“Half a minute.” Cyril climbed unsteadily up on the lid of the toilet and reached above his head to lift the top off of the decorative tank. The case was oiled leather, and if he angled it just right—yes, like that—it would stay mostly out of the water. He replaced the lid and stepped down.
For appearance’s sake, he wiped clean with a towel and threw it into the tub, then splashed a little water on his face. A headache was creeping in beneath his dizziness. With luck, he’d get to sleep before he witnessed the squalling birth of his hangover.
Shuffling back into the bedroom, Cyril shivered. Goosebumps came out across his damp skin. Ari held the blankets back and Cyril fell in, pressing against the warmth of the body beside him.
* * *
Close to the spillway on South Seagate Road, a narrow alley dove off the street into a deep brick courtyard. The arches of old tenements sheltered crisscrossed laundry lines and a mossy fountain. Antinou’s took up the northern edge of the yard, tables and chairs crowded under the striped awning and scattered more thinly right up to the edge of the water.
This late, the place was still jammed full of students, actors, and whores. Tory stood on a chair, running through some new material. He’d been working on a routine for the election, and now he was doing his impression of Caleb Acherby, the Ospie candidate running for Nuesklend’s primary seat. He was so good at it, the crowd was hissing. Cordelia wondered how it would play with their punters, though. It wasn’t hard-scrabble types the Ospies pandered to.
Malcolm laughed at Tory’s jokes, jabbing with his cigarette and calling out suggestions. One of his hands rested on Cordelia’s neck, his thumb rubbing absent circles at the base of her skull. He was in his shirtsleeves, not bothered by the chill.
When their waiter brought the food out, Tory gave his audience of drunken night owls some peace and slipped back into his seat. Snatching one of the sticky pumpernickel buns, he took a bite and said, through a mouthful of nuts, “Delly, sit up and have a cup of something hot. You’ve had a big day.”
Huddled in the raised collar of Malcolm’s khaki overcoat, she glared at him. Was he trying to show his hand?
“Big?” Malcolm tangled his fingers in Cordelia’s hair and shook her head back and forth. “Last I saw you before rehearsal you were flat on your back and half asleep.”
“What I get up to ain’t your business. Now leave off.” She slapped his arm. “I’m perishin’ for some coffee.”
The stuff was gritty, thick as oil, and potent. Within a few minutes of her first cup, she was awake and sitting straight, holding a red-checked piece of waxed paper piled high with charred and dripping lamb. Still pinned about both of her companions, she hunched over the kebab and used her fingers to eat—no one with half their senses trusted the silverware at Antinou’s.
“Commissioner was at the show tonight,” said Malcolm, tearing chicken from a skewer. He stopped to chew and swallow before he continued. “Makricosta was supposed to talk to her. I asked Tito to tell him at the interval.”
“That boy’s too poor to take any orders that don’t come well-padded with cash.” Tory poured himself another cup of coffee.
“I rotten pay him,” said Malcolm. “He works for me.”
“But you don’t pay him much,” said Tory. “That piece our Ari was flirting with looked like a sheep past due for shearing, but I know a fine suit when I see one. Even two days worn. Tito’s passed out drunk somewhere with a whore on his prick. Taormino never had a chance.”
“Talk to the commissioner?” Cordelia set down her kebab and licked her fingers. Malcolm grabbed her hands and tried to finish the job for her, but she yanked away and wiped them on his coat instead. “About what? The ballast?” Ballast liquor was tax-free, smuggled in the bilges of ships coming into Amberlough’s harbor by river and sea. “Every place in town has a sailor or two brings ’em cheap hooch.”
“Not every place is the Bee,” said Malcolm. “We’re a rotten example now. And it’s pay off the hounds or hang in the snare.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Cordelia picked at her food.
“Makricosta knows the market,” said Malcolm. “And Taormino’s a fool for a pretty face.”
Cordelia pursed her lips. “And what am I? A sow? I’d’ve had her here.” She cupped her palm.
“And how were you going to convince Taormino to blind-eye our ballast? Stimulatin’ conversation?”
She sneered. “Oh, that’s flattering. I’m just two pears and a peach, is that it?” She grabbed her crotch.
“Aw, Delia, put away your fangs. Far as I’ve heard, Taormino don’t go in for tits anyhow. She likes her squeezes with a big prick and too much paint. Halfway won’t sway her.”
Cordelia knew her makeup was probably smudged beneath her eyes by now, her lipstick blurring at the edges. She shoved Malcolm, and not gently.
“Hoggies! Hoggies! Stand down.” Tory held his hands up as if he could push the two of them apart. “You’re just hungry and it’s making you snap. We were having a nice little supper before somebody started talking business.” He leveled a baleful glance at Malcolm. “Now. Let’s all be civil and finish our kebab. Agreed?”
They went back to eating, and it wasn’t long before Malcolm and Tory were lobbing friendly insults back and forth. Tory was a bowlegged ladychaser who came out so short on account of his ma taking too many men while she carried him. Malcolm was a lecherous old cur who couldn’t please a lover ’cause he’d spent too long pleasing creditors. Cordelia was cold, disgusted, and ready to go to bed.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Cyril peeled himself out of bed hideously early the next morning and briefly considered the merits of vomiting. Perhaps on Aristide. The other man stretched like a sensual fresco across more than his share of the mattress, lustrous tangles of hair fanned out against the linens. He looked peaceful, sated, and not at all like he’d been up in the night searching through Cyril’s things. Drunk, Cyril was a fitful sleeper, and he hadn’t missed Aristide’s nocturnal reconnaissance.
Swiping his billfold from the nightstand—Ilse must be back in, and already pressing his abandoned trousers—Cyril staggered to the washroom. He looked like a tragic melodrama: shadowed, bloodshot eyes, his neck and chest mottled with bruises … One particularly livid splotch colored his jaw. He desperately needed a shave.
What he got instead was a face full of cold water, and his briefcase. It was exactly as he had left it, untroubled by Aristide’s nosiness. The leather was beaded with moisture on one side, but the lock was dry. He held out hope for the contents.
Wrapped in one of Ari’s ridiculous robes—poisonous green velvet that did nothing for his complexion—Cyril hauled himself to the parlor and collapsed into the wingback chair by the bookcase. Ilse came when he rang, her cheeks still rosy from a cold commute.
“Get me a pot of coffee,” Cyril said. His stomach lurched. “And maybe a wastebasket.”
She nodded and disappeared, returning a few moments later with the basket. “Coffee in a minute or two, Mr. DePaul.”
She was true to her word. He was still contemplating the clean bottom of the wastebasket when he heard the faint whistle of a kettle somewhere in the flat. The smell of brewing coffee sent rich tendrils through the stillness of the parlor. Cyril released his grip on the basket and put it on the floor, within easy reach.
Ilse returned bearing a tray and a folding table, which she set up at Cyril’s right elbow. In addition to coffee, she’d brought him a tumbler of … something.
“Ilse,” he said, tipping the brownish orange concoction to catch the light from the table lamp. “What is this?”
“Mr. Makricosta’s proven hangover remedy,” she said. “An egg with tomato juice, a healthy dash of fish sauce, and three spoonfuls of hot chili paste. Oh, and a little bit of black pepper bounce. The liquor takes the edge off.”
He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly through his mouth against the briny, bitter smell of the potion. “Thank y
ou,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.
She snorted and made herself scarce.
Taken all at once, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, though he was briefly blinded by the spice. He poured a cup of coffee against his exhaustion and splitting headache. With the key from his billfold, he unlocked his briefcase.
It was stupid to read this here. But Ari wouldn’t be up for another hour or so—the sky outside the arching parlor windows remained deep purple in the west, the barest flush of gray light creeping over the gabled roofs and chimney pots across the river.
He flipped the cover of the file. Focusing on the words made his eyes ache, but he was a professional, for queen’s sake, and a hangover was not going to dull his edge.
As if to chastise him for his confidence, his stomach contracted unexpectedly. He lurched for the wastebasket, but nothing came up. Setting the basket aside, he picked up the file and straightened the ruffled papers.
According to a one-page biography of the fictitious Sebastian Landseer, Cyril’s new working identity was an obscenely wealthy landowner in the Hellican Islands who had contacted the owner of a Nuesklend textile mill some five years back with a proposition: He could source wool from farmers on the islands and facilitate shipping to the Nuesklend mills. Taxes on international shipping were only nominally higher than interstate, and the quality was better. Nobody bought wool from Farbourgh anymore. Landseer had hit the timing perfectly: His offer coincided with the worst year of ovine skin blight Farbourgere farmers had seen in a decade.
The typeset on Landseer’s outgoing letters matched Central’s standard-issue typewriters, copies of the originals. The replies were of varied appearance, from different people typing and writing on different paper, with different ink. Cyril paged through and took note of the names: Rotherhite, Keeler, Berhooven, Pollerdam … Mill owners, Landseer’s colleagues in the textile industry, all prominent Ospies. Because Landseer’s occupation and lifestyle kept him far from Gedda, and a stranger to his peers, it was possible now for Cyril to take over and leave these people none the wiser.
The letters revealed that Landseer’s interest in Geddan textiles had been piqued by the upcoming election. Mills and dealers would reap higher profits if domestic tariffs were abolished. Landseer’s one compunction with unionist ideology was sourcing from within Gedda’s borders. His friends and contacts made veiled allusions to a black market, promised his wool would still sell to Geddan mills. After all, fabric couldn’t be made without raw materials, and a change in regime wouldn’t cure Farbourgh’s sheep. Money made hypocrites of most people, in the end. It was how Aristide earned a living.
Landseer’s last letters, postmarked from Ibet in northern Tatié, where he was enjoying heaps of fresh powder on the slopes, showed he was still holding out, still hesitating. But he promised his correspondents he would be in town during campaign season, “just to keep an eye on you,” he said, to Berhooven. “Rumor has it you’re a rager when there’s free champagne.”
“Lady’s name,” said Aristide, “what a hideous hour to be awake.”
Cyril was too well-trained and too hungover to snap the file shut with any speed. Anyway, Ari’s voice came from somewhere behind him, probably the hallway. Cyril could picture him, half-wrapped in his dressing gown, leaning forward on his toes at the edge of the fringed runner.
Carefully, Cyril folded up his research and switched it out for a set of innocuous memos.
“Do you realize what t-t-time it is?” asked Aristide. Cyril heard, just barely, footsteps on the plush carpeting. Cool, bony hands slipped over his shoulders, settling on the planes of his chest.
“I can’t lie in when I’m hungover.” Cyril shuffled the memos into a tidy stack and set his briefcase aside, unsteady enough that he didn’t have to worry about looking casual.
“Poor, p-p-pitiful Cyril.” Aristide settled on the arm of the chair, his robe falling away from a lean thigh, waxed smooth. He picked up the yellow-filmed tumbler from Cyril’s coffee tray. “Did Ilse bring you an egg tonic?”
“If you mean that vile mix-up you call a remedy, she did.” Cyril set a hand on Ari’s leg, stroked it. His skin was golden-brown, smooth but delicate with the first faint signs of age—Cyril placed Ari in his early forties, but would never dream of asking. He let his head fall into the curve of Aristide’s ribs and stomach, still warm from bed, and listened to his heartbeat and the waking growls of his hungry stomach.
“Ilse was going to do herring rollmops,” said Ari, finger-combing Cyril’s pomade-sticky bed head, “but you look like you mightn’t want any.”
Cyril swallowed against a rush of bile. “How is it,” he demanded, “that you’re awake and in good health while you drank at least as much as I did—”
“P-P-Practice—” started Aristide, but Cyril ran over him.
“—and spent half the night going through my things? I heard you rummaging around. Did you find anything interesting?”
The sly good humor vanished from Aristide’s expression. “Cyril.”
Cyril sighed and straightened. “No. Never mind. Let’s not get into it.” But he’d crossed a line. Their conflict of interest was not something they discussed. Ari stood from the arm of the chair and straightened his dressing gown.
“I’ll go see about some breakfast, shall I.” It was not a question. He stalked off in search of Ilse, leaving Cyril scowling over a third cup of coffee, his stomach not entirely convinced of the wisdom of a decent meal.
* * *
His hangover had passed into new and undreamt-of agonies by the time he arrived at the Foxhole, briefcase clutched in one white-knuckled hand and an unread copy of the Clarion wedged into his armpit. He’d been too sick on the trolley to do much but sip the cold, wet air and pray.
Foyles, whose powers of observation matched those of Central’s brightest, smiled with one side of his mouth. “Feeling woozy, sir?” he asked. “You won’t like what’s happening upstairs. I ain’t supposed to know it, but the Gentleman’s in with Culpepper and they’re both waiting for you.”
If Culpepper was “the Skull,” to the Foxhole, “the Gentleman” was Josiah Hebrides, Amberlough’s primary representative to the upper assembly of Gedda’s parliament. Cyril’s stomach sank further into turmoil.
On the fifth floor, Memmediv gave Cyril a sour look over the tops of his reading spectacles.
“Morning, Memmediv.” Cyril had discovered on the ride over that he’d lost his cigarette case during last night’s activities. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a straight?”
The secretary made a small noise through his impressive nose. “Honestly.” But he pulled a black leather case from his pocket and flipped it open. His hooded glare followed Cyril, who took time picking. The row of crisp white tubes had a tendency to blur together, and the smell of tobacco made him dizzy with craving and sickness in equal measure.
Memmediv was saved from giving up his cigarettes by Culpepper, who chose that moment to stick her head out the door.
“DePaul,” she said, and nothing else. But it was enough that Cyril groaned and straightened up. “Vaz,” Culpepper went on, and she must have been distracted, because usually she was scrupulously professional with Memmediv. “Be a swan and fetch us some coffee?”
“Yes, Vasily,” said Cyril. “Do.”
Culpepper leveled a thin finger at Cyril. “You. In here.” The finger curled.
Gathering himself, Cyril sighed and followed her.
“Don’t embarrass me in front of Hebrides,” she said, close to his ear. “If you hurl on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up.”
“Ada.” He put his hand between her mouth and his ear. “After coffee. Please. “
She was about to snap at him—he could feel the sharp intake of her breath against his cheek—but she didn’t get the words out.
“DePaul!”
“Mr. Hebrides.” Cyril let his hand be drawn into a vigorous shake. Hebrides’s grip was dry and warm, his palm meaty. He was shorter than C
yril, but probably weighed half again as much: a solid man with flushed features and black, receding hair. Gray gleamed under the dye.
“How are you keeping?” He stopped pumping Cyril’s arm, but kept his hand and drew him close to slap his back. In mint condition, Cyril would’ve borne this jovial greeting with better spirits. But while his liver worked to exorcise half a bottle of the city’s best absinthe, all he could do was nod and try, wanly, to smile.
“A little worse for wear, eh?” Hebrides pulled out Culpepper’s plush leather chair. “Have a seat. Need a straight?”
Cyril settled into the soft, creaking cushions. “Gasping for one.”
“I’m glad a few of Ada’s foxes still know how to have fun.” Hebrides flipped open his cigarette case and slipped out two gold-banded straights. “She’s come down hard on her pups. When old Aurelio was in charge of the ’hole … well. There were more than a few of his agents who stumbled in late reeking of gin. Always got their jobs done, though.” Hebrides spoke with a thick urban drone, the hallmark of a city-born Amberlinian.
“DePaul’s methods have become … unorthodox in the last year.” Culpepper set her stack of files down and favored Cyril with a sneer. “But I’m confident he’ll clean up well.”
“And quickly too, I hope.” Hebrides lit his cigarette, then tossed the matchbook to Cyril. “Your ticket’s booked for next week.”
“Precipitous.”
“Efficient.” Culpepper drew up the guest chair and sat across from Cyril. “You’ve read the letters. Do you have any questions?”
“A few. Landseer’s wormed his way into this cohort very smoothly. But what for? I mean, it looks like they want his money, but why? To buy votes? What’s the point of sending me?”
“Not buying votes, no,” said Culpepper. “The Ospies need financial support. Their constituency is made up of people hurt by shipping tariffs; money’s tight by default.”
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