His minders hauled him in front of Van der Joost’s desk. He’d had the same two goons on his case since yesterday morning—Moore and Massey were the names he’d wheedled out of them, though the comedic alliteration made him suspect pseudonyms. They were all right—he’d played a few hands of cards with them in his cell.
“Rough night?” he asked, casing Van der Joost’s dark circles and sagging face.
“Ah, Mr. DePaul.” Van der Joost closed the report he had been reading and set it aside. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
He was dying for some, but he shook his head. “I’m sure the stuff around here’s gone down in quality since your people took over. Let’s just talk, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Very well.” He selected a stack of papers from his inbound mailbox. “Our staff at the interrogation facility extracted some intriguing information from Miss Lehane.”
“Did they?” Under the table, Cyril balled his fists.
“She implied that at one time you were … intimate with her employer, and seemed to think this intimacy may have continued until recently.” He said the word like he was picking it up with tweezers.
Cyril wanted to reply with something facetious, but his mouth had gone dry. “She was mistaken.”
“We can discuss that later. For the purposes of this investigation, your precise activities with Mr. Makricosta are irrelevant. We’re more concerned about his access to sensitive government materials.”
“I don’t—”
Van der Joost rode over him. “Naturally, we would prefer to question Mr. Makricosta himself about his acquisition of the travel permits.”
“Naturally.”
“Unfortunately, he was killed in yesterday’s … disturbance.”
“Oh.” He should have drawn a breath, but forgot. His next words came out a little too forced, airless. “What a shame.”
“But we must press on with the investigation,” said Van der Joost. “Don’t you agree?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s begin with the obvious. Did you pass the papers to him?”
“No. It had to be Cross.”
“Preliminary investigations suggest they used a middle man.”
“Konrad, please. I didn’t even know this was going on. I haven’t—hadn’t seen him in weeks.”
“But you were assisting each other. Lehane says he put the two of you in contact; that he paid her to act as your companion. Surely you felt an obligation to reciprocate.”
“I’m a very self-interested man.”
“Are you? Lehane says you tried to turn her, to keep her safe. And what about that second set of papers, for your … friend?” He knew, and Cyril was undone. Van der Joost kept asking questions, but really, it was already over. Some of the questions, Cyril would have preferred not to answer, but he did. Aristide was dead. What harm could these indiscretions do him?
Under all of it, Cyril wondered if Aristide’s death wasn’t really an assassination. The riots would have been an excellent cover. And despite what Van der Joost had said about preferring to interrogate Aristide himself, maybe the Ospies had decided he was more trouble to them alive than dead. That they could get their information elsewhere. From Cyril, for instance.
When the questions were done—two hours later, nearly, and he was starving and thirsty and wished he’d said yes to the damn coffee—he walked stiff-backed out of Van der Joost’s office and went straight to the washroom, so fast Moore and Massey had to jog after him. Locking the door in their faces, he collapsed onto the toilet seat and folded over his knees, weeping noiselessly, drawing jagged breaths through his mouth.
For two minutes, he let himself go on in a silent, mourning howl. Then—though he could have stayed all afternoon with his cheek resting on the cool tile—he washed his face at the tap and combed his hair back into place. His eyes were rimmed with red, but they’d been like that for weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night.
No, that was a lie. It had been months ago, in early spring, wrapped in moiré silk while a rainstorm peppered the windows of Ari’s flat.
He clenched his jaw to keep grief at bay.
* * *
His minders stuck him in a locked, empty office while Van der Joost figured out what to do with him. Cyril didn’t hold out much hope—he’d probably end up in the Warehouse, with his knees broken, telling them the same thing he’d just told Veedge. Eventually, they’d kill him and dump him into the harbor.
The lock rattled and Cyril looked up wearily, already gathering himself for his inevitable, ignominious demise.
“Good morning, Mr. DePaul,” said Finn. “Do you have a few minutes?”
Cyril blinked, sure he was hallucinating. Lack of sleep combined with terror had caused stranger things than the magical appearance of an accountant, bearing coffee and buns. “Um. I suppose.”
“Good.” Finn looked back over his shoulder and said, to Moore and Massey outside the door, “I’ll just be a moment. You can go ahead and lock the door.”
He set the tray down on the bare desktop in front of Cyril, who threw away pride and tucked in. The coffee was bad, but the buns were filled with raspberry jam.
“How did you get in?” Cyril asked, when he was done eating. He cupped the mug in his hands, letting steam warm his face.
“Cross was passing most of her communiques through financial correspondence. I told them the Office of the Bursar wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“You’re sharp,” said Cyril. “Why are you really here?”
“You’ve heard about Ari, haven’t you?”
Cyril nodded, stiff-necked.
“I saw a picture of it this morning,” Finn went on, “in the Clarion. There’s a whole spread in the center roto—photographs of the riots. His building, burning up like a Midwinter bonfire. I called around—coroner said they’d identified his body.”
Looking across the oily black surface of his coffee, Cyril felt equally burnt and bitter. “So?”
“Well I went down there, didn’t I? Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I wouldn’t!” He pushed the breakfast tray away, suddenly nauseous. “He’s dead, Finn. What did you think you could do?”
“Look, who told you he’d died?” Finn leaned across the table. “Was it someone who knew him?”
“No.” In spite of himself, Cyril heard an edge of curiosity creep into his voice. “No, it wasn’t. Why?”
“You don’t honestly think he’d die in such a spectacularly stupid way, do you? Burnt to death in a riot, sleeping on his own sofa? No. He had to get out of Amberlough. And now, no one’s going to look for him.”
Halfway through Finn’s theory, a tinny whine started up in Cyril’s ears. It grew until he could hardly hear what Finn was saying. “Stop,” he said, part to the noise, and part to Finn. “Stop it right now.”
“He’s alive, Cyril. The body … there’s no gap in the teeth.”
Cyril took shallow breaths, trying not to imagine the blistered lips, pulled back from a white grimace. “One.” He held up a finger. “You’re insane. Two, if this is true—which it probably isn’t, see number one—you shouldn’t be telling anybody. Least of all me. Why are you telling me?”
“I thought … I thought you’d want to know. I’d kenned you two were sparking, or used to. It seemed the decent thing to do.”
“That’s not all. Nobody in this city does things just because they’re decent.”
“What an awful thing to say.”
“It’s true. So tell me why you’re really here.”
A flush crept past Finn’s collar, climbing to his face. “I—I need your help. To get away from Amberlough.”
Cyril put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this. You do realize I was just arrested, and will probably end up executed for treason? How can I possibly help you?”
“Ari said you might be able to, if I ever needed it.” He lowe
red his voice and leaned across the table. “I need to get out of the city. But I need false papers.”
“And how am I supposed to get you those?”
“You know people! Tell me who to talk to.” Finn’s eyes were wet and angry. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell me. About the fire.”
“People who fake their own death usually don’t tell anyone,” said Cyril. “It defeats the purpose of the exercise.”
“It’s just … I know he can’t have left me here. Not after—”
“After what?” Cyril knew his sneer was ugly; he could feel it pulling at the muscles of his face. Did Finn really think Aristide loved him enough to spirit him away from Amberlough?
But Finn shook his head. “Listen, I’m not trying to travel abroad or anything. Just up north. I think he’s in—”
“Mother and sons, don’t tell me!” Fear twisted Cyril’s guts into a knot. “Finn, if he’s really alive, the last thing I want to know is where he’s hiding.”
The accountant cringed, turning redder. “Sorry! I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Goodbye.”
Finn pushed back from the chair and knocked on the locked door. It swung open, but before he could leave, Moore sent him back in for the ceramic mug and plate.
“Don’t want him getting crafty on us,” said the goon, and laughed.
* * *
“We’re taking you home,” said Moore, when they finally came to fetch him. “Don’t think I like it, but with the scullers they brought in yesterday, there’s nowhere to put you. And they don’t want you dead yet.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Cyril stood and tugged his jacket straight. “Shall we?”
On the drive they passed street cleaners hosing stains and litter from the pavement. The gutters ran with charred garbage and who knew what else. Ground-floor windows gaped glassless onto the street, and divots marred the trampled lawn of the capitol. When they pulled up out front of his building, he looked across the street at Loendler Park. Ugly graffiti marked the Sergia Vailescu Arch, and footprints flattened the flowerbeds around it.
The paper seller leaned against the granite, her back to the slogans. She had a sack of copies of the Clarion hanging at her hip and more stacked by her feet. She squalled out the headlines—Riots sweep city, hundreds in jail, as if anyone needed to be told.
“Let me get a paper before we go up,” said Cyril.
Massey looked at Moore, and Moore looked at Massey. A shrug passed between them. They followed him across the street, breathing heavily on the back of his neck. The paper seller looked about ready to bolt, but Cyril put on his brightest smile and knelt next to her.
“I’ve got correct change this morning,” he said. When he reached for his pocket, he saw Moore and Massey do the same.
“Why don’t you pay for my paper,” he told them, over his shoulder. “If you’re that nervous.”
Massey narrowed his eyes, but Moore put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s right.”
Good to see all those late-night card games had worked their magic. At least they trusted him this far. He handed the girl his money and she reached for the bag of newspapers under her arm. Shuffling quickly through them, she selected one seemingly at random from the center. But the way her hand had lingered, the stroke of her fingers along the folded newsprint … She’d been counting.
The weight of the paper still surprised him. There was something hidden in it, stiffer than the cheap gray pulp. When he glanced up, the girl’s face was a closed door, unrelenting in its indifference.
“Stroll off,” she told him. “I got sheets to sell.”
* * *
Cyril had to wait at the threshold with Massey while Moore swept his flat for guns, knives, and other sundries, but eventually they let him in.
“At last,” he said. “I’m dying for the toilet. Excuse me?”
Massey followed him but thankfully stationed himself outside the door. Cyril took his newspaper in, giving his guard a sheepish shrug.
“Leave the door unlocked,” said Massey. Cyril rolled his eyes but followed orders. He flipped the lid of the toilet back for an authentic clack of porcelain, then lowered it more quietly and sat with the paper on his knees.
There was indeed an impressive center spread of riot photos. Bleeding faces, broken windows and there, in the upper left corner, a shot of Aristide’s block of flats ablaze.
Set against the glossy black and white of the rotogravure was a thin packet, tied with string. He untied and unfolded it, hoping the crackle of paper sounded like turning pages.
Inside was a manila folder, and in the folder were several documents. The first was a handwritten letter. He read it through but left it sitting where it was, as if touching it would be some kind of contract. He scanned past the final lines and dropped to the complimentary close—more than complimentary. It was the hardest part of the letter to read. And Cyril wished, with a fervor that surprised him, Aristide had ever said the words out loud.
Only when he had read the letter a second time did he pick it up, skimming his fingertips along the edges of the paper. Behind it was the document Finn coveted so keenly: ID papers, and an exit visa under a false name—a name that wouldn’t send up flares at the train station. Paul Darling.
He wondered if he’d need to sign anything, if he should start practicing.
Without any conscious decision, he had started planning his escape. He made himself stop, put down the papers—Five feet seven inches, ten stone, blond hair, blue eyes, that was him—and think.
Something about it bothered him. Not about the packet from Aristide—the papers were perfect in every detail, and the letter, well.… But something Finn had said scratched at the back of his brain like a tabby cat, trying to get in.
I don’t know why he didn’t tell me. I know he can’t have left me here, not after—
Not after what? Their affair? He’d assumed that was what Finn meant. Assuming was bad technique. Still, even Culpepper would have conceded that Cyril had had a harrowing few days; he wasn’t in peak condition. Only now, with a modicum of hope restored to him, feeling halfway human again, did he realize his error.
Finn wasn’t talking about the affair. He was talking about something significantly more important. Something he’d done for Aristide, that ought to have earned him a place in Aristide’s escape plan.
Cross was passing most of her communiques through financial correspondence.
Preliminary investigations suggest they used a middle man.
It was elegant work, and it must have been Finn’s idea. Aristide wouldn’t have known the intricacies of the bursar well enough.
The secondary implications of this revelation seeped into Cyril’s clean astonishment like oil from a ruptured tanker.
Finn was a loose cannon. If he’d buttonholed Cyril at Central to reveal Aristide’s faked death and plead for false papers, he was blind and stupid with fear and infatuation. Clever codes and tradecraft didn’t mean he wouldn’t hang himself scrambling to get out of the city. He was already under surveillance; the Ospies would figure out something was askance. Queen’s sake, as soon as cross-talk started up between the departments, and it came out Finn had been jawing with Cyril, the foxes would scent blood.
There was another piece of paper beneath the ID papers. Cyril slid the stack of documents aside and picked it up. He read the first line and panicked, unsure where to put his eyes. He clenched his fists and balled the note up. Edges of the crumpled paper bit into his palms.
All he’d seen was 5 a.m. northbound from Bythesea, and then fragments, farther down: friend will meet you, and by car from there. Instructions. Not a location, but enough to put Aristide in serious danger if Cyril read them and talked. So he didn’t read them.
Finn knew where Aristide was. Knew exactly. Under torture he would give it up, and they would torture him. Cyril, on the other hand, knew nothing except what Finn had told him: north. And that wasn’t enough, or shouldn’t be.
He flushed the instructions, folded up the paper around the false ID, and washed his hands. Out in the hall, he yawned, hugely—not even faking it.
“Do you mind if I turn in?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve slept in three whole days.”
“Makes my job easier,” said Massey. “Go ahead.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Cordelia went to Malcolm’s place. There was nowhere else for her to go, not really.
He lived between the train yards and the wharves, not too far from the end of the Seagate line. By the time she got there, the promise of the red sunrise had played out. A front piled up over the harbor, lashing the Spits with whitecaps and lightning.
She let herself in and sat at the bottom of the staircase to catch her breath. It took her a good long while to make it up the two flights—longer than it had taken for her to do twice the distance back home. When she knocked on his door, she was seeing spots and shivering. He didn’t answer. She banged again, and called out his name.
There was a drawn-out silence. She slid to the floor, crumpled against the door frame. “Malcolm Sailer,” she said, her voice squeaking in her worn-out throat. “Open this rotten door or I’ll know why.”
Nothing.
Cold, slippery fear slid through her exhaustion, masking her pain. She reached up with her shaking, bandaged hand and tried the knob. It twisted easily, and the door swung open.
Nobody in this part of town left their door unlocked.
Clawing her way upright, Cordelia staggered into Malcolm’s flat. It wasn’t a big place—three rooms, and two of those barely more than closets—so the smell hit her fast. Butcher-shop stink: iron, copper, salt. A sour trace of shit.
The door to the bedroom was closed. She took a step toward it, but caught a sight out of the corner of her eye and turned.
In the kitchenette, Malcolm leaned back in his chair like he’d passed out. His mouth hung open, and there was an empty bottle on the table. A shred of her felt relief—he’d just been drinking, probably lost hold on his bowels … But she wasn’t that stupid.
Closer up, she saw the cabinets behind him were spattered red. His right hand hung limp where the revolver had dragged it down. The gun lay half-in, half-out of a puddle of congealing blood.
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