Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(43)

Jess felt sick, and for a moment he stayed where he was, flat on the bed, until he felt comfortable in his skin again. His heart was racing, skin flushed and prickling with alarm, and blessed Heron, he ached from the abuse his imaginary brother’s body had taken. Quest’s mesmer skills were incredibly well honed, to convince him that he was Brendan to such an extent; he’d thought differently, acted differently. Even moved differently. He’d even flirted with Neksa.

But it had all worked. He’d feared interrogation, though he’d expected it to be physical rather than at the hands of an Obscurist and mind-altering gas. Thank God he’d asked Quest to specifically shield the part of his memory that had to do with his father’s location. He’d feared the Archivist would decide to torture that last bit out of him, and though torture hadn’t been involved, the question had most certainly been asked, and an answer compelled.

But Brendan—the Brendan that Quest had created in him—had been able to swear to a great many blatant lies with perfect sincerity.

Whatever Alvaro Santiago had paid the Mesmer on Jess’s behalf, it wasn’t half enough.

Jess stood up. He felt every wound that Brendan had collected and recalled in sharp detail the nearly deadly day he’d had. Including the gentle, intimate touch on Neksa’s cheek . . . which she’d allowed, or at least been too shocked to protest. He wasn’t certain yet whether that had been inspired or a terrible mistake. Time would tell.

He opened the tap at the sink and washed his dirty face in icy water, then stood for some moments staring into the mirror. The difference between himself and his twin was so small, and yet so large it was like walking a high wire above a furnace. Exhausting. Maybe I should have Quest convince me I really am my brother for the duration. Could be restful.

But no. He’d need both sides of his personality to get through this, because now that the Archivist believed him . . . somewhat . . . there was much to do.

He checked the Blank, but once again there was no message from Morgan. It isn’t safe for her yet, he told himself, but the worry gnawed harder. Morgan had been confident she could find a way to get around the Iron Tower’s restraints. What if she hadn’t? What could have happened to her in there? What Gregory had said about a partner . . . He found himself staring at the page for far too long before he slammed the book shut, ate a meager meal he didn’t taste, and fell into a troubled, dream-crowded sleep.

He woke up to a pounding on the door and squinted at the window. Wasn’t yet light outside, and it took all his control not to bury his head under the pillow and seek sleep again. Not that it would matter, he knew; they’d just come in and drag him out of bed if he tried.

A fresh High Garda Elite contingent stood outside, glittering with sharp edges in the dull predawn light. Jess wondered what had happened to Wahl.

“Come with us,” the man in charge said, and turned to head down the path. The rest of his soldiers waited for Jess to step out, and he debated it for a long few seconds before closing the door and following. They closed in around him. No carriage today; they’d brought a sturdily armored carrier. Good. The more the High Garda was worried about Red Ibrahim’s retaliations, the less they’d pay attention to their prisoner. He didn’t doubt they still considered him one.

The carrier was standard—bench seats along both sides, hanging straps for those who didn’t earn a seat. Jess was given the seat closest to the metal barrier to the driver—and the farthest from the exit. No one seemed inclined to make conversation, and he was still regretting getting out of bed and not insisting on coffee. He put his head back against the metal as the carrier’s doors slammed, the engine hissed and gears engaged, and they glided rapidly toward their destination.

He expected to emerge at the Serapeum and be led through yet another confusing tangle of corridors, but instead he found himself at the Alexandria Colosseum. An old Roman import, still maintained and in use; the vast structure could hold as many as fifty thousand, and while the old blood sports had been long outlawed, the more civilized contests remained popular. “We’re taking in a football game?” he asked. He’d played it with other children in London, a ragged, barely serviceable ball kicked back and forth and chased to grimy landmarks that served as goals. Hadn’t played it since he was twelve, and had never attended a game, though they had been as popular in London as anywhere.

But there were no happy sports fans here. The place was deserted, and the perimeter iron fences had automaton guards. It felt eerie and as ghostly as the departed spirits of the Caesars.

The High Garda surrounded him in a tight cordon, and he was pushed forward . . . to a guarded entrance.

And a downward-sloping ramp, lit by greenish glows on both sides.

The descent was harrowing. The place smelled like centuries of death and blood, and a stomach-turning electric feeling crawled along his nerves. Nothing good has ever happened here, he thought. These weren’t the changing rooms for the teams, or the public galleries. This was ancient, and awful.

It was also in use.

The ramp leveled out into a long, broader hallway, still lit with the same glows that, though bright enough, cast a sickly pall over pale stone and iron doors, all tightly shut. The High Garda captain pushed one open and said, “In.”

If I go in there, I’m never coming out. The whole place screamed at him to fight as hard and as dirty as he could, and stay alive for another moment.