Ink and Bone

‘Or what happens?’ Jess asked.

‘It’s the Archivist Magister’s personal conveyance; given that, I assure you, you don’t want to know.’

Somehow, after that, no one wanted to go first, so with a sigh, Jess stepped forward and paused in the doorway. A pleasant chime sounded, and he limped forward, into a world where everything was right and orderly and beautiful, and in which he felt completely out of place. A graceful young lady in a perfectly tailored Library uniform was standing a few feet away, and she gave him a smile that made him almost believe he was welcome.

‘This way, Mr Brightwell,’ she said. ‘I expect you’ll want to clean up first before you enjoy the other amenities.’

He couldn’t stop a bleak laugh. ‘I expect,’ he said, and limped after her down the clean little aisle, past tables and chairs, through an elegant dining car, and then into another hallway with gleaming wood all along one rounded side. She paused three doors down and opened one that had a blank inserted in it that had his name written in exquisite cursive writing.

‘Thanks … what’s your name?’ he asked, as he edged inside. Her smile took on a slightly brittle quality.

‘It’s Gretel, sir. Should you need anything, please ring the bell. You’ll find soap and toiletries in the shower for you.’

Gretel was pretty, but he could read the revulsion in her hiding just beneath the surface. He didn’t blame her. She must see powerful people here. Catering to some half-maimed, filthy students of no real repute must have been beneath her.

He shut the door and leant against it for a moment, then opened his eyes and looked around. The bed was soft and tempting, but he needed cleaning far worse. The muck caked in his hair was driving him mad.

Though the Welsh doctor had assured him the waterproofing on his wounds would hold, and the healing had already advanced quite far, he was careful in the shower. The violent blue-black bruises circling his side and back, he realised, looked so frightful that if elegant Gretel had seen them, she’d have run screaming. The bruises seemed far worse than the relatively small stab wound.

The posh train had robes, thick fluffy ones, and once he was clean he do

It didn’t occur to him to lock the door.

He fell asleep, predictably enough, and woke up when his door clapped open with too much energy, and Morgan stepped inside to say, ‘I’m told to bring you to di

‘No, it’s all right,’ he said, and tried to sit up, but the brief nap had stiffened his sore muscles, and it was a clumsy process. He grabbed at the robe to keep it more or less closed. It was mostly a failed attempt, and it exposed the livid black-and-blue of his side. She took in a breath, and came to help him rise. He yanked the robe back together and tied it shut.

‘Don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘You mean the bruises, I hope.’

‘What else would I be talking about?’ She sat next to him in quiet harmony for a moment. She’d washed herself, too; her brown hair flowed loose, and it crackled with energy when she pushed it back with one hand. ‘I won’t go to the Iron Tower, Jess. I’m not asking you to help me, because … because I know they won’t stop coming for me, and I can’t put you in the middle. But I wanted you to know that I’ll do whatever I have to do.’

‘The train’s already moving,’ he said. ‘You’d kill yourself trying to escape.’

‘I know that.’

‘Once you get to Alexandria, you’ll never get out of that tower.’

‘I know that, too.’

‘So?’ She shrugged. Wasn’t looking at him. He felt sick. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of killing yourself. Just tell me that much.’

She turned and met his eyes. ‘I’m not thinking of killing myself.’

He’d told her that she ought to become a better liar, and he was afraid that she’d taken his advice, because he couldn’t tell what she was thinking at all.

‘Hand me my clothes,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

Di

They ate without much conversation, though Morgan’s golden-brown gaze kept skimming up and over him. They didn’t speak much, but then, there wasn’t a lot of conversation among the other few left in the dining car, either. They were all too tired, he thought. Too relieved to still be alive.

When they were alone, and his plate nearly empty, he said, ‘Do you think Wolfe will help you?’

‘No,’ Morgan said. ‘He left the tracker on.’ She held up her wrist. The restraints delicately criss-crossed there, with the seal in the middle, and it did look like an ornament.

‘Maybe he forgot.’

She didn’t dignify that with an answer as she forked more steak into her mouth.

‘All right, maybe he didn’t forget. Check and mate.’

‘I’m glad you think my life is a game.’

‘It is, though. Wi

She let out an a

‘At what?’

‘Trying to comfort me.’

‘I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘You deserve better than that.’

‘I’m just tired,’ she said. ‘You don’t understand how tired I am.’ He saw something flicker in her eyes, spark, and flare … and go out. She started to get up.

‘Wait. Morgan, wait. Don’t. You can survive this.’

‘I know I can,’ she said. ‘That’s not the problem.’

‘Then tell me what is.’

She glared at him. ‘You! Your stupid questions!’ She slid her chair back and walked away towards the bedroom carriages. He got up, quickly.

Glossy Gretel stepped in his way, with her manufactured smile. She offered him a menu. ‘Dessert, Mr Brightwell? I recommend the sticky toffee pudding.’

‘Then you should have some,’ he said, and moved her out of his way.

Morgan was already out of sight.

She wasn’t in her bedroom in the carriage. He knocked, and when she didn’t answer, he tried the door. It was open. There was no sign of her, except for the disturbed sheets on the bed. He put his hand on them. They were cold.

She hadn’t come back.

He tried all the other rooms. One by one, his friends answered. They hadn’t seen her. I have to tell Wolfe, he thought. The idea that Morgan might do something drastic, that he might stand by and let it happen … he couldn’t face that.

Wolfe didn’t answer his knock, either, and when Jess tried the knob, it also swung open.

Empty.

He slammed the cabin door.

‘Looking for something?’ Santi was leaning out the doorway of the next cabin down, stripped to the waist.

‘I need to find Scholar Wolfe—’ Jess’s words died in his mouth, because behind Santi, Scholar Wolfe stepped out of Santi’s cabin door. Also half-dressed. Jess’s brain went blank as all his assumptions tumbled and tried to fit together again.

Santi just looked amused. Wolfe … looked like Wolfe. A

‘I can’t find Morgan,’ Jess said.

‘You couldn’t find me, and I was one door down. What business is it of yours where she is? She can’t leave the train.’

Jess sucked in a deep breath and said, ‘She’s not going to let you just hand her over to the Obscurists, either. She told me that.’

He wasn’t saying what he was afraid of, but Wolfe didn’t miss it, either. He froze for a second, then turned and grabbed his Codex. He flipped pages. ‘Her tracker is still active,’ he said. ‘Still on the train.’

‘Then where is she?’

‘In the back.’ Wolfe tossed Santi a shirt. ‘Come on.’