Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(85)

I’d like to say I love you, but I promised truth. I’ve feared you, admired you, hated you, maybe even worshipped you. But I know what love feels like now, and we never had that.

Tell Ma that if I love anyone, it’s her. She’s always been quiet and distant, but I think that’s because she hates you and I’m collateral damage. I wish I’d known her without you. I think we’d understand each other better.

Good-bye, Da.

Go to hell.

I hope I’m not there waiting.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN





THOMAS

The Tomb of Heron had always been a myth. His entire life, he’d read about it in books, a fabulous hidden storehouse full of unseen and unknown wonders, but no one had ever found it. The official records said that Heron had died and been cremated, by his own wishes. That there was no such thing as Heron’s Tomb.

But here it was.

“How did you find this?” Thomas asked. He was manacled at the wrists and ankles and had no less than three High Garda Elite guns at his back. Their weapons would be set on a nonlethal choice, he imagined; they’d not want to spoil the Archivist’s plans. That gave him a decided advantage.

They were in a faded ancient temple built to Thoth, god of many things, including technology and magic. It seemed in poor repair, but the fires were still lit by the altar, and the statue of Thoth—just a stone statue, not an automaton—had been kept painted and patched where time had worn at its surface. It stood near the western wall of the city, surrounded by brickworks and dye shops that had grown around it and dwarfed its modest presence. There was a temple to the Greek god Hephaestus not far away; Thomas had visited it, since inside was one of the earliest automata that still survived. The bronze god inside hammered ceaselessly in his forge. The iron hammer had been replaced every year, as had the anvil, but the automaton still worked on and on. A marvel beyond price.

That should have covered Heron’s Tomb. Not this dusty, rigid statue.

“I collected the clues,” the old man said. “It’s never been opened. Never looted by hungry smugglers. There are seven locks, and the theory is that no one has ever survived past the third. But I’m betting that you, Schreiber, you will be the first.”

“I’d like to disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you’ll contain your disappointment if it means surviving.”

Unfortunately, the old man was right. Thomas had no choices, or at least, no good ones. He could refuse to try, but he remembered the circling eyes on Wolfe, Jess, Glain. Certainly the Archivist would have assassins who could go anywhere, kill anyone they chose—if they were prepared to die for it. He couldn’t risk the lives of his friends.

Risking his own life wasn’t something he relished, either, but since raising Poseidon’s avatar from the hidden cavern beneath the harbor, he’d felt . . . different. Steadier. More his old self, as if the god’s shadow had healed something inside of him that prison had broken. He wasn’t the same. But where he’d been welded together again he felt . . . stronger.

“So where is the first key?” Thomas asked.

The old Archivist—pale, seamed, sharp-faced, seemingly so frail—smiled and placed his hand on the plinth where the god stood, and a piece of decorative stonework slid aside. “It will only open for someone with a Scholar’s band,” he said. “Simple enough.”

Inside it was a lock. “And is there a key?” Thomas asked.

“Of course there is.” The old Archivist made no move to hand anything over.

“Long lost?”

“Precisely so. But every thief and smuggler passed this part of the test. I assume you will, too.”

That was a good hint, even if the old man didn’t intend for it to be; Thomas held up his cuffed hands. “I can’t work this way,” he said in a reasonable tone.

“Certainly not.” The Archivist nodded at the Elite captain who stood nearby, scowling. “Unlock him.”

“Archivist—”

“Do as I say. Scholar Schreiber won’t betray me now. He knows the price. And he wants to see inside this tomb as much as I do, don’t you, boy?”

It was true, shameful as that was; Thomas just held out his wrists for the unlocking. His ankles came next.

“Careful,” the captain said. “I’ll shoot you down if you make any move I don’t like. Understand?”

“Oh yes,” Thomas said. “You’d better hope you don’t miss.” He made it cheerful, which he thought was more disturbing. It seemed to work from the change in the older man’s expression, and the step he took back. “I’ll need two pieces of wire, please.”

Someone handed him what he asked for, and he inspected them, then twisted them into the angles that he wanted. Jess was extraordinary at this, and Thomas had learned by watching and trying it himself when no one was looking; it seemed a useful and intriguing skill to have. He wished his friend was here. It would be comforting to have Jess’s humor and practicality at his side.

Thomas closed his eyes and felt the lock as he worked the tension lever and rod, probing at the rudimentary, stiff mechanism until he had it mapped in his mind in elegant detail. Opening it was a simple lever operation, and as he turned both the wires he felt the tumblers turn and fall.