Ink and Bone

We anticipate the successful completion of Scholar Wolfe’s journey to Oxford within twenty-four hours. When his party arrives in Aylesbury, you are instructed to remove Postulant Morgan Hault from the party of Scholar Wolfe, by force if necessary. Postulant Hault is not to be harmed under any circumstances, but should Wolfe, Santi or any of the others attempt to interfere with this order, you have authority to do what is necessary.

You are ordered to deliver said postulant to the nearest Translation Chamber, to be sent with armed escort directly to the Iron Tower.

Confirm your receipt of this message.

CHAPTER NINE

Jess’s backpack was heavier than it had been before, weighted down with as many books as he could safely carry; they were all burdened, according to their ability, though the outer rank of soldiers had the lightest burdens so as to fight effectively.

So far, though, luck was with them. They didn’t need to fight.

Librarian Ebele had been right; once they’d abandoned the Serapeum, the mob had re-formed at the front, ripped through the old iron bars, and was busy tearing the ancient place to pieces as they hunted for the rumoured caches of food and water. It was like listening to a murder, and they all moved as quickly and quietly as possible to get distance from it. The Oxford staff wept quietly. Wolfe kept Naomi Ebele close to him, and Jess could see why; she seemed distracted and almost feeble now. She’d pushed herself too hard.

They all had.

The sleet was falling more steadily now, a constant grey hiss, and Jess put up his hood to keep it out. The weatherproofed silk was already stiff with a thin, sheer coat of ice, and he was cold to the bones. They were in a narrow alleyway now, and only able to pass through two abreast. The cobbles were awash in slick mud, and it smelt like a sewer. He tried to breathe shallowly, but it did little good; that stench soaked through even the smallest gasp.

The small alleyway opened out onto another street, this one all but deserted. There were a few people at the far corner, but they seemed too disheartened to care about the passage of their party. The riot was still behind them. When Jess looked back, he saw what looked like black smoke rising up to stain the grey clouds.

They made it to the tavern without incident, which seemed half a miracle. The Turf Tavern was a hallowed institution in Oxford, almost as old as the Bodelian Serapeum, and it usually served as a friendly gathering place for all levels of Oxford society.

Not now. Now, it was surrounded by a group of hard-looking, scarred men armed with guns and knives. A few had even dragged out swords, maces, and axes for the occasion.

Jess pushed through to the front and took down his hood. ‘I’m Jess. Looking for Frederick.’

The men – every one of them topping him by at least a foot, and broader by far – gave him identical looks of disdain, but at length one of them stepped back into the shadows of the open doorway beneath the low roof.

The man who emerged next had the Brightwell sharp features, though his eyes were lighter and his hair a different shade than Jess’s family side sported. Frederick’s gaze missed nothing – not the numbers of High Garda soldiers, the arms, the readiness – but he was all su

‘So you do have a way out?’

‘Naturally. For a price.’ Frederick gri

‘And what’s the price for them?’

‘You’re fresh from the Serapeum. You’ll be carrying something worth my time. Make it good and we’ll see how friendly I feel. After all, you’ve exposed me to not just the High Garda, but a damned Scholar. It had best be good enough to buy me a new life.’

Jess was prepared for that. He’d already bargained with Wolfe for something that would be dear enough to pay for the lives of all of their party. So he shrugged off his pack and said, ‘We’d better do it inside. I’m not risking this to the weather.’

‘Good idea. I’d spot you a pint, except we drank all the ale ages back,’ Frederick said. He led the way into the dimness of the deserted tavern, which was a warren of small rooms, low ceilings, heavy dark beams. One of the walls was the only remaining trace of the original city fortifications, before it had grown so large, and it was worn from the passage of hands and shoulders.

It smelt of old spilt drinks and sweat, and a new, bitter scent of blood.

‘Now, cousin, produce,’ Frederick said. He sat at a trestle table and leant his elbows on it as Jess unfastened the pack.

Frederick talked like a back-alley tough, but he had fine hands, a musician’s hands, and he cradled the book Jess gave him carefully in them. ‘Damn this light,’ he said. ‘Got a glow on you?’

Jess did. He tapped it and sat the round ball on the table; it warmed up to a steady firelight shimmer, and cast dark shadows around them. Frederick picked up the ball and held it close to the binding, the carefully opened the cover.

He took in a quick breath, let it out slowly, and looked at Jess with eyes that reflected the glow eerily. ‘You know what this is?’

‘I know,’ Jess said. ‘It’s enough to cover us.’

‘Your brother would kill you if he knew you let this go to me instead of him.’

‘I know that,’ Jess said, and smiled. ‘But it’ll make its way to him, won’t it? He told me where to find you. Means he knows how to find you, too. I wouldn’t hold back if I were you.’

Frederick raised his eyebrows and carefully closed the cover of the book. He tapped the aged leather with one soft fingertip. ‘I’m tempted to squirrel it away for leverage. I don’t know what Brendan’s game is. You watch out for your brother. He’s a twisty one.’

‘He’s family.’

‘I know. And if I were you, I wouldn’t count on the embrace of your nearest and dearest.’

‘I’m counting on you,’ Jess said, and reached for the glow ball to tap it off. ‘But it’s good that I’m supposed to make myself a home in the Library, then. Deal done?’

‘Fair enough,’ Frederick said, and they shook on it. His cousin opened up a pack leaning on the wall and took out a familiar design of waterproof wrap – the speciality of the Brightwells, for their important volumes. He carefully packaged up the book and put it away, then shouldered the pack. ‘Let’s get the parade marching.’

‘I hope we won’t be quite that obvious.’

‘Trust me, old son, it’s my trade to be inconspicuous—’

They were coming out the door of the tavern as Frederick said that, and his words were cut off by a raw, full-throated shout from one of his men. ‘On the passage!’

That brought a rush of realignment of Frederick’s men, from guarding the tavern to a particularly narrow alleyway off to the right.

‘Wolfe,’ Frederick said, in a suddenly businesslike tone, ‘get your flock inside. Don’t want to be seen in your company. Gives me a bad name.’