“My last year, he led a research trip to Tatié, to the border. Had some work he had to do there. He needed cover, and he needed help. He didn’t call it espionage. I don’t know if he asked any of the others, but … when he asked me, I said yes.
“I was caught, of course, but too late. I got done what he asked me to. If I hadn’t managed it, if I’d crumpled a little more quickly when they asked what I was about, maybe everything would have turned out different. I wasn’t good enough to go all the way, then, but I was three-quarters there and I suppose someone figured they could drag me the last hundred yards.”
“But did you get in trouble?”
“Of course I got in trouble,” he said. “I’m still in it. One giant slog of trouble from then ’til now.” He could feel it all stuck to his boots with every step. “It had to be kept quiet. Especially since my father was in the corps. Interstate espionage was a serious crime—still is, I suppose. My father practically tied me in a bow when the FOCIS came calling; he made a deal and I had to take it to avoid prosecution.”
“That’s when they stopped trying,” Stephen said. “The moment they stopped trying to fix you. You think it’s going to happen to me.”
He shrugged. “Anything can happen. I don’t try to predict it anymore; I just try to be ready when the dice come down where they do.”
Stephen considered this, digging at the base of the fence post with his toe. The snow had all melted a few days ago, followed by a hard freeze, and he made no visible progress except to scuff his shoe leather. “What about the teacher? Did you pitch him?”
“Give him up? Of course. Everybody does, in the end. He was packed off back where he came from.” He’d been from some western suburb of Dastya, where rioting and revenge killings were commonplace. “By then he had a reputation, and it was hostile territory. I never heard from him again.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
It was harder than Aristide would have liked, approaching Frye. It seemed she wasn’t taking telephone calls from just anyone who rang, and lurking outside of her home was liable to get him shot or at least arrested; a rotation of ACPD hounds had set up on the street. He wondered if Saeger had such a thing, wherever she holed up at night. Maybe the labor unions ran her security detail.
He couldn’t ask Custler to put them in touch, either; she would want to know why, and this was a lever better applied without warning, to the top of the chain of command.
In the end he turned to Jamila, explaining the situation in sufficiently veiled terms. Because she was clever and keen, she read the white between the words and clocked he was up to something not quite tabletop.
“You want to catch her a little loose, hang around the Corderey. I’ve got a pair of eyes on the waitstaff says she spends a few evenings and most late nights holed up in a private room. And she actually works. No whoring or booze like most of the big fish with their names in the book.”
“Thank you,” said Aristide. Then, belatedly, “Do I need my name in the book?”
The telephone line made Jamila’s laughter into white noise. “I’ll make the call. It’ll be written down by the time you get there.”
And it was. He felt a twinge of guilt, remembering everything Daoud had said about others suffering for his schemes and knowing that Jamila would undoubtedly be one of them.
The Corderey had bay windows overlooking the south end of Talbert, near Staunton Street. Neither the club nor the neighborhood had received much of Aristide’s attention in his day—he had more to do with the docks, the theatres, and folk with money who skirted the crumbling edge of respectability. Members of the Corderey had never so much as glanced over that cliff; they were too far inland to know that it existed. Likewise most of them had never been backstage; they sat in the balconies and watched through opera glasses.
Still, from Aristide’s limited exposure—an afternoon stroll along Talbert beneath the skeptical gazes of old money at lunch—the block and the bay windows hadn’t changed much. The Corderey had probably skated along through the Ospies much as it had under dozens of regionalist administrations. The places and mechanisms of power rarely changed; only the folk who wielded it. And those rarely.
He presented himself at the door in a sober suit of tobacco brown, swaddled in a cream-colored scarf and vicuña coat. The mink had been left at home in deference to the atmosphere of the club. His fedora—rabbit felt with an unfinished brim—still got him a raised eyebrow at the cloakroom.
Settling into an armchair in one of the bay windows, Aristide ordered a brandy from a passing waiter. Shortly thereafter, a different waiter arrived with his drink on a tray.
“Compliments of Ms. Osogurundi,” he said. “If you’ll come with me?”
Dispatching half of his brandy before he rose, Aristide fell in line behind the neatly pressed young man and followed him through the narrow halls of the Corderey.
His escort stopped at a door deep down a third-floor passage and knocked softly before opening it.
“I didn’t order anything.” Frye sounded irritated. “Didn’t even pull the rope.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. But you have a visitor.” The waiter ceded the doorway to Aristide, who passed him a roll of bills for risking his job. Frye would likely complain to management when he was through with her. Maybe Jamila could find the man something with Cross-Costa if he was sacked here. Though if Frye didn’t take this threat seriously, he’d likely be out on his rear again soon after.
Setting all of that aside, Aristide draped himself against the doorway. “Emmeline.”
Frye’s hand came around the back of her chair like a grappling hook, digging into the upholstery and dragging the rest of her around.
“Makricosta.” Her eyes were narrow as chips of granite.
He smiled. “It’s so good to see you again. I trust you had a happy Solstice?”
“Leave us alone,” said Frye to the waiter. “And unless I pull that rope, don’t you dare barge in here again.”
* * *
There was a second armchair in Frye’s private room, at an angle to hers, both of them facing the fireplace. She had a pot of coffee on the table in between them, and a half-eaten apple gone brown. Aristide settled into the empty chair and set his brandy on her tray.
“Have a seat,” she said, alum-dry.
He wriggled a little in the soft belly of the chair, getting comfortable and playing it up. She cased him long and hard, but he certainly wasn’t going to make the first move, if that was what she was after. Instead he sipped his drink and watched the flames eat away at an all-night log: the kind as big around as a man’s waist, heavy and solid through. This fire would go until morning. He could sit here to match it.
At last Frye exhaled, exasperated. “I assume whatever it is, Frances couldn’t handle it?”
“I didn’t even ask,” said Aristide. “I don’t think it’s exactly in her line.”
She sipped the remnants of coffee in her cup and made a face. Cold, he imagined. But she didn’t ring for a new pot. “You know how many people want things from me now? And let me tell you: They aren’t liable to get them.”
“I think you’ll find it in your heart to make an exception for me,” he said. “Knowing as I do several of your dirty secrets.”
“Mm.” She placed the cold coffee cup back in its saucer, deliberate, pressing the pads of her fingers into its rim briefly before lifting her hand away. “I thought you might be pinned about the DePaul gambit. Custler told me you swore you’d keep it businesslike. I almost thought you might. I’m a little surprised. And disappointed.”
“You know,” he said, and paused to sip his brandy. “I don’t mind disappointing people. Perhaps that’s a flaw in my character, but I think it has rather more to do with other people’s failure to manage their own expectations. And everyone seems to have such varied expectations of me; how could I hope to fulfill them all?”
“I’ll remind you I put the company in trust at the beginning of my campa
ign,” she said. “Ms. Custler will bear the brunt of this.”
“Cold,” he said. “Do you think she’ll still tickle your pear once she’s been dragged through the midden, and your affair made front page news? It hardly savors of plausible deniability.”
That knocked Frye off-balance for a moment. Then she steadied. “I’d like to know what proof you have of that.”
“I’m sure you would,” he said, and because bluffing had been his business since he was in short pants, it came out smooth as butter.
“Queen and cairn,” she said. “I knew this was a bad idea. I knew you were a bad idea. But Frances would push and push for it.”
“And you knew you could make me pay, I suppose. Campaign debts. I hear they can be positively crippling.”
She put bony knuckles to one temple, pressing so the fragile skin around her eye stretched. “Let me make a guess: You want me to walk back my position on these tribunals.”
This time it was his turn not to answer. In the hearth the big log shifted, showering sparks through the grate.
“I can’t do it,” she said.
He smiled, unkindly. “I’m sure you can.”
But she was already shaking her head. “I can’t give you any guarantee; I haven’t been elected yet. I might not be. Do you have any daggers that would fit Saeger’s back?”
Aristide removed his checkbook from the inner pocket of his jacket and laid it on the table between them. “I can decrease the odds of needing one. But first I’d like a promise.”
A loud pop in the fireplace, as a pocket of sap boiled away. Aristide realized there was no clock in the room to disturb the quiet with its ticking.
“I can’t renege on the tribunals,” said Frye, smoothing her skirt across her lap. Aristide bit back another insistence just in time, seeing it was not an ultimatum, but an entrée. “Those are a foregone conclusion, no matter who ends up in the Cliff House. The danger of catching the public’s imagination.”
“You are not convincing me,” he said.
“If you’ll sit on your mitts through all of that,” she said, an edge of caution or anxiety coming into her voice, “let the tar move along as planned, and come through with your cash, I can promise you a pardon if I end up inaugurated. Will that satisfy you?”
“I exist in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction,” he said, considering his brandy. “But it will certainly stay my hand.”
* * *
Aristide didn’t know his way around Amberlough’s press corps anymore. He couldn’t pick his quarry based on past work or favors owed, or on the understanding that the owner of their enterprise would like them to do one small thing for a gentleman who would call tomorrow.
He asked Jamila, but that got him a shrug—apparently her influence in the city extended largely underground. Well, she’d only been here six months or so—give her a little while and she’d have them all on strings, and the strings tied to her belt.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a little while. Briefly stumped, he finally remembered Lillian’s husband was some stripe of paperfolk. He’d left things badly with her, but Daoud had spent Solstice drinking and jawing with Jinadh, and hadn’t lately gotten into a shouting match with the lady of the house. Still, he wasn’t keen on Aristide’s plot, so best to approach it from an angle.
“Didi,” he said, over steak and eggs in the Sykes House breakfast room. “What paper does Mr. Addas write for, again?”
“The Observer,” said Daoud. “Owned by Siebenthal’s. And he’s an editor, not a columnist. Why?”
“I was hoping he could put me in touch with a few of his colleagues. I find myself in need of a pen-fencer.”
That got him a raised eyebrow. “What for?”
“Insurance,” said Aristide, which brought the eyebrow back down to meet its fellow in a worried frown. “You might inquire for me. You seemed to be quite friendly by the end of our Solstice stay.”
“And Lillian will not speak to you,” finished Daoud. “Or anyway, you have not tried.”
“I’m not in the mood for a lecture this morning.” Aristide sliced into his steak, or tried to. Sykes House may have had a very good kitchen, but the cook’s morals apparently prevented them from buying on the black market, where they might have found meat that would yield beneath his silverware. “Ask Jinadh if he knows anyone who might be starving for a big break. Someone hungry. The political pages, or perhaps crime?”
“If you tell me what you want this for, maybe I will do it.”
Aristide paused in sawing. “I’m sorry, darling. Please remind me who signs your checks?”
“Cross-Costa,” said Daoud. “I act in the company’s best interest. And lately I fear that you do not.”
A bite of steak finally gave way. “Ask him today,” said Aristide, and put it in his mouth to forestall further conversation.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Jinadh left on the same train as Rinko, to be back in the city for work. Lillian remained behind, unenthusiastic at the prospect of the city: election rallies, Catwalk graffiti, more threatening letters like the one that had been pushed through the slot last time she was at Coral Street. The Telegraph had run a front-page story after it came out that she’d been sacked, printing a photo of her from the gala at the MBS opposite a much older photo of Cyril, in which he was still handsome and slyly smiling. Nobody had managed to get a more recent one. She might have been grateful for that, as it meant he would be harder to spot on the street. Except the spread made them both look haughty and cruel: people who ought to be punished. After it went to print, she felt eyes on her wherever she stepped outside.
So she holed up in the library at Damesfort to quiz Stephen about his reading, when he wasn’t running around in the woods with Cyril, tearing holes in his clothes and tangling his hair. He was not an eager pupil, and on this particular afternoon they were very near doing one another physical harm.
Magnusson saved her with news that she had a telephone call. When he told her who it was, she set aside the book she had been holding, though she knew Stephen would take any out he could find. “Mr. Qassan? Did he say what was the matter?”
“No, ma’am. Will you take it?”
“Yes, of course. Stephen—” He was already on his feet when she held out the book to him. “—Finish your reading for the week.”
He slumped, and snatched it out of her hand with a sigh.
“I’ll take it in my office,” she said. “Thank you.”
It was colder upstairs, but more private than the hall. The receiver felt clammy on her face.
“Mr. Qassan?” she asked, and heard Magnusson hang up. «This pleasure is unexpected.» Perhaps irrationally, given their slim association, she liked the young man: He was competent and quiet and kept himself to himself. And he had made Jinadh smile, during the course of their Solstice celebrations.
«I had hoped to reach Mr. Addas,» he said, «but your majordomo tells me he’s in the city.»
«Yes. Did you ring the house on Coral Street?»
«I tried here first.»
«Do you have the exchange?» She gave it to him.
«Thank you,» he said, but did not excuse himself or hang up.
«Was there something else?» she asked, tucking her free hand between her thighs to warm it. Up here, her breath made mist.
«I’m worried,» he said.
That made two of them. «About?»
«Aristide. He’s … he’s up to something, I think.»
The cold that crept through her veins had little to do with winter. «I do not doubt he is.»
«It hurts to say, but he’s not thinking clearly. He has not been well balanced, since we had the news about your brother in Liso. So, I worry. He’s a very smart man, but he doesn’t have enough distance, in this case. And he’s worse for drinking.»
«Does he often drink as much as he did at Solstice?”
«More. He was on his best behavior, then.» A heavy sigh, on the other end of the line.
«I think before Cyril came back, he had finally become resigned. I’ve never known him as a happy man, but now I’m afraid of what he will do, trying to … to … »
She twisted the telephone cord in her fist. «What do you think he is going to do?»
«I know he’s going to blackmail Emmeline Frye.»
“What?” she asked, aghast enough to fall back into Geddan.
«I’m more afraid of what he’ll do if she doesn’t step like he tells her to.»
«Blackmail her for … for what?» Even as she said it, she knew. «How?»
«She’s moving some contraband for Cross-Costa. Or, her company is.»
«And he’s found a way to tie her to it?»
«He has. Frye and her deputy … anyway. That’s why he asked me to talk with Mr. Addas. He needs a journalist. Insurance, he said. If she doesn’t do what he asks, he’ll break the story.»
«He’ll … he’ll … » Metaphor failed her in Porashtu. “He’ll tear the country up.” Then, «If this comes out … Saeger doesn’t know how to lead a country.»
«I don’t think he cares,» said Daoud.
«Of course,» said Lillian, crumpling the crease of her trouser leg in one angry fist. «The Amberlough he knew is gone. Why should he mind what happens to this one?»
* * *
“Laurie Kostos,” Daoud told him. “That is who you want.”
Aristide tipped vermouth into the cocktail shaker and began to stir. “At the Observer?”
“Lately, yes. But no longer. There was, it seems, some acrimony in the parting. Now he is the anchor for a new nightly program on FWAC.”
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