Paper and Fire (The Great Library #2)(56)
“I wish I understood this better,” Jess said to Glain, who gave him a quelling look. “What? It would make me feel better knowing if I’m to be torn to pieces and put together again.”
“Didn’t you pay attention at all in alchemy classes in school?”
“My schooling was more . . . practical.”
“The principle’s simple enough. The Obscurist uses the element of quintessence to pass you through a fluid that rectifies your form in one place and purifies it in another. The quintessence exists everywhere at once. All things pass through it in creation and destruction.”
“Are you quoting a textbook?” he asked her, and she smirked.
“Why not? You never read it.”
“I was wrong. This little lecture didn’t help at all.” He paused and looked around. “The Artifex. Is he here?”
“He arrives later. We go first to secure the arrival point,” she said. “I’d think you would have already figured that out.”
Of course the evil old man would think of his own safety first; he’d wait until Santi’s security was in place, then join him. Then be escorted directly to whatever it was he found it so important to do in Rome. Was it to see Thomas? Was that why he was heading there? Jess had a flash of the Artifex Magnus’s severe, bearded face, and felt his fists clench. He deliberately relaxed them. Ironic that he’d been chosen to protect someone he most wanted to see dead. He wouldn’t find himself shedding a lot of tears if the Artifex suffered a heart attack during Translation, but he’d do his duty. He had to.
Didn’t mean he had to like it.
Ahead, Captain Santi was speaking to his lieutenant, who listened with perfect focus, nodded, and turned toward the rest of them. “Attention!” Her voice cut clean through the chatter, and they all stiffened into inspection stance. “We’ll be traveling by Translation, which means that when your name is called, you will sit in the chair, fit the helmet on your head, and follow instructions. To answer any questions you have: yes, it will damn well hurt. Yes, you are allowed to scream if you feel the need. Yes, we are allowed to mock you for it later.” She smiled, and there was a ripple of laughter from the veterans. “We have two new recruits in the Blue Dogs.”
The squad made that chesty barking sound again, and this time, Jess and Glain both joined in. Without being ordered, they stepped forward in unison.
“Show these dogs how it’s done, new dogs. You first.” The lieutenant pointed to Jess. Of course. He stared at her for a beat, then saluted silently and walked toward the chair. Glain said quietly, “Do us proud.”
Jess didn’t give any sign he’d heard. He sat on the cool, hard surface of the reclining chair and swung his legs up. The pack on his back was bulky and uncomfortable, but he ignored that and reached for the Translation helmet, which was surprisingly light. Compared to the one in Alexandria, this one seemed more finished, more integrated, though it still had protruding tubes that glowed with a strange light. It fit snugly around his head, and as the padding pressed down, he felt cold metal points touch his scalp, not quite sharp enough to pierce. They felt like chips of ice against his sweating skin.
A man in gold Library robes stepped forward. He was younger than Jess expected, of Chinese heritage, and around his neck he wore the wide golden collar of an Obscurist. “You’ve done this before,” he said to Jess in a conversational tone as he reached for the bronze cable descending from the roof and connected it to the top of the helmet. The snap of it clicking into place seemed to echo through Jess’s bones. “Good—you know what to expect. Deep breaths.”
“In bocca al lupo,” Captain Santi said.
“In bocca al lupo,” Jess replied, and nodded to the Obscurist. “I’m ready.”
The phrase meant “in the mouth of the wolf,” and that was what it felt like when the Obscurist put his hands on Jess’s helmet and the machines powered up around them. It felt like the wolf had him in its jaws as power surged down into the conductors in the helmet and ate him from within, like a wild storm, like a hungry animal, ripping him to pieces in a slow, torturous explosion of blood and bone, organ and flesh, and he heard himself give a short, agonized cry . . .
And then darkness, and the slow waves of sick pain, and he compulsively sucked in a breath as if he’d never breathed before. Everything felt wrong; every nerve burned with fire and salt, and he rolled on his side with his stomach lurching violently. He was lying on a reclining chair similar to the one he’d been on before, but instead of a helmet beside him, there was a metal bucket.
He grabbed it and vomited up his breakfast. A Medica professional in Library robes was there to steady him, and she checked him over with brisk efficiency. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “Water’s over there. If you have headaches later, report them. Oh, and take the bucket. There’s a sink over there. Empty and wash.”
She set down another bucket by the chair, stepped back, and waited, dismissing Jess from her concern. He staggered over to the sink, dumped the bucket, and washed it, and by the time he was done with that task, he heard Glain behind him, gasping for air. He put down the bucket and turned. She looked sick and blank for a moment, then controlled her breathing and sat up. She didn’t quite vomit, but he could see from the press of her lips that she was seriously considering the option. The Medica helped her up, and Glain almost immediately shook free. “Brightwell?” She blinked, and he knew she was having trouble focusing her blurry eyes.