It was more of a walk, and though Jess worried their stuffed packs might attract attention, the growing chaos of the Welsh invasion worked to their advantage. Almost every person on the street carried something—a bag, a pack—and some even trundled carts. The wealthy, of course, steamed by in carriages loaded with all manner of valuables. He considered the merits of waylaying one of them and forcing the owners out at gunpoint, but that might set off a tinderbox of rioting. In the distance, looters broke windows and carried off abandoned goods. That was tragic, but would they fare better if left to burn? Probably not.
The only bad moment came when they rounded a corner four blocks from the warehouse and faced a troop of perhaps a hundred London Garda. The redcoats looked exhausted and filthy, and huddled in groups as they shared food and water. Fresh from the fight, it looked like there were plenty of wounded stretched in a row on the sidewalk, and Medica attending to them. Jess kept his gaze down as they moved around the soldiers, and hoped that nobody had thought to circulate their descriptions; together in a group, they were hard to miss.
Brendan, on the other hand, walked right up to an officer crouching against a brick wall, eating dried meat. “Brightwell,” the soldier said, and glanced at Jess. “I stand corrected. Brightwells. And I thought this day couldn’t get worse.”
“Captain Harte,” Brendan said. He reached in his pocket and slipped out a silver flask that assuredly didn’t hold water and passed it over. “How goes the war?”
“We’re trying to hold them at the bridges, but, to be honest, I don’t think we have a hope. Bloody citizens are running like scared rabbits, and the army got themselves cut off in another battle. I’m surprised to find you lot still here.” He uncapped the flask and took a long pull, sighed in satisfaction, and handed it back. “Look to your people. Get them out of here. I doubt we have more than an hour or two before this district’s overrun.”
“Anything about my father?”
“Aye. Your da was almost taken, but he got clean away. Not surprised, really; old Callum’s always been able to slither right out of a trap. I expect you’ll meet up with him again sometime.”
“All right. Luck to you.”
“You as well.”
Brendan led them a step or two on. Harte called after him. “Brendan. Library Garda’s looking for your friends. Offering rewards.”
“Are you tempted?”
Harte shrugged. “I know you’ll make it worth my while to forget.”
“That I will.” Brendan touched his forehead in a mock salute and led them on.
The warehouse was an entirely unassuming structure at the end of a blind alley, hard to see and harder to find. It was usually guarded with lurkers out on the main streets and deadly bruisers at the doors. Not today, though. Today the doors stood open, and Brendan led them straight on inside.
It was empty.
Jess had never seen his father’s warehouse empty before; there were always bolts and bundles of imported silk, pieces of fine furniture, boxes of expensive trinkets. His father had expensive tastes, but his real treasures had been concealed behind false walls and up high in the rafters—boxes and stacks of rare, original books. Beauties that ranged into antiquity, from the hands of the original authors or the most accurate copies. His father always sold quality, whether the items were legal or criminal.
There was nothing there now except a squad of hard men. Most were armed with knives and some with stolen guns liberated from either Garda or the army. Finding weapons wasn’t a challenge for someone well-known in the shadow markets.
“Come out, Da,” Brendan said. “I know you’re here. They would have already run to the hills if you weren’t.”
There was a laugh from the shadows, and then Callum Brightwell stepped out—grimy, thinner, with a cut on one cheek that had barely begun to heal. “My boys. Come here to me.”
Brendan walked over and received a bear hug. Jess didn’t move.
“I think I’ll stay where I am,” Jess said. “I can see you’re overcome with joy that I’m alive.”
“I am,” Callum said, though there was no real sign of it.
“How did you get away from the Garda?”
“Hard fighting, boy. They got my Codex and twelve of my men. But they lost me. And you, apparently. Clever lad.” His father had lost his smile. “Stop dithering. Your place is with us. I didn’t send you to the damned Library to become a rebel. There’s no profit in it.”
“There might be,” Jess said. “If you’ll listen to what we have to say.”
“Sure,” Callum said. “But first I have a job for you. Tell your High Garda friends to lower their weapons or I’ll have my men shoot and use the ones who survive it.”