“We’re not that friendly, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Relax, scrubber, I’m not suddenly thirsty for your company. But I thought a stroll near the wall . . .”
That got Jess’s firm attention. “Meaning?”
Dario’s voice had gone very quiet, even though the room was deserted. “Meaning, I struck up an acquaintance with two disreputable characters late last night who wanted to place bets on the fastest of three roaches. I won, by the way, quite nicely. One of them was one of Beck’s guards, and they have access to some strong—not good, mind you—liquor. He was well into it when he told me they’d posted extra men at the eastern wall. I don’t expect he’ll remember much of any of that conversation today.”
Jess’s mind raced. Extra guards on a wall meant they expected something—either someone trying to go out or someone coming in. The Library wasn’t likely to give advance notice of tunneling in, though they’d been most polite about the bombardment. So that meant . . .
Jess pulled his boots on. “Let’s take a walk, like friends.”
“I thought you’d see it my way,” Dario said, and they went up and out the door.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“If we find this tunnel,” Dario said as they walked—oh so casually—on a street of ruined buildings near the wall, “then what comes next?” No one was watching them. Crews of Philadelphians were up to their knees in rubble, sorting out bricks, metal, broken bits of wood that could be reused. Grimly repairing anything that could be saved.
“Finding a way to follow it without anyone here knowing. Scouting the exit. Figuring out a diversion to get us a chance to use it. Finding a way to cover our escape from the High Garda camped outside. Communicating with someone who can see us safely out of here and out of America.” Jess listed it off without even thinking about it. Dario nodded soberly at the end of it.
“As I said, you’re not a very good chess player,” Dario said. “You think too small.” Usually, that would have come with a snide grin, or at the very least, a smarmy tone, but it sounded . . . contemplative. “Skip those things. They are important, yes, but the question is, what is your endgame?”
“Staying alive.”
“Winning,” Dario said. “And how do you win?”
“Me? Not you?”
Dario drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “We both know my ambitions are different from yours. You want to change the world. I just want to have what I want. Whatever that is.” He shrugged. “You’ve got aspirations. So tell me what you want to achieve.”
“All right,” Jess said. “Winning means defeating the Archivist. Making us all safe again.”
“And, of course, changing the mission and direction of the oldest, largest, most powerful institution on earth.”
“If you want to put it that way.” Jess was silent for a while. The walk felt good, the sunshine, the slight breeze. The stretch of his legs. “You win in chess by capturing the king. So we remove the Archivist Magister.”
“The king, yes.” Dario clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “You take a king by two methods: brute force or subtle attack. Brute force is beyond us, at least as I see it. So to win, we have to plan an attack he can’t see coming. In chess, you don’t play your opponent. You make your opponent play you. You draw him out. You make him watch one piece while another moves.”
“And why are we talking about bloody chess?”
Dario stopped in his tracks, turned, and faced Jess head-on. Suddenly, his friend looked like a man twice their age. A statesman, burdened with responsibility. “Because Wolfe is an honest man. So is Santi. In their hearts, they are loyal, and they are not good liars. Khalila and Thomas are the same. Pure, down to their souls. You and I, and Morgan—we’re different. We understand the need for expedience. For deception. And when we need to be, the three of us can be ruthless. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Jess watched him for a moment, thinking, and then nodded. Dario turned and began walking again, and Jess joined him. It felt different now. It felt much more serious. “And Glain?”
“Glain is loyal, and also ruthless. I don’t know. I give it even odds she would support or oppose us. So I leave her aside for now.”
“You’re talking about planning something that even our own friends don’t know about,” Jess said. “Something the others wouldn’t support.”
“Yes.”
“And you have a plan?”
“No,” Dario said. “I have a goal. You will have a plan. I know you well enough to know that given time, you will understand what needs to be done. I only wanted to say it, so you’ll look for it. But it needs to be something no one else can see coming. If Wolfe and Santi see it, then so will the Archivist. They’re all trained the same. I’m a disreputable black sheep. You are a thief and a criminal. Morgan has spent her life running from the Library. You see the difference?”
“We’re the difference,” Jess said.
“Yes. And that will cost us. Victory always costs.” Dario cleared his throat and said, in a very different tone, “Oh look. We’ve picked up a new friend.”
Another of Beck’s guards—not Diwell, this time, but someone older—had joined them at a distance. Watching. Jess hadn’t really expected anything less. They’d only gone a quarter of the way around the outer wall, and already he could sense that trouble was coming.
They’d been careful to keep a good distance away from the wall itself; there were Philadelphia guards posted at strategically effective distances, so that one was never out of sight of the others on either side. Jess had observed the guards along the western side yesterday, and Dario was right: security had been tightened all along this eastern wall. Here, near the center, there were four guards in attendance, all close together. They seemed less than relaxed, and when they spotted Jess and Dario walking parallel to them, one of them—the largest, Jess noticed—came stalking out to meet them.
Jess stopped. Dario did, too, and they both turned to face up to the newcomer. He was a Native American, like Askuwheteau; he wore his hair in a stiff, short brush down the center of his skull. Broad across the shoulders and chest, with the build of a born wrestler. And he had scars—burns, mostly. Almost everyone in Philadelphia had burns.
“Leave,” he said flatly. “You can’t walk here.”
“Beck said we have freedom to move around the town,” Jess said.
“Not here. Go.”
Their guard caught up to them, red-faced. “I’ll move them on,” he said, and turned a raw, furious look on Jess and Dario. “When you’re told to go, don’t argue!”
“We didn’t argue,” Dario said. “We’re looking for a dealer in glass. We were told to look near the wall around here.”
“Glass?” their guard said, and then his face slid into a twisting sneer. “You need mirrors to look at your pretty faces?”
“Well, yes, personal grooming is a virtue,” Dario said, without so much as a flicker, “but I understand that’s a foreign concept here. Is there a glass vendor?”
The native guard, who was looking at them with eyes that Jess thought were almost on the verge of catching fire, said, “Sev sells broken glass.” He jerked his chin toward a row of partially demolished buildings a street farther on. “Maybe we’ll feed it to you for dinner.”
“Thank you,” Dario said, “but I’m trying to cut down.” It was just enough of a pun that Jess had to control a laugh. Sometimes—very occasionally—Dario was good for that. But there was nothing casual about the tense set of the Spaniard’s muscles. He looked relaxed, but he was ready for a fight, just as Jess was. They didn’t even have to exchange a look to be in agreement. “We’ll move on, then. Jess? If you’re ready?”
“I’m ready,” he said, and together, they turned and headed off. His shoulder blades itched, waiting to feel any hint of movement behind, but when he glanced back, the native soldier had gone back to take up his post against the wall.