Scholar Christopher Wolfe.
Jess read the sudden tension in Glain’s body as she processed this new information; no one, he sensed, had warned her that they’d have a Scholar to escort, and certainly not that it would be Wolfe. The man was supposed to be lying low somewhere. After all, the Library’s highest levels wanted Scholar Wolfe gone or dead, and for Wolfe to put himself out in public like this, in a training exercise . . . Yet another thing that felt madly wrong.
The reason three of their class of thirty had died, Jess remembered, had been because the Library so earnestly wanted Christopher Wolfe silenced. It wasn’t a comfortable memory. Well, perhaps even Wolfe hadn’t had a choice in this. There had been no sign of his partner, Captain Santi, today on the parade grounds. Where was he? A threat to Santi’s safety would make Wolfe do a great many things. It had before.
If Wolfe was here under duress, it didn’t show. He presented nothing but bitter strength to the world, just as he always did, as demonstrated by the dismissive look he swept over them. Even Jess and Glain.
“You move like you’re strolling down the boulevard,” Wolfe said to Glain, who nodded to him as if that was a normal greeting. “I thought you were meant to be High Garda soldiers. Are they training you to walk elderly ladies across busy streets?”
“Better safe than dead, sir,” she said. “As you well know.”
“Do I?” His face, Jess thought, looked more set and grim than ever, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He looked thin and haunted. “Well, then. Do try to keep me alive, and let’s finish your mission, Corpse Squad.”
Jess shot a look right and saw Helva flinch at the words. She wasn’t used to Wolfe’s humor, which verged on cruel; new recruits were commonly called Corpse Squads by the veterans, but it was never said to their faces. Trust Wolfe to flick it at them like a lash, to keep them on their toes.
“You’re in no danger, Scholar. Stay behind me, and between Brightwell and Svensdotter.” Glain, if disturbed by his jibe, didn’t show it a bit. She’s learned much since her early days, Jess thought. There was even a glint of humor in her eyes, but it died in a second as she turned to scan the street. Wolfe pushed in between Jess and Helva. Jess cast a quick look at him and verified that not only was the Scholar unarmed, but he was also without armor beneath that silk robe. If he took even a half-round straight on, he’d go down hard and risk serious injury, even death. Why hadn’t they kitted him out with the same gear the squad was wearing?
This isn’t right, he thought again, but he couldn’t fire questions at Wolfe, not the ones he wanted to ask, like Who ordered you to do this? and Did you have a choice? Because as a soldier, it wasn’t his place to demand that information. He had a job. He simply had to do it perfectly. There was no margin for error.
Glain led them down the street at a steady, calm pace, checking doorways and shops. Jess and Helva watched the upper stories and rooftops, and, thus far, except for the skinny, starving dog, the place seemed deserted. Nothing moved except cloth whipped by the wind and sand over cobbles. The place smelled dead and deserted.
It startled Jess when Wolfe said, “The house is on the right, the third on the block. That’s where we’ll find your prizes. The faster we finish this, the better, I think.” Jess had an almost irresistible urge to turn and look where Wolfe indicated, but instead he kept his gaze locked high and let the others do the gawking. “There’s likely to be some resistance to your confiscation.” His tone was so dry it nearly evaporated on the air. Of course there would be resistance. Original books were highly illegal. Coveted, traded, sold, and smuggled, nevertheless. People rarely let them go with a shrug.
This was one of Jess’s least favorite High Garda duties: taking books out of the hands of those who loved them—unless, of course, they were perverted ink-lickers, who delighted in consuming rare and original works in some orgy of possession. In that case, he was happy to slap them in restraints and haul them off to the Library’s prison cells. Confiscation was the aspect of the Library that Jess felt the most uneasy about in general, the lengths to which the Library went to ensure all knowledge, all learning flowed through its doorways. It was not a sign of confidence to him. Nor of a pure heart.
Wolfe went quietly, and Jess wondered if he’d been told more than they had. As little as the Library trusted him these days, perhaps he’d been given the exact same information they had. He was used to thinking of Wolfe as the holder of secrets, but for all his confidence and ability to seem all knowing, Wolfe operated at just as much of a disadvantage as Jess, and likely always had. Seeing Wolfe as merely human was an unpleasant reminder of just how fragile all their safety could be.
They proceeded down the street, and though she might not have realized it, Glain quickened the pace; she’d not been told that they’d have Wolfe to protect—he could see that in the increased tension in her shoulders. She didn’t like the silence of these streets any more than Jess did.
When the attack came, it came very fast and from above. Jess almost missed it; the attacking force had positioned itself very cannily to take advantage of the morning glare, and he registered only a telltale flicker of movement that might have been a bird but in his gut he knew was not, before he shouted, “On our left!” at the same moment that he heard Helva ring out, “On our right!” just as the first shots rained down at them. Both of them began firing up at the shadows on top of the rooftops, the clattering noise of bullets drowning out any other shouts.
Someone grabbed Jess by the back of his uniform coat and yanked him hard enough to make him stumble three steps; his aim went wild, but the action saved his life. From the new angle, he saw a glass bottle tumbling toward them, catching the light in a flash of green liquid inside.
The bottle shattered on the street as they scattered, with Glain herself covering Wolfe and shoving him toward a doorway as she fired upward. Jess felt the sudden, strange feeling of an indrawn breath on the back of his sweating neck, and then the thick, clinging substance known as Greek fire that had been contained within the bottle ignited with a hissing roar. The heat flashed over him, and for a moment he feared he was caught in the flames, but when he turned to look he saw a huge, burning column rising to the sky.
This is not a test. That was not half-strength. A million questions raced through Jess’s mind, but all useless now. Surely Santi couldn’t have known and hadn’t agreed to this. Wolfe wouldn’t have, if he’d been able to refuse.
Didn’t matter. The force on the roof had weapons of their own, besides the shock tactic of Greek fire. That attack seemed to have missed all of them, and now Jess’s squad had taken the meager shelter available in doorways, and bullets—not half-strength, either—shattered holes in the bricks near them. Glain broke the dirty glass of a wide shopwindow and ordered Helva through to check the room while she covered Wolfe, who crouched to present a smaller target. He looked, as always, focused. Tense. Ready.