It felt, for the first time in a long time, like freedom, even with the weight of the copper bracelet of the Library still clasped around his wrist.
Alexandria at this hour was a relatively quiet place, except near the docks, where lights and noise and activity continued as ships loaded and unloaded and sailors found leisure. He avoided that; pubs here in Egypt were far different from the friendly, cozy places he’d grown up with at home. Add sailors to the mix, and they were almost always dangerous places, especially at this dark hour.
He knew the way to his brother’s rented home; he’d walked past it a few times, studying it. But it occurred to him that along the way, he needed to make a stop at the shadow markets.
Growing up in the book-market trade, he’d been dragged along to these sorts of places since he was old enough to understand what went on there and the risks. He remembered, at ten years old, carrying a satchel of rare books for his father as they followed warrenlike alleys into a particularly wretched little shop near Cricklewood. It had not, of course, sold books; it sold pens, journals, Codices—all the products of the Library. The old man who ran it had opened up a trapdoor to a tunnel that ran below the shop, and well beneath the city, they’d found London’s Graymarket, a moving, ever-changing feast of illegal books and those who craved them. There were always two or three clumps of nervous newcomers who’d found caches of books in dead relatives’ homes and looked to sell them off for a quick profit; those, his father always targeted first. He bought cheap, and relieved those otherwise upright citizens to scamper home with their guilty money.
Then he’d set up at a table all his own, and sell the real beauties to true collectors.
The Alexandrian market was nothing like that, of course; there were no tunnels here, or if there were, Jess had never found them, except for sewer drains. It meant that the Alexandrian smugglers had to be even cleverer and a good deal bolder.
He found Red Ibrahim’s daughter, Anit, minding a table. There was absolutely nothing on it, not even a hint of what was for sale; everyone knew it was a matter of requests and fees, not options. She looked up at him as he approached and gave him a calm look. “I have nothing else for you,” she said. “I heard about your adventures at Alexander’s tomb. Clever of you to escape.”
“Clever had help,” he said, and handed her a paper drawing of a sphinx, and the location of the switch he’d found. “In memory of your brothers, Anit. Thank you.”
She said nothing for a moment, just stared at the page hard, then folded it up and slipped it into a pocket of her skirt. “You’re not negotiating for this?”
“No.”
She pulled the chain from beneath the neck of her dress and held the embossed ring that hung on it like a talisman. “Then I’m in your debt.”
“If you mean that, there’s something you could do for me. I’m trying to locate someone who can tell me about the fate of a boy who was arrested at Ptolemy House about six months ago, taken to the Serapeum, and questioned. I want to find out where he was sent after that.”
Anit sat back in her chair. “This is not what we do, Jess Brightwell. We sell books. Not information.” Then she looked down, and said quietly, “But I will ask.”
He nodded and almost walked away . . . but then came back, leaned over the table, and said, “Be careful how you go. I don’t want to bring anything down on you.”
She actually laughed like a little girl. Genuinely amused. “My father is the most wanted man in all of Alexandria; I am quite used to being careful. But thank you for your concern.”
She was right, of course—not that it made him feel any better about having involved her.
Then he went about his real business of the night, to a deserted street on the outskirts of the University district. It held spacious homes built in a modern style, but with bows to Egyptian design and sensibility. Expensive, this area. Well-known for being the home of several prestigious Scholars. There was even a statue of the great inventor Heron on one corner, though, to Jess’s great relief, it was only made of stone and was not an automaton.
He still hesitated in the shadow of Heron’s statue as he studied the house in front of him. It was large and comfortable, with Egyptian fluted columns and red-and gold-painted decoration. A small fountain whispered in the courtyard, sending a little silver mist into the air. It was a private sort of place. He liked it.
Jess moved quietly up the shallow front steps and knocked.
His brother opened the door.
For a moment, they stood there staring at each other—still eerily similar mirror images, even now, though Brendan’s hair had grown long and messy around his face and he’d gained a few pounds. Egyptian life either did not agree with him or agreed with him too much. Hard to say which at the moment.
“You’re supposed to have left town months ago,” Jess said. “Idiot.”