by Rachel Caine
He could. Not easily; his lungs felt scorched and fragile, but each breath he took in felt cleaner than the last. The ceiling overhead waved and rippled, and he finally realized he wasn't imagining it. He was in a tent. A High Garda tent. He struggled to remember, because all he had in that moment were disorienting flashes . . . Beck, screaming, his leg bent wrong. Ben Franklin's golden statue tumbling and melting into green flames as the tower collapsed.
When he blinked, he realized his heart was racing and cold sweat had broken out on his face and arms. He felt filthy and, despite the sleep, dully exhausted. "We're safe?" he asked. It seemed important to ask. His voice sounded appalling--a toad's croak, barely understandable even to his own ears. Wolfe silently offered him a cup of water--clean, fresh water that washed the grit out of his throat and went down wonderfully cool. Jess closed his eyes a moment to enjoy that, and then repeated what he'd tried to say.
"For the moment," Wolfe said. "We'll leave soon. But we have some choices to make, and I want everyone healthy enough to make them intelligently." He paused a moment and then said, "We were lucky, Jess. We won't be lucky again. From now on, once the Library knows we've survived, it will do everything in its power to wipe us from the earth. Us, our families, our friends. Everyone who has ever known our names. It's the only way the Archivist can win now."
Jess swallowed. "No quarter," he said.
"That's why we must decide, once and for all, what each of us wants to do. There's a chance that if we hide, we could live out our lives in peace and obscurity. If we fight . . . if we fight, the Library will wage total war on us, wherever we go. There will be no safety. No rest. Win, or die."
"You make it sound so appealing."
"I mean to. Each one of you deserves the truth and is strong enough to stand up under the weight. I have known many Scholars and students. I have never met a more unruly, unteachable lot, and I thank the gods for forcing you all into my life." Wolfe's words were severe, but the look in his eyes, the quiet smile--those were anything but. They said, I am proud of you. "You came into this for me, in the beginning, and for Thomas. But this is your chance to walk away. Here, in the ashes, you can start new."
"You think that's what I want?" Jess asked. "To give up?"
"I think we'll all discuss it more," Wolfe said, and stood up. He indicated the bucket with one dismissive wave. "Empty that yourself; I'm not your nursemaid. And your brother wants to see you."
Jess said nothing to that. He didn't think he could stomach seeing Brendan just now. So, of course, his brother immediately threw back the tent flap and strolled right in.
Jess hadn't had much leisure to examine him before, so he did now, and it was like looking in a flawed mirror. His twin had lost the soft padding he'd acquired while lounging in Alexandria and falling in love with a Library girl; he looked more like the half-wild London urchin Jess had once been, and Brendan was dressed in an entirely wrong High Garda uniform and grinning like the devil on a drinking spree. Jess sat up, which served to remind him how incredibly sore he was, to lessen the height difference between them.
There was a terrible truth between them. It wasn't clear, and it wasn't spoken aloud, not yet, but Jess knew it all the same. His brother had arranged for the bombing of Philadelphia . . . how, he had no idea. But it had been horribly effective, both in securing them the chance at escape and in showing the Burners that double-crossing smugglers was bad, bad business.
Brendan didn't want to talk about it any more than Jess did, it seemed, because he noisily dragged over a camp chair, made a face at the bucket Wolfe had abandoned, and edged it away with one booted foot. "I came to tell you how your girl is doing. Thought that would be the first question you'd ask."
He was right, of course. Jess had been forming the question even as his brother spoke. He gave in. "How is she?"
"Morgan is receiving the best possible care from Library-trained Medicas," Brendan said. It sounded like an official, rehearsed answer that he'd been told to deliver.
"I said, how is she?" His brother looked down at his hands and rubbed his thumbs together. Another tell, but a new one, and Jess didn't know what it meant. It put him on edge. "Saint's sakes, just tell me!"
"Weak," Brendan said. "Burning up with some kind of fever that your Scholar Wolfe says has to do with her overusing her talents. He and that American doctor are doing their best, along with the Medica. Wolfe told me not to tell you. He thought you'd come rushing in."
"Exactly what I'm doing," Jess said, and sat up. The world melted and swirled around him, and he felt Brendan's strong hands holding him back from collapse. He tried to take in a deep breath, but his lungs weren't having it, and he heard a thick, noxious rattle of liquid in them. He coughed, and once he'd started he couldn't stop.
Brendan eased him back down again, and he wasn't in any shape to say no to it. The bunk felt safe, even if everything inside him was screaming to get up. "Nothing you can do but hover and look murderous," his twin said. "The rest of them are doing that on your behalf, I promise. You and Thomas got the worst of the smoke. You'll be coughing through the night. I'm to sit and make sure you don't choke on it or stop breathing. If you stop breathing, by the way, I'll beat you until you start."
"I don't think that's a valid Medica technique."
Brendan shrugged. "Seems fine to me."
"And why are you dressed in a High Garda uniform?"
"I was planning to kill you, dispose of the body, and take your place. After all, isn't that what twins do?"
"Stop."
Brendan cocked his head, a familiar gesture that made Jess want to cuff him on the ear. "Wouldn't do to be some civilian in the middle of this camp. Did you trade your brains for tasty pudding? The Library's swarming like a hive; they're dismantling the walls and sending troops in to search the city. Zara's securing us a transport and sending us on our way as soon as night falls. And I can't wait to be out of this damned uniform, because it makes me itch."
Jess looked down at himself and, for the first time, realized he was no longer wearing the filthy, half-seared rags he'd had on; instead, he wore a silky shirt and trousers, the sort provided to patients by Medica hospitals. And nothing else beneath. He was grateful for the blanket, suddenly, and yanked it up. His hands were expertly bandaged, and the burns twinged. Not nearly as bad as they ought to have done. It occurred to him to wonder if, in addition to the Medica's sprays and ointments, Morgan had poured some of her healing ability into him and further damaged herself in the process. He prayed that hadn't happened. He had to hope that Wolfe would have had the good sense to prevent it, if Morgan tried.
The bandages were aggravating, and before Brendan could stop him--if he was inclined to--Jess grabbed the end of the one swaddling his right hand in his teeth and yanked until it came loose. He clumsily unwrapped it and surveyed his fingers and palm. Blistered, tender, but not nearly as bad as he'd expected. He stripped off the left hand's covering and flexed both. Winced. Then he tried to sit up again and was slightly more successful this time. His lungs heaved and protested with bubbling gurgles, but he managed an upright position without help. "Are we safe here?" he asked.
"Of course not; stupid question. But turns out Captain Santi has a significant number of friends, even here. Out of the other three captains here, two of them aren't well pleased with the Archivist removing the High Garda commander or demanding loyalty tests of his soldiers. And they're friends of Captain Santi. So they'll turn a blind eye and cover for us. The last one is going to be kept in the dark."
"So . . . we're leaving in a transport, but Santi's company is staying?"
"No real choice. If Zara pulled out, there'd be no mistaking that she'd turned her loyalty. Santi says they stay and do everything asked of them until it's time to do something important. He's gambling that they will, of course. I'm not sure I'd take that chance."
So, they were going it alone. They didn't have much choice. As Wolfe had said: they'd have to decide to hide and play dead, or rise
and fight. Brendan, ironically, was the one who'd liked the shadows. Avoiding duty and playing his own game.
Jess tried to stand up. His brother held him down. Jess snapped, "I'm all right! Hands off, Scraps!"
"You'd walk on severed legs and claim you were all right, but fine. Suit yourself; fall on your face and spit your lungs up while you're at it. I have things to do. You haven't asked, but I'll tell you anyway: we've got a ship waiting on the coast, and we'll be sailing home."
"Home? Meaning where?"
"To our new fortress. You're going to love it. Da wants you with us. And he's generously agreed to give all your friends shelter, too." Brendan started for the tent's exit, then turned back. "Don't call me Scraps. I'd beat you blue for it, but seems redundant."
Looking at him was disorienting, like seeing himself at a distance. Am I really that annoying? Too late to ask. His brother was already gone.
It was significant, what he'd said, and the way he'd said it, dropping it at the last, casual moment. Jess's head hurt too much to decipher that message, but he knew it would come to him. Eventually. Meanwhile, he had somewhere to be.
Jess took a deep breath, reached for the support of the bunk's frame, and managed to stand. Didn't manage much more than that, for a long few moments, then spotted a uniform neatly folded on a chest nearby. That's not so far.
It was miles, and he was sweating and coughing up a red-tinged liquid by the time he got there. He spat mouthfuls of the sickening stuff into the bucket and, when he felt more steady, stripped off the loose, soft shirt and trousers. His skin, most places, was blotched and reddened. His hair felt dry, and singed at the ends, and it smelled like burning death.
Dressing seemed a lot of effort, and after he'd drawn on underclothes, fastened the trousers, pulled on the shirt and jacket and boots, he felt tired enough to lie back down again . . . but he wouldn't, for fear Brendan would come back and laugh. Instead, he got up, coughed again, and proceeded with slow care outside. The handmade Codex and the book he'd carried out of Philadelphia both lay bound together with dirty strips of cloth. He put them in the pockets of his coat.
Niccolo Santi wasn't resting. He was sitting in a folding camp chair, but he was engaged in earnest conversation with his extremely capable and dangerous lieutenant. Too busy to notice Jess at all.
Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find yet another person standing just behind him, off to the side, as if waiting to catch him when he inevitably collapsed. He made damn sure he was steady, and then turned his head. It was Dario, who attempted to look like total accident had placed him there.
"Really?" Jess asked. Dario shrugged without commenting. "Who put you up to it?"
"Who's the one person I will unquestionably obey?"
Khalila, of course. That went without saying. "So why did she turn on the Library, really?" Jess asked, and jerked his head toward Zara. Not very hard, so as not to lose his balance. He could take a lot. He wasn't sure he could stomach Dario Santiago having to come to his rescue.
"I think she really did miss the captain," Dario said. "And his soldiers didn't have the heart to turn against him. He's well liked, and she isn't, so it's in her best interests to stay loyal to him. Always an on or off with that one. Loyal, or not. I never know what to make of her, but Santi does. I suppose that's all that matters."
"So . . . ," Jess said slowly. "We have . . . an army?"
"Two companies' worth, possibly three, but they won't be of any use to us until it comes to a real fight," Dario said. "Still. That's . . . not insignificant." He was right about that. That was stunning. Defections from the High Garda were rare, and defections of entire companies? Unheard of. Jess imagined the Archivist's face turning a shade somewhere between crimson and eggplant when those companies turned on him. Maybe he'd burst his heart in fury. That would be most welcome.
"Chess," Jess said quietly. "Three moves ahead."
"And now would be the time to plan it," Dario agreed. "We'll have troops moving into position in Alexandria that we can count on. I assume your brother's arranged for passage for us?"
"Not to Alexandria," Jess said. "My father wants us with him."
"Why? Because, no offense to your family, but I never quite trusted any of you." He hesitated a long beat before he said, "Present company excepted, of course."
And that was the moment when Jess's head cleared, and he saw very plainly what his brother had tried to tell him without telling him at all. Da wants you with us. Fortress. Generously agreed to give all your friends shelter.
Dario was talking to him, but he ignored him and shut his eyes to think. He knew his brother. He knew his father.
And he knew exactly what was coming for them in England.
"Shut up," he said to Dario, in the middle of what was probably an elaborate non-apology. "You're always bragging about your family connections. Just how important are they, exactly? And no exaggerations. Facts."
Dario went silent for a long moment, then said, "My cousin Jaume is the Spanish ambassador to the Great Library. My aunt Xijema is the speaker of the Cortes Generales, the Spanish congress. She's also the Duchess of Badajoz. And my second cousin twice removed is Ramon Alfonse, His Royal Highness, the king of Spain." Jess opened his mouth to reply but couldn't think of anything to say for a moment. He just shook his head. Dario gave him a shrug. "That's why I didn't tell you."
"You're . . . actual royalty."
"No. Not really. There are plenty of those scampering around, anyway. But you asked."
"And you never thought to mention this? It might have saved your life."
"I know that. I also know that the first thing Beck would have done would be to demand a ransom, and I know that my family wouldn't pay it." Dario spread his hands. "They stopped paying for me a long time ago. So it sounds impressive; that's all."
"Apart from money, would they extend you any other kind of help? Diplomatic help?"
"If there was something in it for them. Jaume would be the one I'd count on. He's clever, and he likes me well enough."
"Can he offer us sanctuary at his embassy? If we need it?"
That made Dario turn and look at him with a blank expression. "What are you thinking, Jess?" Jess, not scrubber, or one of the even less attractive nicknames he generally used.
"I'm thinking," Jess said, "that I agree with you. I don't trust my family, either. But I think I know how we can make that of some real use." He took in a breath. He had a plan. It made his stomach twist and his head hurt, but Dario had been right: chess was not about playing your opponent, but knowing him. And clearly seeing everyone, and everything, in your path.
For the first time, he was really seeing clearly. It wasn't pleasant.
"I'm going to see Morgan," he said. "And I'm going to take a shower. I smell like death."
"You do," Dario agreed. "Really quite repulsively."
Dario wore a black Scholar's robe now, and a gold band, though Jess imagined it had been fiddled with to remove any chance of tracking it. He'd bathed already, obviously. He looked every inch the part of a respectable young man of the Library. And he gave Jess a sudden frown. "You're not asking me to go with you, are you?"
"No." Jess turned to go and almost faltered. Dario's hand slid under his elbow and steadied him.
"Fine, since you're begging, I'll walk you there. But I'm not washing your back."
"Gods defend us both from that terrible fate."
Dario saw him into the shower tent and left him safely deposited on a bench. Jess quickly washed the worst of the dirt and smell off himself in the small cubicle, and came out to find two things.
First, Dario had abandoned him. Fair enough.
Second, Tom Rolleson and three other members of the Blue Dogs squad--the one that Jess and Glain had belonged to, in their brief career with Santi's company--were waiting for him when he stepped out of the shower cubicle, dressed in a towel and feeling especially vulnerable. They were all in uniforms and boots and identically harsh expressions, and Jess
set himself mentally for the fight. Won't go well, some part of him said, which was not a help. Probably undo all the good work the Medica put in.
There was a sick irony to surviving the Burners, only to end up dying at the hands of his friends. But he wasn't going easily, if that was the direction they intended to take it.
"Troll," he said to the squad leader. Tom's nickname, and it usually brought out a brash grin. Not this time. The young man just stared at him. He'd acquired a new scar since the last time Jess had seen him: a long, jagged one that ran along the edge of his jaw. Still pink, with a faint red line in the middle. "So what's this, then?"
"What do you think it is?" Troll asked him. The three soldiers flanking him--one a Chinese recruit named Wu Xiang, one a Greek named Phoena, and the last he didn't know even faintly--gave him identical blank faces. "Look like a welcome home to you, Brightwell? You think you deserve one?"
"I wasn't looking for it." Jess decided to move to the bench where he'd folded his clothes. When no one stopped him, he sat and, with the typical High Garda lack of modesty, took off the towel and put on underclothes while they stared at him. With each bit of the uniform going on, he felt better. "What do you want?"
"What were they like?" Phoena asked suddenly. Jess froze in the act of doing up the crisp black fabric of his trousers.
"Who?"
"The Burners."
He was suddenly, acutely aware of the humidity in the little enclosure, the ever-present faint smell of mold, the painful scrape of stiff cloth over his burns. For a second the memory rolled over him of watching the first ballista bomb hit, of seeing that first building explode into looping curls of pure death.
He didn't want to think about the Burners. He was short of breath, and when he tried to slow down and breathe deeper, his lungs gurgled again. He nearly coughed but managed not to. Not yet.
"Why?" he asked without looking up. He found himself staring at his still-reddened hands. He could see the faint scars of the glass cuts on his fingertips, and for an instant he saw the shy smile of that woman in the shop. His hands curled into fists. They hurt. Throbbed.