Sef
Sef Hassan had not always made his money honestly; he may have occasionally strayed from the path he intended to take; he may have loved too imperiously or punished too harshly; he may not have been the academic his father had been so much as a revolutionary in academic’s clothing; but he was not a liar. Not like this.
“Trust me,” said Nothazai in an undertone, pulling Sef away from the rest of the room where the dwindling members of Ezra Fowler’s team sat plotting. “Where I’m going will be better for all of us. For everyone who shares our values, our goals. Unlike the others,” he added in a softly disdainful voice, “who came here seeking power they have not earned.”
Nothazai placed a hand on Sef’s shoulder in a way that was meant to be conspiratorial, positioning Sef away from the Chinese secret service medeian, the Wessex daughter, and the American CIA director, none of whom Sef truly liked. His disdain was not a secret. Sef already knew that Pérez had had something to do with the death of Nasser Aslani, who had been a younger student at university with Sef. They had not exactly been close, but they had been aware of each other, and congenial. Aslani had been friends with other medeian scholars that Sef had known, the quiet counterpart to an ideologically progressive group of eldest sons from wealthy families—which Sef was not. Wealthy, that is. Ideologically, Sef was a survivalist.
Which was why he suddenly realized that while he had never been able to place the origin of Nothazai’s accent, he could not unhear the Oxbridge vowels now.
Sef nodded politely at Nothazai in a way that meant don’t worry, I trust you, because it was what the moment demanded. Sef had not submitted to this coalition under false pretenses, zealously willing to trust anyone who claimed to share the virtues of his lifelong task.
Sef had not liked Ezra Fowler and did not mourn his loss. He did not like Atlas Blakely either, and to that end, whatever had happened to the Society’s former Caretaker was probably well-deserved. As far as Nothazai, the ends would have justified the means had the Forum’s resources proven successful, but Sef knew better than to blindly follow him when their motivations had clearly diverged.
Let the others be the snake eating its tail, the Hydra destined to fall. The Society promised power and to others it delivered, but power was still in the eye of the beholder.
Power did nothing to soften a grave. It also did nothing to keep a promise.
“Of course,” said Sef, knowing full well he would not hear from Nothazai again.
Knowledge was a funny thing. It could be shared. It could be given. But it could not be stolen. The archives knew to whom they belonged. If a better man than Sef Hassan became the one to properly distribute them, so be it. He already knew it would not be a worse one.
Ancient promises would not be instantaneously delivered. It was a long time yet to eventuality.
Nothazai smiled and so did Sef. A very cordial goodbye.