That speech, Jess thought, was a bit of a wonder. An implication of hostage taking; in the same breath, a promise of favors; and as an apple polish on the end, lauding Thomas with his rightfully earned title. A title the Burners normally used as a term of scorn.
“No,” Thomas said. Not a diplomat, Thomas. Blunt, earnest, and to the point. “For the price of humbling your pride and giving us food and trust, you get a weapon that kills no one, destroys nothing, and yet undermines the tyranny you claim to resist. A life is worth more than a book; that is your motto. We can make that a fact, not mere words.”
In the silence that followed Thomas’s words—slow, deliberate, powerful words—Jess imagined he could feel the world changing around him. It was subtle, but it was there.
He could see by the look in Willinger Beck’s eyes that the man felt it, too. But he hadn’t survived this long, against these odds, by being gullible. “I will provide you with supplies to build your machine, and food for you two, and you two only,” Beck said. “Rations are dear here. The others need to earn their bread with useful work, and while I agree to leave the prison doors unlocked, there is no such thing as freedom of movement for any of you; you will go guarded, or you do not go anywhere. If your machine proves all that you promise, then you may earn additional rights. Not before.”
Jess locked gazes with Thomas, and Thomas gave a rolling shrug. A very German sort of move, and it made Jess feel a slow burn of satisfaction. This could work. He nodded to Thomas.
“Acceptable,” the other young man said. Looking at him, Jess could suddenly see the Scholar he’d one day become—sure, centered, deliberate and calm, and sharply intelligent. A great man, if they survived this. “I will make you a list of what we need.”
Beck laughed. It sounded barren. “You may make all the lists you like, my boy. We have what we have, and you will make do, as we all must. I will write to your father, Brightwell. If there is something you need that can’t be crafted here, we’ll send to him for it. He might feel inclined to gift us with it, if he knows his son’s life is at risk with the rest of us.”
Maybe. Jess’s brother Liam had died dangling from a noose in London and was buried in an unmarked grave as a nameless book smuggler. Da could have saved him. Da hadn’t bothered, because getting caught was, in his world, a mortal sin.
Jess was caught, too. The trick was letting Beck think he wasn’t.
It seemed the agreement had been reached, and Jess allowed his shoulders to relax just a little . . . and a little too soon, because Beck suddenly said, “One more thing. You’re aware that Captain Santi once commanded troops outside these walls?”
“Did he?” Jess asked. And shrugged. He wasn’t about to answer that. He’d hoped that Beck didn’t know the identities of the many, many High Garda captains who’d camped out there in the dark.
“He is to sit with my guard captain, Indira, and map out for her everything he knows of the Library camps. Troop strengths, placement of tents, routines. Everything.”
He’s not going to do that. Jess knew it instantly. Santi might turn his back on the Library, but betray other High Garda? Never.
The next instant, he thought, But he might like the chance to lie his head off about it, though. And so he let a second pass before he said, without any change of tone or expression, “I’ll pass along your request.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
Jess stared back without saying anything. There was something about Beck that reminded him, strongly, of his father. It wasn’t a happy comparison, and he had no issue at all waiting the man out. He knew his father got impatient when faced with silence.
And sure enough, so did Beck. “I’ll expect his attendance in the morning,” Beck said. “Tell him to report to Indira. If he isn’t there at dawn, he’ll be dragged along in chains.”
“Everyone except us will be with you here tomorrow,” Thomas said. “The Scholars and Morgan will begin to translate these books. And that earns the bread we take from you, yes?”
“Your soldier girl—Wathen, is it? Wathen is of no use to me,” Beck began, and Thomas cut him right off.
“Squad Leader Glain Wathen is Scholar Seif’s personal guard. She stays with her. Protocol.”
That was a truly excellent lie, and Jess had to admire it; he’d simultaneously made Khalila mysteriously important and given Glain status, too. Beck might have some information, but surely not enough. They only had to work around his preconceptions.
Beck let out an offended little huff and tugged his jacket down. “Protocol!”
“Consider that it’s for your own protection,” Jess said. “One of your men insulted Scholar Seif, and she’s not in a forgiving mood.”
“If Seif is so touchy, she can stay in her cell!”
Thomas suddenly clapped shut the book he had open in his hand. It was a shockingly loud sound, and he got to his feet in the startled silence. “She is properly addressed as Scholar Seif, and if you want your books translated, you need her above all the others,” he said. “Your man laid hands on her. Don’t ever do it again.”
“Oh, threats now? You must fancy yourself dangerous,” Beck said.
Jess raised his eyebrows and looked at Thomas. “Do we?”
“Occasionally,” Thomas said gravely.
For the first time, Beck lost his temper. He slammed both hands down on his desk, sending papers scattering. “This is not a matter for your amusement, you spoiled children! You think it’s easy to keep my people safe, fed, housed, and warmed with the Library bombing our city with regularity? Now, shut up and appreciate my forbearance, or you might not enjoy quite such special treatment in the future!”
Jess opened his mouth to reply but shut it when Thomas shook his head. Best to let him have this, he realized. We have what we need.
Thomas bowed, the picture of calm. He made it seem easy. “Thank you,” he said.
“Just get out!”
Thomas inclined his head meekly, and when Beck’s office door opened, they followed the tall guard woman down the hall. More guards fell in behind.
“You’re called Indira,” Jess said. The woman glanced at him. Barely. “You’re in charge?”
“As far as you’re concerned,” she said. Nothing else. Jess tried smiling, but he was aware he gave off a more criminal air next to Thomas’s pleasant farm-boy charm. She remained distinctly uncharmed. He gave it up and concentrated instead on noting everything about the building they passed through, and everything he could see outside.
They were on the steps when the first alarms began to sound. It was a terrible wailing sound, coming from all around them. Outside the walls. It rose and fell like the cries of the damned, and even though Jess knew what it was, he felt a sick, falling sensation in his stomach. He had to resist an overwhelming urge to cover his ears.
“What is that?” Thomas’s shout near his ear was only just barely audible, and he heard the rattle of panic in it.
“High Garda warning signal,” Jess shouted back. “Bombardment.”
He’d been exposed to it in training sessions, but he’d never expected to hear it this close; it sounded like an ancient, eerie thing, like the screaming of gods, and it was meant to warn the citizens of a city that hell was coming down.
And the Philadelphians, he saw, were used to it. No one even covered their ears, except a few small children.
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.