The carrier lurched into motion, throwing him against the deep, padded seat. Circulating cool air only cut the heat but didn’t defeat it, and didn’t hide the smell embedded in this vehicle: sweat, blood, a whiff of old fear. The smell of battle. It took him back to Oxford, and he felt cold despite the heat.

“What did the gold band want?” Glain asked, and Jess realized that she was right: the lieutenant had been wearing a gold band, a career appointment. He hadn’t noticed until Glain brought it to mind.

“Nothing.” He couldn’t tell her, not here. She seemed to accept that and nodded.

“Well, you do know a good deal about nothing, so that makes sense.”

“Where do you think we’re going?” There had been enough carriers pulled up to move Santi’s entire company—and that, he thought, wasn’t normal. Usually squads were sent out, or, more rarely, centuries. Even heading to Oxford, Santi had taken only a half century as escort. Taking the whole company meant real trouble.

“The hot spots are in England,” the man across from Jess said. He was older, with a dust of gray in his dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The accent was familiar—English, Jess thought. Manchester, maybe. “The Welsh are still pushing up toward London.”

“We’re not going to England,” said a shorter man next to him. “We’re heading to Rome.”

Rome. Jess felt his heartbeat speed up and he couldn’t stop a look at Glain, who maintained her usual mask of cool indifference. “Why?” she asked. “Is Rome about to fall to the Welsh, too?” She made sure, in saying it, that her native Welsh accent was on full display.

There was a ripple of laughter. The Englishman across from Jess didn’t crack a smile, and there was a dark look in his eyes. Easy, Jess thought. These aren’t our friends. They’re trained killers.

“I heard the Artifex Magnus is inspecting the Serapeum there,” someone else offered. There were nods and more serious expressions; they all knew the Artifex was a prime target for the Burners, who were the principal enemy they had to fear these days.

The Artifex was also the red right hand of the Archivist. He might not be the second most powerful in the Library—that honor went to Wolfe’s mother, the Obscurist Magnus—but the Artifex ran a close third. If the Archivist ordered someone dead, it was the Artifex who arranged for the murder.

And they would be guarding him from threats. Ironic.

Jess shut his eyes for a moment, ignoring the chatter around him, and then reached in his bag and pulled out his Codex. He opened it to a specific page, the page where Morgan’s messages appeared, and took out a stylus. He wrote down, in flowing, tight letters, They’re sending us to Rome. Is it a trap? Please answer. I need you to answer. Please.

The words stayed for a moment and then faded away. The page was blank.