Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(80)

Then the three of them were alone, struggling to breathe in the toxic atmosphere, until the door slid fully open and brought in a gust of bracing fresh air that Jess sucked in with real relief. He was lying on the floor, with Wolfe half on top of him, and as he blinked the burn from his eyes, he saw someone pulling Wolfe out by the feet into the glare of daylight.

He was grabbed and dragged next, and caught by a second pair of hands before his head could hit the ground.

“Move!” the same voice barked. “We have a minute, maybe two, and we’d best be gone!”

Jess craned his head as he was being carried past and saw a pile of unconscious High Garda Elites next to the troop carrier, which was idling and billowing steam in the road. There was an official-looking barricade, but no one manning it now.

He was being carried by two men, and as he looked up at the one holding his shoulders, he put the upside-down face into the right orientation. “Tom? Tom Rolleson?”

Troll grinned. “Welcome back, Jess,” he said. “Hell of a mess you’ve got us in.”

Jess found himself—between coughing fits—unceremoniously loaded into another carrier, and as his irritated eyes adjusted, he realized he was, finally, among friends. Santi’s company, to be specific: the voice that had demanded credentials from the other vehicle had been Centurion Botha’s, and as the man applied the Library key to the manacles on his wrists, then his ankles, Jess had to grab for a handhold as the vehicle lurched into motion. “The gas,” he said. “Yours?”

“A little invention we took off some Burners a while ago,” Botha said, and unlocked Scholar Wolfe’s cuffs. “We thought it might come in handy sometime.” He started to apply the key to Brendan’s restraints and then checked himself and sat back, looking from Jess to his twin. “Two of you is too many, Brightwell. Assuming I’ve let loose the right one?”

“You did,” Jess said, at the same moment his brother said, “No, you didn’t,” and thrust his restraints back out at Botha.

“Ease off, Scraps,” Jess said. “We’re among friends.”

“You are. I don’t know where I stand.” Brendan sounded better. Not good, by any means, but at least calm, and no longer ragged with rage. “What kind of friends? Because these look like your type, not mine.”

“I see the resemblance is more than skin deep,” Botha said. “What’s your name, other Brightwell?”

“Brendan.”

“Brendan, I am Centurion Botha. If I remove these, do I have your word you will not make me kill you over something stupid?”

Brendan shrugged. “For all that signifies.”

“Go ahead,” Jess said. “I’ll take responsibility for him. Do anything stupid, and I’ll throw you out for the Elites to find.”

“You would,” Brendan said. He said nothing else as Botha unlocked his restraints, and settled back without any troublemaking.

Which left Jess free to hear Scholar Wolfe say, “Do you know if Nic is—”

“He’s well, sir,” Botha said immediately. “You’ll see him soon. I promise that.”

Wolfe took in a deep breath and sat back to put his head in his hands. “I hate for him to see me like this,” he said. “But he’s seen me far worse. Where are we going?”

Botha cast a raised eyebrow toward Brendan. Jess shrugged. “For better or worse, he’s got nowhere else to go,” he said. “Safe enough to tell him.”

“We’re going to a safe place,” Botha said. “It belongs to a friend of yours.”

“Of mine?” Jess asked, and frowned. “I’m not hip-deep in those these days.”

“You’ll see,” Botha said. “You have more than you think.”

They emerged into a large, dark space, with light cascading in sharp squares from skylights above. This was clearly a military storage area, and kitted out for vehicles like High Garda troop carriers; there were four more parked nearby, but in the dim light, Jess couldn’t make out the insignia, except that it wasn’t the Horus eye of the Library. Militarily neat, and for a moment he had the strange sensation that they’d somehow found a safe space in the middle of the High Garda compound . . . until he realized that the signs posted to keep the space clear, and keep weapons locked, were in Spanish.

His suspicions proved right when Botha led them through an enclosed hallway without windows and into a large, gracious, tiled courtyard with ornate fountains and a garden that looked nothing like the ones usually found in Alexandria. This one was unmistakably European, and olive trees grew in ropy spirals around the edges, topped with pale, dusty leaves and dark fruit. Orange trees sprawled in massive pots.

And waiting in the courtyard stood the Spanish ambassador, Alvaro Santiago, but Jess spent only an instant in recognition before he took in the people standing beside him.

Thomas, with a thick scruff of golden beard and hair curling down to his collar. Glain, next to him, lean and immaculate in a High Garda uniform. Khalila, framed by a wine red dress and matching hijab. Dario, as resplendent as his cousin’s closet could provide. And, on the end, in plain black, stood Captain Santi.

Khalila was the first to rush forward and, without hesitation, fold Jess in an embrace, then kiss him on both cheeks. He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. “I thought you’d slip a knife in my ribs.”