“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.
No time to worry about it. Jess drew his sidearm and pointed it at the man’s head. “Pax,” he said, and fought off the urge to cough. “I’m not your enemy. I’m a cousin.” Cousin, in the smuggling trade, meant that affiliation with one of the great organizations. The Brightwells. The Helsinki coalition. Red Ibrahim. The Li Chang tong in China. Or the Tartikoffs in Russia. Cousins didn’t fight one another, not unless territories were involved.
“You’re wearing a High Garda uniform, cousin!” The man he’d kicked down groaned. He was a big, overfed specimen with the rich copper coloring of a native Alexandrian, and he moved his hand toward his belt. Jess stepped on the hand, drawing a sharp outcry. He put a little pressure into it.
“Easy,” he said. This time, he had to pause to cough, and he tasted more blood. Swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Let’s not make this personal.”
“You broke my ribs!”
“You tried to break my skull, cousin, so we’re even.” Jess looked toward the back door as it opened with a creak, and the captain finally stepped out. He was certainly not nearly as drunk as he seemed, because he took in the scene with a glance, glared at the man on the ground, and shook his head.
“Damned idiot,” the captain said. “Can you please not break his fingers? He’s useful.”
Jess removed his foot and holstered the gun. It seemed a good faith effort was needed, and thank Heron it was rewarded; the big man got slowly to his feet and backed off. The captain leaned against the bar’s stone wall and crossed his arms. He kept watching Jess, and there was something in the assessment that made Jess nervous.
“You don’t look well,” he captain observed. “Not sick, are you?”
“Sick of dealing with idiots,” Jess shot back. “I’m looking for the Red Lady.”
The captain’s bushy eyebrows arched up, then down. “Ah. The girl.”
“Might want to be careful about saying that too loudly. She won’t take it well.”
“She’s got other troubles,” he said. “When her father dropped and she threw her support behind librarians . . . well, it didn’t settle well with some who felt she was betraying our own. Chaos is a time ripe for profit. Your Red Lady doesn’t seem to understand that.”
“There’s very little she doesn’t understand,” Jess said. “You’d do well to remember that. Give her a year and your support and there won’t be a thief or smuggler on earth who’d cross her—or you, if you stand with her.”
“Not even your own father? I know who you are, boy. And how ambitious that man is.”
The last thing Jess wanted to discuss was Callum Brightwell. The glancing mention brought up a deep, heavy wave of pain, and suddenly his hands felt sticky with his brother’s blood. Again. He swallowed and said, “My father respected Red Ibrahim’s territory, and he’ll respect the daughter’s just as much. Or he’ll have me to deal with.”
“Hmmm,” the captain said, and rubbed a thumb across his gray-stubbled chin. “You’re sure you want to find Anit, then?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then let’s strike a deal. We have three ships ready to sail in the harbor that hold precious cargo. We need them on the way before this damned war breaks out. Arrange that and I’ll tell you.”
Jess unsnapped the Codex from his belt and wrote a message. He waited for a moment, watching until the handwritten answer appeared, and then he turned it toward the captain. “Neutral trading ships will be released within the next hour,” he said. “Including yours. No one wants them in the middle of any conflict.”
“That easy, is it?”
“Yes.” Jess had been lucky on that, but he’d been betting that Santi would want to clear the docks; having this many ships at anchor was a real risk of accident, fire, riot, a thousand other things. Best to get the strangers out of the way before trouble arrived. “Where is she?”
“All right. She’s at the Temple of Anubis,” he said. “Lie and tell her I was loyal, while you’re about it. Our ships had better sail soon. And if we lose our cargo . . .”
“You’ll find me and kill me in horrible ways, yes, I’m sure.” Jess sighed. “If you lied to me, you can count on the same.”
“I haven’t. You’ll find her. Keep your word today and I’ll consider supporting the girl against her rivals.”
Jess nodded. “Done. And thank you. The Brightwells owe you a favor.”
“I’ll claim it someday,” the captain said. “Titan Berwick, at your service.”
“Captain Berwick.” Jess bowed slightly. “Try not to kill any High Garda while you’re about your business. If you do, you lose that favor.”
“Now you’re just being damned unreasonable.”
Jess didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”
He turned and made his way down the hill. He had to stop halfway around the building, lean against the warm surface, and struggle to breathe. It wasn’t enough. He was weak and shaking, and his chest burned from the inside out. Felt like it was packed with burning cotton. He fumbled in his pocket, found the mask, and breathed through it for a few moments. It eased the pain, and when he rounded the corner he was steadier and stronger, at least for now.