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  But he wasn't taking that without hitting back, and Jess saw that an instant before Beck grabbed the folded robe and flung it into the pyre of burning books. Petty contempt, but it struck Jess like a gut punch. He saw a shiver run through Khalila, too . . . just the barest flinch. Like Wolfe, she lifted her chin. Defiant.

  "Only cowards are so afraid of a scrap of cloth," she said, clear enough to carry to the stands. There was a shimmer in her eyes: anger, not tears. "We may not agree with the Archivist; we may want to see him gone and better Scholars take his place. But we still stand for knowledge. You stand for nothing."

  Beck looked past her and gave a bare, terse nod to a guard, and in the next instant, Khalila was seized, yanked back, and forced to her knees. She almost fell, toppling toward Jess. He instinctively put out a hand to help her, and her fingers twined with his.

  That was the instant he understood what she was really about. Removing her robe hadn't been just defiance; it was distraction. Concealed between her fingers, she held a single metal hairpin--one she'd plucked from under her hijab.

  She knew that in Jess's hands, a hairpin was as good a weapon as any.

  A vast, cooling sense of relief washed through his chest, and he exchanged a swift glance with her as he slipped the pin between his own fingers. She's right. Sooner or later, there'll be locks to open. If we live so long.

  He let go of her and hid the metal inside his shirtsleeve. He'd need to find a better hiding place for it, but that would do for now.

  Beck ignored them. He was busy throwing Wolfe's robe to the flames. Farther down the line, they had taken Thomas's robe, and Dario's. Four robes flung onto the pyre, one by one, while the crowd roared approval. Jess expected the silk to burn fast, but instead the robes smoked, smoldered, shriveled in, and finally turned to gray and began to powder at the edges. Hardly any drama to it at all, which must have been disappointing for Beck's purposes. A stench of burning hair joined the meaty reek of crisping leather bindings, and for a moment, Jess had the vision again of a body burning in those flames.

  One of their bodies.

  "Now we may start fresh," Beck said after the silk was nothing but a tangle of ashes. "You are no longer part of the Library. In time, you'll come to see that we are your brothers and sisters."

  "If you want to convince us of that, let us stand up," Santi said, and Jess could hear the ragged edge in his voice. A trickle of bright red blood ran down the sharp plane of his cheekbone from his hairline, but his eyes were clear and intensely focused on Beck. "Let us up and see how fraternal we can be."

  "In time," Beck said. "In due time, Captain."

  Jess swallowed and tasted ashes. Fraternal. He didn't want to believe that he and his friends--for whom this had started as personal loyalty, personal risk, and nothing they'd deliberately planned--had anything in common with Burners. He loathed them, even though they wanted books to be free and owned by anyone who wanted them. He'd grown up a book smuggler, so by definition he believed in that same ideal.

  But he didn't believe in indiscriminate murder, either, and the Burners had been known to incinerate the guilty and the innocent alike, just to make their point.

  The Great Library, for all its shining history and high ideals, had just as rotten a heart; it might even be worse. The Archivist Magister might love books just as he did, but that evil old man loved power far more. He and the Curia were part of a system that had turned toxic hundreds of years ago, when a long-dead Archivist had chosen to destroy an invention, and a Scholar, to keep his firm hold on power. Every Archivist since had chosen the same dark road. Maybe now they couldn't see any other way.

  But there had to be a way. The Library was too precious to let it fall without trying to save what was good at its heart. And if it was just the eight of them who'd fight to save it . . . then that was a start.

  Saving anything didn't seem very likely. He was on his knees in a ruined arena in a Burner-held city, with nothing but a hairpin. Still, to a criminal like him? A hairpin was enough.

  "I'll ask you now," Beck said, raising his voice to be heard in the stands. The echoes came back cold. "Will you swear to join our city? To work for the ruin of the Great Library that keeps its foot on our necks, and the necks of every man, woman, and child on this earth? To do what must be done to prove our cause?"

  He was walking down the line. He stopped in front of Dario Santiago.

  Jess forgot to take in the next breath, because if there was a weak link in their chain, Beck had put his finger directly on it. Dario would do what was good for Dario. Without fail. None of them expected anything else at this point.

  Dario looked tired. He'd suffered some burns--so had Jess--in London, and his normal cocky grace was gone. He looked beaten.

  So it came as a shock when he got to his feet to face Beck and said, very clearly, in as strong a voice as Jess could remember from him, "Really? Do I look like a witless Burner? Don't insult me with the question." He followed it up with something in Spanish so fast Jess missed the meaning, but from scattered laughter in the stands, it must have been cutting.

  Beck's expression didn't change. He took a step onward. Morgan Hault was next, and just like Dario, she stood up. Not especially tall, not especially strong. Her hair blew wild around her face, and if she was frightened, she didn't show it as she said, "No." A clear, firm, unshakeable denial.

  They held Thomas down on his knees, probably worrying that he'd do real damage if they let him get up. He gave his answer with a sweet, broad smile. "Of course not." He almost seemed amused.

  Glain definitely wasn't, and since she was held down as well, she contented herself with a rude gesture and a long string of Welsh syllables. Jess knew the gist of it well enough: screw off. Very Glain.

  Khalila got up, too. Like Thomas, she was smiling. "I absolutely will not agree," she said. "Foolish of you to even ask."

  Jess stayed down. No choice, really, since the guard behind him whispered, "Stand up and I'll splatter you all over the ground." But Beck barely paused to hear his clipped no before moving on to Wolfe.

  Wolfe had been still and calm the whole time, but it was a brittle kind of stillness. His answer came, sharp: "Never."

  Next to him, Santi bared his teeth in a savage grin. "So say we all."

  Beck stared at them for such a long, silent moment that Jess started to sweat; that pyre was still hot, and Beck looked like a man who liked to make an example. But he finally shook his head and beckoned a woman of African descent who looked every bit as competent and dangerous as Glain. The woman moved like a trained soldier, though she wore no uniform, only a plain-spun shirt and trousers with heavy boots.

  "Very well. Lock them up--"

  "There's the good Burner welcome I was waiting for," Wolfe said sourly.

  "--and see that they are well treated," Beck continued. But he glanced at Wolfe, and behind the artifice of good humor, there was something far darker. He was the leader of a city that was fighting a war, and worse than that, he was a true believer. A fanatic who didn't hesitate to kill, maim, and destroy in his attempts to make the world in his own image. "But search them thoroughly. I want no mistakes."

  Jess's fingers tightened over the fragile metal pin he'd embedded in the fabric of his shirtsleeve. He'd need to find a good hiding place. Quickly.

  By the time he was allowed up off his knees, he found his legs were steady, and his stomach, too. At least this horrible bit of theater had given them all time to recover from the shock of Translation and start to put their brains to use.

  Philadelphia was going to be, in its own way, as dangerous a place as London, Rome, or Alexandria. It was impossible to know yet what the Burners wanted from them, or what they'd have to do to survive.

  But that didn't matter. The idea of going behind bars actually cheered him up.

  After all, prisons--like locks--were made to be broken.

  The guards weren't stupid, which was too bad; they separated the party out, two by two, and shoved them in
to barred cells inside a long, low building made of heavy stone. Cramped ceilings and rudimentary toilets, but it was far from the worst Jess had ever seen. Didn't even smell particularly bad. Maybe crime was low in Burnertown.

  But, more important, the locks on the cells were large, crude, and old.

  By a little subtle maneuvering that his friends managed without seeming to manage it, everyone sorted out nicely in ordered pairs: Wolfe and Santi, Glain and Khalila, Thomas and Jess. Dario and Morgan each managed their own private cells, which made Jess a little jealous. But only a little, because he needed to stay close to Thomas. The German had only just escaped from one prison. He might need help adjusting to yet another one.

  "Search them thoroughly. You don't have to be gentle about it," the tall woman--Beck's captain, Jess thought--said, and exited without waiting to see it done. She left behind three men to do the job, which did seem adequate with the cell doors shut and locked.

  "Right," said one of the men--the squad leader, Jess thought--who had a dramatic scar on one cheek: a melted look, courtesy of Greek fire. He didn't seem particularly nice and, after considering the pickings, unlocked the cell that Glain and Khalila shared first. "You. Tall one. Step out."

  That was, of course, Glain. She likely looked to be the bigger threat, though appearances might have been deceptive, depending on the situation. Glain shrugged, stepped out, and put her hands flat on the far stone wall of the hallway. Her quick glance at Wolfe asked the silent question: Are we cooperating? Jess couldn't see the reply from where he stood--there was a wall between his cell and the next, where Wolfe and Santi were held--but he saw her relax, so the answer must have been yes.

  Glain took having a guard's hands on her with the same indifference she gave most issues of modesty. Beyond saying, "You missed a spot. Bad form," to the man searching her, she gave him no trouble.

  "Right. Back in. You, in the veil. Come out."

  "It's not a veil," Khalila said as she moved into the center hallway. "It's called a hijab. Or a scarf, if you like."

  The guard surveyed her uncertainly from head to toe. He was clearly not familiar with the traditional clothing that Khalila favored; Glain in battered trousers hadn't bothered him, but the volume of that dress did. "Against the wall," he said. Khalila obligingly leaned, and though she clearly didn't like being touched, especially so freely, she said nothing as the man searched her. "All right. Turn around."

  She did, and started back to her cell. He put out a hand to stop her. "No. Scarf comes off."

  "It is against my religion. Does no one follow the Prophet here, peace and blessings be upon him? Here. I've removed the pins from my hair," Khalila said, and extended her hand to surrender a palmful of them. "I have nothing else hidden beneath it. I swear that."

  "I don't trust your oath, Scholar," the man said, and without any warning, he stepped behind her, grabbed a handful of the fabric of her hijab and yanked. Khalila's head snapped back as the scarf was dragged off, and she let out a small cry of dismay and shock as she grabbed for the fabric. He shoved her hard against the bars of the cell with his hand on the back of her neck. "Stay still!"

  "Hey! Hands off!" Jess shouted as a sudden ball of fury ignited inside him like Greek fire and he grabbed the bars and rattled them. Dario swore to knife the man in his sleep.

  Khalila didn't make another sound.

  The guard pulled the scarf loose from where it sagged around Khalila's neck, and a riot of smooth, basalt black hair cascaded over her shoulders. He crumpled the fabric in his hand and stuck it in his belt. "Better," he said to her. "No special treatment around here for you or whatever god you follow, Scholar. Best you learn that quickly."

  Khalila turned whip fast to grab the man's wrist and extended and twisted his whole arm. She continued the spin and pressed her palm hard into the back of his elbow, reversing it to the breaking point, and held him there as he cried out. He shifted to try to take the strain off the joint, and she pressed harder. This time, she got a shrill cry. His knees buckled.

  The other guards moved forward, and Glain glided out to get in their way. Khalila acknowledged that with a quick flick of a glance but kept her attention on the man she had in the painful, joint-cracking hold.

  "Don't make me break it," she said. "Never do that again. Never. It's insulting and disrespectful. Do you understand?"

  "Let go!" he panted. Khalila took her head scarf from his belt and shoved him away. He got his balance and lowered his chin, and Jess saw him reach for a knife at his belt.

  Glain, without a word, turned immediately and landed a swift, strong uppercut that jerked the guard's head up and rolled his eyes back to the whites. Her distraction gave the other two guards an opening, of course, and one grabbed Glain and pushed her back against the wall. He slammed a fist straight into her guts. She grinned with bare, wet teeth. "Weak sauce, Burner," she almost purred. "Have another go."

  He followed up with a second punch, harder. Useless, and Jess knew it; Glain had made a lot of money in the High Garda barracks with this trick. As long as she had time to tense her abdominal muscles, he wouldn't do her damage, and she'd never let on that it hurt. A bloody savage kind of game, but it suited Glain to the ground.

  "Enough," the last guard said, and shoved his friend back when he prepared to punch Glain again. "You, get back in the cell and there'll be no more trouble," he told Khalila. "I won't touch you if you don't force me to it. All right? You can keep the scarf. No need for any more of this."

  Khalila nodded. "Thank you," she said. "You might want to check on your friend. I think he might need a Medica." She stepped over the man Glain had put down as she slid the scarf back over her head and began to tuck it into shape.

  "You too, soldier. Get back in," the third guard said to Glain, and stood out of her way. She hadn't stopped smiling--it was a frighteningly feral thing--and walked without a care in the world into the cell. She managed to step on the fallen guard as she did so. He didn't even groan.

  "I appreciate the help." Khalila held up her palm; Glain casually slapped it.

  "Oh, I did it for the fun," she said, and, with a flourish Jess rather enjoyed, swung the cell door closed once she was inside. It reminded him of Khalila removing her Scholar's robe before it could be taken. "Well? Are you planning to lock it, y twpsyn?" He didn't know the Welsh term, but he assumed it wasn't flattering.

  The guard who'd punched Glain stepped up to turn the key. "Next time," he said to Glain.

  "Precious, next time I won't just stand there," she replied. "And after that, I'll send flowers."

  Jess laughed. "You know, Glain, there was a time when I didn't like you. I was very stupid."

  Glain gave him that half-wild grin. "Shut up. You still are."

  The guards were a lot more careful, and they chose Morgan next; while they focused on her, Jess leaned against the bars with his arms folded to wait his turn. That conveniently put his right hand close enough to extract the precious metal hairpin from his sleeve and tease a long loose strand from the fraying cloth. The resulting thread wasn't as long as he would have preferred, but he was low on options. He tied the string one-handed onto the pin, made a running loop on the other end, and raised his hand to cover a cough as the guards finished with Morgan and locked her door. He pushed the loop over a back tooth and swallowed, and for a perilous second he was afraid the pin would catch in his throat before it slid through to dangle at the end of the string, halfway down his gullet.

  It wasn't comfortable.

  "Now you," the guard said, and unlocked the door to their cell. "Big one. No resistance or I swear, we'll put you down for good." He pulled a gun this time and leveled it on Thomas as the big young man stepped out. "Face the wall. Hands up and flat on the stone. No sudden moves."

  Thomas seemed perfectly content to be searched, which was a relief to everyone; since his rescue from the Library's secret prison, his reactions had an unpredictable quality that put Jess on edge at moments like this. But he stayed docile, was
pronounced clear, and was sent back into the cell without trouble.

  Jess's turn went fast, but not fast enough; he'd never been as good at this magic trick as his brother Brendan, and sweat broke out on his brow as he fought the urge to gag the string and hairpin up again. He could maddeningly, constantly feel the foreign object in his throat, bouncing against tender parts, and even the fastest sweep of the guard's hands felt like eternity. It was important not to panic. He'd seen smugglers choke on swallowed keys.

  "All right," the guard said, and shoved him back into the cell. "Next. You. Spaniard."

  Jess sat and slowed his breathing and pulse as best he could while the search went on. His stomach roiled and rebelled, but he somehow kept it from destroying him. Dario's search began and ended. The third guard had come around by then, muttering drunkenly about revenge, and was sent on his way to see a Medica.

  Even Wolfe and Santi submitted without trouble, as if they knew how important it was to get the guards out quickly.

  The outer door finally shut behind the departing guards with a metallic clang, and Jess closed his eyes as he listened for the sound of keys. He heard them. So, he had individual cell locks to contend with and an outer door to get through as well. And one small hairpin to his name.

  "They're gone," Thomas told him, and Jess opened his eyes. "You've turned the color of spoiled milk. Are you sick?"

  Jess held up a finger to signal him to wait and then reached into his mouth to take hold of the slippery piece of string. Relax, he told himself, and gave it a steady pull. He couldn't hold back the half-retching cough as the pin slid free of his throat, but the temporary nausea was a small price to pay for the triumph of holding that pin up for Thomas to inspect. "Old street magician's trick," Jess told him, and pulled the looped string off his tooth. "Swallow it down, vomit it up. Preferably without vomit."

  "That," Thomas said with real admiration, "is disgusting."

  "Agreed." Jess wiped the hairpin off and carefully bent it flat, then began to work the center until it snapped into two halves. "So many useful things you learn running with a bad set."