“At home,” Wolfe said. “Until then, keep yourself safe.”
“And you.”
This, Jess thought, was the love he wanted in his life: a love of equals. Loyal and kind. He wasn’t sure he had that yet. But it was something to aspire to.
That sent his thoughts spinning in Morgan’s direction, and he said, “Captain?” That drew Santi’s gaze back. “The Obscurists could help you distribute information more effectively.”
“Yes, Jess, we’ve already worked that out. The Scribe there is relaying every order to the records, and from there it is disbursed out to the officer in charge.”
That was when Jess realized that the statue sitting cross-legged on a plinth nearby wasn’t merely decorative. It was, in fact, an automaton, one with a metal tablet in one hand and a metal stylus in the other, and as it inscribed words on the tablet’s blank surface, they vanished into—he presumed—the Archives, where the Codex would then retrieve and distribute them as needed. All the orders would be coded with Santi’s personal seal . . . or, Jess supposed, the High Garda Commander’s seal, which was a role Santi now filled. The Scribe must have been tuned to Santi’s voice, because it seemed to be transcribing all his conversations . . . including this one.
“Oh,” he said, and felt more than a little stupid. Of course Santi would have thought of it. How much of that mist did you breathe in, idiot? The last thing he wanted to do was seem impaired in front of the captain. “Apologies. Where do you want me, sir?”
“In a Medica’s office. Immediately. You look like you’re about to drop.”
Jess saluted him with a fist over his heart. “I’ll go now, sir.”
“In a carriage,” Santi said. “That mist you breathed was no joke.”
Santi was already raising his hand, and a lieutenant—Glain Wathen, tall and assured and strong in her uniform—was running toward them. She stopped and waited, hands folded behind her back and her gaze steady on the captain. Disciplined, their friend, so disciplined she didn’t even glance at Jess. “Wathen,” Santi said. “Get a rig for Jess, and accompany him to see a Medica, then to the compound and fit him out with a proper uniform. Get him back here safe if they judge him able to serve. No detours.”
“Yes, sir.” Glain’s gaze slid toward Jess, then back again. “Will Brightwell be rejoining our company, then?”
“That depends on the needs of the day. The situation is fluid, since for the first time in recorded history the Great Library has no elected leadership. We have foreign navies in our seas, foreign armies on our borders. And if we don’t defend ourselves, we will be torn apart in the teeth of nations.” Santi paused, as if considering something he did not completely like. “Brightwell. Once you’re cleared and fitted out, find Red Ibrahim’s daughter, Anit. We’re going to need her.”
“You want to work with smugglers and criminals?”
“I don’t think we have much choice,” he said. “Can you find her?”
“I can make her find me,” Jess said. He imagined Anit’s face, and conjuring her up brought his brother’s specter. “Has someone told my father about Brendan?” It was his responsibility, but he didn’t want it. Couldn’t imagine writing that message.
“Scholar Wolfe sent a letter while you were resting,” Santi said. “He felt responsible for both of you.”
“He wasn’t, but I’ll have to thank him,” Jess said. “It’s better coming from him.” Because Da will blame me, Jess thought. He knew his father. Brendan was the heir and favorite. Jess was the spare. Of course he’ll blame me. Didn’t matter. He hardly expected an outpouring of emotion from his father, either grief or anger. It would be a silent kind of rage hidden in looks, turned backs, pointed mentions of what Brendan would have done. Da sometimes flew into a true, towering fury, but most often it was a death of a thousand shallow cuts.
So he had that to look forward to, he supposed.
Glain had waited patiently, but now she stepped forward and said, “If you’ll follow me?”
No choice, really. And he was grateful for the ride.
* * *
—
The Medica was shocked he was still alive. Until that moment, Jess hadn’t really believed he’d cheated death, but from the look on the older person’s face, he’d pulled off a miracle.
“Here,” the Medica said, and fastened some sort of mask over his face; it had a small symbol on the side, some alchemical icon that Jess didn’t recognize. But that meant it had been activated by an Obscurist. “Breathe as deeply as you can. We must cleanse what poison we can from your lungs.” Jess struggled to breathe in whatever it was the mask emitted; the gas smelled faintly bitter, but it burned hot going down. He obliged by taking it in as much as he could before coughs racked him, forcing it out; with it came another explosion of foam, and the Medica swiped it from his mouth and into a jar, for later study, he supposed. “Keep at it,” the man told him. “You’ll need an hour of that before you feel able to continue, but you can’t exert yourself.”
Jess pulled down the mask to say, “You do know we’re in the middle of revolution, don’t you?”
“I don’t care. That doesn’t change your situation.”
“And what is my situation?” Jess coughed, and it became almost uncontrollable; he curled in on himself, fighting to breathe, and the Medica gave him some injection. He felt the burn of it but was too desperate for air to flinch. Whatever it was, it worked. His throat and lungs relaxed, and he was able to breathe in and out again. Almost as easily as before. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” the man said. He looked grave. “The shot will keep you going for a while, but it will wear off. The treatment mask will help to a certain extent, but the more you rely on it, the less effective it will become. Take it easy for the next few days. If you don’t, the consequences will be fatal.”
“You’re joking,” Jess said. The Medica said nothing. “You’re not joking.”
“You’re lucky to be alive at all. I’ll be honest: I have no guess as to whether or not you will recover. If you do, I have no idea of how impaired you might be in the long run. Nasty stuff you breathed in. Most would have died in minutes.”
“Lucky me,” Jess said. He felt numb inside. He’d hurt himself before, of course; he’d been injured so badly that he thought he might die. But there was a large difference between a shot or stab wound that could heal and the thought of not being able to breathe. That was a horror he’d never really imagined. Like half drowning every minute. He’d never been afraid of injuries.