“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.
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.”