knew, would haunt him forever—but he was prepared to carry on.

“My colleagues,” Khalila said. “‘Thank you’ is inadequate to the trust you’ve put in me. Let’s take a moment to remember our first duty: to preserve the knowledge that has been put in our keeping. That means the Great Archives. Is there any chance that they could be breached?”

Morgan replied, “Speaking for the Obscurists . . . we’ve locked down the Translation functions within the Great Archives. Nothing comes in; nothing leaves. There’s no risk by any alchemical means.”

“And if the old man has his own Obscurist?”

“Even then, we’ve blocked the access to the base script. Only Eskander himself can unlock it—or me. But no one else can open Translation within the Great Archives. Even a rebel Obscurist can’t do that.” She hesitated a moment. “I have a suggestion, if you don’t mind.”