Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(85)

With that, he was gone, and Jess moved fast to follow.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT




Getting out of the embassy without being noticed wasn’t going to be easy. He and Brendan both agreed that going out the front would walk them right into High Garda custody in short order; their only chance of getting out clean was to make their own way. Besides, it felt good to exercise all his athletic skills again. Brendan, for all his usual lack of enthusiasm for action, was strong and lithe; he found handholds up to the roof and gave Jess a lift, and together they lay flat on the warm clay tiles and watched the guard patrols until they found a gap. Not much of one, a narrow window that required skill and speed to take advantage of it, but then they were over the wall and into a no-man’s-land of empty space before another tall fence, one with outward-curving spikes, appeared twenty steps down the hill.

“Don’t like this,” Jess said. “The ambassador isn’t stupid. He’ll have some kind of defenses—”

They both heard the barking at the same time, exchanged a look, and raced for the outer fence. This one was smooth iron bars set close together, with only crossbars at the bottom and top, well above their heads.

A pack of sleek black dogs crested the hill, spotted them, and began baying furiously as they came on.

“On my shoulders!” Jess shouted, and grabbed the bars for support. Brendan vaulted up and stood, and Jess grabbed his brother’s ankles. “Lifting!” He put his hands under his brother’s heels and pushed, panting against the tearing strain in muscles unused to this particular move. It worked. His brother scrambled up to the top, slung a leg over the crossbar, and reached down.

Jess backed up and took a running leap, and Brendan’s hand slapped around his wrist. Jess braced himself against the fence and tried to take some of the strain as his brother pulled . . . and then his fingers curled around the cross brace and he was able to get up and over and make the leap down with Brendan to the other side, just as the dogs crashed to a furious, foaming halt against the barrier, leaping and barking and snarling.

Brendan kissed his fingers to the pack, rolled the strain from his shoulders, and said, “You know where to find our cousin?”

“He won’t be happy to see us—I can almost guarantee that.”

“Like I said: we can be charming. Come on, Jess. Sun’s almost down.”



* * *





Jess’s High Garda uniform made it easier for him to blend in, especially in the late-afternoon crowds near the docks; he stole his brother a hooded jacket, the better to cover up their unmistakable resemblance, and took him through the shadier parts of the port, to an old, tumbledown tavern with a creaking sign painted with the face of a Gorgon. The Medusa was one of the first places Jess had learned to visit; it was a favorite of sailors, traders, smugglers, and criminals, and he wasn’t surprised to find it open when most of the port’s more respectable establishments were starting to shutter their windows and doors.

The mood in the city was hushed and grim, and no one—except the proprietors of the Medusa—wanted to take chances this evening.

Jess pushed his way in, and immediately their arrival brought stilled conversations and appraising looks. He scanned the room and saw the broken-toothed old man—by all appearances, a drunk who’d nearly grown himself into the table at which he sat—and eased in across from him. His brother squeezed in beside him and pulled back his hood.

“We need to talk to our cousin,” Jess said, and the old man ignored them. His glass was empty. Jess looked at Brendan. “You’ve got geneih?”

Brendan dumped a handful of golden Library coins on the table, which brought a greasy young man in an apron immediately at the sound of ringing currency. “Gentlemen,” he said. “What have you?”

“What he’s having,” Jess said. “Four of them.” He pointed to the drunk. “He’ll have two.”

Like a magic trick, the cash was gone; it seemed the server had never come close to the coins, but they vanished all the same. Jess leaned forward and tried to see if the man was even conscious. His eyes were open and he was breathing, but when Jess passed a hand in front of the wrinkled old face, he got no response.

“This is your plan?” Brendan sounded impatient. “I’m not here to drink myself senseless. Or even sensible.”

“Wait,” Jess said.

The drinks arrived, and two of them were set down firmly in front of the old man, with one apiece for Jess and Brendan. Neither of them touched the stuff. Jess arranged the glasses in front of the old man into a rough triangle and said, “A life might be worth more than a book, but a book is worth more than your life if they catch you with it. You’ve got three on you right now.”

The old man wasn’t drunk. His eyes suddenly, sharply focused on Jess’s face, and there was nothing vague about their gray depths now. “What do you want?”

“A friend,” Jess said. “I’m a Brightwell.”

“Obviously. I’m not drunk enough to see double,” the man said. “You’re the twins. You’d best get yourselves home to cold England if you know what’s good for you. You’ve got no family here.”

“Oh, come on, the best family wants to kill each other half the time,” Brendan said. “We want to see him. Now.”