“But what?” she snapped, drawing her wrap close.
“I’m going to need those earrings.”
“You’re gonna need a new pair of oysters if you don’t let me go.”
“Cordelia,” he said again, lifting her wrist and holding it in front of his face, beseeching. “I need those earrings or I’m scratched.”
She paused, searching his face. Her eyes were only slightly darker than the citrines, but much deeper, crackling with intricate flaws.
“Does it got anything to do with me?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Anybody gonna end up in trouble?”
“No one you know.”
That satisfied her. She pulled free from Cyril’s loosened grip and unclasped the earrings, one and then the other. Cyril held his palm up to receive them. The gold was still warm from her skin.
* * *
On his way home, Cyril stopped into the telegraph office to send a message to Müller. A call would have given the deputy commissioner a chance to ask questions. A telegram gave him only two options: come, or stay away. And Cyril left the message deliberately cryptic, with an enticing tone of urgency.
In his flat, he ran a bath, sank into the tub, and propped his feet up on the taps. Despite the ramifications of his actions—chief among which was smoothing the Ospies’ path to dominance in Amberlough—he felt a cruel frisson of success at the noose he had prepared for Müller. It was tight, and clean, and excellent work. He’d saved himself. And what’s more, he’d done it elegantly.
Would do it. Don’t get ahead of yourself, DePaul.
It felt good to know he still had it—that sharp, fast thinking, unrestrained by scruples or emotion. The hard flint Central searched for in its agents. Tatié hadn’t broken him, and neither had the unionists. He was still good at what he did, even if he wasn’t doing it for the right people.
No, he reminded himself. He was doing it for the only people who mattered now. For himself, and for Aristide.
Then, there was the matter of Cordelia turning up with Minna Keeler’s stolen earrings. She had probably told the truth, about receiving the earrings as a gift. She couldn’t afford them, even secondhand. But from whom? I knew she looked familiar. He turned that over, examining it. Sofie’s picture had been all over the papers. She must have given Cordelia the jewels; he was sure of it. As payment? For what? Whatever the bargain, someone had introduced them. And Cyril knew exactly who. Ari had been moving refugees for months.
Sinking below the surface of the water, Cyril held his breath until his heart slowed. He’d deal with Aristide later. For now, he wasn’t going to let anything dampen his victory over Müller.
Freshly scrubbed and buttoned into well-brushed evening wear, Cyril hopped a streetcar and held the rail for a few blocks. The tails of his evening coat whipped behind him. At Orchard Street he let go and dropped easily back to the pavement, quickstepping until he shook the momentum of the trolley.
Müller was waiting for him in the Kelly Club, tucked into a corner booth with his back to the wall. “What do you want?” His face was sour, the glass of port in front of him untouched.
“Cold veal and pickle,” said Cyril decisively. “You? It’s order from the bar here, right?”
“Don’t get cheeky, DePaul. This day’s been a beast and I’m in no mood.”
Cyril put his fingertips to his chin. “Really? Ragtaggers giving you more trouble than you care for? Or is it something closer to home?”
Müller sighed, his nostrils flaring. “Taphir Emerson was released yesterday afternoon, by some damn constable who wouldn’t know from. ‘A mix-up with the paperwork,’ they tell me. And now he’s disappeared like an elver into jelly.”
Cyril scented Aristide’s perfumed hand in this. However angry he might be about Ari facilitating Cordelia’s latest foray into lawlessness, Cyril still thanked Ari for sticking this sharp pin in Müller’s ass—the last of many. The one that, along with some elegant blackmail, might change his mind about the Ospies.
“Too bad,” said Cyril. “And you have no idea where to look?”
“Oh, I have ideas,” said Müller. “But getting the force to follow them is like dragging a ram at the end of a rope. It’s not going to happen. And don’t say you can offer me a better position. I told you, I won’t—what are those?”
Cyril had taken the earrings from his pocket and was dangling them over the candle at the center of the table. Their facets winked and flared in the wavering light.
“Pendeloque-cut citrines, set in yellow gold with diamonds—that’s the description in the insurance claim made by Minna Keeler, following a recent robbery. A robbery accomplished during the kidnapping of her eldest daughter.”
“Mother’s tits,” hissed Müller, reaching for the jewels. “Where did you get them?”
Cyril drew the citrines away from Müller’s outstretched hand. “That hardly matters.”
“It matters a great deal, to a police officer.”
“What ought to matter more,” said Cyril, settling back into the cracked leather cushion of the booth, “is where they’re headed next.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hear Taormino’s latest lover is a bit of a dandy.” In the low light, the gemstones shivered like falling drops of honey. “And she’s got the means to decorate him. How do you think it would come out if he was found in possession of Keeler heirlooms?”
Müller’s eyes narrowed, the crow’s-feet at his temples deepening. “Not well for Taormino. The case is too high-profile. There’d be an inquiry; she might be forced to resign.”
“Handy for you.”
Müller sucked his teeth, but said nothing.
“Less handy,” said Cyril, “if the person caught in possession was your wife.”
Müller froze. “You wouldn’t. You need me.”
“Not if I have Harlee and Karst.” Half a lie. If he got Müller arrested, the situation would still be precarious. Two out of four assistant commissioners might not get him what he needed. But precarious was better than nothing at all.
Müller’s fists clenched. “And what about Taormino?”
“What about her? With you in the trap, and two of the assistant commissioners … Most of the department chiefs are already mine. How long do you think Taormino will last, even with Eronov and Tembu backing her?”
Spreading a wide, blunt hand across his face, Müller slumped and said, “You can promise me a clean force?”
“I can’t personally vouch for the morals of every officer,” said Cyril, “but the Ospies won’t take kindly to misconduct. Their system is straight and the change of power should purge most of your troublemakers.” It might be true.
“Doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“You didn’t get into police work for pleasantries.”
Müller’s laugh was a single, dry exhalation. “No,” he said. “No, I did not.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
At the breakfast table, Aristide didn’t even get his coffee to his lips. He caught sight of the Clarion’s headline and froze with his cup hovering just above its saucer.
Police commissioner pockets stolen goods. Investigation reveals collusion with impeached primary.
Putting his coffee down with a snap of china, he flicked the paper open. The headlining article ran the length of the front page. He was so intent on his thoughts that when Finn dropped a cool, damp kiss on the back of his bent neck, he started violently.
“Sorry.” Finn laughed and ran a hand through Aristide’s curls. Aristide tipped his head back and let Finn kiss him properly. Water spiked the younger man’s freshly barbered hair. He had a towel wrapped around his hips, and that was all.
Utterly delicious, and Aristide had no patience for him. He turned back to the paper while Finn settled into the seat across from him.
Hebrides was scratched. Amberlough had always been very polite about looking the other way, but no one could ignore embezzlement and g
raft so blatant, not when hard evidence was presented in the trial of the decade. Because there would be a trial. And that was leaving out possession of controlled substances and soliciting unlicensed prostitutes. The hounds had been thorough; someone must have been egging them on, coaching them, encouraging them. Someone with a stake in Hebrides’s downfall. The Ospies, of course, but who among them could manipulate the ACPD so deftly? This was someone who understood the intricate web of mutually assured destruction between lawmakers, lawbreakers, and Amberlough’s police.
“Wind blows cold, your face’ll freeze that way.” Finn applied butter to a scone with brisk strokes of his knife. “No good for a man who trades on his looks. What’s in the paper that’s got you so pestered?”
“The same thing that’ll be p-p-pestering you at office today, I imagine.” Aristide folded the paper back on itself and handed it across the table. He watched Finn’s bright eyes flick back and forth across the words.
“Holy stones of the Lady’s cairn.” He set down his buttered scone and dusted his fingers clean on the edge of the tablecloth.
Aristide pushed back his chair. “Ilse’s brushed your suit,” he said. “Can you show yourself out?” When Finn looked up, trying to hide his wounded expression and failing, Aristide added, “No rush.”
It didn’t take the hurt out of Finn’s face. Exasperated, Aristide bent over the table and pressed his lips to Finn’s forehead. “Terribly sorry, but we’re both going to be b-b-busy for a while. And anyway, if I spend all my time with you, I’ll wear off your shine. So scurry along, my dove, and g-g-get to work.”
* * *
When Ilse came in to take the breakfast tray and told him, “There’s a young woman calling, sir,” her expression communicated quizzical disgust.
Aristide wondered who on earth it could be. “Show her in.”
Within minutes, a dirty-cheeked girl of maybe twelve was sitting on Aristide’s brocade chaise. She held one of the leftover breakfast scones and was gnawing it to bits. Crumbs showered down into the canvas sack of newspapers at her feet.
In his own cupped palm, Aristide held a matchbook from a grisly dive just north of Eel Town. He flipped it open and saw one match missing, and one torn in half. At the corner of the cardboard flap was the message TIED UP till then, written in smudged pencil and block letters to disguise the hand.
He took a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Cyril’s messenger. “Thank you. Go see Ilse in the kitchen.”
There was lots to do before half one: people to see and plans to make, all over the city. The weather was fine enough for springtime plaid—a heather ground crosshatched with pale green and blue. As a final flourish, on his way out the door, Aristide stuck a cheap gold rosette in his hatband. It had come last week in one of the endless bouquets punters sent backstage, and he’d been trying to figure out what to do with it since. He wasn’t worried about looking too gaudy in the rough neighborhoods where he was headed—in Amberlough, people knew who he was. And if that failed … the cut of his suit might telegraph money, but the tailor who’d constructed it had done so with respect for hidden holsters.
Reflected sunlight bounced off the Heyn. When Aristide ducked into the Little Camphor Bar, he had to blink spangles from his eyes.
Cross was in the private dining room upstairs. She nodded Aristide into the seat opposite hers and started talking, without preamble.
“I’m not staying in the Foxhole,” she said. “Not now. Things are going sour like milk.”
“I didn’t imagine you would,” he said.
“Question is, do you have a full-time spot for me? I can probably get myself back to Liso, if you need somebody there. But to be honest…”
“You’ve been there two years and you’d like to stay at home a while longer, yes. Even with things as they are?”
“Amberlough is where I hang my hat,” she said. “I’d like to stick by her while she wades through this mess.”
“Then this may be a tricky sell.” He’d been turning it over for a while, this idea. Even before Cyril scratched the regionalists. The Ospie threat had been looming for some time, and Aristide always liked to be prepared.
“You want me abroad?” Tired lines pinched the corners of her mouth. “I thought you would.”
“Actually,” he said, and saw the furrows melt from her face. She’d have them back, and worse, in a moment. “I need someone here. Someone to keep an eye on the Ospies. Preferably from within.”
To his surprise, she laughed. “A double agent,” she said. “Aren’t you lucky you know one already?” She paused, sucked at her teeth. “I’d have to play like I was turning. I mean, I’d really have to turn. And they’d want to use me to spy on the Foxhole. That’s three handlers to please at once, Mack.”
“I understand if that’s somewhat … intimidating.”
“Nah.” She grinned. “Sounds like a thrill to me.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I been waitin’ for this one my whole life.”
Cross’s confidence was reassuring, even if she did sound mad. “I’m going to back off from you for a while,” he said. “Just so you don’t look suspicious. Will you let me know when you’re in place?”
She reached across the table and plucked the gaudy rosette from his hatband. “You just bet I will.”
* * *
His errands took him slowly but steadily south. If he had a tail, he hoped they would admire his efficiency instead of suspecting his final destination. He’d bought most of the foxes on his case and wasn’t worried what they thought, but until Cross wormed her way into the Ospie ranks, Acherby’s people were an unknown quantity.
He stopped in at I Fa’s flat during her morning receiving hours, less for pleasure than for business. She was heavily invested in a few of his ventures, and things wouldn’t go well for her if her finances came under scrutiny by Ospie agents. Then he headed down the wharves, rendezvousing with some of his ground-floor operators. Last, before answering Cyril’s summons, he went up Elver Street into the heart of the southwest quarter. In the attic of Peronides Fine Arts and Antiques, Aristide sat across from his three frightened clients and told them they could no longer stay in Amberlough.
“But Taphir’s safe,” protested Sofie, gripping her husband’s knee.
“Depends what you mean by ‘safe,’” said the boy, putting his hand over hers. “I will need to keep my head down for a bit.”
“But that’s not hard in this city.” Sofie looked at Aristide with huge, beseeching eyes. “Am I right, Mr. Makricosta?”
“A year ago,” he said, “you could have remained here, and done very well indeed. But not now. If you wish to stay together, and stay safe, you must get out of Gedda entirely.”
“But—” Sofie looked around the room, as if she might find something to counter Aristide’s pronouncement.
“Surely you’ve seen today’s papers,” said Aristide.
“Papers?” Mab spoke, finally, and her tone was acid. “We’ve been cooped up in this aerie for nigh on a week now. How are we supposed to get any news?”
He realized they truly didn’t know, and he didn’t relish telling them. Especially as he knew on whose golden head the blame could be squarely placed.
“Evidence has emerged that is more than enough to remove Josiah Hebrides from office. You can expect a swift decline of regionalist influence in Amberlough. I advise emigrating before doing so becomes impossible.”
Exhaustion replaced Sofie’s outrage. Her knuckles went white between Taphir’s. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“Do you have any friends or relatives abroad?”
“No one I would trust,” said Sofie. Mab shook her head. All eyes turned to Taphir’s pinched face.
“I have an aunt,” he said, “back in Porachis. We haven’t spoken in a few years, but she might be worth a try.”
Mab rubbed thumb and forefinger along her eyebrows. “‘Worth a try’ en’t exactly confidence-inspiring.”
&nb
sp; “Have you got a better idea?” he snapped. “I spent the last two days in a lockbox and I don’t like the idea of going back. At least we’ll be out of Gedda.”
A strangled sob escaped Sofie, who put her fist to her teeth.
Aristide smoothed his lapels. “I can arrange for passage to the Port of Berer, and move your money. Mr. Emerson, it might be better to leave any correspondence with your aunt until you make landfall in Porachis.”
Taphir nodded, his dark eyes wide and somber.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Aristide. Brushing attic dust from his trousers, he left Sofie crying between her two silent spouses.
* * *
When he gave his last cabbie directions, the woman looked him up and down and asked, “You sure?”
“As a keystone,” said Aristide, and climbed into the back of the hack. In reality, he was puzzled, and not a little apprehensive. What could Cyril possibly want? And why now, for queen’s sake, when half the rotten Foxhole was probably looking for him with their teeth bared and their blood up? He’d be arrested, if they could find him. Or maybe just shot.
The streets got dirtier, the buildings more ramshackle, as he traveled toward Eel Town.
“Here is fine,” said Aristide, when the cabbie crossed the intersection of Solemnity and Cane. She stopped at the curb. He paid twice the fare and thanked her. As she pulled away, he saw her eyes in the mirror, giving him one last doubting look.
The Stevedore was tucked down the back of an alley off of narrow, twisting Rifle Row. Broken glass choked the wet gutters. A steep set of stairs led down from the footpath to a basement door, marked with a tin sign painted in chipped lead white. The air inside reeked of spilled beer and stale smoke.
A few red-eyed patrons cased him when he walked through the door, but evidently found him less interesting than their pints. He checked his watch: one thirty-five. Cyril might be running late. Or he might be dead.
A low doorway at the back of the room led to a corridor that ended in a service stair to the left. At the right, it doglegged. Aristide made the turn and found himself in a second room, smaller and darker than the first, cluttered with tables. The chairs were up at most of them, crooked legs sticking into the air like the feet of dead animals. But in the rear corner, at a table lit by a chimneyed taper, Cyril sat with his back to one wall. A second chair stood empty against the other.
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