Ash and Quill(86)

Comes before you now the will of the free people to withdraw from the Treaty of Pergamum, by which the Great Library in all its forms is held apart and above the laws of kingdoms in which it provides its service. Knowledge is a greater good, there is no dissent upon this fact, but we can no longer ignore the abuses of power pursued by generations of Archivists, and the use of High Garda not to protect knowledge, but to destroy it.

The lessons of the past must guide us to the future, and as the Library once stood brave and alone against the dark, now we must stand together against the greater injustice that same Library now represents. We will not fight you, but we will no longer provide free passage within our territories, and we will no longer acknowledge any claims of Library neutrality. You have taken sides, Great Archivist. Proof has been offered that you have suppressed and destroyed the same knowledge you claim to hold sacred. We will no longer support, or allow, the Library's vendettas. 

Librarians may remain and operate the Serapeums within our borders, but be warned: if High Garda are sent by any method, whether land, sea, or Translation, we will act upon this as a declaration of open war. You are warned by the queen in exile that she reclaims France for its people, and so may choose to pursue war within those borders.

May the ancient gods of Egypt, in whose shadow you still stand, guide you back to the path of wisdom and light.

To this, we set our hands.


[signatures and seals]


Text of an addendum written by the Archivist Magister, to the Artifex Magnus. Not indexed in the Codex.


They think they can defy us. They aren't the first, but they will be the last. If they want war, we'll wage it on every front. If we allow these insignificant kings and queens and leaders to dictate to us, we lose everything. There is talk of interdicted mechanical presses. We must stop this before it's too late. Under my seal, you are to order the High Garda immediately from our borders to the attack on any country that opposes us in this document.


Text of a handwritten message from the newly appointed High Garda commander to the Artifex Magnus


You may send all the orders you like, sir. But I refuse to start wars I cannot win for the sake of an old man's desperation and vanity. I expect he will kill me for it, but it is my duty as a sworn soldier not of the Archivist, but of the Great Library, to tell you that he has become a danger to everything we hold dear.


Text of a handwritten message from the Artifex Magnus to the Archivist


If you want to keep your throne, you must make examples. And you must do it soon.





CHAPTER NINE




The north of England, Castle Raby


Setting foot on a rocky English beach felt familiar to Jess-cold, windy, damp. At the same time, it felt entirely alien to him, because England, for him, meant London, and London was gone. Not destroyed, not by half, but war torn, looted, scorched, and beaten. And in the hands, at least for now, of the Welsh, who were busy installing their own government in Parliament.

They'd put Anit's ship-now repainted, with false windows and a brand-new figurehead, plus a different set of flags-in at a smugglers' cove on the north coast, far enough from York to be safe and near enough to the Scottish border to be dangerous. Coming ashore brought with it weak, uncertain legs that had gotten used to the rolling seas, and a conviction that the horizon would never stop moving on him, but leaving the ship was a huge relief. Jess was not a good sailor.

Thomas was. His big friend clapped him on the shoulder as he tilted, and pulled him straight again. "Good to be home?" Thomas asked.

"This isn't my home," Jess said. "I'm from London."

"Which is in England, yes? Isn't that the same?"

Jess didn't bother to answer that. His stomach was cramping, his legs ached, and the stones turning under his boots didn't make walking uphill any easier . . . but he forgot his discomfort when he arrived at the top and was confronted by two men with drawn weapons.

Jess held up his hands and said, "Stormcrow," which was the phrase he'd arranged with Brendan during the voyage. "And don't try to fire that thing, Grainger; you've always been a terrible shot."


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"Aye, that's true enough," said the taller of the two men, who had a cadaverous face, hollow eyes, and a strangely lush crop of black hair and whiskers. "And you're a small enough target these days, Master Jess. What did they feed you on your travels, vinegar and air?" Grainger put the weapon away, and so did his smaller, silent companion. "Welcome home, sir. I expect your brother will be along?"