“Risk of the trade,” Quest sighed. “But take my advice for your poor Scholar. Find someone who can guide him through that pain. He needs help. I’ve seen it kill stronger men.” He seemed earnest in that moment and not at all trying to make another fee. As if he was actually, genuinely worried.

“Thanks,” Jess said, and meant it. He hailed the little man a carriage. “Don’t make me find you again.”

Quest grinned suddenly. His teeth were surprisingly white. “If I didn’t want to be found, you’d never manage it. One street rat to another, you know that’s truth.”

Then he was gone.

Jess went back inside. “Is he all right?”

“Still here, Brightwell. Thanks for your concern,” Wolfe said. His voice sounded unnaturally low and hoarse as he cradled his head in both hands. “Did you find out what you needed?”

“Yes,” Jess said. “I think so.”

“Then get out.”

“I’m sorry you had to do this—”

“For the love of all the gods, get out!” Wolfe raised his head, and his eyes were wet and streaming with blinding tears of pain and fury. He grabbed for a book and hurled it at Jess with great force. It was only a Blank, but Jess understood just how out of control the man was to fling it.

“Jess,” Santi said. “Go. You have what you wanted. Now I have to help him live through the consequences.”

Jess swallowed hard, nodded, and rolled up the notes he’d made. He closed the door at his back and leaned against it for a long moment with his eyes shut. He tried to forget the awful, tortured sound of Wolfe’s keening.

On the way back to the barracks, he sent coded messages using people he trusted to alert Khalila and Dario to what he’d found out. It was only fair to tell everyone at once. Everyone but Glain, who’d probably deck him hard for what he’d done to Wolfe. Her, he could leave for last.

He was halfway to the barracks when he turned a corner and saw a person lurking ahead, wearing a coat too warm for the weather with the hood raised. His instincts pricked him hard as needles, and he slowed his steps. The shadowy figure melted into an alcove halfway down the block; there weren’t many people out in these dark hours, and the moon was half-hidden behind high, thin clouds. Perfect conditions, he realized, for an assassination, if the Archivist meant to launch one.

Jess moved with deliberate, casual confidence, and eased his knife free of the sheath at his belt as he walked on. He had to use his left hand to keep the knife from view of his would-be killer, who lurked on the right. He wondered whether he should whistle. Might seem too much.

He kept his speed calm and steady as he drew near the alcove, then past it, and when he felt movement behind him, he turned, grabbed hold of the person rushing at him, and jabbed the point of his dagger up under a soft chin.