“Very well. Lock them up—”
“There’s the good Burner welcome I was waiting for,” Wolfe said sourly.
“—and see that they are well treated,” Beck continued. But he glanced at Wolfe, and behind the artifice of good humor, there was something far darker. He was the leader of a city that was fighting a war, and worse than that, he was a true believer. A fanatic who didn’t hesitate to kill, maim, and destroy in his attempts to make the world in his own image. “But search them thoroughly. I want no mistakes.”
Jess’s fingers tightened over the fragile metal pin he’d embedded in the fabric of his shirtsleeve. He’d need to find a good hiding place. Quickly.
By the time he was allowed up off his knees, he found his legs were steady, and his stomach, too. At least this horrible bit of theater had given them all time to recover from the shock of Translation and start to put their brains to use.
Philadelphia was going to be, in its own way, as dangerous a place as London, Rome, or Alexandria. It was impossible to know yet what the Burners wanted from them, or what they’d have to do to survive.
But that didn’t matter. The idea of going behind bars actually cheered him up.
After all, prisons—like locks—were made to be broken.
The guards weren’t stupid, which was too bad; they separated the party out, two by two, and shoved them into barred cells inside a long, low building made of heavy stone. Cramped ceilings and rudimentary toilets, but it was far from the worst Jess had ever seen. Didn’t even smell particularly bad. Maybe crime was low in Burnertown.
But, more important, the locks on the cells were large, crude, and old.
By a little subtle maneuvering that his friends managed without seeming to manage it, everyone sorted out nicely in ordered pairs: Wolfe and Santi, Glain and Khalila, Thomas and Jess. Dario and Morgan each managed their own private cells, which made Jess a little jealous. But only a little, because he needed to stay close to Thomas. The German had only just escaped from one prison. He might need help adjusting to yet another one.
“Search them thoroughly. You don’t have to be gentle about it,” the tall woman—Beck’s captain, Jess thought—said, and exited without waiting to see it done. She left behind three men to do the job, which did seem adequate with the cell doors shut and locked.
“Right,” said one of the men—the squad leader, Jess thought—who had a dramatic scar on one cheek: a melted look, courtesy of Greek fire. He didn’t seem particularly nice and, after considering the pickings, unlocked the cell that Glain and Khalila shared first. “You. Tall one. Step out.”
That was, of course, Glain. She likely looked to be the bigger threat, though appearances might have been deceptive, depending on the situation. Glain shrugged, stepped out, and put her hands flat on the far stone wall of the hallway. Her quick glance at Wolfe asked the silent question: Are we cooperating? Jess couldn’t see the reply from where he stood—there was a wall between his cell and the next, where Wolfe and Santi were held—but he saw her relax, so the answer must have been yes.
Glain took having a guard’s hands on her with the same indifference she gave most issues of modesty. Beyond saying, “You missed a spot. Bad form,” to the man searching her, she gave him no trouble.
“Right. Back in. You, in the veil. Come out.”
“It’s not a veil,” Khalila said as she moved into the center hallway. “It’s called a hijab. Or a scarf, if you like.”
The guard surveyed her uncertainly from head to toe. He was clearly not familiar with the traditional clothing that Khalila favored; Glain in battered trousers hadn’t bothered him, but the volume of that dress did. “Against the wall,” he said. Khalila obligingly leaned, and though she clearly didn’t like being touched, especially so freely, she said nothing as the man searched her. “All right. Turn around.”
She did, and started back to her cell. He put out a hand to stop her. “No. Scarf comes off.”
“It is against my religion. Does no one follow the Prophet here, peace and blessings be upon him? Here. I’ve removed the pins from my hair,” Khalila said, and extended her hand to surrender a palmful of them. “I have nothing else hidden beneath it. I swear that.”
“I don’t trust your oath, Scholar,” the man said, and without any warning, he stepped behind her, grabbed a handful of the fabric of her hijab and yanked. Khalila’s head snapped back as the scarf was dragged off, and she let out a small cry of dismay and shock as she grabbed for the fabric. He shoved her hard against the bars of the cell with his hand on the back of her neck. “Stay still!”
“Hey! Hands off!” Jess shouted as a sudden ball of fury ignited inside him like Greek fire and he grabbed the bars and rattled them. Dario swore to knife the man in his sleep.
Khalila didn’t make another sound.
The guard pulled the scarf loose from where it sagged around Khalila’s neck, and a riot of smooth, basalt black hair cascaded over her shoulders. He crumpled the fabric in his hand and stuck it in his belt. “Better,” he said to her. “No special treatment around here for you or whatever god you follow, Scholar. Best you learn that quickly.”
Khalila turned whip fast to grab the man’s wrist and extended and twisted his whole arm. She continued the spin and pressed her palm hard into the back of his elbow, reversing it to the breaking point, and held him there as he cried out. He shifted to try to take the strain off the joint, and she pressed harder. This time, she got a shrill cry. His knees buckled.
The other guards moved forward, and Glain glided out to get in their way. Khalila acknowledged that with a quick flick of a glance but kept her attention on the man she had in the painful, joint-cracking hold.
“Don’t make me break it,” she said. “Never do that again. Never. It’s insulting and disrespectful. Do you understand?”
“Let go!” he panted. Khalila took her head scarf from his belt and shoved him away. He got his balance and lowered his chin, and Jess saw him reach for a knife at his belt.
Glain, without a word, turned immediately and landed a swift, strong uppercut that jerked the guard’s head up and rolled his eyes back to the whites. Her distraction gave the other two guards an opening, of course, and one grabbed Glain and pushed her back against the wall. He slammed a fist straight into her guts. She grinned with bare, wet teeth. “Weak sauce, Burner,” she almost purred. “Have another go.”
He followed up with a second punch, harder. Useless, and Jess knew it; Glain had made a lot of money in the High Garda barracks with this trick. As long as she had time to tense her abdominal muscles, he wouldn’t do her damage, and she’d never let on that it hurt. A bloody savage kind of game, but it suited Glain to the ground.