Red Ibrahim was in the act of drinking his coffee, and though he hesitated an instant, he finished so smoothly Jess almost missed the reaction. Almost. Then he laughed, and it sounded completely natural. “Do you know how often this request is made, young Brightwell? The automata are the enemies of both smugglers and Burners in every city on earth! Do you not think that if such information was available, we would have obtained it and made an incredible fortune with it by now?”
“A unique treasure like that is more useful when employed strategically, for your own purposes.” Jess put an edge on his voice. “This is the most dangerous place in the world to smuggle a book, and yet you’ve made a career of it—an empire, of sorts. You’d make it a mission to have that information at your disposal.”
“No one can disable these creatures. It’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” Jess said. “They’re mechanical creatures. They’re made. Someone knows their secrets, and secrets are always for sale to those who look hard enough. And if I know anything about you, sir, it’s that you would look very hard.”
“At everyone,” Red Ibrahim agreed. He put down his coffee cup with precise control. “What does your father offer in exchange for this gift of all gifts? Presuming such a thing exists at all.”
Jess tried to keep his face as calm as Ibrahim’s, his pulse as slow. He didn’t blink. “I have a copy of The First Book of Urizen by William Blake.”
Ibrahim’s expression was just as still. “There are eight copies of such a book in the world,” he said. “I would need something a great deal more rare. It is, as you say, precious treasure indeed, this information.”
“There were eight copies,” Jess said. “Six of them were purchased by ink-lickers, who ate them in some sort of sick ritual four months back. As I’m sure you already know. That leaves two: the one in my father’s vaults . . . and the one I have stashed here in Alexandria. Which can be yours, if you have what I want.”
“Ah,” Ibrahim said softly. “Now we come to it, I believe. What you want. It is not your father who asks. He’d never let you trade away such an important, valuable volume. He’s gotten along well enough without such information, despite the best efforts of the London Garda. No, I think it is you who needs it so badly.”
Jess didn’t answer that. He felt sweat break out hotly on the back of his neck, but he hoped his face remained unreadable. After a moment, he said, “One of two copies left in the world. I’m offering it in a fair exchange. It’s a prince’s ransom.”
Ibrahim shared a look with his daughter. Anit said, “It is a good price, is it not?”
“It is,” Ibrahim agreed. “But that isn’t the point. The point is that young Brightwell here is trading against his family’s interests, for personal reasons. Tell me, does it have to do with the book you spent so much time and geneih tracking down, and bought only yesterday, perhaps? The one about the prisoners of the Archivist?”
This was dangerous. Very dangerous. Jess said nothing. Ibrahim sat back against the cushions and rested his chin on one hand. He wore a ruby ring on one finger, and it looked like a drop of fresh blood. “I want no involvement in Library affairs,” he continued. “Nor in the private crusade of a brash young man. This is not our trade.”
“I’m asking for information, and that is your trade,” Jess shot back. “Do we have a deal or not?”
Ibrahim continued to stare at him with those unsettling dark eyes for so long Jess felt words bubbling up and trying to escape—angry words. He swallowed them down and waited. Finally, the man stirred, rose to his feet, and looked at his daughter, who still sat quietly watching. “Anit. I leave it to you.”
“What?” Jess shot to his feet, but Red Ibrahim was already going, heading for the doorway that led to the interior of the house. For a hot moment, Jess thought about chasing after him, but he also knew a man like that didn’t survive by being careless. If he’d turned his back, there were plenty of knives ready to protect him.
“Sit,” Anit said, and there was an unexpected layer of steel to her voice. “Sit down, Jess.” Young and tender she might be, but she was something else, too. Hard in a way that he had never seen before—not unless he saw it in the mirror. She put her hand to a chain around her neck, one that held a ring dangling from it—a large carved ring, with an Egyptian hieroglyph of a bird.
He stared after her father as the man closed the door, but he sank onto the cushions again. “What’s he training you in tonight? How to refuse to help and still keep the Brightwells as allies?”
“He meant what he said. It is my decision. He has left it to me.” Jess moved his gaze to her, and found her nearly as unreadable as her father, but there was a little lift at the corners of her mouth. Amusement. “I imagine you’re thinking what a cruel fate it is, being left to the whims of a mere girl.”
“Something like that.”
She played idly with the ring on the chain. “We are survivors, Jess,” she said. “You and I. We come from the same dark places. If you think I don’t understand you . . . But tell me: why didn’t you go to your brother for this instead? Surely it would have been simpler and cheaper?”