He silently checked his weapon and nodded readiness, and once the others signaled, the squad moved to the door. The centurion creaked it open, and a puff of sand blew out in a smothering wave. It’s not real, he told himself. Just a mock-up of a street, some actors thrown in for color and sound. It’s safe enough. But he’d never been in this particular standing-exercise set before. He didn’t know what it would be like, and it made him itch all over to have it as a final challenge.

“You have thirty minutes to complete the assignment,” the centurion said. “This is your only exit, so remember where it is. Heads on a swivel, and good luck.”

He seems a good enough sort, Jess thought. More than that, he seemed competent. He had another, more silent and nondescript comrade standing in the shadows. A skeleton crew, Jess thought, and wondered what resources they had in case something went wrong. Not many, he thought.

Another wrong piece to an unreadable puzzle.

He didn’t have time to try to put it together, because his squad was moving into danger.

“All right, it’s simple enough,” Glain told them as the door creaked shut behind them. “I want perfection. Watch yourselves. Assume nothing is safe. Understood?”

Jess always assumed the world was dangerous, however it appeared, because . . . well, it was. He knew that very well, had from the time he was old enough to be sent running across London with a contraband book strapped to his chest. Why would she bother to remind any of them? They weren’t careless. When the instructors had taken away points, it had been for small things—form, speed—never lack of awareness. She must be as nervous as he was.

If I were any more paranoid, I’d never function, he thought. The amusement tasted bitter and strange on his tongue, like metal, and he swallowed hard and followed Glain into the barren, twisting streets.

The exercise set wasn’t at all what he’d expected. These were not Alexandrian streets—which were wide, clean, and beautifully planned—but architecture that spoke more, to Jess, of England. Weathered, cramped buildings. Shadows and rubble. Shopwindows filmed with grime, and what he glimpsed behind them seemed chaotic and cheap. A rail-thin dog with ribs showing under fur stood like an automaton in the shade of a narrow alley, and Jess felt a pang of pity for the poor creature. Was it supposed to be here? If this hadn’t been a serious test, he’d have stopped to toss it a bit of food, but even as he thought of it, the dog flinched and silently turned to run into darkness.

He didn’t see any actors playing parts here. He didn’t see anyone at all.

Glain, on point, was methodically checking the stops and doorways, while Jess and the young woman on his right, Helva, watched the dark windows that overlooked the street. There was no need to assign the jobs; each of their squad understood their roles in this action. They proceeded smoothly and quietly down the street, and at the end of it, Jess saw a lone figure standing at the corner. The man wore a sand-colored Library Scholar’s robe that floated on the harsh wind, and beneath, practical clothing showed black. Shoulder-length hair blew in a tangled mix of black and gray, and even before they got close enough to make out features, Jess knew who was waiting for them.