Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(25)

“Is it bad?”

“Bad enough,” he said.

“Do you need anything?”

“Medicine.” He fumbled at his pockets and pulled out the mask the Medica had given him. He fitted it over his mouth and nose and breathed deep to drag the treatment to the most damaged parts of his lungs. It burned, but he was getting used to that, at least. After a few moments, calm set in, and it didn’t hurt as much. But he was no longer deluded enough to think it was healing him. Only time would do that, and rest.

Neither of which he had, or was likely to get.

Anit hadn’t left. She sat on her knees, hands on her lap, watching. The household was in controlled chaos around them, and he lowered his mask to say, “Just leave me. You have things to do.”

“No,” she said. “Not yet. My people know what they’re about. I have little to add. Put that back and breathe.”

He obeyed. He didn’t know why he trusted Anit, but he did. Likely that was stupid and reckless, but any kind of peace right now was better than none.

What was happening to Glain felt quite a great distance from him at the moment, and he wondered if he was in shock. No, he couldn’t be. He was a soldier. He’d seen friends hurt and dead before. This was no different. Wasn’t it?

“Jess?” Anit was saying his name. He realized he’d missed something. He wrenched his gaze away from the closed doorway and looked at her. “Do you think you can get up now?” she asked.

“Yes.” He put the mask away and stood up. “I should get after the sniper.”

“Don’t be stupid. Come with me. Please.”

He followed because he couldn’t think of a better thing to do, in the end. Anit led him through the center portal of the entry hall; none of her guards followed. Beyond the door opened up a large, spacious indoor garden with a fountain spilling drops into a large pool. It held Japanese koi. He paused to stare at the lazily swimming fish. The garden smelled of herbs, with a quiet, earthy scent of the garden soil beneath. Lounge chairs were positioned in comfortable spots. On one lay an abandoned original book. He walked over to turn the volume faceup and read the title.

The Prince. Machiavelli. A forbidden work, on the restricted list in the Codex; the lending of it from the Great Library through the Codex was granted to a select few, and only for a limited period of time. If this volume were legally obtained, it would have been mirrored inside a Blank, but this was a hand-scribed copy, bound in blue leather with a carefully stamped gilded title. Funny, he knew the book almost by heart. He’d taken it from his father’s storehouse when he was fourteen and kept it for almost a year, before he’d been found out. A rare volume. A dangerously illegal one.

He turned toward Anit, who had paused near the fountain. “Yours?” He held up the book.

“Yes,” she said. “A gift from my father.” He saw the flash of guilt and horror that came over her. “In better days.”

“When are his funerary rites?” He put the book back where it had been placed. He wondered if she’d ever open it again without reliving the instant she’d killed her own father to save the lives of two foolish Brightwell boys.

“When things are settled,” she said. “I’ve given him to the temple to prepare him for burial. He has a very nice mastaba ready to receive him. He invested quite a lot in it. I’ll do my best to make his afterlife all he might have wished it to be. Just as he did for my brothers.” Her voice trembled a little when she said it, and he saw the shine of tears welling up in her eyes. She took a deep breath and blinked them away. “You may keep the book if you like. I would be pleased for it to have a good home.”

Her control broke. She began to silently weep. Jess walked to her and put his arms around her. “The gods must hate us, Jess. And maybe they should.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say in comfort, and didn’t think she’d accept it if he did, so he simply held her and rested his chin on the top of her head and wished that he could find tears. Maybe it would be a release from the emptiness echoing inside. But he didn’t have it in him. Not yet.

“Anit,” he said, when the crying slowed and shaking subsided. She pulled back, taking deep breaths, and swiped at her eyes; it only served to smear the dark eyeliner she wore even further. She’d seemed so adult before, and now she was a child playing dress-up. She was now, what, fifteen? With the weight of a criminal empire on her shoulders. “I’ve lost a brother. You’ve lost your father. We can be each other’s families now. If you’ll accept that.”

She considered it—that flash of adult, again—and then gravely nodded. “I would be honored,” she said.

“I can’t overly recommend the Brightwell family in general, but I can promise you: I will be a good brother to you.” Like I wasn’t to Brendan. He let himself find a smile. It was small enough, but real. “And together, we might just build something both our fathers would envy.”

“Yes,” she said, and took another deep breath. “I believe we could. Thank you, Jess. I am sorry for . . .” She gestured at her tear-streaked face and laughed a little. “Wait here a bit. I’ll make myself less of a disaster. Are you hungry?”

Was he? When had he last eaten? He didn’t know. He shrugged. “I suppose.”

“I’ll send food,” she said. “I don’t have to remind you not to roam around this house, do I? My men don’t know you yet. Accidents happen, especially in that uniform.”