Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(26)

“We should be hunting that sniper,” he said. “And the Archivist.”

“You’re in no condition. Sit. Rest. Eat. Read. The fight will wait.”

She seemed supremely confident of her security within these walls. Jess hoped she wasn’t overestimating that, but she was probably right: if her people were susceptible to being bribed, they’d have turned long ago and she’d have died in the road. She walked on alone out of the gracious, quiet garden room. He regarded the Machiavelli book for a moment, then sat down and began to read. All states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been and are either republics or principalities. Principalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long established; or they are new. The new are either entirely new . . . or they are, as it were, annexed to the hereditary state of the prince who has acquired them.

There was an entire chapter in The Prince devoted to the structure and weaknesses of the Great Library; it had been suppressed for Machiavelli’s keen insight into the institution’s vulnerabilities. The last thing that the Archivists of the past had wanted was to allow a mere prince or king to understand how best to overthrow what had been built at such great price. Like all nations and powers, the Great Library was built on sacrifice . . . some had gone to it willingly, others thrown screaming into the pit of an Archivist’s ambition.

And what if this book hadn’t been suppressed? Jess asked himself. What if every single ruler of every single land had such information and insights? Maybe our leaders have been right to worry about dangerous ideas finding their way into the wrong heads.

But he’d seen the consequences of caution, too. He and Thomas had almost died for even the idea of creating a mechanical press, and they’d been the lucky ones. At least a dozen Scholars before them hadn’t survived the inspiration. They’d ended up buried in anonymity, their work lost, their lives destroyed.

And that was far more wrong than fearing what could happen.

It felt intrusive, reading this book that had been a loving father’s gift to his child. Jess put it down and walked to the fountain. The koi swam toward him and lifted their gilded heads out of the water, mouths opening and closing as they begged for food.

Out of nowhere, it hit him: the image of Brendan in his arms, pale as paper, his mouth opening and closing as he gasped for breath against the truth of his dying body.

Jess sank down with his back against the cool stone edge of the fountain’s pool, drew his knees up to his chest, and felt the ice inside break like a glacier in summer, shards and chunks heavy with their own sorrow. It hurt so badly he found himself trembling, and then he thought of Glain, of the bright red blood still smeared on his hands, and the smell of it overwhelmed him again. He plunged his hands into the cool water and scrubbed them clean while the fish scattered.

The door opened behind him, and he quickly stood up, ignoring his dripping hands, because it was Scholar Wolfe. Wolfe. Here. How . . .

Anit must have sent for him. That was an extraordinary move. Jess said, “It’s not safe—”

“I know that.” Wolfe brushed it impatiently aside. “I am in a den of thieves and smugglers and, yes, I am most uncomfortable that this is what I must do. But I couldn’t allow you to do it without me. Not injured as you are.” He glanced down at Jess’s hands, and Jess followed the look. He hadn’t managed to wash off all the blood. A dirty film of it still circled his forearms. Without saying a word, he dunked them again and scrubbed harder.

Wolfe said, “Whose blood?”

“Glain’s,” Jess said, and his throat threatened to choke off the rest. He forced himself to continue. “She was shot. Sniper.”

He heard the tension in the Scholar’s voice. “Is she—”

“If the last word is alive, then yes. She is,” Jess said. “If you were looking for all right, then no. She is a long road from all right, but she’s being treated now. She took a bullet for me.”

“As is her duty. You’d no doubt take one for her,” Wolfe said, but Jess wasn’t fooled by the dry tone. He saw the worry in the man’s eyes. “What sort of charlatan do they employ here as a Medica?”

“Looks competent enough,” Jess said. “And getting her to a High Garda station was impossible.” His hands finally looked clean. He sat back and shook them dry, then got to his feet. He staggered. Wolfe caught him by both arms and steadied him, and Jess pulled free with a jerk. “I’m fine.”

“You are not. I’m sending you to Santi and telling him to confine you to bed.”

“I can’t rest. Not now. The Medica gave me something to treat it. I’m all right.”

“Bullshit,” Wolfe said crisply. “You breathed poison. And that has consequences. Stop pretending that it doesn’t.”

“I’m not. But don’t pretend that the crisis will wait for me to heal, either.”

“You know, we’re too much alike in how we deny our own limits.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Scholar.”

“It wasn’t.” Wolfe glared at him. “I didn’t need your nefarious contacts to discover where the Archivist might be hiding, but we will need them to confront him. Don’t argue with me when I tell you we wait for the cover of darkness before we leave.”

“I won’t,” Jess promised. He was too broken inside to argue. “Where are we going?”