CHAPTER FIVE

Getting out of the Lighthouse meant, in the end, waiting for a whole flock of Scholars to leave at once, and striding along with them as if he were one of them. Jess quickly offered to carry a heavy load of equipment for the small, overweight man leading the party, and that had earned him instant friendship—at least, until he handed it back at the end of the road and headed for the High Garda compound at a run. Running felt good on such a bright and perfect morning.

When he arrived back, he searched for Glain. Her quarters were empty, but he finally spotted her walking the halls in the company of Captain Feng. He couldn’t read her expression, but he doubted she was with the man by her own choice. The conversation seemed one-sided.

Despite Glain’s worries, no one seemed intent on ordering him today, so Jess indulged in some much-needed sleep, then rose with the intention of doing some reading. As he stepped into the hall, he realized that the door at an angle to his on the other side—Tariq’s room—was standing open. He’d gotten halfway across the hall to say hello before the memory caught up with him of Tariq slumped against the wall. Tariq was dead, and someone was in his room. He stopped in his tracks.

Inside the room, Tariq’s closest friends, Wu and Bransom, packed up his few belongings. Jess felt it like a hammer to the chest as he watched Recruit Bransom—as sturdy and muscular a young woman as Glain—wipe away tears as she picked up Tariq’s personal journal, embossed with his name. The cover, even at the distance from which Jess observed, was smeared with dried blood, and she scrubbed restlessly at it with the sleeve of her own shirt. Her hands were shaking.

Someone will write the final lines in that journal, he thought, detailing the dates and circumstances of Tariq’s death. Jess might even be mentioned by name. Then Tariq’s family would read it, weep over it, hold a memorial to read aloud from it, and finally send it on to the Library’s archives, where he would become a permanent part of the knowledge of humanity. Immortality, of a kind.

We’re just paper on a shelf, in the end. Jess felt an unexpected surge of anger, because no matter how honest and forthright Tariq had been in his journal, it couldn’t encompass him—the sharp humor, the way he’d cleverly cheated at dice, the shady jokes he’d loved and often told. The way he’d died. And for what? Tariq was gone, and Jess still felt the tension and release of pulling the trigger and sending Tariq sprawling against that wall where he’d died. Never mind that his shot hadn’t been fatal in itself; it had left his friend helpless for the slaughter that came after.

Bransom looked up unexpectedly and saw Jess. She looked wounded and vulnerable, and tears glided down her cheeks . . . And then he saw the flare of real rage.

She slammed the door in his face.

In a subdued, sour mood, Jess spent the rest of the day in the barracks Serapeum—a small offshoot that contained a few dozen shelves of permanently loaded Blanks that held books most often requested, and a wall of ones waiting to be filled. He took one from that section and sat down to page through his Codex to find what he wanted. He remembered—thanks to Scholar Wolfe’s ruthless grilling about the vast list of books in the public collection of the Great Library—that there were one or two extremely obscure histories of crimes against the Library. Maybe someone, somewhere, had included clues to secret prisons. The research might be useful.

Best of all, though he knew someone, somewhere was watching what he ordered to read, he had a long history of reading historical texts. Even if the Archivist had a watch on what he read, this wouldn’t appear out of the ordinary.

Jess missed handling originals. He’d grown so addicted to the feel of those books—the individual differences in the bindings, the leather or fabric covers, the weight of papers, the smell. They were a very different experience than these Blanks, which all felt so . . . sterile, somehow. Words that could be readily dismissed and replaced didn’t have the same moral heft to them, to him, but he recognized he was a rebel and an outcast, even here among those who loved the Library.

Another reason to never lower his guard.

He was immersed in text and making handwritten notes to himself on a separate sheet when he sensed someone standing close by. He looked up to see the faces of Garrett Wu and Violet Bransom, and instantly knew it wasn’t a social visit.

Jess put the book aside and his pen down before he stood up to face them. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “Tariq was shot from above. Ask Sergeant Botha.”

“You shot him first,” Bransom—they never called her Violet, and Tariq had coined her official nickname, Violent, the first day—said, and with one shove, she put him back down in the chair. He didn’t resist. It gave him excellent leverage to kick knees and break bones. “I saw it. He went down when you shot him.”

“He was aiming at a Scholar. You know, the one we’re sworn to protect at all costs? Are you actually telling me you wouldn’t have done the same?”

“You’re lying,” Wu said. He wasn’t a bad guy, and Jess normally got along with him, but seeing that stiff, angry expression, he knew getting along wasn’t in the cards today. “Tariq would never betray us. And he’d never shoot a Scholar. That’s sick!”

They’d never accept the truth, and Jess didn’t blame them. Tariq had been a friendly sort, likable. Jess had taken pains not to be part of the group. He’d wanted to stay apart, after the pain of losing his friends from his Postulant class.

And this distrust was what caution and distance had earned him.

“I’m telling the truth, and Botha backs me up about how Tariq died. Whether I shot him or not makes no real difference. I didn’t kill him. A sniper from the rooftops did.”

“And you think you did your duty,” Wu said. The boy’s fists were clenched hard at his sides, his stare very dark and fixed. Jess knew the look. He’d faced it before. He kept his attention split, because Bransom would be the one to make the first move, if one was coming. “You’d do it again, wouldn’t you? To any one of us.”

“Yes, I’d do it again, to save a Scholar’s life. And so would you!” He was getting angry now, could feel it like a sunburn blooming under his skin. “Tariq was working with them. Maybe he wasn’t the only one.”

Wu’s face went a dangerously dark shade. “You saying we’re Burners?”

There was, Jess knew, no insult he could have given that would be greater, but there was no taking it back, and it didn’t matter. Neither of the two facing him was listening anyway; they had their minds well made up about what they thought. He was wasting breath.

The area had quietly cleared of other soldiers. Disputes between people of equal rank weren’t prohibited, unless officers were present. Bransom was about to kick it off, he thought, and he prepared to shatter her left kneecap, but just then a calm voice from the doorway said, “Is this a private two-on-one fight, or can anyone join?”

Glain Wathen stood there, looking dangerously still, despite the mild tone. A superior officer.

It broke the tension like a hammer on glass, and Wu and Bransom stepped back. “Squad Leader,” Wu said, but the look he gave Glain was chilly. “Just working something out.”

“Then do it where I can’t see you,” she said. “If any of you start something here in the Serapeum, you’re all on report, and I promise you, you do not want to see my temper just now. Are we understood?”

Her fingers tapped the seam of her trousers, and Jess knew that particular tic of hers; it meant she really was spoiling for a fight. The others must have known it, too, or at least they were aware of the dangerous light in her eyes. Bransom nodded and stepped away from Jess, and after a slight hesitation, Wu followed. “No problem, Sergeant,” Bransom said. “We’ll . . . catch up later.” When Wathen’s not around was strongly implied, but Jess didn’t much care. At least they gave fair warning.

Jess watched the other two walk out, and when they were out of earshot, he said, “Do I really look so feeble I need help, Squad Leader?” As he said it—snarled it, really—he realized that he’d been ready to fight. Eager, even.

So was she, because in three long strides Glain was across the room, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him upright from the chair. He knocked the Blank off the table, and the thump of impact froze them both for a moment as they looked down.

Then she shook him. Hard. “Go on, Brightwell, test me today. See how far you get!” He looked into her eyes, and his own restless anger and frustration faded because he saw it mirrored in hers. He slowly held up his hands, and she let go and stalked a few steps away. Paced. After a moment, she bent and picked up his book to pass it back to him.

“Should I even ask what’s put you in this mood?” he said. She cut him a look so sharp it had edges on it.

“Captain Feng. He made it abundantly clear that I have some choices to make,” Glain said. “Hard ones.”

“Your career or your friends,” he said. “You knew that was coming, didn’t you?”

“I never wanted any of you as friends! I came here to succeed, and that requires focus. You know that. I know you do.”

He did. He was capable of the same ruthlessness when required. Achievement here at the Library was an altar on which one sacrificed many things . . . friendship being the least of them. To go on up the ranks, knowing what he did now—that would require sacrificing his morals. Ethics. His soul.

He also knew that Glain wanted—no, needed—to succeed. She tried not to show how much it meant to her, but it was as clear as the Lighthouse’s beacon. “Do what you have to do,” he told her quietly. “No one will blame you. Least of all me. I’m a selfish bastard, anyway.”

She let out a strange, pressurized little laugh, and then caught her breath. Fought for control for a moment, and when she’d achieved it, deliberately relaxed. “We can’t talk here,” she said. “Come on.”

She led him back to his quarters, and waited until he was inside and the door shut again before saying, “You went to the Lighthouse, didn’t you? Were you seen?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I talked to Khalila. She’s willing to help.” Out of habit, they both kept their voices low. Best to assume unfriendly ears were everywhere, especially now.

Glain frowned. “I don’t like involving her,” she said. “Of all of us, she’s the one with the most to lose. And what about Dario? Do you trust him?”

“I don’t always like him, but trusting him is another matter, and of course I do. Fair warning: he’ll still give us grief just because it’s his nature,” Jess said. “He’s angry about Thomas, though. I trust him to do whatever’s required.”

She nodded and sat down on Jess’s bed, leaving him to pull his desk chair close. “What were you and the others clashing about back there?”

“Tariq.”

She hadn’t been expecting that, and he saw the shift in her body language. Some might have seen it as defensive, but he knew it was more self-defense against her own pain. “I should have realized that they’d blame you and said something first. Sorry.”

He shrugged a little and kept silent. Nothing much to say.

“I’ve sent the death notification to his family,” she said. “It was my place, as his commanding officer. I suppose I had to learn how that felt sooner or later. Would rather it had been later, and for a better cause.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Not the truth, of course. I said it was a training accident, very regrettable, and that he performed his duties with great integrity and concern for his fellow recruits.”

He let that sit for a moment before he said, “Did you suspect him at all?”

“Not really. I knew he had questionable friends. I certainly didn’t expect him to try to put a bullet in a Scholar!”

“And here I thought you automatically suspected everyone of the worst.”

“Let’s just say I never assume the best. But Tariq’s dead, and it seems likely he was killed by those who paid him, for failing in his mission. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Jess said. “Do you suspect anyone else in the squad?”

“I have to suspect everyone. Including you, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s fair.” Jess cleared his throat. “About Thomas . . . Feng said you had to make a choice—”

“He did,” Glain said, and met his eyes squarely. “And I have. You know what it is.”

She and Dario have something in common after all, Jess thought. They didn’t agonize about a decision. They just made it, and damn the consequences.

“Khalila and Dario are trying to find us more information about the secret prison,” he told her. “What you said earlier, about the Black Archives . . . do you think there’s a chance that information about Thomas might be there?”

“It’s where the Library keeps anything secret, so of course.”

“I’ll ask Dario to look into it. We need to move faster than this,” Jess said. “I can’t get Thomas out of my head. What if—”

“If you’re thinking about what he might be going through”—she let in a breath and blew it out slowly—“don’t. There is nothing you can do to stop it, and guilt is a useless emotion.”

He laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. Or in him. “What else should I think about? Our bright future here?”

“No need, because we don’t have one. Wouldn’t, even if it had nothing to do with Thomas. I lost one soldier for good and another to serious injury. I almost lost a Scholar. That was Feng’s point to me today: how poorly I’d performed, and how much of a favor it would be for him to recommend me for advancement. If I accept that favor, he’ll own me. Nothing’s worth that.” It hurt her to say it—Jess knew that—but he saw no sign of it in her expression. Tough girl, Glain. And now she faced losing her dreams, and did it with the same courage as always.

He felt a tug of deep respect for her in that moment. Perhaps even a little love.

“At least we’ll be able to meet with Khalila and Dario easily, if we’re not constantly on duty.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You want to put me face-to-face with Dario? I might have to punch him before I trust him.”

“You can trust him.” At her look, he shrugged. “I know. Still surprises me, too.”

Glain sat back with a creak of wood and crossed her arms. She was out of uniform now, in a simple loose white shirt over formfitting trousers, with the same boots she always seemed to favor. If she’s lost her place, she’s lost her world, Jess thought. “You know, our odds are so bad as to be worthless. You and me, Khalila, Dario, Wolfe, Santi—if we can rely on Santi, who’ll have to choose his own loyalties—against the Library? It’s ridiculous.”

She was right. Even corrupted, the Library still commanded the absolute loyalty of tens of thousands of good men and women, and had the reverence of billions. That was a testament to what it should be, though. Not what it was. That was the dream that Jess loved, really—the dream of the Library as a shining beacon of knowledge to the world.

But a light that cast so many shadows.

“It’s getting late,” Glain said, which jerked him out of his musings and, as he blinked, back to the cool evening of the room. Dinnertime was fast approaching. “You’ll talk to Dario? About the Black Archives?”

“I will.” He groaned as he stood. His body was sore again, and all the older bruises and cuts clamored for attention. “Are you going to the dining hall?”

Glain smiled very briefly. It was a rare enough event, and it made her almost human. Almost pretty. “Are you asking to escort me, like some girl you’re romancing? Jess. Don’t waste your time. I’m extremely unavailable.”

“Tragic,” he shot back. “Be serious. You know I’ve got—”

“Morgan,” she finished for him, when he stopped. “Yes. You do enjoy a challenge. Now she’s a princess locked in a tower. That makes you want her even more, doesn’t it? I think you’ve read too many tales of knighthood, Jess.”

That effectively silenced him while he processed the words; a flush of anger ran through him, followed by a chill of something like understanding. Was that why he loved Morgan? Because of the challenge? He couldn’t deny that it might be a part of it. Damn Glain and her sharp eyes. Challenge and guilt.

“I’m not saying that because I’m jealous,” Glain continued, still with that maddening, calm smile. “You and me? No. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now there’s no confusion.”

How like Glain, to take action to dispel any uncertainty that might exist, however awkward that might be. The cold blast of it was shocking, but it did clear the air.

“Remind me never to be polite to you again,” he said, and she laughed this time, came around, and draped a comrade’s arm around his shoulders.

“Of course I will.”

Days passed, and other squads finished their final tests. Recruits were dismissed or assigned to new duties, and their wing of the barracks emptied and filled with another quota of aspiring High Garda soldiers.

But there was no word on their future. That was worrying, and Jess inquired—carefully—among other soldiers. There were a few examples of squads whose fate had been held in suspense for a while, but only a few, and almost all of those had ended up dismissed. The delays, Jess thought, had to do with debates within the higher ranks.

Maybe Captain Santi was fighting for them. And losing.

Jess was just as glad, because he spent his days chasing down obscure information through the Codex, and nights with Red Ibrahim and Anit, looking through rare volumes for anything that might give small details about what happened to the enemies of the Archivist. What he did find wasn’t heartening; almost everyone accused of heresy was recorded as executed, though those executions were done privately now, rather than as the vast spectacle they’d once been. The Alexandrian prisons that had once existed in the early, brutal days of the Library were long torn down. There might be a few cells beneath the Serapeum, but Khalila’s work had turned up guard rosters, and by matching up those assigned to duties, she’d been able to create a dizzying map of assignments that accounted for every one of the High Garda guards assigned to the Archivist. There would have to be some whose duties remained unaccounted for, if they actually guarded a secret prison.

Wherever Thomas was, he wasn’t being kept in Alexandria.

“We should press Wolfe,” Khalila said as she, Jess, Glain, and Dario sat together in a small café near the water. Twilight dyed the sky a rich teal, though Jess couldn’t much appreciate the beauty. All the information she and Dario had unearthed was proving to be useless. No nuggets of gold had turned up. The inaction drove Jess mad. “Surely he must remember more than he’s telling.”

“He might not,” Dario mumbled around a mouthful of curried chicken; Jess had already cleaned his own plate. “There are Medica techniques and potions to block memories. If they treated him with those, it’s not likely he can remember on his own.”

“What do you mean by that? Can he remember with help?” Glain asked. She’d long finished her meal, and now sat idly watching the white-sailed Egyptian fishing ships glide in the harbor toward home. “More potions?”

“More likely it would require the help of a Mesmer,” Dario said.

“Mesmer,” Glain groaned. “Don’t tell me you believe that tripe.”

“Mesmerism is a scientific fact,” Dario said. “Anyone can learn to do it. Doesn’t take ability, like being an Obscurist. But Mesmers’ skills are closely guarded secrets. We had one at court.”

“Don’t tell me you learned how to Mesmerize,” Khalila said. “I can never trust you again.”

“I tried, but, lucky for you, he refused to teach me. It is a real skill, though. It can recover memories in some subjects.”

“Mesmers are one step away from illegal,” Khalila said. “Even if you found a Mesmer you could trust to undertake it, the outcome’s doubtful. If the memories are there, they’ve been locked up tight. Breaking that lock could be dangerous.”

“We’ll save that for a last resort,” Jess said. “I’ve found references in some black-market books to a Library prison in Rome. Ancient references, though. Nothing recent.”

“Rome would be logical,” Khalila said. “After all, next to Alexandria, it’s the city most loyal to the Library. The Basilica Julia is almost as large as the Serapeum here.”

“You’ve been to Rome?”

“Once,” she admitted. “My family toured the Forum and other famous sites. It was overwhelming. I’ve never seen anything like it. To be honest, I would think we’d have a better chance of rescuing him from Alexandria than Rome.”

“Well,” Jess said, “it was just a reference, ages old. Might mean nothing. The Artifex could have him anywhere. Anywhere the Library has a foothold.”

It was a depressing thought, and silence fell heavy. A breeze blew cool off the water, ruffling Khalila’s scarf and dress, and Dario said, “We’re not going to find him this way. The Archivist isn’t a fool. He won’t leave clues right out in the open. We have to dig deeper.”

“Where? It’s a large world, Dario.”

The Spaniard looked away, out toward the harbor, and said, “I applied for a position with the Artifex Magnus. We all know he’s the Archivist’s right-hand man.”

“You what?” Glain barked, and she’d gotten it out a bare instant before Jess would have said the same. “Are you mad?”

“Someone has to get close to him. Gain his trust. I can do that.” Dario shifted his stare back to each of them in turn. “I’m the best suited—bright enough to be useful; not enough to be a threat. I’m ruthless. I have wealth and excellent family connections. And I have a certain charm.”

“I give you credit for leaving that to last,” Jess said. It was a surprisingly accurate and unflinching self-assessment. He hadn’t thought Dario quite so insightful about his own gifts and flaws. “What about your post with Scholar Prakesh? I thought you were happy there.”

“I am. But I thought we all agreed: this is for Thomas. I assume I’m not the only one willing to sacrifice.”

“You are not,” Khalila said, and looked down at her folded hands. “I confess, I already applied to the Artifex as well.”

“You what?” Dario turned on her with a stare, which she met squarely.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she said. “I am capable of just as much folly as you, you know!”

“I don’t want you to—”

“Dario. What you do or do not want applies to you, not me. I didn’t ask your permission, and I don’t seek your approval!” Khalila’s voice had taken on a hard edge, and Dario was the first to look away.

“Congratulations,” Glain said. “You’re both wildly independent, and now the Archivist has to be wondering why both of you would want to get close to him at the same time. Clearly, neither of you are cut out to be spies.”

“Forgive us—we didn’t grow up criminals and self-made adventurers!”

“Dario, you know nothing about me,” Glain said. She didn’t sound angry, just a touch amused.

“I meant the criminal part for Jess.”

“Yes, I got that,” Jess said. “It’s not a bad idea, getting close to the Artifex, but I doubt he’ll take either of you up on it. He’s not a stupid man.”

“Just a cruel one,” Glain said. “We need more. Much more than this.”

“What about . . .” Jess hesitated, then plunged in. “What about the Black Archives?”

They were all silent. He expected at least one of them to scoff, to dismiss them as rumor, but Khalila finally said, “I’ll look into it.”

“Carefully,” Glain told her.

“I know. I should go,” she said. “I have more work to do tonight. Dario?”

“Go on,” he told her. “I’m drinking.”

“I’m not,” Glain said. “Khalila, I’ll walk you back.”

Jess started to get up, but Dario kicked him in the shins under the table, hard enough to make him wince. “I’ll have a cup,” Jess said, and gave the other young man a sharp-edged smile. “See you later.” Glain and Khalila walked away into the early evening, and Jess stared at Dario. “Well?”

“Something for the two of us. I didn’t want them involved.”

“Why not?”

Dario shrugged. “It’s a job for two, not four, and I know Glain. She’ll push her way in if we let her.”

“And you don’t like her.”

“Well, I don’t like either of you, to be fair. But you’re the one with the skill I need.”

“Which is?”

“Smuggling,” Dario said, and gestured to the waiter. “That’s why we both need a drink.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jess said, and looked up at the tomb of Alexander the Great.

Dario hadn’t told him where they were going, or he’d have refused outright back at the café. Maybe the wine had lulled him too much, because he’d agreed to at least take a look. And now, here he was. Looking.

Next to the Lighthouse and the Serapeum, the tomb of Alexander was the single most recognizable structure in Alexandria . . . a memorial that had survived in all its original gaudy glory. It crouched in the center of the lush park square, looking exactly like what it was: an overdone tribute to an oversized legend. Marble clad, of course, with statues of gold at each corner on each of four levels. The other statues that lined each level were stone, or looked to be, at least—warriors, horses, gods. On top, Alexander’s chariot was drawn by mighty warhorses frozen in midcharge, and the boy king’s statue showed him as handsome and glorious as the gods themselves.

A pretty dark-eyed girl strolled past the two of them, and gave Dario a bright smile as she trailed a hand over the flowers planted on the path. The Spaniard smiled back and bowed to her, which elicited a giggle. Jess sighed. “Tell me we aren’t here just so you can peacock to the ladies.”

“It’s an added benefit,” Dario said. “I’m supposed to meet someone here who may have a book for us.”

“Meet who, exactly?”

“Am I supposed to ask for formal introductions when buying illegal things? I was under the impression it was more of a casual acquaintance.”

“Where did you meet this person?”

“I inquired,” Dario said. “I’m not without skills, you know. If you must know, he’s a sailor out of Rome. He said he has a stolen logbook from a prison there.”

“Every city has a prison!”

“This one is run by the High Garda. Not local police.”

Jess didn’t like it. “Do you know him at all?”

“No. Which is why I want you here, with your long history of . . . questionable things. I’ll pay for the book, you take it away from here, and we will all live to read whatever it is I’m spending a ruinous amount of my savings to get.”

“Dario, buying black market is not your strength. You should have told me. I could have—”

“There wasn’t time,” Dario cut in. “Are you going to help or not?”

This wasn’t the spot Jess would have chosen for such an exchange, either: too many casual strollers in this park, some with families. Too many ears to bear witness, and he hadn’t missed the fact that there were two sphinxes roaming the park, too.

The sphinxes weren’t the only threats. One of the golden corner statues—Hera, he thought, the queen of the Greek gods—turned her head and tilted it down to regard them as they passed, though if she was holding up a corner of the building, she probably couldn’t step away. Jess didn’t care for even that much attention. And then he saw out of the corner of his eye that one of the sphinxes had padded down the path and stretched out in a long, low crouch not far away. It wasn’t directly watching them, but the nearness of the thing made his instincts scream with alarm. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid they were following him—though he had to admit, he was more than a little haunted by the idea they were—but that he didn’t care for their closeness during such a highly illegal activity.

Not that Dario would even think of that. He seemed to take automata as just part of the landscape.

“I don’t like this,” Jess said. “It’s too open, too obvious. Sphinxes. Call it off. We can meet somewhere safer.”

“I can’t call it off, and I didn’t pick the spot,” Dario said. “This is my one chance to get this book. Go if you’re too afraid. But I’d think someone so well versed in criminality would have a little backbone.”

“There’s a difference between courage and blind arrogance,” Jess said sourly. “Where is this contact of yours?”

“He’ll be here soon.” Dario seemed oblivious to the threats. Jess’s throat tightened as they neared the sphinx, and it turned that pharaoh’s head toward them. The eyes gleamed dull red, then brightened.

“Dario, we should go.”

“Ah, there he is.” The idiot waved, and Jess spotted a man in plain working clothes trudging down a path toward them.

Somewhere in the bushes, Jess heard a rustle. He turned his head toward the noise, and saw that another sphinx watched them through the hedge. The human-shaped face stared with eerie concentration, and the eyes burned bloody red.

Jess forced Dario’s arm down. “Inside. Get inside.”

“No, he’s right there—”

“Follow me. Now!”

Jess turned and launched into a run back toward the tomb’s entrance. He heard the crack of breaking branches and didn’t look back. Dario was just a step behind, and caught up as the sphinx let out a sound like the high shriek of a hawk. It was coming for them. Jess put on a burst of speed, digging into his strides and lengthening them, and within four long steps he was past the hedges, and in another ten, halfway around the tomb building, with Dario struggling to keep pace. Screams rose as the pursuing sphinx rounded the corner at a lion’s lope, and people who’d been casually enjoying the park dove out of its path and ran for the exits. Jess tried not to think about the damage it could do to innocent bystanders. He’d seen the raw, red destruction left by automaton lions in London. He and Dario were risking not just their own lives, but those of everyone caught in this place.

Jess and Dario darted up the marble steps. “Why are they chasing us?” Dario demanded, gasping for breath. Jess hadn’t even felt the run. Dario needed to get out from behind his desk more. “We’re Library! We’re wearing the bands! What in the name of God—”

“They already knew! Your contact sold us out. Or someone sold him out,” Jess shot back. “Did you think you could just stroll over and get handed something the Library kills people for? With no experience and no training, in a public place? Idiot!”

Dario was utterly out of his element, all his composure shaken. For all that he’d survived Oxford and the disasters that came after, he’d never, until this moment, truly seen the Library as his enemy. He’d never understood what it meant to come face-to-face with its dark side. Jess almost envied him that. And almost pitied him.

But there wasn’t time for either.

He’d never been inside this tomb before, but Jess knew the first level was a kind of museum, showing artifacts from Alexander’s time—his armor, his sword, and more. With any luck, the sphinx’s instructions wouldn’t allow it to enter these precincts, where it could damage and destroy priceless history. But in case that wasn’t true, Jess led Dario up another, interior set of stairs, two at a time, to a shadowy landing. His heart was pumping, but not completely in fear; there was a kind of exhilaration to this that was addictive. A deadly game. But still a game.

Outside, the sphinx shrieked again. The other answered, and somewhere mingled with it was the bone-shattering scream of a human being in mortal pain and distress—a scream that cut off abruptly.

Dario’s eyes were wild as he said, “Did they—”

“Kill your contact? Probably. Or some innocent who got in the way.” Jess wanted to punch him for his deadly ignorance. “What did you think you were playing at, Dario? Were you trying to impress me?”

Dario swallowed hard, opened his mouth, then closed it. “Maybe I was.” Some awareness crept back into his expression, and he looked around. “I’ve never been in here. Have you?”

“No.” Another idiocy, Jess thought; Dario should have scouted this place thoroughly, on many occasions, at different times of day. He should have known how to get in, out, every possible route of escape. “Come on. We’re going up.”

The next level held the glass coffin of Alexander, and though he knew he shouldn’t, Jess found his steps slowing. There was a sense of terrible reverence here. Alexander’s withered, leathery body—embalmed and dressed in a set of gilded armor—lay under thick, ancient glass . . . or crystal, maybe. The body was smaller than Jess would have guessed. Alexander had conquered most of the known world as little more than a boy, and Jess wondered what he’d have thought of all this—of the tomb, the honors, the Library that had conquered the rest of the world in his name. Had he really wanted to be displayed like this, as his own museum piece?

Surrounding the coffin, inset in alcoves in the walls, stood statues of weeping men and women, their hands covering their faces. Lifelike and frightening.

Dario’s voice came hushed, but it still made Jess flinch. “Are those . . .”

“Automata? Yes. Don’t touch the coffin. They’re probably guardians.”

Jess stayed well away from Alexander’s corpse and took the next set of stairs up again, with Dario at his heels. They emerged into a large, empty veranda open to night breezes, furnished with stone benches and seats. It afforded a fine view of the sights of Alexandria, but no way up to the small roof or out. When Jess looked down on the gardens below, it didn’t surprise him to see that all casual visitors had vanished into the night. It was just him, Dario, and two pacing sphinxes below, staring up with intense red eyes. Terrible odds.

“Where are we going to go?” Dario asked. He sounded justifiably worried.

“Go down,” Jess said.

“The sphinxes—”

Jess took in a deep breath. “You go this way. I’ll draw the sphinxes to the other side of the building. Stay here and watch. When it’s clear, climb down.”

“Excuse me—climb down?”

“Swing over the edge, grab hold of a statue, shinny down to the next level. Repeat. You can make it.” It never occurred to him that it might be terrifying; he’d grown up seeing that kind of activity as normal. From the look that Dario shot him, clearly he didn’t share that idea. “Do you want to try to outrun the sphinxes instead?”

Dario silently shook his head and moved to the edge. “Are you sure none of these statues I’m supposed to grab onto are automata?”

“I can’t guarantee it,” Jess admitted. “Best of luck.”

Dario glared. Jess didn’t really blame him. “Go with God,” Dario said. “And also to the devil, scrubber, for making me do this.”

“I’ll take whichever of them will make me faster,” Jess said. “Give me two minutes to lead them off. Good luck. I mean it.”

Dario nodded and offered his hand. They shook, and Jess backed up and ran down the steps they’d ascended. The sphinxes would be expecting him to emerge from the tomb’s only door. He wouldn’t want to disappoint them, but he did want a good head start, so he stopped a floor up, in the area lined with glass cases, and eased between them to reach the statues beyond. This was the layer with rearing horses and warriors, and, luckily, they all were stone, or he’d have been dead in seconds. The sphinxes hadn’t seen him yet and were crouched at the tomb doorway.

It would be a long jump and hard fall, but he’d had worse. Jess took in four lung-expanding breaths, then launched himself forward into a flat dive. He had a terrifyingly good view of the sphinxes’ twitching tails as he sailed over them, but he’d done it well enough; the dive carried him to a landing point several feet behind them, and he curled into a ball before impact, rolled up, and was digging feet into the gravel and running before the sphinxes even knew he’d arrived.

It didn’t last more than a couple of fast heartbeats. He heard the twin shrieks of the automata, and didn’t need to look back to know they’d risen to join the chase.

Go, Dario. Get out. That was the only good wish he could spare for his friend, because he had to concentrate on angling his body just right to take advantage of the footing, the breeze at his back, the way his feet rose and fell. He needed every possible fraction of a second to live through this . . . And then he saw the corpse lying ahead of him in the path. It was the body of the man they’d been set to meet—a sailor fresh from a boat, or so Dario had said. Didn’t matter now; he was just a sad heap of meat and crushed bones, but lying next to him was a leather drawstring bag.

Don’t risk it, Jess thought. You don’t have the time.

But it was impossible to resist the impulse. He veered close to the body and reached down just enough to snag his fingers in the bag’s strings. He lost a half second and could feel the sphinxes gaining on him. I won’t make it, he thought, and had a vision of himself crushed on the ground like that nameless sailor.

The bag he’d grabbed was unexpectedly heavy and it would slow him down. The knowledge—if there was any to be had from whatever was inside it—wouldn’t help him if the sphinxes caught him, but it might give him an advantage if he used it right.

Jess turned and threw the bag as far as he could the way he’d come, into the park. The twist of his body gave him a heart-stopping view of the sphinxes loping just a body’s length behind him, and then he was facing forward again and running with real desperation, breath pumping faster and faster as he spotted the park exit ahead.

One of the sphinxes peeled off and chased the thrown bag; he saw the flash out of the corner of his eye.

But one stayed on him.

There was nothing to do but pray that once he’d passed the boundary of the tomb’s precincts, the sphinx would let him go. They were made to be territorial, after all. Not even the Library wanted the monsters tearing through crowded streets in pursuit.

He could feel the sphinx gaining behind him and realized, with a sudden horror, that all his best speed, his finest running, wouldn’t put him through the exit before it reached him.

He was going to be caught.

So Jess did the only thing he could. He threw himself flat and hoped momentum would force the thing to miss him.

He was lucky rather than good—the sphinx had just leaped as he flung himself down, and as he curled into a protective ball, the back feet crashed down on gravel just a handbreadth away from his head. He could see cables flexing under the metallic flank of the thing and scrambled up, hoping to be away before it could adjust and turn.

He slipped. The loose gravel betrayed him, and before he could recover he was on his knees and the sphinx had turned to him. It padded toward him. Unhurried. Remorseless. The human face held no expression at all. The sinuous copper skin seemed to stretch and mold to the simulated muscles beneath as it moved, and Jess thought, Do something, but there was nothing he could do.

He held still, hardly daring to breathe. The human-faced head of it was on a level with his eyes, and utterly, unsettlingly alien, and he was reminded of the cobra, swaying in the darkness as it considered biting.

The sphinx parted thin metal lips and revealed razor-sharp teeth behind—the teeth of a lion in a man’s face. Deadly sharp.

Don’t. Move.

He felt a whisper of air as it drew in a bellows of breath, and he realized he was doubly dead now—he was wearing the smuggling harness with not one but two illegal books inside. The harness’s coatings should have masked the smell of bindings and papers, but if the Archivist wanted him dead, this creature needed no further excuse.

The switch, he remembered from the book. He also knew that those razor-sharp teeth, and the massive lion paws with equally pointed claws, ensured that one wrong guess would absolutely be his last. Anit’s brothers had both faced this moment.

They’d both died.

Jess didn’t allow himself the luxury of doubt, because he knew that he was seconds away from death if he did nothing; the automaton’s mouth was already opening wider and the eyes burning hotter, and this chance was his only chance.

He reached under the chin of the human face and felt a small depression. As the sphinx’s head whipped sideways to bite his arm, he pressed down hard.

The head slowed its turn, but the teeth still closed around his arm.

Pressed down.

He felt the slicing sting of metal and knew it was too late—he’d lose his arm at the very least. God, no . . .

But then the sphinx just . . . stopped, with a sound of gears grinding to a halt. The jaws still pressed down, but the bite was shallow, just a little blood and pain that he made worse by having to pull himself free. Jess was panting now, shaking, pouring sweat, and as he watched the sphinx’s face, he saw the eyes flicker red, then black, and then go a dead, leaden gray.

It stood still as the statue it resembled. Frozen on the spot.

Jess heard the shriek of the other sphinx returning, and launched himself around the frozen automaton. Hedges snapped and flailed at him until he achieved gravel again, and then was running, running, with the gardens falling behind him, and the lonely, angry shriek of a sphinx chasing to the borders of the tomb’s park.

The scream followed him like a vengeful ghost as he lost himself in the streets of Alexandria.

Sweating and staggering with weariness, Jess made his way back to the port and the Lighthouse. He avoided the guardian automata by climbing the wall—another exertion he didn’t savor—and dropping down into the meditation grotto for some god or goddess lost in the dark.

He found Scholar Prakesh’s offices closed and locked. Dario hadn’t come back there, and he didn’t know where he bunked.

Khalila was in. He pounded on the door, and it opened to spill him in. He found a chair and fell into it, still breathing hard. “Dario,” he gasped out. “Is he back yet?”

“What happened?” Khalila sank down next to him to catch his eyes. “Jess! You’re bleeding!”

“It’s fine.” He brushed off her attempt to roll up the sleeve of his jacket. “Where is he?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. In his room, I suppose. You know where that is?” Jess shook his head. “I’ll take you. And you can tell me what put you in this state along the way.”

She wouldn’t take no for an answer, so Jess did tell her, and didn’t spare Dario’s folly in the telling, either. She stopped in the middle of a flight of steps to turn and stare at him. “You’re saying that you outran a sphinx?”

“No, I’m saying I couldn’t outrun a sphinx,” he corrected. “I’m lucky to be alive, and no thanks to our little Spanish prince.”

“Jess . . .” Her lips were parted, but she clearly didn’t know what to say to him. “Allah must love a fool.”

“Let’s hope that extends to Dario, too.”

She took him down four flights of stairs to what proved to be a residential floor, thickly carpeted and boasting carved doors of cedar that gave the whole hallway a rich, woody smell. She rapped on one of the doors, and it almost immediately swung open.

Dario was still alive. Injured, Jess saw, but alive. Relief flashed in his eyes when he saw Jess, but he quickly buried it. “Scrubber,” he said, and stood aside to let them come in. “Happy to see you still standing.”

“What happened to your leg?” Khalila asked, and helped Dario limp to the bed.

“I twisted my ankle falling off the damned tomb of Alexander,” Dario said. “I challenge you to find anyone else who can say that. What happened to your arm?” That last, Jess realized, was directed to him.

“Sphinx,” he said.

“You just always have to win, don’t you?” The joke was almost a reflex, because Dario stared at the blood and rips on his jacket with real concern. “Is that a bite?”

“Their teeth are like razors, in case you ever wondered,” Jess replied. “But I learned something important.”

“That I’m a fool?” Dario asked bitterly. “I’d have thought you already knew. You’ve said it often enough.”

“You’re not a fool, just a dilettante at what I’ve been doing all my life,” Jess said. “Never mind. We’re both alive. That counts.”

“Did you get the book?” Jess shook his head, and Dario’s expression set into a grim mask. “Then it was all for nothing. I got a man killed for nothing.”

“Not exactly,” Jess said. “I know how to turn off an automaton.”