Ash and Quill(69)

Jess looked down at himself and, for the first time, realized he was no longer wearing the filthy, half-seared rags he'd had on; instead, he wore a silky shirt and trousers, the sort provided to patients by Medica hospitals. And nothing else beneath. He was grateful for the blanket, suddenly, and yanked it up. His hands were expertly bandaged, and the burns twinged. Not nearly as bad as they ought to have done. It occurred to him to wonder if, in addition to the Medica's sprays and ointments, Morgan had poured some of her healing ability into him and further damaged herself in the process. He prayed that hadn't happened. He had to hope that Wolfe would have had the good sense to prevent it, if Morgan tried.

The bandages were aggravating, and before Brendan could stop him-if he was inclined to-Jess grabbed the end of the one swaddling his right hand in his teeth and yanked until it came loose. He clumsily unwrapped it and surveyed his fingers and palm. Blistered, tender, but not nearly as bad as he'd expected. He stripped off the left hand's covering and flexed both. Winced. Then he tried to sit up again and was slightly more successful this time. His lungs heaved and protested with bubbling gurgles, but he managed an upright position without help. "Are we safe here?" he asked.


      ///
       
         
       
        

"Of course not; stupid question. But turns out Captain Santi has a significant number of friends, even here. Out of the other three captains here, two of them aren't well pleased with the Archivist removing the High Garda commander or demanding loyalty tests of his soldiers. And they're friends of Captain Santi. So they'll turn a blind eye and cover for us. The last one is going to be kept in the dark."

"So . . . we're leaving in a transport, but Santi's company is staying?"

"No real choice. If Zara pulled out, there'd be no mistaking that she'd turned her loyalty. Santi says they stay and do everything asked of them until it's time to do something important. He's gambling that they will, of course. I'm not sure I'd take that chance."

So, they were going it alone. They didn't have much choice. As Wolfe had said: they'd have to decide to hide and play dead, or rise and fight. Brendan, ironically, was the one who'd liked the shadows. Avoiding duty and playing his own game.

Jess tried to stand up. His brother held him down. Jess snapped, "I'm all right! Hands off, Scraps!"

"You'd walk on severed legs and claim you were all right, but fine. Suit yourself; fall on your face and spit your lungs up while you're at it. I have things to do. You haven't asked, but I'll tell you anyway: we've got a ship waiting on the coast, and we'll be sailing home."

"Home? Meaning where?"

"To our new fortress. You're going to love it. Da wants you with us. And he's generously agreed to give all your friends shelter, too." Brendan started for the tent's exit, then turned back. "Don't call me Scraps. I'd beat you blue for it, but seems redundant."

Looking at him was disorienting, like seeing himself at a distance. Am I really that annoying? Too late to ask. His brother was already gone.

It was significant, what he'd said, and the way he'd said it, dropping it at the last, casual moment. Jess's head hurt too much to decipher that message, but he knew it would come to him. Eventually. Meanwhile, he had somewhere to be.

Jess took a deep breath, reached for the support of the bunk's frame, and managed to stand. Didn't manage much more than that, for a long few moments, then spotted a uniform neatly folded on a chest nearby. That's not so far.

It was miles, and he was sweating and coughing up a red-tinged liquid by the time he got there. He spat mouthfuls of the sickening stuff into the bucket and, when he felt more steady, stripped off the loose, soft shirt and trousers. His skin, most places, was blotched and reddened. His hair felt dry, and singed at the ends, and it smelled like burning death. 

Dressing seemed a lot of effort, and after he'd drawn on underclothes, fastened the trousers, pulled on the shirt and jacket and boots, he felt tired enough to lie back down again . . . but he wouldn't, for fear Brendan would come back and laugh. Instead, he got up, coughed again, and proceeded with slow care outside. The handmade Codex and the book he'd carried out of Philadelphia both lay bound together with dirty strips of cloth. He put them in the pockets of his coat.

Niccolo Santi wasn't resting. He was sitting in a folding camp chair, but he was engaged in earnest conversation with his extremely capable and dangerous lieutenant. Too busy to notice Jess at all.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find yet another person standing just behind him, off to the side, as if waiting to catch him when he inevitably collapsed. He made damn sure he was steady, and then turned his head. It was Dario, who attempted to look like total accident had placed him there.