In a subdued, sour mood, Jess spent the rest of the day in the barracks Serapeum—a small offshoot that contained a few dozen shelves of permanently loaded Blanks that held books most often requested, and a wall of ones waiting to be filled. He took one from that section and sat down to page through his Codex to find what he wanted. He remembered—thanks to Scholar Wolfe’s ruthless grilling about the vast list of books in the public collection of the Great Library—that there were one or two extremely obscure histories of crimes against the Library. Maybe someone, somewhere, had included clues to secret prisons. The research might be useful.
Best of all, though he knew someone, somewhere was watching what he ordered to read, he had a long history of reading historical texts. Even if the Archivist had a watch on what he read, this wouldn’t appear out of the ordinary.
Jess missed handling originals. He’d grown so addicted to the feel of those books—the individual differences in the bindings, the leather or fabric covers, the weight of papers, the smell. They were a very different experience than these Blanks, which all felt so . . . sterile, somehow. Words that could be readily dismissed and replaced didn’t have the same moral heft to them, to him, but he recognized he was a rebel and an outcast, even here among those who loved the Library.
Another reason to never lower his guard.
He was immersed in text and making handwritten notes to himself on a separate sheet when he sensed someone standing close by. He looked up to see the faces of Garrett Wu and Violet Bransom, and instantly knew it wasn’t a social visit.
Jess put the book aside and his pen down before he stood up to face them. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “Tariq was shot from above. Ask Sergeant Botha.”
“You shot him first,” Bransom—they never called her Violet, and Tariq had coined her official nickname, Violent, the first day—said, and with one shove, she put him back down in the chair. He didn’t resist. It gave him excellent leverage to kick knees and break bones. “I saw it. He went down when you shot him.”
“He was aiming at a Scholar. You know, the one we’re sworn to protect at all costs? Are you actually telling me you wouldn’t have done the same?”
“You’re lying,” Wu said. He wasn’t a bad guy, and Jess normally got along with him, but seeing that stiff, angry expression, he knew getting along wasn’t in the cards today. “Tariq would never betray us. And he’d never shoot a Scholar. That’s sick!”
They’d never accept the truth, and Jess didn’t blame them. Tariq had been a friendly sort, likable. Jess had taken pains not to be part of the group. He’d wanted to stay apart, after the pain of losing his friends from his Postulant class.
And this distrust was what caution and distance had earned him.
“I’m telling the truth, and Botha backs me up about how Tariq died. Whether I shot him or not makes no real difference. I didn’t kill him. A sniper from the rooftops did.”
“And you think you did your duty,” Wu said. The boy’s fists were clenched hard at his sides, his stare very dark and fixed. Jess knew the look. He’d faced it before. He kept his attention split, because Bransom would be the one to make the first move, if one was coming. “You’d do it again, wouldn’t you? To any one of us.”
“Yes, I’d do it again, to save a Scholar’s life. And so would you!” He was getting angry now, could feel it like a sunburn blooming under his skin. “Tariq was working with them. Maybe he wasn’t the only one.”
Wu’s face went a dangerously dark shade. “You saying we’re Burners?”
There was, Jess knew, no insult he could have given that would be greater, but there was no taking it back, and it didn’t matter. Neither of the two facing him was listening anyway; they had their minds well made up about what they thought. He was wasting breath.
The area had quietly cleared of other soldiers. Disputes between people of equal rank weren’t prohibited, unless officers were present. Bransom was about to kick it off, he thought, and he prepared to shatter her left kneecap, but just then a calm voice from the doorway said, “Is this a private two-on-one fight, or can anyone join?”
Glain Wathen stood there, looking dangerously still, despite the mild tone. A superior officer.
It broke the tension like a hammer on glass, and Wu and Bransom stepped back. “Squad Leader,” Wu said, but the look he gave Glain was chilly. “Just working something out.”
“Then do it where I can’t see you,” she said. “If any of you start something here in the Serapeum, you’re all on report, and I promise you, you do not want to see my temper just now. Are we understood?”
Her fingers tapped the seam of her trousers, and Jess knew that particular tic of hers; it meant she really was spoiling for a fight. The others must have known it, too, or at least they were aware of the dangerous light in her eyes. Bransom nodded and stepped away from Jess, and after a slight hesitation, Wu followed. “No problem, Sergeant,” Bransom said. “We’ll . . . catch up later.” When Wathen’s not around was strongly implied, but Jess didn’t much care. At least they gave fair warning.