Paper and Fire (The Great Library) (42 page)

If the Welsh had come this far, they weren’t likely to be stopped now. Street by street, they kept up a relentless push toward Buckingham Palace, though likely the king and the rest of the royals had already sped off
to safer strongholds farther north. Parliament would be just as deserted. It would be an empty victory, but an important symbolic one, for Wales.

The Library would be following standard procedure and evacuating all but essential personnel from St. Paul’s. But in the Serapeum there was a major holding spot for confiscated original manuscripts, and there were many volumes on loan there, too. Those would need evacuation. The Library would have to divert troops away from chasing them.

In some very important ways, the chaos of war was a boon to them.

So Jess slouched on the cold pavement, looking like an anonymous soul lost to drink, and watched for any sign of his father. He saw none, nor any trace of his mother or brother or even the servants. The Brightwell household was quiet and cold, though the lights were on inside, and from time to time shadows seemed to pass the windows.

After another hour, just as it slipped toward night, the front door opened and Brendan stepped out. He looked as Jess remembered him from Alexandria, but back in English clothing as finely made as what their father liked to boast, even down to the fancy silk waistcoat. He turned to survey the skyline, maybe tracking signs of fire, and then turned and stretched. He looked very tired.

Jess took off his cap and stepped forward into the light. Brendan looked around, up and down the street, then made a sharp movement for Jess to cross the street. Once he had, Brendan grabbed him and shoved him inside with such force, it almost seemed desperate. He closed and locked the town house door behind them.

Inside, the place was just the way Jess remembered it, down to the wear on the curled banister and the flower arrangement his mother replaced daily on the hall table. It seemed oddly smaller, though, for all the luxurious little touches spread around. He turned on Brendan, intending to let loose a flood of questions, but before he could, his brother embraced him hard.

“Idiot,” Brendan said. “You bloody
idiot
!” He shoved him back almost as quickly. “What corpse did you pick those rags off of? They smell foul.”

“They’re supposed to,” Jess said. He looked over Brendan’s shoulder. “Where’s Father?”

“I don’t know. He vanished and we haven’t heard anything from him. Whoever has his Codex—”

“Is impersonating him, I know. Garda?”

“The Garda have bigger problems than the Brightwells. Must be some Library spy. Welsh troops are burning through the city from one end to the other, you know, and half the city’s either running in panic or planning to join the Garda to fight. He’d been working on clearing the best pieces out for days.”

“We’ll have to find him.”

“I was working on it,” Brendan said. “I didn’t even know you’d survived, Jess.”

“I see you’re in full mourning.”

“Well, I didn’t fully believe it,” Brendan said. “You’re a bad penny, Jess. Can’t get rid of you. What happened?”

Jess explained it as briefly as he could. He didn’t want to tell Brendan about the disaster at the Black Archives quite yet. He couldn’t stomach talking about it. When he blinked, he could still see those books dying.

See himself watching them die.

“Your friends? Where are they?” Brendan asked. “I’m assuming you didn’t do the sensible thing and leave them.”

“They’re close,” Jess said. Funny. He trusted his twin just so far and not a step more. “Where should I take them?”

“The warehouse for now,” his brother said. “Mother’s carried off the family treasures with her to cousin Frederick. The warehouse is just a gathering spot for the men. The plan was that we’ll join them there once we have cargo on wagons and safely away. But now that Father’s gone, we probably should be gone from here soon, in case the High Garda come looking.”

“Brendan. About Neksa—”

“She’s all right?” His brother looked at him, and it was an unguarded kind of dread. Jess had hit rather harder than he expected.

“She’s fine. Brokenhearted, but last I saw, she was fine. You did a good thing, Scraps. Maybe you’re not so bad at heart after all.”

“Shut up before I punch you,” Brendan said. “Let’s go.” He hesitated, then swept Jess with a disgusted look, head to toe. “After you change and get rid of the lice.”

“T
his city,” Khalila said, “looks like something a madman dreamed up. Didn’t your architects ever hear of straight lines?”

Jess, looking at London with the eyes of experience, had to admit the girl had a point. The narrow, twisting streets, the blind alleys, the buildings jammed together on whatever plot of land had become available . . . it had no plan to it. Big Ben wasn’t as tall as he remembered; some of the newer buildings reached much higher, though they somehow still had a look of weariness to them. The golden gleam of St. Paul’s in the distance was the only thing Jess could think would have been easily transplanted to Alexandria. Everything else was uniquely . . . English.

“At least it means slow going for the Welsh,” he pointed out. “London’s probably the hardest city to conquer in the world.”

“Yet they are managing,” Dario observed. It wasn’t smug, just practical. He was watching the southwest, where the muddy glow of buildings on fire made the night shimmer. Jess could hear the sound of fighting, very dim and distant. Khalila gave him a glare. She still wasn’t speaking to him, not at all. “I hope this hiding place isn’t far.”

“Just up there,” Jess said. Their group kept to the shadows; other London citizens hurried by in the opposite direction, many carrying suitcases or bags full of belongings, dressed in thick layers of clothing to lighten their loads. “Stay out of sight of the Garda if you see any.”

They’d picked up the others a few blocks back, but now Morgan eased by Dario to take a place at Jess’s side. She took his hand and looked him up and down, then over at his brother. “Remarkable,” she said. “It’s hard to tell you apart.”

“Really?” Jess asked.

“Well. Not for me, of course.”

“That’s better. I wouldn’t like you mistaking the two of us at a critical moment.”

Jess adjusted his heavy burden of books. It felt larger with every step, or maybe it was just that he was growing tired.

“The fighting looks to be moving closer,” Santi said from behind them. “We should go as quick as we can. I’d rather not renew our acquaintance with our friends from Wales. They let us go once; I doubt they’d feel any obligation to do it again.”

“And we’re not even Library anymore,” Khalila said. “We’ve got the same protection as anyone else on these streets.”

“Welcome to the rest of the world,” Brendan said. “We rely on ourselves out here. Always have done, since the Library told us a book was worth more than we are.”

“But it is,” Khalila said quietly. “A book outlives us all.”

“That’s a legacy,” Brendan said. “I’d rather have a life, if you don’t mind.”

“Philosophy later,” Wolfe said. “Run now.”

I
t was more of a walk, and though Jess worried their stuffed packs might attract attention, the growing chaos of the Welsh invasion worked to their advantage. Almost every person on the street carried something—a bag, a pack—and some even trundled carts. The wealthy, of course, steamed by in carriages loaded with all manner of valuables. He considered the merits of waylaying one of them and forcing the owners out at gunpoint, but that might set off a tinderbox of rioting. In the distance, looters broke windows and carried off abandoned goods. That was tragic, but would they fare better if left to burn? Probably not.

The only bad moment came when they rounded a corner four blocks from the warehouse and faced a troop of perhaps a hundred London Garda. The redcoats looked exhausted and filthy, and huddled in groups as they shared food and water. Fresh from the fight, it looked like there
were plenty of wounded stretched in a row on the sidewalk, and Medica attending to them. Jess kept his gaze down as they moved around the soldiers, and hoped that nobody had thought to circulate their descriptions; together in a group, they were hard to miss.

Brendan, on the other hand, walked right up to an officer crouching against a brick wall, eating dried meat. “Brightwell,” the soldier said, and glanced at Jess. “I stand corrected. Brightwells. And I thought this day couldn’t get worse.”

“Captain Harte,” Brendan said. He reached in his pocket and slipped out a silver flask that assuredly didn’t hold water and passed it over. “How goes the war?”

“We’re trying to hold them at the bridges, but, to be honest, I don’t think we have a hope. Bloody citizens are running like scared rabbits, and the army got themselves cut off in another battle. I’m surprised to find you lot still here.” He uncapped the flask and took a long pull, sighed in satisfaction, and handed it back. “Look to your people. Get them out of here. I doubt we have more than an hour or two before this district’s overrun.”

“Anything about my father?”

“Aye. Your da was almost taken, but he got clean away. Not surprised, really; old Callum’s always been able to slither right out of a trap. I expect you’ll meet up with him again sometime.”

“All right. Luck to you.”

“You as well.”

Brendan led them a step or two on. Harte called after him. “Brendan. Library Garda’s looking for your friends. Offering rewards.”

“Are you tempted?”

Harte shrugged. “I know you’ll make it worth my while to forget.”

“That I will.” Brendan touched his forehead in a mock salute and led them on.

The warehouse was an entirely unassuming structure at the end of a blind alley, hard to see and harder to find. It was usually guarded with
lurkers out on the main streets and deadly bruisers at the doors. Not today, though. Today the doors stood open, and Brendan led them straight on inside.

It was empty.

Jess had never seen his father’s warehouse empty before; there were always bolts and bundles of imported silk, pieces of fine furniture, boxes of expensive trinkets. His father had expensive tastes, but his real treasures had been concealed behind false walls and up high in the rafters—boxes and stacks of rare, original books. Beauties that ranged into antiquity, from the hands of the original authors or the most accurate copies. His father always sold quality, whether the items were legal or criminal.

There was nothing there now except a squad of hard men. Most were armed with knives and some with stolen guns liberated from either Garda or the army. Finding weapons wasn’t a challenge for someone well-known in the shadow markets.

“Come out, Da,” Brendan said. “I know you’re here. They would have already run to the hills if you weren’t.”

There was a laugh from the shadows, and then Callum Brightwell stepped out—grimy, thinner, with a cut on one cheek that had barely begun to heal. “My boys. Come here to me.”

Brendan walked over and received a bear hug. Jess didn’t move.

“I think I’ll stay where I am,” Jess said. “I can see you’re overcome with joy that I’m alive.”

“I am,” Callum said, though there was no real sign of it.

“How did you get away from the Garda?”

“Hard fighting, boy. They got my Codex and twelve of my men. But they lost me. And you, apparently. Clever lad.” His father had lost his smile. “Stop dithering. Your place is with us. I didn’t send you to the damned Library to become a rebel. There’s no profit in it.”

“There might be,” Jess said. “If you’ll listen to what we have to say.”

“Sure,” Callum said. “But first I have a job for you. Tell your High
Garda friends to lower their weapons or I’ll have my men shoot and use the ones who survive it.”

That was a cold, clear threat, and Jess turned to look at Santi. Santi shifted his aim to rest on Callum Brightwell’s forehead. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Shoot me, I’ll still pull the trigger. You know that.”

“I have two fine sons to carry on for me. Do you think I’m worried, Captain Santi? Yes, I know who you are; I like to know who has influence over my son. Including you, Scholar Wolfe.”

“Stop this,” Jess said, and took another step toward his father—but not far enough to interfere with Santi’s aim. “I’m not some Brightwell asset. I make my own decisions.”