Thomas's careful inventory took most of the night. Diwell tried his best to stay alert, but dozed, eventually, as Jess and Thomas created a list of all that the storehouse could offer. Some of it had nothing to do with the press at all, of course, but all of it could, in one way or another, come in handy. Once that was done, they used charcoal to sketch out plans on the stone wall of the workshop.
By the time they finished their plans, they were both as dirty handed as chimney sweeps, and when Thomas put the last touches on the sketch, they both stepped back to admire it by the flickering light of a single, smoky lamp that had the stench of many-times-fried bacon fat. "Not bad," Jess said. "Not a patch as good as we could do with decent materials, but--"
"But this will do," Thomas agreed. "We don't even need to wait on more supplies. It'll take both of us, and hard, sweaty work, but it can be done, yes?"
"Yeah," Jess agreed. "There should be enough wood in here to make the frame, though I can't say how long this rotten stuff will hold together under strain. Then we just need to make springs, plates, and gears. Paper could be a problem. I imagine it's as dear as wood around here."
"Why? They're burning Blanks," Thomas said. "We take some and cut the pages out."
He was right, and it was a far better fate for the Blanks than being set on fire just to inspire Burner fanaticism. "I'll get some from Beck," Jess said, and surprised himself with a skull-cracking yawn. It was no longer just late; the night had advanced toward morning, and Jess realized he was well past exhausted. He cast a glance at Diwell, who was slumped in a corner near the door. Too far away to hear, and too deep asleep to care. He lowered his voice anyway, to just above a whisper. "Thomas? Are you sure this will work?"
"The press? Yes," Thomas said. "And the Ray of Apollo? There are certain things we'll need to complete that. Glass to make mirrors, and so forth."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Then we die here," he said. "And, Jess? I won't survive in a cage."
In a cold flash of memory, Jess saw Thomas as he'd been not so very long ago--half-starved, bruised, shaking, with a matted head of hair and beard that made him look decades older. He looked better now, but by no means the old Thomas Schreiber. That boy had never known despair. The bleak shadow in Thomas's eyes now said he would never again know a day without it. Thomas can't go back in a cage. Neither can Wolfe. The elder Scholar had borne it in silence, but that silence had been heavy, and telling, and Jess had heard him cry out in nightmares before.
"How much time will we need?" Jess asked him.
"That . . . I'm not sure," Thomas said. "The press is only a few days. But the Ray of Apollo . . . well. A full day for the mirrors, but that must be done without anyone questioning our work, so two days, and we must be careful. I will consult Khalila with the calculations of focus. A week, at least, before we can be ready, and then we must find a power source."
"That's my job, then." He was overtaken by another yawn, and Thomas's smile broadened.
"Enough for tonight," his big friend said, and took a dampened cloth to the meticulous charcoal drawings they'd made on the walls. Jess sucked in a breath to protest, but Thomas shook his head. "I've got them memorized. We can't leave them up for anyone to see."
Once the wall was clean again, Jess walked over and nudged Diwell's chair with one foot, bringing the guard instantly back to startled wakefulness, with one hand on his gun. "We're finished for now."
Diwell muttered something that probably wasn't kind, or complimentary, and led them back to the prison.
No way of knowing how late it was, but the moon was down. It felt like the world was spinning fast toward morning. Jess looked into Dario's old cell as they passed. Captain Santi was still asleep on one bunk, and on the opposite, he recognized the brown curls of Morgan's hair, though she slept facing the wall.
Wolfe, wrapped in one thin blanket, came awake the instant he felt their presence, and reached for a loose, jagged rock that was lying near to hand. He relaxed when he made out their faces in the dimness. He slipped the blanket away and climbed to his feet to meet them in the narrow hallway. "You took your good time," he said. "Can you do it?"
"The press, yes. And possibly something more that could be a valuable help to getting us past these walls."
Wolfe took that in and mulled it in silence for a few seconds before he said, "No unnecessary risks. Understand?"
"Yes," Thomas said. "But everything is risk. You know that, sir. How is the captain?"
"Resting. The doctor's not half the idiot I would have assumed." From Wolfe, that was high praise. "Morgan's been tending to him, as much as she can. If she weren't, he'd certainly lose the arm. He still could."
It was the studied calm in the way he said it that hurt. Jess cast a quick look at Santi, then away. Nothing more to be done for him. "How much is it hurting her?"
For a long moment, Wolfe didn't answer; maybe he didn't think Jess was ready to hear it. But finally, he said, "The power that the Obscurists possess comes from their life force, their quintessence. As they use it to transform and shift the nature of other organic and inorganic things, it becomes . . . affected by what it transforms. Think of it as water. Dip a dirty cloth in it, the cloth comes out clean, but the pollution remains." Wolfe finally shifted his gaze to meet Jess's stare. Jess wished he hadn't. "Obscurists in the Iron Tower have time-tested ways to manage their work. They create scripts and formulae and touchstones--filters, so that the corruption doesn't touch them directly. But using the quintessence daily . . . It's dangerous. There's a reason people have always feared witches. And there's a reason we never call Obscurists magicians."
"Because they aren't?" Thomas asked. "They have an ability, the same as gifted engineers."
"Engineers' gifts don't destroy them from within. An Obscurist without controls, without barriers . . ." Wolfe shook his head. "Nothing stops them. And that's dangerous. She's dangerous. She's learning too much, too fast, and no one to hold her back."
Jess swallowed. He didn't like the sound of that, but it had the ring of truth. "And what do we do about that?"
"Nothing," Wolfe said grimly. "Because we need her. And every single bit of power she can provide, if we're to survive this and find a way out. I'm sorry about that, but you and I are alike: we'll do what must be done. Even if it means letting those we care for put themselves in danger."
Wolfe's gaze slipped back to Santi as he said it, and Jess knew he was thinking of all the times Santi had stepped into the path of harm for him. And would, for as long as he could stand, or crawl.
I'm not like you, Jess thought. But he knew he was, really. He'd learned to be practical too young.
Thomas said, "And everyone else is all right?"
"Well enough. Are you hungry?"
"Starving," Jess said. His stomach cramped and growled like a wild beast.
"Glain stole us a small supply of food. It's not enough, but I expect no one in this town gets more, except Willinger Beck." Wolfe nodded to two empty bunks in their cell. "Eat quickly, and sleep while you can. It's very late." He went back to his uncomfortable bed on the cold floor beside Santi, wrapped himself up, and was asleep again--at least, apparently--within minutes.
Thomas had already found a handful of cheese and a small slice of bread that sat out on a small shelf near the unlit furnace, and was making an effort not to take more than his share, though he was twice the size of the rest of them. Jess wolfed down a smaller portion of the hard crusts and soft cheese; it tasted like a promise of heaven, but just a taste. He wanted a dozen more mouthfuls and had to convince himself to leave the rest for the others, who must not have gotten anything yet. Nothing but cold water to wash it down, but by the time he'd drunk his fill, Thomas was already in his bunk and halfway to dreams.
Jess took the other bed and blew out the lantern, and was dreamlessly unconscious before the afterimage of the burning wick died.
He woke up with a metallic, filthy taste in his mouth--the aftermath of the Greek fir
e's toxic smoke--with the glow of early sunlight spilling into the cell. Dario Santiago was looming over him, hands on his hips as he nudged the bunk with one knee. "Come on, scrubber. Up. It's a bright new day."
Jess raised himself onto his elbows and looked around. He could tell by the stiffness in his spine that he hadn't moved much in the night, and he certainly hadn't been on guard, though he ought to have been. Khalila was up and bustling around, tucking her hair under the scarf and giving him a distracted smile as she took one of the small, broken pieces of dry cheese from the shelf. Glain was doing another handstand and then rolled into a rapid flurry of push-ups before she got to her feet.
But when Jess looked at the cell across the way, he saw two empty bunks. Santi was gone, and Morgan, too. Wolfe's blanket lay discarded on the floor.
Jess sat up and fixed his stare on Dario. "Where are they?"
Dario's normally cocky expression shifted a little into something . . . less. "The captain woke up in some distress. They moved him into that Medica's house this morning."
"Some distress? What does that mean?" Jess demanded as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. Dario shook his head and looked away. It was rare to see him struck without words, and it didn't offer comfort. "Did Morgan go with them?"
"She said not to wake you."
Because she damned well knew I'd go with her, and I might try to stop her from killing herself, Jess thought, and for a moment he felt a surge of sick dread so real that it froze him in place. He finally cleared his throat and said, "So you kindly waited here to rub my face in it?"
"No," Dario said. "Thomas left for the workshop, and he told me to give this to you." He reached inside his jacket and took out a thin, ragged scrap of cloth. It stank of dried sweat--torn, Jess guessed, from the bottom of Thomas's shirt. There were words written on it in tiny, precise letters that had smudged just a little. Jess held the cloth closer to the light to read them.
"Where does he think I'm going to get this?" he asked. "Not from Beck. He'll want to know too much about what it's for."
"He said you're resourceful," Dario said. "He's not wrong."
Down the way, Glain stretched like a particularly large and dangerous cat, and went to join Khalila. The two of them left without a word, which left Dario and Jess alone. Somehow, Jess thought, Dario had asked for that solitude.
"All right," Jess said, and reached for his boots. "What?"
Dario seated himself on Thomas's bunk. "You and I, in Santi's absence, are what passes for strategists in our little company, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't agree with much you say," Jess said. "But I suppose."
"While Santi is--indisposed, it's our job to think ahead," Dario said. "Not just to tomorrow. Not to next week. Not to escape. We need to think beyond."
"Beyond to what?"
"That," Dario said, "is why you're the inferior chess player. What say you take a walk with me?"
"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 expe
cted 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?"