Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(9)

Every one of his friends, every one, was inches from death, or prison.

How did I ever think this was going to work? Not that he’d had much richness in choices; he’d known that his father would betray them back in England, and this had been the last-ditch effort, once that happened, to keep some elements in play. Wolfe, for one; he hadn’t brought Scholar Wolfe here by chance. He’d been afraid that, of all of them, the Archivist would have ordered Wolfe killed instantly. He and Dario had agreed that delivering Wolfe gift wrapped was the only decent option of a set of very bad choices. Jess was acutely aware that it meant, at best, sentencing Wolfe back to a prison that had destroyed him before.

No, no good choices.

Delivering Morgan had been more strategic, because of all of them, Morgan had the most chance of turning the tide . . . but that meant sending her back to the last place she wanted to go: the Iron Tower.

Standing here, an inch from death, Jess didn’t feel especially sure that it was a plan at all.

But it was all they had.

Jess opened a Blank and summoned up a map of the city. He found where he was, near the diplomatic district, still within easy walking distance of the Serapeum, Alexandria University, and the closely guarded precincts of the Great Archives.

He was near where he’d last visited the Alexandrian Graymarket—Red Ibrahim’s criminal enterprise. But that shadow gathering never lingered anywhere; it was a constant game of cat and mouse with the High Garda, a dangerous one. He had no notion, and no way to find out, where the Graymarket might convene again, not without tapping into family lines of communication. And that he couldn’t do, with the Library monitoring his every move.

And Dario, damn him, hadn’t come through as agreed. Jess had been watching everywhere for a sign—especially as he’d passed the embassy—but Santiago, as always, had proved to be reliable only when it suited him.

That was unfair, but it felt exactly true in that moment.

Jess fell asleep, despite the urgent flood of worry he couldn’t seem to shut off. How long he slept, he had no idea, but suddenly he was sitting straight up, ready for a fight.

He’d have blamed it on a bad dream, but he knew it was more than that. Something was wrong. The sudden shock of adrenaline made him want to rush to his feet, but he knew better. Any move without information could be the wrong one.

A small handheld glow flickered on, and he saw a man of about thirty-five standing not ten feet from him, leaning against the small kitchen table. How he’d managed to enter a locked door and barred windows, Jess had no idea, but the most important thing was that the man was not holding a weapon and was putting a finger to his lips, then circling the same finger in the air around them and touching his ears.

There were some sort of monitors here. Listening. That was a warning.

Jess stopped and looked around for something with which—and on which—to write, but the only thing he saw was the Library-provided Codex on the table. He went back to studying the man, and now that he was getting control of his first impulse to fight, he thought the man looked a bit familiar. Only a bit, and he didn’t think he’d seen him before . . .

Then it hit him. He was looking at a Spaniard with some passing family resemblance to Dario Santiago. Taller, thinner, lacking the devilish goatee that Dario had decided to sport.

Jess thought hard for a few seconds, then slowly signed out with his fingers, Are you from Santiago?

The man seemed startled, then pleased, and he replied, just as slowly, Yes. Dario taught you to sign?

Dario’s sister had been born deaf. Most of his family, Dario had said, had learned to sign. And Jess had considered it a useful skill to pick up, in slow moments locked in a Philadelphia jail. It had kept him and Dario occupied, at least.

He did, Jess said. Why are you here?

Helping. The man spread his hands wide and shrugged. Dario asked. What can I do?

Dario, of all of them, was the one whom Jess had trusted the least . . . until recently. He was gaining a brand-new appreciation for the Spaniard’s ability to play this game of deceit.

But could he trust this man? In truth, he couldn’t even be sure Dario had sent him. And Jess’s own sign language was nowhere near fluent enough to conduct an in-depth interrogation . . . not that they had time for it. However this wraith had gotten into the house, he’d need to be out before the Library detected anything out of the ordinary.

You doubt me, the man signed, and gave him a grin that was so effortless it was hard not to return it. Jess felt the familiar mix of irritation and—reluctantly—liking. Smart of you. Dario said you would doubt. He said to tell you to trust me . . . Here, the man faltered, thinking through his signs, then spelling the word out carefully. Scrubber.

Ah. That old familiar insult that Dario had been leveling his way for more than a year. At least now it had a tinge of fondness to it. And only those who knew Dario would know that name.

Can you help me? Jess asked.

Escape?

No. Get messages out without detection.

The Spaniard nodded. Give me names.

The Spanish ambassador.

The man’s face relaxed, and he almost laughed, and then he gave Jess an elaborately ornate bow. Your servant. I am Alvaro Santiago.

You’re the ambassador?

That’s me. Alvaro shrugged, as if to say, Why not? This time, Jess had to stifle a laugh. Safe for me to come. Even if caught, not likely to be punished.