The door into the prison had been blocked by a fall of thick, cracked concrete and stones. Jess reached for one and hauled it aside, even as his mind mapped out the prison on the other side for him. That’s the far corner, the cell Santi and Wolfe share. Across from Khalila and Glain.
He didn’t hear any shouting inside, and that made his guts curdle in dread. Greek fire smoke was toxic. Morgan had pointed out the poor ventilation inside.
They had to get the door open. Quickly. Jess didn’t think to ask for help; he just fell to it, grabbing fallen stones.
Thomas joined him at the door, and together they hefted a staggeringly large chunk of concrete and rolled it out of the way. Jess’s muscles burned with effort, and the sharp edges of stone slashed red gashes in his fingers, and when he breathed in he smelled that horrible reek of Greek fire. The smoke made him cough until he was spitting up black bile.
He and Thomas cleared the rest of the blockage, hauling the last away with desperate strength, and Indira shoved between them and fitted keys into the door’s lock. It turned with a shriek of protesting metal, and Thomas shoved the door in with a scrape and shudder.
Jess plunged into a thick cloud of rank, drifting smoke. He coughed at the chemical stench as he shouted, “Morgan!” It was the first name that came to him. “Morgan!”
He almost ran into a cell door, which stood completely open and gaping.
“Here!” a voice called, and coughed. Metal banged on metal. “We’re here!”
He almost tripped over them in the gloom. All of them were together—Khalila, Glain, Santi, Wolfe, Dario, Morgan—wedged together in the corner farthest from the smoke and flames, low to the ground to suck in the cleanest air. Jess grabbed Khalila and Morgan and hauled them up to their feet. “Go, the door’s open!” he said. Glain stood and pulled Dario up with her. “Go!”
Jess reached down to pull Santi up, and Wolfe stopped him. The Scholar’s face had gone ghostly pale, and his outstretched hand shook with urgency.
He was holding Santi against his chest in a protective, supportive embrace.
Jess crouched down. He pulled in his breath sharply when he saw the blackened edges on the captain’s sleeve and the raw, red skin beneath, and looked at Wolfe, whose face in that moment was utterly unguarded . . . but only for an instant, before the bitter mask slipped back in place.
“Carefully,” Wolfe said. “For the love of Heron, careful.”
Jess took hold of Santi’s unburned arm, and Wolfe supported the captain with both his arms around Santi’s waist as they rose together. Jess moved carefully in on the burned side without touching what had to be incredibly painful injuries. Santi’s breath came in short, ragged pants, and his face was the color of pale amber. Still conscious, and sick with it.
“Easy, Captain,” Jess said, and guided him out of the cell. He tried to sound reassuring. “We’ll get you help. Easy now.”
Santi let out a tortured gasp, and his legs suddenly folded. The man’s full weight crushed down on Jess’s shoulder and Wolfe’s, but between the two they kept him upright and moving through the choking, smoky fog and out into the cleaner air.
It felt like coming up out of a grave, even if that grave looked out on ruins.
Indira quickly took command and saw Santi settled on the grass while she sent one of her men running for a Medica—no, they called them doctors here, Jess remembered. Some of their doctors had Library training but rejected the authority of the Medica branch, and they certainly didn’t have the facilities, or the supplies. They probably heal with poultices and folk remedies, he thought, and felt a sick roil in his stomach. Santi could recover cleanly if we were on the other side of that wall. But that didn’t matter. Santi, and all of them, were stuck here for now, in a city that despised them and distrusted them, among fanatics who’d burn a book to make a point.
Santi took in a deep, slow breath and let it out. He still looked too pale, and he shivered convulsively. “I’m all right,” he lied. “Chris. Don’t look so angry.”
“Do you expect me to look pleased?” Wolfe shot back, and though his expression was harsh, his fingers were undeniably gentle as he eased Santi’s burned sleeve aside to get a better look at the damage. It looked worse without the cover: a handspan of skin burned away nearly through to the muscle, and where it wasn’t gone, the remaining skin had a scorched, puckered look that didn’t bode well. “Jess. Get that powder. Get it now.”
The sudden tension in his voice sent Jess to his feet without question, and he ran to the wheelbarrow, scooped up a double handful of the heavy powder that the Philadelphia man was using to kill the blaze inside the prison, and raced back.
Realization nearly made him falter, because Santi’s arm was still burning. It was hard to see in daylight: little greenish flickers, but he could hear the sizzle as the Greek fire drew new breath in the open air. It would continue to burn, right down to the bone, if it wasn’t smothered.
Jess dumped powder on it, spreading it thick, and ran back for another double handful. He used that, too, just in case, and couldn’t imagine how that grit felt on raw, burned skin and exposed nerves. Santi didn’t make a sound, though his shuddering was far worse now, and he looked seconds from passing out completely. Wolfe was holding him up in a reclining position, trying to keep the arm up and away from any more contamination.
They all waited tensely to see if the flames burned through the powder. A defeated wisp of smoke curled up instead, and Jess allowed himself a little jolt of relief. It’s out.
Santi slowly shut his eyes, and now the remaining color bled out of his face. Wolfe looked nearly as bad as he stared at the arm, alert for any sign of the fire’s return. When it didn’t come, he glanced to Indira, who was crouched nearby, watching. “Knife,” he demanded. “I need to cut the cloth away. There might be more soaked in.”
She silently handed one over, and Wolfe sliced the fabric of Santi’s uniform sleeve off, high up at the shoulder, to bare a strongly muscled biceps, old seamed scars, and farther down, the wholesale ruin of his forearm. It looked bad, Jess thought. Very bad.
Indira said, without any sign of emotion, “He’s done for.”
Wolfe’s head snapped up, and he gripped the knife in a way that made the back of Jess’s neck go cold and tight. There was pure murder in the man’s eyes, and it was only the fact that he was cradling Santi against him that kept him from it.
“He isn’t,” Jess said. “The captain’s been through worse. We need a Medica.”
“Don’t have Library Medica,” she said. “We have a doctor.”
“Where?”
She stood up in a smooth motion. “Give me the knife, Scholar. Now.” Wolfe didn’t move, and Indira drew the gun that hung heavy at her belt. “Right now.”