“Well, you are a fine one.” The voice was low and rough with smoke. “Their descriptions didn’t do you justice.”
He turned and found a woman of generous proportions on the stool beside him. She was girdled into a perfect hourglass, the brown expanse of her bosom marked with a single beauty spot.
“Hello,” he said. “Buy you a drink?” There was a slim chance she wasn’t the person he was waiting for, but after so many years, you got a feeling for it. Even rusty from his time out of the field, Cyril was close to certain.
“A gin fizz will do all right.”
Cyril put the order in.
“Listen,” she said, while the rattle of the cocktail shaker drowned her out. “Pollerdam’s not going to give you any trouble now. His money’s staying in his pocket. They wanted me to tell you.” The bartender deposited her cocktail on a folded napkin and moved on.
“Is he…?”
She shook her head and sipped her drink.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not exactly free all night.”
“Culpepper put the squeeze on him,” she said. “Got a couple big buyers in Amberlough threatening to cut their orders. He’s not going to give the Ospies anything. Got me?”
“I do indeed.” He toasted her, and drained his glass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to attend.”
* * *
Cyril didn’t have much luck at the fundraiser. Not until Van der Joost caught him in the foyer, near the doors. “Mr. Landseer. Off so soon? You’ll miss supper.”
Cyril forced a smile. “Headache coming on,” he said, tapping his forehead. “Thought I’d go out for a little air.”
Van der Joost linked arms with him, without asking. “Let’s you and I abandon ship. What do you say? Ms. Linsky’s spread of hors d’oeuvres wasn’t anything to fuss over, and I don’t imagine the meal will do much to redeem her.”
Trying not to let his sudden interest show, Cyril gave in to the gentle pressure on his arm and went with Van der Joost into the street.
The weather had grown markedly milder since Cyril’s arrival, but the night air still had a nip to it. He turned up the collar of his coat and resettled the white silk of his scarf against his neck. “Where are we headed?”
“I thought we’d have a nightcap in my local,” said Van der Joost. “Quiet place. Lots of tradesmen. Good for conversation.”
Conversation. He hoped it meant what it ought to. It was the right time—a week until the election, and Pollerdam had fallen through. So tonight, Van der Joost was going to put his cards face up and tell Cyril what he was here to find out.
They took a winding path through damp brick streets, under the leaning shadows of increasingly old and dingy buildings. The sign above the pub door showed a leering kobold. Van der Joost held the door for Cyril, letting him onto the landing of a narrow staircase. The back of Cyril’s neck prickled as they descended. Ridiculous—Van der Joost shouldn’t mean him harm—but it was an instinct, and Cyril gave it credence, sharpening his attention to the other man’s proximity.
The pub was dark, with a low ceiling, and smelled of water and dirt. Cyril felt as if he’d stepped five hundred years or more back in time, except for the white-and-gray pennants hanging over the bar, marked with the Ospies’ quartered circle within a circle.
“The corner table,” said Van der Joost. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Cyril went where he was bid and tucked himself into a chair against the sweating stones of the wall, his back covered and his eyes on the room. Van der Joost returned with two tiny glasses of Nuesklend’s ubiquitous cherry bounce. The liquor was viscous and bright in the gloom.
Cyril toasted him and drained his glass. The sour-sweet tang of last spring’s cherries coated his tongue. It was powerfully alcoholic. He wished he hadn’t been drinking at the fundraiser—on top of champagne, the bounce wasn’t going to clear his head. But it would look odd to be the only man without a glass at a party, and at least Van der Joost had matched him in raising and downing the scarlet liquor.
When their glasses were empty, Van der Joost leaned across the table and said, without preamble, “We’re not polling well.”
Cyril affected tipsy camaraderie. “Oh, come on Konrad. You’ve still got a week. You’ll turn things around.”
“Are you offering your help?”
“Ah.” He looked down to avoid answering.
“It costs nothing to encourage, does it?” Van der Joost tipped his empty glass so the dregs pooled in the tiny hollow at the top of the stem. “But you want to be sure of a victory before you back the party.”
“Where’s the benefit in writing the unionists a check if you don’t win the majority?” Cyril could feel tension piling on between them, teetering dangerously, ready to fall. “With your party in power, I’d earn my contribution back within the first quarter. But that doesn’t look likely right now.”
“And what if I told you we don’t need your help to win this election?”
Cyril kept admirably calm, though he was a whisker away from victory. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “If that’s the case,” he said, pinning Van der Joost with a disapproving stare, “I’d be interested to know what we’re doing across this table.”
“We’re finally having a truthful conversation.” Van der Joost’s smile was lipless and self-satisfied. “It’s time to drop the charade, DePaul.”
Acid burned the back of Cyril’s throat. Deadpan, he said, “But I’m so fond of party games.” There was no point in denying his identity, if he was blown. “How long have you known?”
Van der Joost steepled his fingers. “Since before you got on the train.”
“You have a mole in the Foxhole.”
Van der Joost’s steepled fingers flexed, hyperextending. Around his short nails, the skin went white with pressure. He said nothing.
“I’m only a replacement,” said Cyril. “Were you going to turn the first agent they assigned?”
“We already had. But you’re a better catch—what’s that quaint little nickname your branch of the FOCIS gave you? Oh, yes: Master of the Hounds.”
It clicked for him, then. Why Van der Joost had let him run free like a pet mouse for more than a month, before jerking the string that held him. “My assignment caught you off guard,” he said. “Just like it did me. You’ve been busy with your research, trying to predict my reaction to whatever offer you’re about to make.”
“Very good,” said Van der Joost.
“And what was your conclusion?”
“I think,” he said, polishing his spectacles on his tie, “that you will do what I’m going to ask of you. But even if you don’t, the outcome is the same: the One State Party triumphs.”
“Then why even bother asking?”
“It would be good to keep Culpepper complacent,” said Van der Joost. “If you disappear, she’ll scent trouble and start scheming. If you arrive home safe, our plans come to fruition unchallenged. And”—he smiled, almost flirtatiously—“because despite the somewhat … unsavory things I’ve turned up in my research, I believe you might be useful to the party. It would be a shame to waste your potential.”
Cold fear filled the groove of his spine. “What?”
“It wasn’t supposed to come to threats.” Van der Joost sounded almost apologetic. “But you have no choice, DePaul. Not really. We have the police force here, and mercenary ships on the mill owners’ payrolls”—he spread one hand on the table to represent Nuesklend—“and the army in Tatié.” He put the other hand down, and drew them both together, matching thumbs and index fingers.
The spade-shaped hollow between Van der Joost’s palms showed Cyril his city, hemmed in. “And if I’m not keen on the idea of treason?”
There was a weighty pause. Then, instead of an ultimatum, Van der Joost said something unexpected and banal, but all the more chilling for that.
“You don’t want to be here, do you?”
“You mean Nuesklend in gene
ral, or sitting here, across from you?”
“I mean on this action. In the field. My sources say Culpepper pulled you out from behind a desk to do this job. But I’ve read your personnel file. I know about Tatié.”
Cyril curled his hand into a fist, breaking the crease at the front of his trousers.
“You were stationed within the army, reporting on their training and their capabilities. Amberlough likes to keep a close eye on her neighbors. Especially her well-armed ones. A navy and volunteer militias are no use against a landlocked military power.”
And Tatié was rabidly unionist. Though the ongoing border conflict with Tzieta occupied most of the army’s attention, things were changing under Moritz’s regime, probably at Acherby’s behest.
“Blown, tortured, nearly killed. And Culpepper hushed it up, to keep Amberlough out of a civil war. She used to be your case officer, didn’t she? That must have stung.”
“It was good policy,” said Cyril, through gritted teeth. “You said yourself: We couldn’t fight them. As it was, the reparations Amberlough paid were brutal.” It was illegal for a state to use FOCIS agents in domestic rivalries, especially given the military aspect of the action. Cyril’s presence implied mistrust. “It was more than I should have expected.”
“But not as much as you wanted.” Van der Joost sat back in his chair. “I have it on good authority you were reluctant to return to active service.”
“Purely speculation.” True, nonetheless.
“Do this for the party, and you have my word you’ll never be put in the field again.”
“And if I don’t do this, I’ll die in it?”
He didn’t get an answer, but Van der Joost’s silence had an affirmative heft.
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Cyril. “I’m not thrilled.”
Van der Joost’s chuckle felt jarring, though in retrospect Cyril’s gross understatement had struck an almost humorous note.
“You’ve read my file,” he continued. “You know who I am. Well, I’ve read up on Acherby and the blackboots too. I know your platform. I won’t condemn myself to a life of celibacy, or risky assignations in the shadows. If I die now, I’m dead, fine.” His hands felt like ice, but he made himself say it. He might be a coward, but he was also a hedonist. “If I help you, I destroy the city that lets me live my life, and I end up a pariah, or in prison.”
“Are you saying you’d rather die now?”
“Of course not,” said Cyril. He wanted it to come out smooth, but it just sounded desperate. “I want you to make treachery worth my while.”
“You’re not in a bargaining position.”
“Yes,” said Cyril. “I am. First off: You’re right. I’m the Master of the Hounds. I already have the police in my hands. Second, my death puts the foxes’ ears up. You don’t want that. So here’s my proposal: I’ll help you tear down the four-state system. I’ll tie the ACPD up with a bow and hand them over. But when it’s all said and done, you get me—and my assets—out of the country.”
Van der Joost’s expression shifted from blank shock to sly approval. “I think that could be arranged. We could procure you a residential visa, for Porachis, say. You have family there, don’t you? A sister, a nephew?”
There was a subtle threat in that. Cyril logged it, but said nothing. His sister was a diplomat, and smarter than him, besides. She would be safe even if he ended up scratched. Probably.
“There is a certain elegance in it.” Van der Joost’s smile was flat and slow, reptilian. “You help us consolidate our power, and we help you escape it.”
Cyril thought of the vise that would tighten around the citizens of Amberlough, the lives he would destroy. And suddenly he remembered Aristide calling the whole fiasco “just a little bit of politics.” He was overconfident; he would never expect this, never see it coming. “There’s one more thing.”
Van der Joost raised an eyebrow.
“A second visa. For a friend.” He knew he was testing the limits of his precarious position, but fortune’s wind never filled timid sails. He wasn’t hugely surprised when Van der Joost shook his head.
“That I cannot do. Not yet.”
The last phrase caught Cyril’s attention. “But maybe?”
“I suspect this is the sort of ‘friend’ you would be unwilling to sacrifice under Mr. Acherby’s governance. Therefore, I cannot promise anything. It would be risky for me to facilitate such an … elopement. But I might consider taking that risk if your work—and behavior—prove satisfactory.”
“My behavior?”
“You may do what you wish when you are in Porachis,” said Van der Joost. “But while you are in Gedda, working under the auspices of Caleb Acherby, you will adhere to the party line. I cannot help you if you make me look too lenient.”
PART
2
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Cordelia woke up late on the morning after the election with a roaring headache. Her hair was tangled in a glittering paste tiara; face paint stained her pillow regionalist gold and blue. Amberlinians couldn’t vote in the western elections, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t celebrate.
A naked Lisoan boy sprawled upside down in the bed, one foot propped on the headboard. His broad chest rose and fell with whistling snores. Cordelia stretched and rubbed the crusted makeup from her eyes, then reached for her alarm clock, which she had not set the night before.
“Oh, queen’s cunt.” She kicked free of the snarled sheets and hit the cold floor. “Get up, you!” She grabbed a handful of the boy’s woolly dreadlocks and shook his head. “I need to get to work.”
Still torched from whatever he’d been taking the night before, he only smiled and reached out for her. She sneered and shook free. “I gotta get to work. Ten minutes before I throw you out, clothes or none.”
He staggered into his trousers, gathered everything else, and made a hasty exit.
The taps downstairs ran icy cold, so Cordelia washed up fast. Shivering but clean, she sprinted back upstairs to throw on culottes and one of Malcolm’s old sweaters she still had lying around.
She had to make the next trolley if she didn’t want a hiding from him. He’d stayed surly with her, after the Tory scrap, and while they’d had a few good nights, on the whole he was thornier with her than anyone else at the club.
But she didn’t worry long about it. By the time she got on the trolley, she’d seen the papers.
Surprise Acherby victory sweeps Nuesklend. Acherby takes western seat.
It was all any of the passengers were talking about. She turned to the man next to her, who had a copy of the Clarion spread across his knees.
“What’s it say?” she asked. “It can’t be true, can it? Everybody said Riedlions was a shoo-in.”
“She shoulda been.” His impressive white mustaches rose and fell as he sighed. “There’s more than a few crying false. ‘Allegations of fraud,’ is what the paperfolk are saying.”
“And no wonder!” Cordelia didn’t hold back her reedy whine; no need to play fine and fancy at this end of Station Way. “Ain’t no Nuskie with half a bit of sense would cast a ballot for that dredged-up dog prick.”
“And we all know it, don’t we?” He folded up his paper. “This’ll get sorted out fast, see if it don’t.” As the trolley drew to a stop, he handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “I’m through with it. Got enough troubles hangin’ on my tie.”
* * *
At the theatre, most everybody was gathered in the house. Seated around the mosaic tables, the cast and crew smoked and talked and passed the afternoon papers between them.
“Delly!” Tory stood on his chair and waved for her to come over. She went, reluctantly. She’d tried to avoid him, the last month, just to keep out of the pot with Malcolm. But the tight cliques and couples of the theatre were unraveling right now. Hearsay flew between the tables about Acherby, and Nuesklend. The air was electric with nervous laughter and cocky assurances that Staetler would put
the old Ospies in the corner quick enough.
“How’s it turning?” she asked, sliding into a seat.
“How’s it look like?” Tory stubbed out the butt of a twist and let his hands rest on the table for a moment. Then, unable to stop fidgeting, he got out his tobacco and rolling papers and made up another one. “Plague and pesteration, but what must’ve happened last night in Nuesklend?”
“They counted their cards,” she said. “Paperfolk are all saying it. No matter if the fat fish were backing the Ospies, everybody knew Riedlions was going to win the seat.”
“You seem fair confident. Not worried about the Ospies taking over and shutting down all Amberlough’s tit shows?” He licked the edge of his rolling paper and twisted it into a neat tube, pinched at each end. “I s’pose you’ve always been a day-to-day type.”
She didn’t think he meant it as an insult. Not Tory. “It’s better than sitting on my ass, smoking all my shag.” She flicked the end of his freshly rolled cigarette. “It’s a heavyweight kinda battle. Nothing any of us welters can do about it.”
“No?”
“Not unless you’re packing a snubby and planning to cozy up to Acherby some night soon.”
“I can poke a hole in a man without a gun, Delly.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. The firepower of a good joke.” She rolled her eyes. “Killing him with comedy.”
“And why not?” He struck a match and lifted it to his face. The firelight shadowed the frown lines in his forehead. They ran deep, for such a funny man. “I’ve known a good, hard laugh to bring on apoplexy.”
Cordelia was going to tell him she’d known a couple other things to bring on apoplexy too, but Malcolm came barreling onto the stage with a fistful of wrinkled sheet music and the morning’s stubble darkening his jaw.
“Am I paying you all to sit around and bark at one another?” His voice carried across the space, turning heads. “I didn’t think so.”
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