by Rachel Caine
Indira grabbed Jess's arm in a manacle grip and towed him along at a fast walk. It was the same fast but calm pace of all the other people he could see on the streets. As she pulled Thomas and him, and their guard escort, off toward the right, he saw that a steady stream of traffic was already moving in that direction, toward a doorway. Jess nearly pulled away. Buildings, in a Greek fire attack, couldn't protect you; they caught fire, burned around you, trapped you screaming.
Indira sensed his hesitation and shouted, "Basement!"
Better. Not great, but better.
They'd just reached the steps that led down into darkness when the sirens cut off with a last warning wail, and the silence that swirled felt heavy and full of dread.
"Wait!" Jess tried to turn back. "The others--"
Indira shoved him forward. "They must fend for themselves, and God defend them now. Move!"
"She's right," Thomas said. "We'll never reach them in time."
I'm fast, Jess wanted to argue, but what would he do if he made it? Was he fast enough to unlock all the doors, too? Morgan had his picks, but she might not know how to use them under pressure . . .
He still tried to turn back, but Thomas put a huge hand on the back of his neck and moved him on, down the stairs, and there was nothing he could do.
By the time Jess found leverage to break the hold, they were down the stairs, and above, three strong men lifted a massive hinged door and bolted it in place. That, at least, was smart; a door that opened upward might end up buried by debris. This way, at least they could dig their way out, after, if necessary.
They're alone out there. Locked up.
Jess turned on Thomas. He would have shouted at him, but he saw the other young man's face. The tears in his eyes. It silenced him.
"We couldn't have made it there in time," Thomas said. "I'm sorry."
Jess no longer wanted to yell, but he couldn't bring himself to agree, either. He just turned away.
Inside, the place was lit by flickering candles and oil lamps and was crowded with long wooden benches that wouldn't have been out of place in a pub. Rows of Philadelphia citizens sat in silence, eyes turned up at the blank ceiling.
"Sit," Indira said, and pushed him down with a firm hand on his shoulder. She crowded in next to him on the bench, with Thomas on the other side and her two men blocking the stairs, though it didn't seem likely anyone would try to rush for the exit. "Quiet."
Jess took in the sharp smell of sweat and the rapid, ragged sound of breathing. Everyone stared upward.
Then the world above shuddered with impact, like a giant's foot crushing down.
Dust sifted from the ceiling, and Jess ducked and coughed out the taste of it. A murmur went through those sitting near him--an old gray-haired European man clutching a carved wooden pipe, a slender native woman with beads braided in patterns in her long black hair, two small African children who held each other's hands. Frightened but desperately silent.
The people in the bunker clung to their benches as another Library bomb fell, as the cellar ceiling trembled, as Philadelphia ignited above them. Jess thought of the mismatched scraps of timber and brick, stone and metal, that made up homes and stores. What wasn't burning would be shaken apart. And yet, as he looked around, he didn't see despair.
He saw determination.
Tomorrow, maybe even within the hour, they'd be scavenging the wreckage and building anew. Jess didn't like the Burners. Didn't agree with them in many critical ways. But he knew courage when he saw it. It would have been so much easier if he could see them as just enemies, instead of . . . people.
It took only a few minutes, and then the shuddering barrage stopped. Jess smelled the Greek fire . . . it was impossible not to recognize the sharp, sweetish reek of it. It was warm in the bunker but not, he thought, hot enough for the fire to be raging right above them. They waited. A child fussed and was quieted, but no one spoke.
They all relaxed when they heard a sudden, loud thumping on the overhead cellar door.
"All clear," Indira said, and as if they'd all been released from some spell, people around them stood and took in deep breaths. No one seemed relieved. Three muscular guards unbolted the door and eased it back on a latch, to allow the public to exit in slow, shuffling steps.
Jess followed, and came out into hell. Philadelphia was a confusion of broken ruins, flames, smoke, and screams.
Part of the city hall had been hit and was a luminously green inferno; a team of people pulling a long wagon thundered past; then two clambered up to work a hand crank as the others unrolled a long hose and trained it on the blaze. The foam that vomited out smothered the flames as water couldn't; Greek fire was notorious for that, an oily compound that splashed and clung and ignited on its own, and nothing but thick powders or foams could starve it. Once those flames were doused, it was obvious that they'd lost at least a quarter of the building--though not the end where Jess had been meeting with Beck. If the Library had been aiming to kill the Burner leader, they'd missed their shot.
More buildings on the street vomited black smoke--half a dozen ruined, and farther on, what seemed a residential block had half the houses lit by that haunted green. Some were just black, smoldering cinders and boards scattered in the street. People moved quickly, with a purpose, but he also saw the human damage--a woman weeping in the gutter, clutching a child. A man with a burned face staggering away into the smoke. A soldier hauling a body from rubble.
Until that moment, he'd pushed it away, but Jess felt panic hit him as he turned to look toward the prison, because one part of it was a mass of smoking, green-flickering debris.
"Thomas!" he shouted, and pelted away across the soft grass, under the hissing sway of trees. One was burning, and he had to dodge around an orange, ashy rain of flaming leaves. Smoke welled up to smudge the sky. He heard Thomas running behind him, and the shouts of Indira and her fellow guards, but he didn't wait. A few rescuers had already gathered at the prison, and a tall, brawny man with a wheelbarrow was shoveling thick powder into the flames to quell them.
The door into the prison had been blocked by a fall of thick, cracked concrete and stones. Jess reached for one and hauled it aside, even as his mind mapped out the prison on the other side for him. That's the far corner, the cell Santi and Wolfe share. Across from Khalila and Glain.
He didn't hear any shouting inside, and that made his guts curdle in dread. Greek fire smoke was toxic. Morgan had pointed out the poor ventilation inside.
They had to get the door open. Quickly. Jess didn't think to ask for help; he just fell to it, grabbing fallen stones.
Thomas joined him at the door, and together they hefted a staggeringly large chunk of concrete and rolled it out of the way. Jess's muscles burned with effort, and the sharp edges of stone slashed red gashes in his fingers, and when he breathed in he smelled that horrible reek of Greek fire. The smoke made him cough until he was spitting up black bile.
He and Thomas cleared the rest of the blockage, hauling the last away with desperate strength, and Indira shoved between them and fitted keys into the door's lock. It turned with a shriek of protesting metal, and Thomas shoved the door in with a scrape and shudder.
Jess plunged into a thick cloud of rank, drifting smoke. He coughed at the chemical stench as he shouted, "Morgan!" It was the first name that came to him. "Morgan!"
He almost ran into a cell door, which stood completely open and gaping.
"Here!" a voice called, and coughed. Metal banged on metal. "We're here!"
He almost tripped over them in the gloom. All of them were together--Khalila, Glain, Santi, Wolfe, Dario, Morgan--wedged together in the corner farthest from the smoke and flames, low to the ground to suck in the cleanest air. Jess grabbed Khalila and Morgan and hauled them up to their feet. "Go, the door's open!" he said. Glain stood and pulled Dario up with her. "Go!"
Jess reached down to pull Santi up, and Wolfe stopped him. The Scholar's face had gone ghostly pale, and his outstretched ha
nd shook with urgency.
He was holding Santi against his chest in a protective, supportive embrace.
Jess crouched down. He pulled in his breath sharply when he saw the blackened edges on the captain's sleeve and the raw, red skin beneath, and looked at Wolfe, whose face in that moment was utterly unguarded . . . but only for an instant, before the bitter mask slipped back in place.
"Carefully," Wolfe said. "For the love of Heron, careful."
Jess took hold of Santi's unburned arm, and Wolfe supported the captain with both his arms around Santi's waist as they rose together. Jess moved carefully in on the burned side without touching what had to be incredibly painful injuries. Santi's breath came in short, ragged pants, and his face was the color of pale amber. Still conscious, and sick with it.
"Easy, Captain," Jess said, and guided him out of the cell. He tried to sound reassuring. "We'll get you help. Easy now."
Santi let out a tortured gasp, and his legs suddenly folded. The man's full weight crushed down on Jess's shoulder and Wolfe's, but between the two they kept him upright and moving through the choking, smoky fog and out into the cleaner air.
It felt like coming up out of a grave, even if that grave looked out on ruins.
Indira quickly took command and saw Santi settled on the grass while she sent one of her men running for a Medica--no, they called them doctors here, Jess remembered. Some of their doctors had Library training but rejected the authority of the Medica branch, and they certainly didn't have the facilities, or the supplies. They probably heal with poultices and folk remedies, he thought, and felt a sick roil in his stomach. Santi could recover cleanly if we were on the other side of that wall. But that didn't matter. Santi, and all of them, were stuck here for now, in a city that despised them and distrusted them, among fanatics who'd burn a book to make a point.
Santi took in a deep, slow breath and let it out. He still looked too pale, and he shivered convulsively. "I'm all right," he lied. "Chris. Don't look so angry."
"Do you expect me to look pleased?" Wolfe shot back, and though his expression was harsh, his fingers were undeniably gentle as he eased Santi's burned sleeve aside to get a better look at the damage. It looked worse without the cover: a handspan of skin burned away nearly through to the muscle, and where it wasn't gone, the remaining skin had a scorched, puckered look that didn't bode well. "Jess. Get that powder. Get it now."
The sudden tension in his voice sent Jess to his feet without question, and he ran to the wheelbarrow, scooped up a double handful of the heavy powder that the Philadelphia man was using to kill the blaze inside the prison, and raced back.
Realization nearly made him falter, because Santi's arm was still burning. It was hard to see in daylight: little greenish flickers, but he could hear the sizzle as the Greek fire drew new breath in the open air. It would continue to burn, right down to the bone, if it wasn't smothered.
Jess dumped powder on it, spreading it thick, and ran back for another double handful. He used that, too, just in case, and couldn't imagine how that grit felt on raw, burned skin and exposed nerves. Santi didn't make a sound, though his shuddering was far worse now, and he looked seconds from passing out completely. Wolfe was holding him up in a reclining position, trying to keep the arm up and away from any more contamination.
They all waited tensely to see if the flames burned through the powder. A defeated wisp of smoke curled up instead, and Jess allowed himself a little jolt of relief. It's out.
Santi slowly shut his eyes, and now the remaining color bled out of his face. Wolfe looked nearly as bad as he stared at the arm, alert for any sign of the fire's return. When it didn't come, he glanced to Indira, who was crouched nearby, watching. "Knife," he demanded. "I need to cut the cloth away. There might be more soaked in."
She silently handed one over, and Wolfe sliced the fabric of Santi's uniform sleeve off, high up at the shoulder, to bare a strongly muscled biceps, old seamed scars, and farther down, the wholesale ruin of his forearm. It looked bad, Jess thought. Very bad.
Indira said, without any sign of emotion, "He's done for."
Wolfe's head snapped up, and he gripped the knife in a way that made the back of Jess's neck go cold and tight. There was pure murder in the man's eyes, and it was only the fact that he was cradling Santi against him that kept him from it.
"He isn't," Jess said. "The captain's been through worse. We need a Medica."
"Don't have Library Medica," she said. "We have a doctor."
"Where?"
She stood up in a smooth motion. "Give me the knife, Scholar. Now." Wolfe didn't move, and Indira drew the gun that hung heavy at her belt. "Right now."
Jess reached over and took the knife. He was nearly as surprised by it as Wolfe, but something had to be done to keep this from turning worse. He offered it to Indira, hilt first, but kept his fingers firmly gripping the flat of the blade when she started to pull it free. "Doctor," he insisted.
She sighed impatiently and said, "I'll take you."
She set off, and Jess, after a look exchanged with Wolfe, ran to catch up. He heard someone behind him and looked back to see that Morgan was following, too. She caught up and jogged along with him. Heat from the fires blew her hair in disorderly curls around her face. "I used the lockpicks," she blurted out. "When the Greek fire hit, all I could think was to get everyone out. But the pick broke on the outer door and I couldn't open it." Her voice trembled, and he felt her body shudder along with it. "I thought we'd die in there, Jess. Is Captain Santi--"
"He'll be all right," Jess said, which was a lie, but it seemed to help. "Wait. You broke my picks?"
"Don't. Don't try to make me laugh, Jess, I was terrified and you were gone."
"I know." He'd never wanted to kiss her so badly as he did in that moment, to put his hands on her face and look into those lovely eyes and make her feel safe again. But there was no time. "You saved their lives."
"Where are you going?"
"Indira's leading us to find a doctor for Santi. His arm looks--" Jess shook his head. "I don't know what kind of barbaric medicine they practice here. I hope it's enough."
"It has to be." She pulled in a breath, and when he shot a glance at her, he saw that the reality of the attack, the devastation around them, was starting to hit home. "My God. Santi warned us when he heard the sirens that we needed to get out. I did my best, Jess, I did, but--"
"You did as well as anyone could."
She just shook her head at that. "At least I might be able to help the doctor. Obscurists can sometimes add power to medicines, speed healing, prevent infection . . ."
He hated the thought of betraying her power to more people, making her more valuable to Beck and his Burners . . . but there was nothing else to do if they wanted to save Santi now.
They ran with Indira through the smoking wreckage of the Burner town, and he had no idea how to keep any of them safe anymore.
EPHEMERA
Text of a letter from Aurelian, emperor of the Roman World, to Zenobia, queen of the East. Indexed in the Codex.
I command you to surrender upon the terms I propose, which are these--your life shall be spared, so that you spend that life with your friends, where I shall, with the advice of the august Senate of Rome, think fit to place you. Your jewels, silver, gold, and precious things, you must give up to the Roman treasury.
Text of a letter in response from Zenobia, queen of the East, to Aurelian Augustus. Indexed in the Codex.
It is not by the pen but by the sword that the business of war is to be transacted. You forget that my ancestor, the royal Cleopatra, chose death rather than splendid slavery.
Text of a notation from the Archivist Magister Zoran. Indexed in the Codex.
By all means, let these two giants clash. Zenobia, we have heard, has a rare library of hoarded manuscripts, and Rome still hides their rarest and choicest works. Once both empires are on their knees, we will broker peace, at a price.
I intend for the Great Lib
rary to become more than mere knowledge.
I intend for it to use both pen and sword.
CHAPTER THREE
Indira spotted the doctor from a distance away. "There," she said. "The one in the long coat and hat." She immediately turned and grabbed a passing man--one of hers, Jess assumed, though maybe Indira had the authority to press anyone into service she liked. "Take them to the doctor. Watch them. If they try to escape, shoot them down."
"Ma'am," the man said, and gave a rough salute. He was young, only twenty at most, but the look in his eyes was ages older. Indira strode off, shouting at a group pulling apart boards on a burning building nearby. Saving what they could. Their new escort studied Jess, then Morgan, and said, "You're the booklovers."
"Guilty," Morgan said. "Where's the doctor?"
"There." The young man pointed, and once he had, it was hard to miss the man. The doctor was a tall American native, with long hair tied in a square braid that trained down his back, and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with a broad red ribbon. The coat was a faded, tattered patchwork of leather and cloth that somehow retained a hint of a Medica's robe about it. Beanpole thin, as most Philadelphians were, but he moved with smooth assurance as he parted a knot of people and knelt beside someone lying on the ground.
"Come on," Jess said, and he and Morgan ran forward. The circle of watchers had closed up, shoulder to shoulder, but he was well used to slipping in where he wasn't wanted. He hoped their guard wouldn't take Indira literally and start shooting, but if he did, at least they'd have cover.
Once he'd wormed through to clear space, Jess found himself standing at the feet of a fallen young woman who gasped for breath through lips as blue as the clear, enameled sky overhead. The doctor bent next to her, fingers on her wrist, then on her neck. He pressed his ear to her chest, then snapped his fingers without looking up. He pointed . . . directly at Jess. "In the bag there is a covered pot with a red cord. Get it."
The bag in question lay right at Jess's feet, and he bent down and sorted through the contents. Mismatched jars and pots, most chipped and carefully mended. There's another thing they have to reuse, Jess thought. Things so common we throw them out in other parts of the world. Every scrap is precious here.