Текст книги "Ink and Bone"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Someone was sitting in the dark with him, and he instinctively knew it wasn’t Dario Santiago. When he tried to sit up, a hand gently pressed him back down again, and a girl’s voice said, ‘Stay still.’

‘Khalila?’ It didn’t sound like Khalila, but he couldn’t imagine Glain being so kind to him, either.

‘Morgan,’ the voice said. ‘Close your eyes, I’ll turn the light up just a little. Tell me if it’s too much.’

It was, at first, but he held back his wince. After the first few heartbeats, it wasn’t so bad, and he could make out the features of the new girl. It seemed like years since he’d met her, but he supposed it had only been breakfast.

‘What happened to me?’

‘You were brought in by Scholar Wolfe. He said you were not to get up. I was drafted, since I don’t officially have class until tomorrow. The rest are all downstairs.’ She must have read his feeling of abandonment, because she smiled a little. ‘Don’t blame your friends, they wanted to be here. Wolfe summoned them all to give them some kind of news. Do all his lessons end with someone unconscious?’

‘Wait until you hear about the Greek Fire,’ he said. It seemed like a long speech. ‘Is there water?’

She silently fetched a pitcher and glass from the small table, and poured. He drank in convulsive gulps and held it out for more. She refilled, but only halfway. ‘Drink slower,’ she said. ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

She laughed, and it sounded low and tired. He remembered how she’d looked at breakfast. A day hadn’t been enough time to recover, and now she was spending it tending to him. ‘Definitely not your mother, though I’ve been called worse – wait, what are you doing?’

‘Sitting up.’

‘Wolfe said—’

‘I thought you weren’t my mother.’ She didn’t try to stop him as he struggled up into a half-reclining position. ‘You should go and rest. I’m fine.’

‘I’ve been sleeping, on and off.’

‘In Dario’s bed? That’s punishment enough. I don’t think he’s changed the sheets since he got here. He’s used to having servants for that.’

‘Believe me, dirty sheets are luxury compared to where I’ve been sleeping.’

She’d come out of a war zone, he remembered. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and as he sipped the rest of the water, he studied her more closely. Still tired, with bruised circles beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ he told her. ‘Go. I promise not to get out of bed until morning.’

Morgan frowned at him a moment, but her weariness was more of an argument than anything he could say, and she finally nodded. ‘You promise?’

‘My word on it.’

She got up, stretched, and left, shutting the door behind her, and before the latch clicked, he was already swinging his feet down to the floor. They were bare, and he hunted for his boots with one hand as he turned up the intensity of the lights. Bringing them up slowly allowed him to cope with the still-ringing gong of his headache. That, and more water. He drained half the jug before he tried to stand.

It was, he decided, a limited success, and after holding himself up for a while, he walked slowly. The hallway beyond was empty. He got to the stairs and rested, then descended.

There were voices coming from the common room, a confusing tangle of them … but they all died away when he appeared in the doorway. Jess tried to look casual about it as he leant there, and hoped he didn’t appear to be on the edge of collapse.

‘You’re supposed to be flat on your back.’ Santiago, surprisingly, was the first one to say something. As if he realised that might smack of concern, he said, in a studiously disinterested tone, ‘Trust you to get special treatment, though.’

‘Sit down,’ Thomas said, and dragged a chair over for Jess to sink into. ‘You should be in bed. Wolfe said—’

‘I’m fine,’ Jess lied. ‘What did I miss?’

‘There’s a lottery tomorrow,’ Khalila said. ‘We all have to draw tiles.’

For a moment, he thought the headache had permanently damaged his brain, because that made no sense. He repeated it. ‘All of us? We all failed?’

‘Every damned one of us, apparently,’ Dario affirmed. ‘Including Khalila. I can only think that the rest of you were so miserably bad that our sweet desert flower suffered by association.’

‘He didn’t explain why we failed?’

‘Not a word,’ Khalila said. The mood in the room was dark and heavy, and someone had broken out a bottle of Scottish whisky that Jess suddenly wanted very badly. ‘I was there, Jess. We found the books – well, you found them. And we arrested the guilty. How did we fail? What is he trying to teach us?’

‘Wait,’ Jess said. ‘When is the lottery?’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Thomas said. He was sitting, and his whole body spoke of how dejected he was, from the curve of his back to the low-hanging head. ‘It’s entirely unfair.’

‘No one said life was fair,’ Danton said; coming from France, Jess supposed he had a unique perspective on that. ‘He needs to reduce the class; he told us from the start that he’d only accept six in the end. I suppose this is how he goes about it. Unfairly.’

‘He doesn’t have the right!’ Glain was, predictably, incensed.

‘He has every right,’ said Dario. ‘He’s our proctor. They turned away tens of thousands when they accepted thirty of us. The Library has a surplus of people with promise. We’re ten a geneih.’

‘So why do you think he failed us all? He must have some reason!’

Dario shrugged. ‘I think he did it because he can. And resents us. A Research Scholar like him, slumming with us? Why? I can only guess it was a punishment for him to be put in charge of rank amateurs like us.’

That was an interesting thought, and it made a certain amount of sense. Research Scholars, like Wolfe, were constantly on the move out in the world, conducting research, experiments, doing the work of the Library. Having him as nursemaid to students seemed … wasteful, and the Library wasn’t known for that.

‘I know why we failed,’ said a quiet voice. Slowly, the conversation slowed, then ceased, and they all looked around for who’d said it. Near the fire, Izumi raised her head. She almost always spoke softly, even diffidently, but she was rarely wrong. ‘We failed because we didn’t ask.’

‘Ask what?’ Jess said.

‘What would happen to the books we confiscated.’

‘We know what happened to them. We sent them back to the Archives. We used the tags, just the way he taught us,’ Dario said. ‘It would be a stupid question.’

Izumi finally raised her head and looked at him directly. There was something unexpectedly fiery in her steady gaze. ‘Were the books you found unique?’

Dario shrugged. ‘Rare enough.’

‘But already in the Codex.’ Izumi looked at the rest of them, a quick sweep of her gaze. ‘Did anyone find a unique book?’

No one spoke. Jess ran it over in his mind; he’d found rare volumes, but nothing that wasn’t listed.

‘What does the Library do with rare volumes that aren’t unique?’ Izumi asked. ‘We sent them to the Archive, using the tags, but what does the Archive do with them once they arrive?’

‘Preserve them,’ Portero answered. ‘That’s their job.’

‘Is it? Why should they? They have the originals. They mirror them to blanks. What use do they have for another copy?’ She paused for a moment, and then plunged on. ‘I have heard they destroy them. In a furnace.’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘Is it? Why not just destroy it? One less copy for the smugglers to trade!’

‘It’s not possible,’ Thomas said. ‘The Library, destroying books? It goes against everything they teach us!’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It does. But so does a lot of what they do here.’ Izumi tapped the blank she’d been reading to clear it, and walked over to put it back on the shelf. Then she left.

‘She can’t be serious,’ Glain asked. ‘The Library can’t be destroying books in secret.’

‘But we didn’t ask. She’s right about that,’ Jess said. ‘We don’t know anything that happens once the books go to the Archive.’

The students erupted in a frenzy of debate, which turned to resentful speculation about just which of them would be leaving in the morning. Some were outspoken about not playing Wolfe’s game this time. There were two sides forming: some who thought this was a ploy by Wolfe to see who would stand up for themselves, and some who didn’t want to risk his wrath.

Jess was just too disheartened to care. He didn’t even record it in his journal.

There didn’t seem to be a point.

The next morning, Wolfe wasn’t there. Neither was breakfast, which usually was laid out on the common room sideboard before the bells clanged dawn. When Jess came down to claim his portion, it was a portion of nothing.

Instead, there was a blank sitting on the empty sideboard, open to the first page, and Jess walked over to read what it said.

It simply said, Draw a tile.

The lottery jar was sitting next to the blank. Jess stared at it for a moment without moving until he heard footsteps behind him. Heavy ones. He knew who they belonged to even before Thomas said, softly, ‘Mein Gott, he meant it, didn’t he?’

‘He meant it,’ Jess said. He was seething inside for the unfairness of it … he’d gone along with Wolfe, done everything he asked, even chased Santi down with that damned map. He’d driven himself half-dead for the man. And this is what he got in return … a good chance at being dismissed for nothing.

Thomas joined him in staring at the words on the blank, and then at the jug, which had a scene on it of Horus and Ma’at. For the first time, seeing it this close, Jess realised that both the jug and tiles were old … very old. The smooth ivory pieces were worn and yellowed by the touch of thousands of sweaty, nervous hands.

Then Thomas sighed and reached out to take a tile.

Jess grabbed his arm to stop him. ‘Don’t.’

‘If I don’t take one, I will be finished anyway,’ Thomas said. ‘We should do as Wolfe says.’

Thomas fished around in the jug and drew out a single tile, which he clenched in his fist. He didn’t look at it. When Jess mutely gestured to it, Thomas shook his head. ‘There is no point in looking,’ he said. ‘Either I will stay, or I will go, and it is beyond my control now. Come, Jess, choose and let’s sit down by the fire. It’s damp this morning.’

Because Thomas was with him, a calm and silent witness, Jess didn’t think there was any way out of it, and he didn’t want to seem afraid, though he was, down to his bones. His future rode on this single, stupid, meaningless chance.

He didn’t look. He just plunged his hand into the jar, fumbled blindly, and yanked free a tile. He shoved it into his pocket, next to his Codex, because if he’d held on to it he wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptation to stare at the number on it, as if it was some mysterious fortune-teller in the market.

Morgan was the next one into the room, with Izumi; the two girls seemed to have struck up a friendship, though a quiet one. Morgan looked better rested, Jess thought, and she’d changed from her stifling English clothing into a loose linen dress in a pale Mediterranean blue. It suited her, he thought. There was colour in her cheeks now, and he watched her stop in the doorway with Izumi, taking in the room. Morgan’s eyes met his, and she nodded a little, without smiling. He nodded back.

‘Is it normal to have tiles for breakfast?’ she asked.

‘Every Thursday,’ Thomas said, all too cheerfully. ‘Crunchy. Good for the digestion.’

Izumi rolled her eyes, walked over, and chose a tile. ‘I wish they’d at least brought the coffee,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can face this without coffee.’

Morgan was staring at the jug doubtfully, and Jess could tell that she was wondering whether or not she should pull a number. It was, after all, her first official day as a student; if she was unlucky, she wouldn’t even have a full day of it before dismissal.

‘You shouldn’t have to,’ Jess said, and Morgan turned to look at him. She gave him a strange, fleeting smile, and then reached into the jug and pulled a tile.

‘I’m in the class,’ she said. ‘Scholar Wolfe said everyone draws a number. Therefore I draw a number. I’m one of you.’

Jess was almost sure he wouldn’t have made that choice; he’d have argued for the fact that he shouldn’t be blamed when he hadn’t even been present for the failures. He wasn’t certain whether he was impressed by her courage, or confused.

He certainly wasn’t bored.

The rest drifted in, one by one, and each had a different reaction. For most it was anger, as if they’d expected Wolfe to have been joking, which was, to Jess’s mind, as unlikely as a snowstorm. Glain complained bitterly before she picked her tile, and Dario seethed and promised to use his family’s influence to ruin Wolfe if he ended up dismissed. Some cried. Some tried to seem as if they didn’t care, but Jess knew they did. They’d all fought to be here. They’d all fought to stay.

It felt deeply unfair to every one of them.

About half of them refused to draw tiles at all. Hallem first. Some who’d drawn, put them back in the jar.

‘You’d better take them,’ Khalila said, as she drew her own. She was the last in the door; Jess had counted heads, and they were all present now. ‘Once he gets here …’

And all too suddenly, he arrived. Wolfe had appeared in the doorway, all black robes and judgment. The very sight of his impassive face made Jess feel angry.

‘No doubt you’re all cursing me for the unfairness of this,’ Wolfe said. ‘Or at least the lack of breakfast. Food will be delivered once we finish the unpleasantness at hand.’

‘We’re not going to draw lots when we did nothing to deserve it.’ Hallem stepped forward out of the half of the room that hadn’t taken tiles. Hallem was a tall, raw-boned boy, with a mean streak that they’d all learnt to avoid, but this seemed out of character for him, publicly confronting Wolfe. At least, until Jess spotted the sweat on his face and dampening the collar of his shirt, and the wide, eerie pupils of his eyes.

He’d taken something this morning to give himself false courage, and it had swallowed his good sense.

‘Step back, postulant,’ Wolfe said.

Hallem didn’t. ‘Tell us what we did wrong. You owe us that.’

‘I owe you nothing. Step back,’ Wolfe said. It was calm enough, but freighted with real, quiet menace. Hallem took another step forward. Jess exchanged a quick look with Dario, who seemed as surprised as anyone else – and, curiously, Dario wasn’t standing with the rebels. Neither was his other henchman, Portero.

‘The Library doesn’t need sheep. It needs people who think for themselves. People who can stand up to a challenge.’ Hallem bunched a shaking fist, and for a moment, Jess thought he’d lose control and hit the Scholar, who stared at him so calmly. ‘You think you’re some pagan god! You think you can lord it over our lives and ruin us for nothing but your whims! No more!’

‘Hallem,’ Jess said. ‘Easy.’

‘Easy?’ Hallem turned on him, and his whole body was a bundle of clenched muscles, racked with rage. ‘Easy? Do you know what I’ve got to go home to, scrubber? Do you know what my father will do to me?’

‘If he locks you in a room to sweat off whatever you’ve taken, it would probably be a good start,’ Thomas said. He stepped forward and stared down at Hallem. Placid and kind as he was, Thomas could still be intimidating when he wished. ‘Fair or not, Scholar Wolfe is our proctor. What do you think you’ll accomplish by this?’

‘He can’t fail us all!’

‘I think he can,’ Thomas said. ‘Worse, I think the Archivist would agree. Stop and think what you’re risking. All of you. Think.’

Wolfe shifted his attention to the middle distance, as if Hallem no longer mattered at all. ‘Tiles,’ Wolfe said. ‘Everyone should have drawn one. Take them out.’

Hallem crossed his arms. ‘I didn’t draw one. None of us on this side of the room did. We’re standing up to you.’

‘Then I’ll draw for you.’ Wolfe reached into the jar and held up a tile. ‘Three, Postulant Hallem,’ he said. ‘I hope for your sake it’s a lucky number. Last chance. Take your tiles.’

Behind Hallem, his group of rebels – the majority of the remaining class, Jess realised – stood unified behind him. He knew and liked most of them. I’m on the wrong side of this, he thought. Jess had the smooth ivory tile in his hand, and kept turning it over and over, feeling the lines incised on the surface. It would feel good to take a stand. Do something powerful for a change.

He wanted to throw it back in the pot.

Captain Santi had joined Wolfe, leaning casually against the door frame as he peeled an apple with a sharp knife. As Jess considered his choices, he realised that Santi was looking directly at him, and though he said nothing, made no significant motions, something in him stopped Jess cold.

‘Does anyone else wish to join Postulant Hallem’s protest? He does have a point. I might be looking for those willing to think for themselves,’ Wolfe said. ‘Or, of course, I might have another thought altogether.’

No one moved. He withdrew two dice from his pocket and tossed them on the table. Jess watched as they rolled, tumbled, clinked off the pottery of the jug, and finally came to a stop – too far away for him to see the numbers. Santi took a bite of his apple and moved to take a look.

‘Two and four,’ he said as he chewed. ‘Check your tiles.’

Next to Jess, Thomas let out a long, slow sigh, and opened his hand.

On it lay a tile with the number four.

‘No,’ Jess said. ‘No!’ Thomas? Thomas couldn’t go home. It wasn’t even remotely fair.

Khalila let out a choked cry, and Jess spun to look at her. Her trembling palm held number two. Wolfe couldn’t dismiss Khalila; she was unbelievably good at this. She was meant to be here.

Jess closed his eyes and reached for his own tile. He ran his fingers over the engraved surface, as if he could read it blind, and then pulled it free and looked.

Four.

He was finished. A slow, oily sickness rolled through him, and he felt suddenly very tired. The anger was gone now. All that was left was an overwhelming feeling of loss. I wanted this, he realised. I liked this. I liked these people.

And now it was all over. He’d go home in disgrace, if his father let him come home at all, and he would never see this place again, walk these streets again, feel this friendship again.

Morgan was holding her own tile in her palm, staring at it. The colour had faded again from her cheeks. Like Khalila, like Thomas and himself, she held one of the fatal numbers. At least she didn’t have time to get used to all this, Jess thought, though the unfairness of it ached. At least she hasn’t worked so hard and lost so much.

Some people were sobbing. Some were gasping in relief. The rebels were muttering, clearly unsure what their next move should be.

All except Hallem, who looked triumphant. ‘You’re finished, Wolfe. If you dismiss those of us who didn’t draw, and those who hold the wrong numbers, you’ll be down to only three students. So this lottery can’t possibly count.’ He looked elated now, and he was right. The maths of it was on his side.

Hallem had won. Wolfe couldn’t possibly drop the class all the way down to three. The Archivist wouldn’t allow it.

Wolfe said, ‘Solidly reasoned, Mr Hallem. But I still expect all who refused to draw a tile to be at Misr Station within the hour. Leave your trunks. We will have them shipped home to you. I want you gone.’

‘You can’t!’ Hallem said. ‘You just said—’

‘Your mistake, former postulant,’ Wolfe said, ‘is assuming that I was ever going to dismiss anyone. I said you would all draw tiles this morning; I never said it meant anyone would be dismissed. It wouldn’t have mattered what number you drew, as long as you drew a tile. I knew some of you would let your outrage override your good sense, because yesterday, for the first time, every one of you was a complete success.’ He shook his head. ‘A pity you didn’t trust me. But then, I haven’t given you any reason, have I?’

Silence fell heavy in the room. Everyone seemed stunned – those who’d held on to their tiles and thought they’d survived, those who thought they’d drawn losing numbers. Those who’d refused to play at all.

None of them had seen it coming.

There were nine of them left, Jess realised. Nine who hadn’t joined the rebellion.

However improbably, he’d survived another round.