Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(14)

Jess headed to the closest and seediest bar he could spot. It didn’t bother with a name, just an aged wooden sign swinging on a pair of hooks with a painting of a single mug with froth bubbling up. Efficient. Every language spoke it, even if every person didn’t partake. He remembered the place. He’d found Red Ibrahim’s representatives here more than once.

Glain stopped him a few steps from the door with a hand on his arm. “Remember, you’re not going in there a Brightwell. You’re in a High Garda uniform. It matters.” She meant both watch your back and don’t embarrass us, and Jess nodded to her.

“Stay here,” he told her. “I mean it. Bad enough I swan in there dressed this way. With you looking official and disapproving, it’s a useless effort.”

“Five minutes,” she said.

“In five minutes, I’ll either have what I want or they’ll be dumping my body and you’ll still accomplish nothing by barging in,” Jess said. “I’ll be back when I’m done. Trust me. I know these places.”

He did, but neither was he exactly sure of his reception right now. Still, nothing for it but to do the thing.

No one appeared to notice or care when he pushed his way into the room. It was—predictably—packed and sweltering with the heat of the bodies in it; the smell of the place was an earthy mix of sweat, fermented alcohol, and the sharp spark of heavily flavored meat cooking somewhere in the back. There were tables, but all of them were full to groaning with men and women packed on benches, and the clink of glass and metal was like heavy rain on a roof. The bar at the front was manned by no fewer than five staff, all of whom seemed overheated and overworked; Jess avoided the crush there and moved among the tables. No one met his gaze. He heard muttering from a huddle of African sailors; he didn’t speak their language but he imagined that they resented being held here in the harbor for trouble that they had no part in causing. No doubt most of these crews felt that.

“You’ve got a nerve.”

That direct comment came from a Greek—a captain, by the look of him—who drained the last of what was surely a long line of tankards. He had a long pale scar across his tanned face and a belly the size of a wine barrel. He put both hands on the table.

“Just one?” Jess responded. The Greek was obviously talking to him, so it seemed only polite. “I hope I have several.”

“This isn’t your place, boy.”

“Nor yours, unless you run the place. If you do, you shouldn’t drink up your profits.” Jess was talking just to be talking, because he was watching the man’s hands. He wasn’t certain what was happening here, but some instinct had stirred inside him, some memory he couldn’t pinpoint.

Then the man’s left hand moved. Three fingers curled down, and his right forefinger tapped the table twice. It seemed an odd gesture, and then Jess remembered. It was an old, old thing, this smuggler’s code, used by spies and ne’er-do-wells for centuries before his time; his father had taught it to him, and his men had occasionally used it in situations just like this, to convey messages when there were too many eyes and ears around for safety.

It meant beware.

“High Garda bastards aren’t welcome here,” the Greek said. “Nor any fools who’ll sacrifice our lives for their books.”

His fingers were still moving. This time they indicated a word Jess didn’t immediately understand. He finally parsed it down to rival. Rival what? Gang? Red Ibrahim had locked this city down in his day, but his day was gone. Rivals would have come up quickly, ready to seize their piece of Red Ibrahim’s crumbling empire. Anit would have trouble, no doubt about that.

Jess grabbed the drunken old man sitting across from the Greek and brought him to his feet, handed him an Alexandrian gold geneih, and sent him stumbling toward the bar. Jess slid into the chair, put his hands flat on the table, and said, “High Garda’s always welcome anywhere in our own city. You’re just a visitor. Know your place.”

Many were watching this, but Jess hoped that they were watching the obvious: a drunken captain insulting a High Garda soldier, who was taking it personally.

“You start a fight, you’d best be able to finish it,” the captain said. His fingers signed talk outside.

“Oh, I can finish it,” Jess said. “Outside. Not room enough in here to raise a glass, much less swing a proper punch.”

“True,” the Greek said. “But if I go out, I promise you this: only I walk back in. You, someone carries off to a Medica, or the Necropolis.”

“We’ll see,” Jess said. He stood up and headed for the back door, a dim gray shape in the far corner. He waited a few steps, then looked behind. The Greek was still sitting there. “You coming?”

“If you’re so eager to die.” The man slammed his tankard down and roared, “Someone buy me a drink while I thrash this Library slave!”

Cheers broke out, and he waddled and weaved his way toward the back door. Jess went ahead. He was alert for danger as he stepped outside, and good that he was; he caught a flash of movement and ducked, and that saved him as a club whistled over his head and smashed into the side of the damp stone wall. He shifted his stance and kicked out hard; his boot connected with a sagging midsection and sent his attacker reeling backward. Not enough to take the man down, but enough to give him an advantage. Jess felt pain as he sucked down a deep breath, but he had to ignore it. No time for it. He ran at the wall, used it for leverage to twist and land another kick, this one in the center of the man’s chest. It hit hard enough to crack bone, and the man went down gasping; his club spun out of his hand and went bumping unevenly down the hill. But Jess sagged against the wall behind. His lungs were burning, and he tasted blood. This was probably not what the Medica meant when he told me to rest. He tried to sound amusing to himself, but it wasn’t funny. He felt real terror that he’d just damaged himself. Again.