Between the two women, a squat iron kettle balanced on a frame over a burner. When Aristide sat, across from Zelda, she poured for him. Tea pooled in the crystal glass, inky and thick with dark honey. He took it from her with a slight inclination of his head. The brass finger loop was warm, but not uncomfortably so.
“Delightful little p-p-place, as always.” He flicked his fingers over one shoulder, to indicate the noodle house. “I don’t think I’ve been since sometime around the new year. Love what they’ve d-d-done with the orchids.” Sipping his tea, he turned to Zelda’s companion. “My d-d-dear, how is the city treating you? Usually she’s divine, but she can be a bit of a b-b-beast if she’s feeling ornery.”
“Everything’s been wonderful, thank you.” Mab’s accent was thick as fur. She held her diminutive teacup with both broad hands. “Zelda’s been an excellent host.”
“Shown her all the sights, have you Zelly?”
The fence made a moue over her teacup. Her gaze held him like a jeweler’s tongs. “Only the pretty ones.”
From the corner of his eye, Aristide saw Mab bite back laughter.
A waiter came around the edge of the screen and bowed. “Good afternoon, sir. Madam, does the tea suit?”
Zelda swirled it in her cup. “Like a tailor.”
“Tell me,” said Aristide to the waiter, “have you still got those little sesame b-b-buns? The ones that are shaped like rabbits?”
“Of course, sir. And will you require anything more substantial?”
He waved the waiter’s attention to Zelda, who ordered for all of them. When he had gone, Aristide turned back to Mab, refreshing her tea.
“So,” said Aristide. “I told Zelda a little bit about my problem last night, but nobody gave me any t-t-tidbits about yours. What’s the nature of your sticky situation?”
“Interstate immigration,” she said.
“That’s not exactly d-d-difficult.”
“For me, nay. But for my husband, for my wife … things get complicated.”
“Hmmm. An old marriage. Interesting.” He brought out his cigarette case and offered it around. Zelda took one, but Mab turned him down, taking instead a pipe from her vest pocket. It was new, though smoke had already stained the ivory bowl, and beautifully made. Too new and too fine to be a family heirloom. A gift, then. He wondered from whom.
When she’d finished drawing and the scent of tobacco hovered in a cloud over the table, he asked her, “Where from?”
She cocked her head, balancing the bowl of her pipe in one hand.
“Where are you emigrating from?”
“Nuesklend,” she said.
“Ah. Unhappy with the results of the election?”
“Acherby isn’t kind to the faithful.”
The waiter returned, bearing a heavy tray. He set three bowls on the table, one in front of each of them. The noodles were broad and clear, tangled around small shrimp with pinprick eyes. A fried egg sat slightly off center of each portion, floating on the surface of the delicate broth. With each bowl came a selection of smaller salvers filled with cashews, saffron, and puffed barley. Lastly, the waiter set down a platter of small steamed buns shaped like fat rabbits.
When he’d gone again, Aristide took a moment to scatter crushed cashews over his noodles, then a pinch of saffron threads. The dainty, floral filaments made the broth shiver at their impact. He tossed in a handful of the puffed barley, which began to pop and snap as the liquid seeped into it.
“So,” he said, “your family wants to cross the border into Amberlough. Even with the c-c-current political climate, you should be perfectly able to acquire a residency permit.”
“Nae together,” she said.
Her evasion was piquing his interest. “Why? Unless … is it a legal marriage? Saying words in a temple is one thing, but have you signed the p-p-papers?”
She lifted her spoon, not looking at him.
“I see. So you can’t apply for a residency permit as a family. Why haven’t you formalized your vows?”
“Her mother doesnae approve.”
“Is she of age?”
“She is.”
“But her mother has some hold over her. Financial, I presume.”
Another nod, another sip of soup.
“How … substantial is this hold?”
“Without her income,” said Mab, “we’re penniless. Nae that it matters. Taphir and I love her, and she loves us, and we’ll starve if we have to. But you understand. Things are much harder…” She trailed off, one hand lying flat on the table. With the other, she held her pipe. Her grip was tight enough to stretch the chapped skin across her knuckles. It cracked into thin, red lines. “We’re just a couple of pipers, Mr. Makricosta. And she’s … well, she’s used to better than we can provide.”
“I must ask,” he said, “since it is beginning to seem important: Who exactly is your wife?”
She set her spoon down and stared at it. Sucked her teeth. Turned the spoon.
“Mab?”
“Sofie Keeler.”
Aristide, who’d done many things to elide his country upbringing, nevertheless let loose a low whistle. “Champagne tastes, indeed.”
Mab scowled. “I told you, it’s nothing to do with the money.”
“I’m sure that’s not what he meant, dear.” Zelda put her hand on Mab’s forearm.
“Not exactly, no.” Aristide lifted a spoonful of broth and sipped it. “But I begin to see where your difficulties lie. Minna Keeler supports the Ospies, correct? And must therefore t-t-toe the line.”
“If she knew about the marriage,” said Mab, through teeth clenched around her pipe stem, “Sofie’d be out the house without a three-cent piece. If she were lucky.”
“Indeed. So you hope to … what? Transfer her current capital in secret? I imagine she’s forfeiting any share in the family business, not to mention her inheritance. Then you’ll immigrate, marry legally behind Amberlough’s borders…” He wasn’t really asking her questions, now. Just planning aloud. “And consolidate your assets once the contract is signed.”
“Sounds likely,” said Mab. “Can you do it?”
“My d-d-dear,” he said, finally remembering to stutter. “You were introduced to me by one of the most notorious fences in Amberlough City. If anyone can move a great d-d-deal of money, very quietly, it’s one of Zelda’s friends.” He bit a tiny shrimp in two. It collapsed between his teeth with a satisfying crunch. “I’ll want a cut, of course. I d-d-don’t run a charity.”
“And I’m nae a fool.” She took a purse from inside her waistcoat and dropped it on the table. The contents clacked together. “There’s for good faith.”
Aristide was not shy, nor bound by propriety. He tugged at the drawstrings of the pouch and tipped it into his palm.
“Emeralds,” he said. Then, sharply, “Will these be missed?” The elaborate collar had the look of a family heirloom—the cut of the stones was not stylish, but they were of surpassing quality and exceptionally well set.
Mab grinned. “Nae if you work fast.”
* * *
Insistent ringing clawed Cyril from a deep sleep. In the semi-dark, he flung out a hand and rapped his knuckles on the sharp edge of the telephone base. Dragging the heavy apparatus from his bedside table, he lifted the receiver.
“DePaul,” he said. It was too early for niceties.
“Get in here,” said Culpepper.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t care. Now kick whoever’s in your bed out of it, and get your sorry ass to the office, immediately.”
He jammed the receiver into its switch hook and took a moment to lie back against his pillows. The weight of the telephone pressed into his chest. At last, he rolled over and out of bed, cringing in expectation of a cold floor. But spring was turning into summer, and his feet struck temperate wood.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t aired his warm-weather clothes. His navy suit was three days worn and crumpled at the joints. T
he charcoal had a lipstick stain at the lapel. Times like these, he almost wished he did have a valet.
He went with the navy, hoping the wrinkles would inspire a little empathy in Culpepper, and knowing he would only get scorn. Downstairs, his landlord had laid out the early cold spread of cured ham, bread, and preserves. He forewent food in favor of strong black coffee, and was out the door.
A scrap of a girl stood on the corner, cutting the twine on her first stack of papers.
“Copy of the Clarion,” said Cyril, handing her a crisply folded bill.
“Aw, sir, it’s not even half five yet. Ain’t you got any change?”
He thrust a hand into his pocket and scrounged up a handful of coins. “Here, have that instead.”
She pocketed it, and gave him a paper.
“I’ll have the rest back, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Scowling, she took his bill back out from her pouch and returned it. He admired her pluck—she was young for a quick change artist, and she’d picked a good hour to pull one over. People didn’t pay too much attention to their money this early in the morning.
Nor did cabbies venture forth to search for fares. Cyril tucked the paper under his arm and headed for the trolley stop at Mespaugh. Tucking himself into a corner of the shelter, he snapped the Clarion open across his knee.
The first time he read the headline, he did it with only passing interest. But a double-take turned his stomach acid.
Keeler heiress kidnapped. And the house burgled too. Jewelry and cash gone. The paper gave pictures of the suspects: an older Chuli woman and a thin young man with messy hair. Mab Cattayim and Taphir Emerson. He recognized them. The musicians from the pub: Sofie’s lovers.
He’d lay a heavy sum that this is what had got Culpepper on the ’phone to him. He wondered if she’d known before the papers went to press, or if it had caught her unawares. Must have been the latter. If it had been the former, he’d have been out of bed much earlier, or never got there in the first place.
* * *
Foyles was at his desk when Cyril came through the door. Did the man ever go home? Or did he sleep on a bed of racing forms, curled beneath his bank of telephones?
“Morning, Mr. DePaul. Skull’s waiting on you.”
“Thanks, Foyles. Sleep well?”
“Well as can be expected, sir: not at all.”
Though Foyles was in residence, the lift operator was not. Cyril shut himself in and cranked the lever to the fifth floor. The gate opened onto an empty hallway, lit by every third sconce. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he turned toward Culpepper’s office.
Memmediv, of course, was in. Cyril hadn’t seen him since being sent away to recover from his failure in Nuesklend. Not since suspicion slid into him like a straight pin slipping beneath a fingernail.
None of his Ospie contacts would confirm or deny—they might not even know. Cyril got the sense the mole inside Central reported straight to Van der Joost. And he couldn’t ask Memmediv to his face—he didn’t know how much Van der Joost had told him, or how loyal he was to the Ospies, or what he might give up to Culpepper.
Had espionage really seemed like a game to him, once? Now it felt like threads of piano wire tightening across his skin.
Memmediv, unaware of his internal struggle—or fully aware and secretly amused—nodded a silent greeting and depressed the button on his intercom.
“Mr. DePaul is here to see you.” His voice was deep and rough with the early hour, and his faint accent lingered over the rounder vowels. Stones, but why did he have to be fetching? It was just salt in the wound.
“Send him in, Vaz.” Even over the crackling intercom, Culpepper sounded tired.
Memmediv stood and held the door open for Cyril. Cyril’s greatcoat brushed Memmediv’s knees with a whisper of wool against wool. Cyril strained toward him as if physical proximity might give him a clue. No luck. The door fell shut behind him with a soft thud.
“It’s Sofie Keeler,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“Her mother’s one of Landseer’s correspondents, right? You met her, when you went west.”
“I did.”
“Does this have anything to do with us?”
“No,” said Cyril. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“As a keystone. The two kidnappers … they’re Sofie’s lovers. Her mother wasn’t in favor of their marriage. If you want my opinion, all three of them made a break for it together and burgled the old lady. Keeler’s implicated Cattayim and Emerson but not her daughter. Can you imagine the scandal, if the truth came out?”
“Bless her garters. I was thinking some rogue regionalist cell had pulled a stupid action. We’d look bad, if freelancers started kidnapping prominent citizens.”
“No.” Cyril dropped into the chair opposite Culpepper. Her desk was even messier than usual. “Sofie got herself into this trouble voluntarily. She’s a smart girl, though—she’ll probably manage to get herself out of it too.”
“Whether she does or not, I’m just glad it’s not our concern.”
“Was that all you wanted to see me about? You could have said on the telephone.”
Culpepper ran a hand over her scalp. Cyril heard the susurrus of millimeter hairs bending beneath her palm. “Safer to do it in person; I know my office isn’t wired. Anyway, I need to talk to you about contingencies.”
“Contingencies?”
“We might need the hounds to do a little dirty work,” she said. “Most of Josiah’s foibles are off the record, but have them go through and clean up their files; anything anybody ever said about him, I want it expunged. We can’t afford to have him pulled out of office.”
He gave her a limp-wristed salute and yawned, hugely.
Culpepper frowned. “I’m glad you take your job so seriously.”
Behind a lazy façade, his brain was working. He’d have the off-record offenses restored, and maybe add some too. Müller could help him, if he could nail the man down. The problem would be Taormino’s people—the ones who liked where they stood under her governance. Unless Cyril could offer them something better. He’d have to squeeze money from the Ospies, and some promises, if Van der Joost wanted the city by midsummer.
“I do take it seriously,” he said. “Much more than you know.”
* * *
Two sleepless days later, brought up short by an unexpectedly Taormino-loyal faction in the upper echelons of the ACPD, Cyril dragged himself from his flat hoping fresh air and a walk in the park would inspire miracles. In reality, he made it as far as the other side of the street, and got the opposite.
The quick change artist-cum-paper seller was waving her wares at the curb, a breeze slapping at the pages. And there, on the front page, was Taphir Emerson’s haunted mug shot.
Cyril snatched the paper out of the girl’s hand. She squalled and he threw a crumpled bill at her. He didn’t even ask for change. Leaning against the iron bars of the fence that bordered Loendler Park, he scanned the article. Taphir had been caught in customs at Bythesea Station, but Sofie and Mab came up only tangentially; they’d managed to slip through. He felt relief out of proportion to his involvement, followed by sharp anxiety. Sofie and Mab were wanted women, and they were in the city. He wondered if he should reach out—he could probably find them, if he wanted to. He knew enough people.
And half those people, he reminded himself, were now in league with the Ospies—he’d won them over. Finding Sofie and Mab would put the women in danger. Cyril was already a liability to Cordelia, and to Aristide, as much as they were to him. He couldn’t bring more people into this mud pit. All he could do was hope, quietly, while he tried to save his own skin, and Ari’s.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
While they were waiting to go on toward the end of the second act, Cordelia asked Aristide for a straight—she was out, and his would be better than hers anyhow. She’d never have dreamed of it, three weeks ago, and he wouldn’t have obliged. But now, he pulled on
e from who knew where in that costume, along with a book of matches.
When she’d lit up, he tucked the matches back into some hidden pocket of brocade and lace and said, “I need you to run an errand for me.”
She looked up from her seat on the prop table, flicking ash from the tip of her cigarette. “Yeah? The usual kind?” She’d been moving up, running better stuff for him, and doing courier jobs between his people. Sometimes she even got paid in cash now, outside the tar. She liked to think he’d keep her on, even if Cyril dropped her. Or, if she decided she’d had enough of Cyril.
“No.” His eyes were aimed out toward the stage, watching the scantily clad gimmick pianists play a raunchy, four-armed duet. “No, it’s rather different. Do you know Zelda Peronides?”
“Heard of her. She’s a fence, right? You want me to run some hooky?” That’d be a step up. And a pinch riskier, for sure. With tar, you could buy off most beat cops if they caught you in possession, but hot stuff was harder to blind a hound to.
“Nothing like that, don’t worry.” The pianists were finishing up their act. Aristide checked his makeup in the mirror tacked by the curtain rope. “I just need you to take her a t-t-tiny message. Her shop ought to be on your way.”
“You know my trolley stops?” She ground her cigarette butt into the scarred wood of the table.
“Are you t-t-terribly surprised?”
“If I take it there tonight, after the show, is she gonna be awake?”
“Of course.” His eyes moved, fleetingly, toward the audience visible beyond the curtain. “You don’t have anything p-p-planned for the evening?”
“What, you mean with Cyril?” She shrugged. “Haven’t heard from him the last couple days. Probably busy with his work.” She hadn’t told Ari what she knew about Cyril and the Ospies. It was always good to keep back things like that; you never knew when they’d come in handy. “Why? You heard something?”
Aristide shook his head. “No. But you’re probably right. Mr. DePaul is a very busy man.” The pianists bowed. Their instrument slid across the boards as if by magic, but from where she stood, Cordelia could see the crew behind the stage left curtain hauling on the ropes.
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