Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(84)

“Please.” Khalila nodded.

“I think we all have to agree that the Great Archives is our most fragile resource. Having those manuscripts as the source of all our knowledge makes us dangerously exposed. It always has, but especially now.”

“I agree,” Khalila said. “And I intend to authorize the Artifex Magnus to incorporate Thomas’s marvelous print machine into the Great Library’s plans, but that will take time. Do you have a better solution?”

“For the moment, yes. How many Blanks do we have in storage?”

“Litterae Vargas?”

“Several hundred thousand,” Vargas said. “Why?”

“How many books can each of them hold?”

“Depends upon the size of the book, and the size of the writing of the Scribe. Ten? Twenty?”

Morgan turned back to Khalila. “Then I propose you allow us to take those Blanks, task all the Scribe automata to immediately copy every book—or as much of the Great Archives as possible—and as each book is filled, set an Obscurist to disable the script that allows the contents to erase.”

“Rendering the Blanks as originals?” Khalila asked. She understood immediately. And the whole Curia looked various shades of uncomfortable. “How long would it take?”

“If we devote all the Scribe automata to the job? A day. Maybe more. But at the end of the day we have copies that the Archivist doesn’t know even exist. And they will be in a completely separate location.”

“Which can then be sold, stolen, destroyed—” Achim Ben David seemed repulsed by the idea. “We have always maintained originals. Never copies!”

“Not true,” Khalila said calmly. “In the earliest days of the Great Library, copies were made. Sometimes as many as a dozen. The Serapeum, the daughter libraries—those held copies, if you remember. It’s not without precedent.”

“It hasn’t been done since the Great Archives was first copied into Blanks for lending!”

“And it’s time to reconsider our approach.” Khalila nodded to Morgan. “Proceed, Morgan.”

“Yes, Archivist. We’ll start immediately.” And with that, she was simply . . . gone.

Wolfe suspected she’d already started without any such permission, from the curve of her smile. Clever girls, both of them. And Morgan, at least, had never been too concerned with the Great Library’s rules.

“Before I issue any further orders, I’d like a full report of the city’s defenses,” the Archivist said. “Lord Commander? If you please. I depend on your wisdom.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Wolfe said, and headed for the door.

Her voice stopped him. “Scholar Wolfe.”

He turned. That was not the voice of his student. It was the voice of his queen. He bowed slightly. “Archivist.”

“Do you know where the former Archivist is hiding?”

“No,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

Khalila took out her Codex. “There may be something just as important. The Artifex Magnus reported in shortly before Archivist Murasaki was killed that Thomas couldn’t be located; Artifex Jones was expecting him back at the Lighthouse some time ago. I know he sometimes loses himself in his work and ignores his Codex, but—I wonder if Thomas is in trouble. Please look into it. We can’t afford to lose him.”

He nodded. “Yes, Archivist. I’ll find him.”

Thomas might have simply plunged himself so deeply into his work that he forgot the world; it wouldn’t be unusual for him. But at the same time, Thomas knew the dire needs of Alexandria. Schreiber wouldn’t just ignore all summons. Not for this long.

He was worried for the boy.





EPHEMERA



Text of a letter from Jess Brightwell to his father, Callum Brightwell, never sent


Da,

I suppose they’ve told you of Brendan’s death. I have nothing to add except that he died with honor, not that I think you value that. I suppose, too, that you blame me; without me, he’d never have thrown his loyalty to my side, and gotten himself killed for it.

I loved him. Without measure. And I accept that blame.

I have to tell you that when they shot him, his killer probably believed he was me. I don’t know if that makes things better or worse, but it’s the truth.

Here, at the end of things, I wanted to tell you nothing but truth. I don’t know if I’ll ever send this letter, but if I do, I want it to be honest. You’ve taught me to survive, and without meaning to, to love books; I can give you that much. But what you also taught me was that every friend and every ally is temporary, every trust is there to be broken to an advantage. I hate that I see the world through eyes you crafted. Maybe no matter how much I try to avoid it I’m still a Brightwell.

You once ordered me to the Great Library to be your spy. It’s the kindest thing you ever did for me. I’ve found my feet, my soul, my voice, my strength, my friends. And I’m grateful.

I’m dying, Da. They haven’t come out and said it yet, but the Medica’s words are too careful. I’m to “conserve my strength” and other such nonsense, but I’m getting worse, not better. Anyway, no time for rest now. Better I die for something, even if it’s nothing you’d believe in. Loyalty’s just a word to you. It’s real for me.