The Thousand Emperors (30 page)

Badly. If the lattice winds up killing me, then you die too – or didn’t you think of that?

But not before you finish what needs finishing. If it wasn’t for Zelia, you’d be in Cripps’ hands by now, and almost certainly dead. But there are things you need to do that
even she can’t help you with.

I can’t see one reason
, Luc spat,
for me to believe one damn word that comes out of your treacherous mouth.

Really?
Antonov’s expression was cynical.
And just how grateful have the Temur Council been to you, for all your service in their name? All those years you spent squirrelled away
inside Archives, doing everything you could to try and figure where I was or what I might do next – just how much have they rewarded you for all that effort?

I’m not interested in your fucking propaganda. Just . . . let me wake up, and get the fuck out of my head.

No. You’ve seen enough of the Council to have an idea of who and what some of them really are, but you’re still struggling to accept the truth. They’re monsters, even Zelia
– and she’s one of the better ones.

And you think you were better?

Antonov hacked out a cough before answering, flecks of blood on his lips.
You’re closer than almost anyone else ever has been, to finding out things Cheng would rather keep hidden from
view forever. Neither he nor his cronies can be sure just what I might have done to you while you were wandering around inside Aeschere. And because of that, every last one of them –
particularly those damn Eighty-Fivers – would rather see you dead than take a chance you might know something you shouldn’t. If not for Zelia, they probably would have killed you
anyway, on the pretext that you might – just might – have been working for me all along.

You botched up
, Luc said wearily.
You told me to speak to Ambassador Sachs, but he didn’t seem interested in helping anyone, least of all me.

You need to gain his trust
, Antonov replied.
He saw me lurking inside you, but can’t be sure yet of your motives, or who you might decide to report to if he tells you too
much.

Luc shook his head in disbelief.
Gain his trust? Do you even know where I
am
just now? Or what’s happened to me?

You’re exactly where I wanted you to be.

Waiting to die in the snow?

You’re not dead, Luc. In fact, you’ve already been rescued. Haven’t you worked out yet that I’m the reason you came here in the first place?

Bullshit
, Luc snapped.
I came out here looking for the Ambassador after he—

Think back
, said Antonov,
to when you were studying that map of Vanaheim.

Luc recalled the globe Zelia had projected into the air. He had looked towards the range of mountains, and felt a twinge of pain behind his eyes . . .

Luc’s fists tightened under his restraints. Something had drawn him towards those mountains, and to Maxwell’s prison.

You did that to me?
he demanded.

I needed you to come here
, Antonov replied.

But why?

Because you need to hear the truth about Vasili, and about me – and Cheng, too.

You told me there’d be some terrible calamity without the Ambassador’s help. Are you talking about war with the Coalition?

Antonov was growing visibly weaker.
Believe me
, he said,
there are far, far worse things out there than the Coalition.

The cobalt blues and dark metallic greys surrounding them were beginning to lose definition, as if Luc’s eyes were blurring. He sensed their encounter was coming to an end.

You need to tell me more
, he insisted.
I know you’re holding something back.

But sometimes there’s so much I can’t remember myself
, Antonov replied, his voice weak and pitiful. The air between them seemed to ripple.
There’s only a fragment of
me inside you, and it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

The starship bridge faded, and was replaced by a different scene. Luc saw the streets of a biome on some airless world, unwinking stars fixed into the firmament beyond its precious pocket of
atmosphere. Men and women, their flesh riddled with terrible pustules, lay scattered around. Other figures in contamination suits, their faces just visible behind wraparound visors, moved from body
to body. They were taking measurements of some kind.

He found his attention drawn to one suited figure in particular, and after a moment he recognized the face behind the visor. Zelia.

Luc came awake with a start, to find himself in a room filled with books.

He had been laid out on a couch at the centre of a large hexagonal room, high walls of dark granite supporting recessed shelves crammed with hundreds of bound volumes much like those he had seen
in Vasili’s residence. The floor was tiled with dark slate, while soft, pearlescent light shone through translucent ceiling tiles. A single door led out of the room, while his cold-weather
gear had been dumped in a pile in one corner.

He looked around, feeling wildly disoriented. From staggering through endless snowy wastes . . . to this.

Sitting up, he winced with pain. The muscles of both legs throbbed, and he massaged his calves with both hands until the cramp lessened. He stood carefully, stretching his legs before reaching
out to pull a random volume down from a shelf close at hand.

The book turned out to be filled with what appeared to be proofs of mathematical equations. Before being summoned to Vasili’s residence, Luc – in common with most citizens of the
Tian Di – had only rarely encountered actual, physical volumes such as this. They were like the relic of a past and better age. The pages felt cool to the touch, even slightly metallic,
indeed much like the one he had pulled out from under Vasili’s half-burned corpse . . .

He froze, remembering what had happened when his fingers had brushed against the pages of that particular volume, and closed the book carefully before placing it back where it had come from.

Taking a step back, he regarded the shelves around him with new eyes. That other book – the one in Vasili’s library, that had transported him into the mind of a dead man –
might not officially exist, but if he was, as seemed likely, somewhere inside the prison that had held Javier Maxwell for all these centuries, then maybe that first book had originated from
here.

If that was the case, then it might be best not to touch
any
of the books. That first experience had been traumatic enough.

He tried again to contact de Almeida, but had no more luck than before. It looked like he was still on his own.

The only thing left was to explore, so he pulled open the one door leading out of the room – and felt the breath catch in his throat at what he beheld.

The room he had been left to wake in proved to be little more than an antechamber to a vast, cathedral-like space. He saw an arched ceiling at least twenty metres overhead, from which hung
chandeliers supported by heavy steel chains. And all around, rising up the walls and accessible by a multitude of narrow metal stairways and walkways, were tens of thousands more books. More
physical, tactile volumes than he might ever have believed existed anywhere within the Tian Di, let alone Vanaheim.

If this really was Maxwell’s prison, it was a hell of a luxurious one.

Luc turned to look down the other end of the hall and saw an elderly man regarding him from a few metres away. The old man’s narrow skull was topped with a fringe of white hair. A long
robe hung loose on his bony shoulders, while a faint nimbus of light around his head and upper shoulders indicated he was a data-ghost.

‘You must be . . .’

‘Javier Maxwell,’ said the data-ghost in a reedy voice, the eyes bright blue and full of intelligence. ‘You were close to dying out there in the snow, did you know
that?’

‘Thanks,’ said Luc, ‘for saving me.’

Maxwell cast his gaze up towards the ceiling and back down. ‘You know where you are?’

‘This is where they keep you locked up.’

‘I fear you already know more about me than I know about you, Mr . . . ?’

‘Archivist Luc Gabion.’

Maxwell nodded as if coming to a conclusion. ‘You’re clearly not a member of the Temur Council, are you?’

‘I’m not, no.’

‘An assassin, then?’

‘
No.
I’m not here to kill you, or anyone else.’

‘Really? I certainly
hope
that’s not the case. I’ve had reason to become quite concerned about such things lately.’

Luc heard a slight hum as two mechants dropped down from the ceiling, taking station on either side of him. The mirror-smooth skin of one of the mechants parted, revealing intricate and
deadly-looking weaponry mounted on tiny gimballed joints.

Glancing at the other mechant, Luc saw it had done the same, its weapons swivelling until they were directed at his skull.

‘Now,’ said Maxwell, ‘I’ll give you, hmm . . . let’s say five seconds, to tell me why you’re here, before I order them to kill you as a purely precautionary
measure. And please,’ he added, stepping slightly closer, ‘be aware that I’ve been around for long enough to be able to tell when someone is lying to me.’

‘I’m investigating Sevgeny Vasili’s death,’ Luc blurted, as the hum emanating from the mechants rapidly increased in pitch.

Maxwell stared at him with narrowed eyes for a period of time that felt much longer than five seconds. Then, just as the hum was about to reach a crescendo, Maxwell raised a hand, and the hum
fell away into silence.

‘I heard about Sevgeny,’ said Maxwell, his voice grave. ‘Joseph told me all about it on his last visit. A very unfortunate thing indeed, and something that has inspired me to
greater than usual levels of paranoia. On whose authority, Mr Gabion, are you carrying out this investigation?’

‘I’m here on Zelia de Almeida’s authority,’ Luc admitted.

Maxwell’s brows furrowed together, and he sighed in consternation, pulling his robe tight around his shoulders.

‘
Zelia
,’ the old man muttered half to himself, then let out a soft laugh with a shake of the head. ‘Now
there’s
someone I haven’t heard from in a long
time. She didn’t feel like paying me a visit in person?’

‘She said she wasn’t allowed to come here.’

Maxwell nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Try, if you will, to see things from my point of view; I’ve so rarely encountered anyone outside of the Eighty-Five in such a very long time
that I don’t particularly care to recall just
how
long it’s been.’ His eyebrows, as white as the hair on his head, rose fractionally. ‘And now I find an unexpected
visitor struggling to reach my library and nearly dying in the attempt. And from what scant information I’ve been able to glean regarding what transpires in the outside world, I gather Zelia
herself is a potential suspect in Sevgeny’s murder. By all rights, I should inform my gaolers of your presence. I can imagine they’d take a degree of pleasure in extracting considerably
more information from you than you’ve provided me with so far.’

‘You mean the Sandoz don’t already know I’m here?’

‘The Sandoz?’ Maxwell chuckled under his breath. ‘They know there’s no way I could cross a thousand miles of ice and snow on my own. What need is there to watch me
closely, given that knowledge? But perhaps I
should
let them know about you. What do you think?’

‘I really don’t think you want to do that.’

‘Why not?’ Maxwell demanded, his voice rising, and echoing from the high walls around them.

‘Because then you might have to explain to them why the hell the Coalition Ambassador just paid you a visit.’

Maxwell gazed at him with an expression of utter stupefaction.

Luc waited, his hands clammy, all too aware of the gentle hum of the mechants on either side of him. His stomach growled audibly in the otherwise still silence of the library, and he realized it
had been a good long while since he’d had anything to eat.

‘May I say, this is turning out to be quite the novel day,’ said Maxwell suddenly, as if coming unfrozen. ‘You’re hungry?’

‘Yeah, very,’ Luc admitted.

‘My dining room is on the lowest level of the library,’ Maxwell told him, gesturing towards the mechants. ‘I’ll see you there in a minute or two.’

Maxwell’s data-ghost vanished, and Luc followed one of the mechants to an elevator platform that carried him swiftly downwards. He gazed along the length of the library in the moment
before it disappeared out of sight, and wondered what it must be like to live in such a place, buried inside a mountain with no eyes to the outside world beyond the lenses of mechants.

The platform came to a halt, and he followed the mechant down a long gallery to another room lined with yet more books. A third mechant was busy placing serving dishes and bowls on a table, at
one end of which sat the flesh-and-blood Javier Maxwell.

‘Don’t look so nervous,’ said Maxwell, indicating an empty seat across the table from him. ‘Take a seat. Please. It’s nice to have the opportunity to eat with
someone who isn’t also my gaoler, even if he
is
intent on blackmailing me.’

Luc remained standing. The mechant that had guided him here floated up to hover in one corner of the ceiling. ‘You still haven’t told me why Ambassador Sachs was here. Or has he not
departed yet?’

‘No, the Ambassador is gone. He left just before one of my mechants found you. You know, I was just about to eat when you woke, and I don’t know about you, but I
hate
long
conversations on an empty stomach.’

‘I need to get in touch with Zelia—’

His stomach rumbled again.

‘Dear God,’ said Maxwell, picking up a fork and stabbing it towards the empty chair. ‘Sit down and eat first.
Then
we talk.’

Maxwell lifted the lid from a serving dish and the sweet, aromatic scent of grilled fish rose up. Luc sat and watched as Maxwell, pointedly ignoring him, focused all his attention on filling his
plate.