A city in its own right, surely.

Jess sat down on a bench and poured himself a cup of hot tea from the waiting pot; his hands were steady enough to hold it now, at least. As he drank, Glain came through. She arrived unconscious, and blood leaked in thick drips from the sodden cloth of her uniform’s trouser leg onto the couch. The Obscurist stood up, suddenly very tall and active, and went to her side. He pressed a silver symbol on his collar and said, “I need Medica here in the Translation Chamber. Now.” He picked Glain up—and she was not a light burden, Jess knew—and moved her to a clear spot on the floor, then clamped a strong hand over the wound in her leg to slow the loss of blood. “You’ll need to assist your other friends,” he told Jess. “I’m Gregory, by the way.”

“Jess Brightwell, sir,” Jess said. “Thank you.” This all seemed so strange. He’d expected to arrive in a dark, forbidding world filled with angry soldiers ready to take them down, or, at least, in a place no better than the torture chamber beneath the basilica. But there was a kindly man and tea, flowers, and a Medica team hurrying now into the garden to tend to Glain. Maybe they had no idea they were welcoming fugitives, sworn enemies of the Archivist. Maybe word hadn’t come here at all, and once it did, the bars would finally close in on them.

He drank all the tea quickly, just in case. It was the first liquid he’d had in what seemed like hours, and he was severely thirsty. His uniform hung heavy with sweat and bloody from cuts. The one on his palm had split open again, and he took out his field kit and wrapped it in a fresh bandage. He was tying it off as Khalila came through. She seemed as dazed as he still felt by their new surroundings, and he got up to help her to the bench and pour her a cup of tea.

“What is this?” she asked, as if she truly couldn’t comprehend it. Her head scarf had come askew, and strands of her glossy, dark hair showed around her face. She dragged it off and repinned it without the slightest self-consciousness, as if he were family. He appreciated that. “Where are we? Is this the Iron Tower? I thought—”

“You thought it would be grimmer,” said Gregory, the Obscurist, as he got to his feet and came to them. “Well, you wouldn’t be alone in that, I’m sure. But it is our home, and we make it as pleasant as we can. How many of you will there be?”

“If we all make it through? Four more.” Dario’s loss seemed greater now, their decision to leave without him even worse. He knew that was what Khalila was thinking, too. He could see it in the miserable hunch of her shoulders. “Dario will be all right, Khalila. He’s clever.”