It was going to be a long damned walk back to the Serapeum, and he felt a wave of weakness looking at it.
Jess pointed toward the docks. That journey he could manage. He thought.
Glain frowned. “Why the docks? No one’s working today. No ships coming in.”
“That’s exactly why. Her men will be idle and drinking, and that’ll be where they feel most comfortable. And most protected. So they’ll be easier to approach there.” Hopefully. Because Anit’s men were hers by inheritance . . . they’d been loyal to Red Ibrahim, but she’d killed her own father. He wasn’t sure of the allegiances just now. And if word had gotten around that Anit had killed Red Ibrahim to protect a pair of errant Brightwell boys . . . that would be dangerous.
Jess started for the path that led down the hill. Glain grabbed him by the arm. “No,” she said. “Transport is leaving right now. We’ll hitch a ride.”
“I can walk.”
“Save it.”
She was right: there was a High Garda troop transport rumbling through the gates, and it slowed for them as Glain flagged it down. He climbed in with a real, humbling sense of relief. The troops inside were all grim and quiet; he exchanged nods with many of them he recognized, but no one said anything. Glain signaled to the driver to drop them off at an intersection of roads that led variously to the docks, to the Lighthouse, and around the curve toward the heart of town; she didn’t help Jess down, and he was grateful for the trust. He wasn’t that bad off. Yet.
The Alexandrian docks—like most docks around the world—were not for the casual tourist. It was the one place in the city where Scholars rarely visited, and High Garda went only on business, so it was a natural haven for the less savory elements, particularly smugglers and thieves. The ships crowded together at anchor in the harbor were a vivid reminder of just how vast the reach of the Great Library really was . . . red-sailed trading ships from China, massive multideck vessels with dragon heads from the cold reaches of Scandinavia. Sleek Roman ships rubbed hulls with ships hailing from Turkey and Russia and Portugal, those of the island nations of the Caribbean with the continents of North and South America. As many seafaring, trading countries as existed did business here . . . or had. Now they were all trapped in the harbor, awaiting the outcome of the most dangerous game the Great Library had ever played. Bored. And frightened. It was a bad combination.
There was, of course, a heavy High Garda presence here to keep order, but by common practice they left the bars, taverns, and brothels alone.
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.”