Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(72)

Jess wished he could be as relaxed.

As the sun began to blush the eastern horizon, he headed back and had just stretched out on his bed when the knock rattled the door. The new High Garda Elite had a heavy hand.

“You’re up,” the woman said, and sounded a bit unhappy about it. “All right. The faster we go, the faster we’re finished.”

“And what is it we’re doing?” Jess didn’t expect an answer and, in fact, didn’t get one. Their commander was already striding away, and Jess had to hurry to catch up. There was a full team of soldiers in the street, and more in two different troop carriers lined up. The commander whistled and made a quick hand signal, and the soldiers waiting for her began to pile into the remaining carrier. This early, traffic was light on the street, though Jess saw a few nervous residents peeking through windows and around doors to see what was causing a stir. Seeing three trucks full of High Garda likely didn’t reassure them, but then again, they had good reason to be worried.

They all did, now.

The commander clung silently to a handhold as the carrier hissed and clanked down the Alexandrian streets with alarming speed. Still not talking. “Are we going after smugglers again?” Jess asked her. “I hope this time you brought a proper army.”

The captain didn’t seem even mildly amused. “Not smugglers.”

That seemed . . . odd. And strangely ominous. “Then what value are you expecting out of me, Captain?”

“Out of you? Not much. But the Artifex said you could identify what we were looking for.”

“Which is?”

She didn’t bother to answer him, and he supposed she didn’t need to; the Artifex had put this squarely on his head, no doubt at the orders of his fellow in corruption, the Archivist Magister.

Jess had no doubt whatsoever that today was going to be a very bad day, but he consoled himself that at least it would be far, far worse for whoever would be on the receiving end of this visit. Having fifty High Garda knocking on the door would ruin anyone’s breakfast.

He couldn’t see out, and so he didn’t recognize the street until he exited the carrier—last, since none of the soldiers seemed inclined to give way for him. But then he did, and it was only an instant before memory caught up to instinct, and he knew they were standing on the street where Red Ibrahim lived.

Red Ibrahim was an old, dangerous man, but even the most dangerous men could be brought down. He’d survived sixty years or so in a business where ten years was considered astonishing; he’d done so right under the very noses of the High Garda and the Archivist. It took a particularly hard and brilliant person to accomplish that.

So how had they found him now?

There was only one answer.

My father sold out his oldest friend and business ally. Just as he’d sell his own sons for a tidy profit if the opportunity presented itself.

Jess had no idea what Brendan would have done in this situation; he only knew that he owed Red Ibrahim and Anit, and he couldn’t be the cause of their murders.

And how exactly are you going to prevent it? That was definitely his brother’s caustic voice in his head. You can’t. This has gone beyond you. You just have to keep up with the avalanche now. The priority is to save your friends and save the Library. Saving smugglers isn’t part of it.

The commander turned to him and pointed at the house.

Not Red Ibrahim’s house. A modest stucco home sitting two doors down, guarded by an old fountain and a gate with weathered old boards that needed a fresh coat of paint. Jess had never noted the place before, never even glanced at it. It looked like the nondescript house of a well-off librarian or a low-level Scholar. I’m out of practice, Jess thought. He’d have spotted such a thoroughly unexceptional house in minutes, back in the day, before the Library had made him lax about such things.

Someone didn’t want to be noticed.

The soldiers obviously had their orders; they silently moved away, each intent on getting to his or her position. There was a breach team who swarmed over the wall and quietly opened the gate; one even took the precaution of oiling the hinges first. Jess followed the captain to the front door. Unassuming or not, it was a stout barrier, but the captain gave a silent hand signal. Her Greek fire expert took a flask and funnel and poured carefully measured drops of the liquid into the crack of the door to dissolve the lock, then stepped back with a brisk nod.

The first soldier opened the door quietly, and to no significant drama, though Jess had expected some kind of violence to erupt. One by one, the team he was with filed inside, and he was nearly the last to enter, though the soldiers stood aside to let him move up to the captain.

They were in a small, shabby room, with a worn carpet on the floor and two chairs, a single lamp, and a bookcase. Nothing of note, though Jess strode to the bookcase and looked through the titles. They were all in Library binding, of course, and he pulled one at random to leaf through it. Nothing suspicious. It all seemed in order, but then, the best smugglers made sure it did.

He let his eyes unfocus and regard the shelf as a whole. Nothing at all suspicious . . . and then, because he wasn’t overthinking it, his gaze sharpened on a single book. No different, no larger, no smaller, but there was something about it . . . ah. Discoloration on the top edge of the binding, as if this book was often retrieved . . . and yet, none evenly along the spine. It had been removed. Not read.