by Rachel Caine
The pot with the red cord--though red was a generous description; it was more gray with a hint of orange at the frayed edges--lay near the bottom. Jess took it and held it out for the doctor, who glanced up impatiently. "Well? Open it!"
When Jess did, the smell hit the back of his throat and clung there like an oily parasite, and he coughed and gagged and quickly shoved the pot in the doctor's direction. The man took it, sniffed without appearing to flinch at all, and then dabbed two fingers into the liquid mess before smearing it under the nose of the woman lying before him. She took in a gasp, then another and another. Each seemed deeper than the one before, and the bluish tint to her skin began to shift to something less dire. "Good," the doctor said, and thrust the pot back at Jess. "Put the cap on tight; no leaks or you'll be paying for it."
Jess nodded and recapped the vile mixture while holding his breath, but somehow, the stench still crawled deep into his nose and mouth before he could secure the top in place with the cord again. By the time he was done, the girl on the ground was sitting up, clinging to the doctor's hand but breathing well.
"You took in a good dose of fumes," he was telling her, "but keep the tincture on your upper lip and breathe it in until you don't feel liquid in your lungs. It'll burn your skin and leave a bright red patch, but that's better than death, isn't it? Go on, now. Help someone else when you feel strong enough."
"Doctor--," Jess began.
"Who are you?" The doctor climbed to his feet and assisted the girl up. He handed her off to two others waiting anxiously nearby. "What do you want?"
"We need you at the prison," Jess said. "We have someone seriously burned."
The doctor looked at him for the first time with real interest. "Ah. The prisoners. You're still wearing a Library uniform. Strange no one has killed you for that yet."
It was a casual enough observation, but it caught Jess short; he hadn't even thought about it, in the heat of his worry about Santi, but on a day when the Great Library forces were raining destruction and death down on Philadelphia, wearing his High Garda uniform might well deserve a beating from the townsfolk. "I'll worry about appropriate dress later," he said. "Are you coming?"
"I heal my own first. Anyone else? Anyone?" No one stepped forward to claim the doctor's attention, so he sighed and focused back on Jess. "Is your friend also wearing a High Garda uniform?"
"Yes," Jess said, and held the doctor's cool stare with an effort. "And you took a Medica oath to help any who ask."
"Years and many atrocities ago," the doctor said. "No one is holding me accountable to it."
"No one but the gods."
"Then I'm sure my afterlife will be interesting." The tall man reached out and snatched the bag from Jess's grasp--no mean feat, given Jess's High Garda-trained reflexes--and put it over one bony shoulder. "Well? Go on. If you have a patient for me, show me!"
"Yes, Med-- I mean, Doctor."
"Dr. Askuwheteau. Go!"
Jess pushed back out of the crowd and looked for Morgan. She was standing with their guard, who'd clearly not been comfortable allowing both out of his sight, and seemed relieved to see Jess, with the tall man striding behind him. "Doctor," the guard greeted him. "One of the prisoners is injured."
"Burns, the boy said."
"Yes."
"Worth my time?"
The guard shrugged. "Not my call."
Askuwheteau struck out in a walk that forced the three of them to a run to keep up. No one stopped them. Chaos had turned to organization in the short time they'd been to find the doctor, and teams of workers were on every burning building, while others were already at work salvaging from smoking wreckage. Everyone moved with a purpose.
And, to Jess's relief, no one signaled to the doctor for help along the way.
As they hit the park, Askuwheteau lengthened his stride even more, moving at a speed that even Jess was hard-pressed to match, and despite his best efforts he was three steps behind when they arrived at the prison. He found Askuwheteau crouched down next to Santi and Wolfe.
He took one quick look at the wound and shook his head. He slipped his battered bag from his shoulder and, without a word, took Santi's arm and held it up for inspection in the smoky afternoon light. It was getting near on sunset, Jess realized.
"Are you trained?" Wolfe demanded. The Philadelphia doctor gave him a narrow look and ignored him to focus past Jess, on Morgan, who'd just arrived.
"You. Girl. Give me the pot with green and yellow strings from my bag," he said.
Morgan opened the bag and began rummaging in it. The doctor looked away, and then, as if he'd noticed something, returned his attention to her. He studied her closely, and his lips parted to say something.
Morgan beat him to it, without looking up from the sack. "Yes. And I can feel you have the talent, too. Not strong enough to send you to the Tower, but enough. Are you their only Obscurist?" Jess knew he looked a fool; he'd never asked if Obscurists could recognize each other. Never thought of it. Morgan saw his look as she glanced up. "The best Medica are often gifted, but not enough to be Obscurists," she said. "He's almost strong enough."
"Almost, yes. I worked with the Obscurists when I was young, developing Library medicines," the doctor said. "And yes, I am the only one with anything like Obscurist powers here. I've done what I could, but you are much stronger. You can increase the potency of what I've prepared. If you would, please. It might well save your friend."
She found the pot with green and yellow strings--though those were almost as colorless as the red cord had been--and opened it. She dipped her fingers inside and closed her eyes, and a faint shimmer of gold seemed to pass through her skin and into the pot. She handed it to the doctor, who sniffed and nodded, then took a soft brush from a kit at his belt and began painting the stuff onto Santi's burns. It did glow, Jess thought, a very faint, whispering shimmer.
"Excellent," Askuwheteau said. "Never work against the properties of nature unless you have time, and focus. You know that, I suppose. Start with a healing potion, and you can make it much stronger quite easily. Changing poison to a healing potion takes a great deal more time, talent, and energy." He paused to look at the balm he'd applied. It continued to glimmer. "You have a real gift, girl. Valuable. It's best you keep it hidden, or you'll find yourself serving the Iron Tower, locked in a collar."
"I escaped," she said. That earned her a set of raised eyebrows. Askuwheteau gestured for the bag, and she passed it over. "You won't tell Beck about me?"
"I expect he already knows. After all, the eight of you came here with two London Burners. They would have told him."
Askuwheteau was right, of course. Beck had to know, though he'd said little. Not yet.
Morgan said nothing, but her quick glance at Jess spoke volumes. Worry, but mixed with something else he couldn't identify as easily. She's plotting something, he thought, and the idea turned him cold. He didn't want Morgan risking herself.
"I can help you more," she told the doctor quietly. "At least, with Captain Santi. If you'll allow it."
Jess watched as she methodically strengthened the potency of every one of Dr. Askuwheteau's medicines. The doctor applied them, layer on layer. He was examining the rest of Santi's arm now. Santi, while Jess hadn't been watching, had slipped into the kind embrace of unconsciousness, so if there was pain from the doctor's manipulations, he wasn't feeling it.
"You're Library trained," Wolfe said. "But you left the service."
"My people have been living in and around this city since time began," Askuwheteau said. "These are our lands, and we were trapped when the Burners took over. They needed a doctor. I wouldn't be true to the Lenape if I did what I was told by the Library and turned my back on them, would I?"
Jess stayed silent and watched as the doctor applied another layer of salve. Wolfe studied Askuwheteau with angry intensity. Without looking up at him, Askuwheteau said, "You are a Scholar? You have a touch of gift, too."
"Not enough," Wolfe said.
<
br /> The doctor's long fingers smoothed more cream over weeping, burned flesh. "Any power is enough to matter," he said. "Love and power both. Stay with him. He will need strength." He sat back, frowning, and studied the arm again. Jess had the sense he wasn't looking with regular human sight. Morgan often got that same gauzy, unfocused look. "All right. If we keep infection at bay, he may live. Will he have use of his arm?" Askuwheteau moved his shoulders in a peculiar kind of rolling shrug. "Perhaps. I will check him in the morning." He stoppered jars and bottles, slotted them back into his case, and stopped to give Morgan a nod. "Good work."
"Thank you. I'll do whatever I can for him tonight."
The doctor's eyebrows rose, then fell into a straight line as he took another long look at her. "Don't do as much as you think you can. Power is like fire," he said. "It will turn on you in an instant, if you fail to respect it. I've seen it happen. And you? If you burn, you'll burn fast."
She murmured thanks, and with that, he was off again, striding at a pace that made those in his way scramble to leave it. He might look like a patchwork scarecrow, but the doctor had a certain strange grace to him. Jess thought he wouldn't like to have to fight the man. He had no doubt that the healer could take him apart as easily as fix him.
Morgan moved to Santi's side and put her hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Scholar, if you'll allow it, I can try to speed the healing for him."
"Yes," Wolfe said. "The sooner he's back on his feet, the better we can plan our exit from this wretched place." That sounded businesslike, but there was fear and grief in the man's face--there, and gone. Wolfe transferred his focus to Jess. "Thank you." A simple thing, but Wolfe rarely was civil, much less grateful, and Jess knew by that just how terrified he'd been of losing Niccolo Santi. "Now. Fetch Schreiber. I want to hear everything."
Thomas relayed the news--Jess and Thomas, tasked with building the press; the rest, working to catalog the Black Books. Santi was in no shape now to endure any questioning, and Beck couldn't possibly think it a ruse; Indira herself had seen the damage the Greek fire had done. So that was, Jess thought, one danger avoided, even if it led Santi deep into another.
"A decent bargain," Wolfe said. "Serving as his translators and interpreters of the work gives us the chance to . . . obscure some of the more dangerously useful bits of information."
Jess frowned at that. "Censorship," he said. "So now we're taking on the role of Archivist?"
"Would you prefer to hand Willinger Beck an arsenal of inventions even the Great Library thought too deadly?"
Put that way, Jess thought, there wasn't much he could muster in the way of an objection. But he didn't like it. He wondered if this was how it had started, all those ages ago, when some Scholar had earnestly advised an Archivist that a discovery was just too advanced, would cause too much damage. Who'd put the first of the books in the Black Archives? The records were all ashes now; they'd never know. But it worried him, how easy it was to slip down that path for reasons that seemed logical at the time.
It apparently didn't worry anyone else. Wolfe and Thomas had moved on to discussing the rest of the deal with Beck. "We'll still be guarded," Thomas said. "But not locked in. And we'll be fed, such as they have to offer. Which, I gather, isn't very much."
Wolfe nodded his satisfaction. "I'll talk to the guards, but there's not likely to be rations tonight. The city's bound to save its own first. We'll ask tomorrow." At the mention of food, Jess's stomach let out an unhappy growl, and he wondered when it was he'd last managed to eat. Seemed a long time ago, and too little to matter.
Khalila, Dario, and Glain, who'd been watching from the periphery, came back, one after the other. Khalila bent down and touched Scholar Wolfe's shoulder. "Sir? How is he?"
"Sleeping," Wolfe said. "Their doctor is competent. I hope it'll be enough."
"The guards say the smoke's out of the building and the fires are all doused," Dario said. "They also say we'd be better off staying in there, never mind the draft. Didn't say so, but the townsfolk left with houses and buildings in ruins might make our evening rough if we try to take up beds in the shelters. We'd best not press our luck."
"Captain Santi will rest better inside," Thomas said, and stepped forward. "Let me, sir."
Wolfe didn't react for a few seconds, and then he nodded and stood up. Thomas scooped Santi up in his arms, careful of the salve-smeared burned arm. He didn't seem bothered by the man's weight in the least, and they all followed as he carried Santi's unconscious body through the narrow door into their prison. Morgan darted ahead to look over the cells and finally pointed to Dario's. Dario, to his credit, didn't even protest. "This one's best; it'll be the warmest," she said, and Thomas eased the man down on the mattress. "Thank you, Thomas. I'll take care of him now."
Thomas had positioned Santi with his head toward the wall so that his wounded arm lay straight and still, and now Morgan sank down on her knees next to the bed, studying the injury; Jess had the sense she was looking at something far different from what he could see, and her fingers spread out in a precise pattern to hover above his wounds. She let out a breath, closed her eyes, and went still.
Wolfe stood in the corner of the cell, all his focus on Santi's quiet face.
"Nothing more we can do here," Thomas said softly, and Jess nodded. "Best we take stock of what Beck's given us to work with in this workshop of his. The sooner we know, the better we can plan."
It was oddly hard to leave, though there was plainly nothing to do; Jess's gaze lingered on Morgan's face--fixed, tranquil, oddly tense beneath all that. Whatever she was doing, though, he knew it would take a toll. He could almost see the power, energy, quintessence--whatever one wanted to call it--pouring out of her, into Captain Santi's injured flesh. He remembered Askuwheteau's caution to her and wondered what price she was going to pay. Whatever it was, she wouldn't turn back.
In that way, he and Morgan were exactly alike.
The workshop was nothing but a junk heap.
The tools and materials that Philadelphia had to hand were, at best, a disaster. Broken bits of metal scavenged from wreckage, scrap bricks and broken stones, leather that had been rebraided and oiled to within an inch of its very ancient life. Rope was in short supply, and what they had, they kept carefully stored in barrels.
The wood--and there was not a lot of it--consisted mostly of scraps that showed hard use. A few precious new boards that must have been cut from trees inside the town walls lay in a neat, shallow stack. Miraculous that there were any trees standing at all, Jess thought, between desperate inhabitants and Library bombardments. Beck must have been brutal in his punishments for cutting them down.
"This is not so bad," Thomas said with forced good cheer as they looked over the disappointing lot. "I've done more with less. Does that forge work?"
"It does, but there's not much fuel," the guard who'd accompanied them said. "We can't use wood. There's some coal. Not much. We can bring you some Blanks to burn."
Jess shuddered at the thought. "Any Greek fire jugs that landed and didn't explode?" The guard frowned. "We just need a drop or two a day. Add some to a little supply of coal, you have a superheated forge that can stay hot for hours. It can burn rocks, if necessary."
"You can keep charge of what we don't use," Thomas quickly said. "I understand you would not want to give us unlimited access."
"You're dead right. And if Master Beck approves it, you'll keep your mouths well shut about it. Greek fire in Library hands? The people would tear you all apart."
He was right. The Library had been a constant, faceless enemy to the Burners for more than a century. It was a minor miracle he and his friends were all still alive now, since they were the breathing, vulnerable examples of it. Given the slightest hint of betrayal, the people of Philadelphia would turn on them fast.
"We're here to give you a great weapon against the Library," Thomas said. "Destroying us would be killing your own chance to win."
"I'm not listening. Master Beck c
an think what he likes." The guard glared at both of them with open, naked hatred now. "But if I'd had my way, we'd have roasted the lot of you on top of the books, and thrown your skulls over the wall for your friends to mourn."
Thomas exchanged a look with Jess. "You understand that we're under a sentence of death, to the Library? Killing us helps the Archivist. Not your own people."
Jess said, "He's telling you the truth. We're enemies of the Archivist Magister, and we're going to find a way to bring him down."
"You. Your little band of children."
"You're at most three years older. How long have you been fighting? All your life, I think."
"I hate the Library, not the Archivist. Take him away, and you still have the same corrupt system. It will breed another just like him."
"He's not wrong. We have a great deal to repair to ensure another tyrant doesn't rise," Thomas said to Jess, and then turned back to the guard. "What is your name?"
"Diwell." It came out reluctantly, as if giving up his name meant forming a long-term relationship he didn't want.
"Diwell, five hundred years ago, the Great Library went down a dark path. But it still shines a light. Weaker now, but putting it out plunges us all into darkness together."
"Don't give me your recruiting speech."
"All right," Jess said. "Beck wants us to build a machine for him. How do we do that, if we can't forge parts? We need the Greek fire, or we need a lot of fuel. His choice which he gives us."
Diwell glared, but he nodded. "I'll run it by Indira. What else?"
"Wax," Thomas said. "For casting parts. It doesn't matter if it's already been used."
"Candles are in short supply. Like wood and every other damned thing here."
"We'll make you new candles from the melt when we're done with it. The loss won't be so much, we promise," Thomas said, and rubbed his hands together. "Mr. Diwell, please, take your ease. My friend and I will need to go through everything stored here. It will be a very long evening, and I promise we will do nothing more interesting than talking and writing things down."
Thomas's face had taken on a healthy color in the lamplight. It wasn't, Jess thought, just that they were out of the cells and relatively free; a workshop, however poor, was his real home, and he looked forward to surveying the tools and supplies and making do with what little they were given. Thomas loved a challenge.