Cordelia’s focus narrowed. The sudden rush of tobacco, on top of her exhaustion, made her grasp at the threads of Zelda’s story to stay in the moment. “What did she do?”
“She burned the palace and everything inside it, herself and her lovers included. When the rival queen arrived, there was nothing but a pile of smoking ash.”
“Well,” said Cordelia, “I ain’t a fan of suicide. But the rest of it sounds all right.”
“I can give you a name,” said Zelda. “He’ll come down on price if you haggle, and if you still can’t pay, he might take a marker. He bears no love for the Ospies. Give him a kiss from me.”
“Thanks a heap.” Cordelia stubbed out the butt of her straight and stood to leave. “I’ll give him two.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Aristide waited a week. He got friendly with Farah Akin, the woman who owned the dry goods store at the mouth of the pass. She gave him a loaf of currant cake, the first time he visited her shop.
“To welcome you, like, Mr. Sangster.” That was the name on his new papers. Memories ran long in the mountains. He couldn’t afford to keep his old Prosser identity, though he had the identification on hand if anyone got pinned about the property.
The cake was heavy, and too moist. But he ate it, because sweet things seldom turned up in Currin.
The next time he came down to the store, Farah gave him a telegram that had come up from the city. The Akins had the only wireless receiver for miles.
No oranges stop Maybe next week stop
“Do you like them?” Farah leaned across the counter. “Oranges? We rarely get them in. Only around solstice, usually, and even then they’re green and tart. The dates, though…” She scooped some from a jar behind the counter and poured them onto the counter. “They’re my favorite. Can’t imagine they’d be any better fresh. Care to try?”
Aristide took one of the sticky fruits and put it into his mouth, so that he did not have to speak. No oranges.
“You’ve gone pale, Mr. Sangster. Not to your taste?”
“No,” he said, pulling the pit from between his teeth. “They’re delicious. I’ll have some to take home. And a few ounces of shag.”
“Any more rolling papers?”
“No, thank you. I’ve still got some from last time.”
She clucked and shook her head. “Ought to start smoking a pipe. You’re not cityfolk any longer. It’ll save you money, too.”
Underneath the humdrum of commerce, Aristide’s mind jumped from one possibility to the next. Cyril had misunderstood the directions, or made a mistake. Or he had been caught and tortured or—even worse—gone over to the Ospies entirely, in which case staying longer in the Currin Pass put Aristide in more danger every day. Very worst of all, he had read the letter and laughed.
Aristide smiled through the rest of his transaction. He flirted a little. Farah tipped a few extra dates into the paper sack before she folded the top. By the time he walked out, the mask of his face felt stiff. Among the brooks and gorse and muddy stone, he let the façade fall. His own weakness broke his heart, and frightened him.
By the end of his walk home he was desperate for a cigarette. Inside the cottage, the heavy stove had kept most of the banked fire’s warmth. The small space was dry and cozy. Aristide scowled at its rustic charm—such a slim reward for cold nights and lean comforts.
Hunched over the table, he tried to roll a twist. He was not good at it. After three bad tries he curled his hands into fists and closed his eyes against stinging pride. He had been good at everything he needed to be, back in Amberlough. He’d had everything. Now, all he wanted was one rotten cigarette, and—
His next attempt wrapped up perfectly, and a cold weight settled in his stomach. He hoped he had not made some terrible bargain. There were more important things to hunger for.
Instead of smoking, he fed another brick of peat to the stove and opened the vents, then collapsed onto the squeaky cot in the corner. Lying on his side, he watched flames lick at the edges of the cast iron grate.
The play of light and shadow lulled him half into a dream, more memory than imagination. Rain swept the pavement outside the Bee, turning into steam when it struck. Fog curled around the crowd’s ankles. Aristide stood beneath the marquee with his collar turned up, waiting for a hack.
They saw each other at the same time, through the milling crowd. In that look, there was professional assessment, followed by a swift and startling realization, not wholly welcome. Aristide saw his adversary’s eyes widen. The man stepped back, not by much, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Aristide wondered what small tells his own body had given.
They’d had a choice, when they met, but neither of them had made it. They were both tightrope walkers, by trade. It had just been another line to tread.
* * *
Lucidity stole over Cyril, pulling him from a hallucination he couldn’t quite recall on waking. He had been sunk deep in insulating fantasies for days. Hide-and-seek with Lillian at Damesfort. Lazy, golden hours of skipping class at university. Rain on the windows of the Citadel, the hotel where he had begun his liaison with Ari.
He slid from one to the next before he could remember: His capture made Lillian vulnerable. His indiscretions at university had funneled him into a career that ended here. And he would never see Ari again.
The scent of the docks cut through clots of blood in his aching nose: oil and damp and the meaty tang of brine—sharp enough to wake him from his daze. Sight returned more slowly than his other senses; if he hadn’t smelled the ocean, he wouldn’t have known they’d moved him. It must be high tide, for two reasons: The water covered the stench of the city’s dross, and they had brought him out to kill him.
Bodies were only dumped from the back door when the currents would carry them out and dash them against the Spits, battering them until they fell to pieces. No identifying features, if they ever washed up. They didn’t tend to.
There were two blackboots out here with him. He didn’t recognize either of them from his interrogations—just drudges, probably. One was screwing a suppressor into the barrel of his gun. The other was talking, and his words gradually worked themselves into sensible order.
“—ought to go through and just see if there’s anything worth taking,” he said to his partner.
“Don’t be stupid.” The suppressor spun. “They’d have searched him.”
“Ain’t you even curious? It’s a nice suit.”
Hands on Cyril’s chest, fingers curling into his pockets—careless of his broken ribs, and whatever was bleeding and bruised inside of him. A thin sound escaped his lungs, and the Ospie snorted.
“Nothing,” he said, falling back. “Not a damn thing. In all those pockets? How come you got so many pockets, huh? Fancy suit like that.” He aimed a kick at the soft place between Cyril’s hip and the bottom of his ribcage. Bones gave sickeningly, jagged edges sliding beneath his skin and muscles. He gagged and jerked away. The movement didn’t get him far, and hurt worse than the blow.
Of course there was nothing in his pockets. He was surprised they’d let him keep his clothes. He’d been through the training; naked prisoners broke faster, robbed of their most basic protection. But then, maybe the Ospies had known from the beginning: Even if they stripped him down, he had nothing left to give.
Some time ago—days?—Rehimov had found the folded square of Ari’s note. He read it out loud, or part of it. Then, he’d spat on the floor and torn the paper into pieces. Things went worse for Cyril after that; very much worse.
As his executioners prepared their necessary tools—a cigarette and a pistol, respectively—Cyril let himself hear the words of the letter, not in Rehimov’s guttural eastern accent, but first in his own internal monologue and then, more and more, in Ari’s tongue-curling central city drawl.
Cyril,
Practiced as we both are in clandestine correspondence, in falsehood and elaborate elisions, I find it difficul
t now to say precisely what I mean, and say it plainly.
I am leaving Amberlough. That much I may write with ease. It is no longer a city in which people like us—and we are each many things—can live with pride, pleasure, or freedom. And I am leaving on my own. You know as well as I do it’s the most efficient way to get things done. But in this instance it feels far from satisfying.
There is a thread which ties my happiness to yours—this is the difficult piece to admit—and I fear that if I go too far, too fast, without you, it will snap and something vital in me will begin unraveling.
Cyril, is there a stitch in your heart as there is in mine? Then come and find me. We can start again. This time we will only tell small lies.
All my love,
Aristide
“Go on,” said one of the blackboots. “Get it over with. Tide’s going out any minute now.”
“Don’t rush me,” said the other. “Damn thing won’t screw in straight.”
“Give it here. Look at those hands: shaking like an old drunk. Rotten amateur, you are. Go around the corner, if you can’t stand the sight of brains.”
“I can’t just—”
“I said you can, so you can. I’ll finish this, and we’ll get on with the day. Shoo.”
His footsteps faded away. The hiss of the suppressor’s metal threads blended into the distant crashing of the waves against the Spits. Cyril realized he had closed his eyes. Seawater slapped at the pilings of the dock, splashing against his cheek. It was summer-warm, and felt like tears.
Then, as he breathed in, deeply as he could despite his broken bones, he heard a sound. Or felt it, more than heard. A deep rumbling, spreading in waves through the air and the dock beneath him. He opened his eyes, wondering if he’d already been shot.
As he did, he saw something so beautiful it could have been choreographed. The blackboot, all alone now, startled at the noise. He flinched and fumbled his pistol. The suppressor struck the planks and rolled away, but the gun fell straight and landed with a solid thwack, an inch from Cyril’s left hand.
He had thought all his ties were cut; that his pliancy came from resignation. But when the pistol’s steel struck the boards he realized that the strings which held him to his life were only hanging loose. He had not been resigned, but patient.
He was a cleaner shot with his right, but that hardly mattered now. He stretched out, every muscle screaming, and hooked his forefinger behind the trigger guard. The Ospie had his mouth open, about to shout. Cyril half aimed, and fired. The noise echoed off the backs of the warehouses.
It was a bad one, too low: between the ribs and groin. Gutshot. Deadly but not fast. Cyril needed fast. Straining, he lifted his arm and fired again. A lung this time. The man collapsed, blood leaking from his mouth as he struggled to breathe. Cyril rolled onto his side, gasping, and put the pistol to the man’s head.
“Hey!”
The other blackboot came pounding down the dock, too late. Cyril pulled the trigger, then turned the gun toward the new arrival. He fired, but missed. The man—so young, almost a boy—skidded to a halt, eyes wide. Cyril tried to steady his shaking hands, sighting woozily down the barrel. If he would just stand still, just for a—
But he turned, and ran, and though Cyril squeezed off one more shot before he disappeared around the corner, it went wide and struck the warehouse bricks.
Well. Now what? He’d bring back others. And where was Cyril going, in this state?
Come and find me, Ari said.
He rolled off the dock. As the filthy water closed over his head, he wondered how far down the docks he’d make it before he drowned or found safe harbor.
* * *
The blast roared through the city like a tidal wave, rolling between buildings, pushing against Cordelia’s body like a sudden, muffling wall.
Joachim—Zelda’s man—had taken her up to the top of his building earlier in the evening and pointed out across the river. He had a good view of the theatre district, and she could see the Bee’s roof framed between chimney pots. The setting sun turned the brick of the theatre’s backside crimson.
Now, a huge cloud of gray dust billowed up and over Temple Street. Below, on the footpath, she heard sudden silence, then confusion. A shout, from a neighboring block of flats where someone hanging laundry on the roof had a good view.
“Mother and sons!” The rooftop door banged open. Cordelia looked over her shoulder and saw a woman scrambling up, followed by two schoolkids. “Is that the Bee?”
“Can’t tell,” said Cordelia, though her throat was tight. The words came out thick and sounded like a lie.
The woman didn’t notice. She stared across the city at the twisting gray cloud of mortar and pulverized brick. The wind began to catch it, pulling trails of powder through the air. “They’d better clear the block.” She shaded her eyes with a hand and squinted into the distance. “Big blow like that, there’ll be—”
With a sound like ripping fabric, gouts of blue flame tore through the roiling fog.
“—gas,” the woman finished, dismayed. She put an arm around one of the children, who had begun to cry. Little ones like that, they always picked up on it when grown folks got upset.
More people trickled up to join them, until a small crowd had gathered to watch the fire grow bright in the dusk. Engines had arrived by then; their bells echoed faintly from across the Heyn.
“What do they think they’re doing?” An elderly woman with her hair under a kerchief put her hands to her face. “Somebody they don’t like ends up in charge and they think blowing up a playhouse will solve the problem?”
“You don’t know that’s why,” said her son, holding her shoulder. “Nobody knows anything yet.”
“Of course that’s why,” snapped a red-faced grandpa, wrangling baby twins away from the edge of the roof. “Bust up the whole city this week, and then start fires.”
“Someone’s got to do something.” A young razor tore her gaze from the flames. “We all know it weren’t a fair fight. Acherby’s a thief.”
“Even if he is,” the old man said, “at least the blackboots didn’t blow anything sky-high.”
The razor snarled and turned away. A few of the other people on the roof shot narrow glances at the grandpa, but a few others nodded. Cordelia’s stomach went sour, and she moved off a ways.
Joachim came up, eventually. He was a big bear of a man, bearded and soft around the middle. Jolly-looking, especially now, with a job well done.
“Like a solstice bonfire,” he said, softly, so the assembled audience wouldn’t hear. “Harder to jump over, though, I’d wager.”
Cordelia hunched her shoulders, burying her ruined hands deeper in the pockets of Malcolm’s khaki coat. She’d kept it on, the last few days—she didn’t have much else to wear. Traces of his cologne haunted the collar.
“You don’t look thrilled,” he said, taking her elbow to guide her farther from the crowd. “It’s what you paid for.”
“I know.” She’d called in favors all over town to scrape his fee together.
“Regrets?”
She shook her head. “No. Never.”
“What, then?”
Breathing deep, drawing in the smell of dry sweat and civet clinging to Malcolm’s coat, she held her old world inside until it seared her lungs.
“It’s not enough,” she said. It scared her, but it was true. “I wished it had all gone up.”
Joachim grinned and tapped his chest. “I think I know somebody who can help.”
The corner of her mouth snagged, like a hook had caught it. “I might need it,” she said. “I’m starting to feel like I anted in for a long game.”
He looked back at the burning hulk of the Bee, orange against the darkening sky. “What are you playing, anyhow? More than just revenge, I’m thinking.”
“Tell you the truth,” she said, “I don’t really know. But I’m mad as a sow and I’m gonna make Acherby hurt.”
“So it’s politics?
Kick out the new batch of scullers?”
She shrugged. “If that’s what folk are after. I’m just here to scratch some Ospies.”
Joachim nodded thoughtfully, then offered his hand. “Keep in touch, Red. Sounds like we could do some work together.”
“Thanks,” she said, and didn’t shake. “I will.”
He looked offended for a moment, when she kept her fists balled in her pockets. Then understanding flashed across his face and he offered his elbow instead. She pulled her sliced hand out and lifted it, knocking her forearm against his.
* * *
Frost was on the ground, the morning Aristide walked down to the Akins’ shop and saw the papers.
There was a rack of them, at the front of the store. The Farbourgh Herald headlined, with the lesser provincial papers arrayed beneath, and papers from the other states in slots below. Nearly ten papers, in all, and every one of them with the same photograph above the fold.
“Oh, perdition,” he said, so far gone he forgot to pretend to be northern, and merely fell into it out of shock.
“Terrible thing,” said Farah. “Merciful queen, the workmen had the day off. But they’re saying at least three people killed, probably a few more buried in the rubble. The whole block is shattered and burned. Anti-Ospie sentiment, they’re saying. Rabble-rousers is what I’d call the fiends who did it.”
“These papers,” he said, ignoring her, “how old are they?”
“We get the Herald a bit earlier than the others, but I like to keep them all of a date on the rack. Less confusing that way.”
“How old?”
“Oh, two or three days. Have a care now, love. Catch your breath. A terrible tragedy, but nothing we can do.”
Nothing. He backed up and leaned against the wall. If he had still been there, he could have … well, he would have known, at least, before it happened. A professional job like that, there were two, maybe three people in Amberlough City capable enough to …
But he wasn’t there, and it didn’t matter. He was here, and soon he would be gone. Besides, the Bee wasn’t Malcolm’s anymore; it belonged to the Ospies. Or, no one now. It was a smoking heap of rubble. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, weep, or rage. In the end, he turned and walked out of the shop without buying anything. As he left, Farah called out, “Mr. Sangster, wait!” But he didn’t.
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