“Come on,” said the man with the pry bar. “Out. Or do I gotta drag you?”
Cyril only gaped for a moment. Then he was out the back of the van, trying to avoid the corpses on the asphalt and keep his balance with cuffed hands. His rescuer—probably two hundred pounds, looked Lisoan but spoke like an Eel Town sculler—steadied him and then half-carried him around the back of the delivery van. He cringed, afraid of being spotted by whoever had pulled up behind, but saw yet another box van behind this one. The driver, a middle-aged Chuli man in a flat cap and spectacles, waggled his fingers in greeting.
Cyril stared hard through the windshield, disbelieving. But before he could confirm his suspicions, he was bundled into the midst of cold, wet, and briny stink, and the canvas flap pulled down across the light.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’m glad you could take the time to drive all this way,” said the headmaster—Merritt, not Porks, as Lillian had to keep reminding herself. Stephen’s irreverent slang was infectious.
She bit down on the darkly humorous response that threatened—What else had she to do, these days?—and also on the very serious complaints. Petrol was expensive, and so was spending the night in a hotel. The school could easily have sent a proctor to the city for Stephen’s exams, but she had the sense this was a test: Would she jump through these hoops to see her son reinstated at Cantrell?
Yes. She would. Because if everything else was out of her control, at least this was something she could throw her energy behind.
And anyway, it was an alibi. Cyril was meant to be arraigned today. Meant to be. Jinadh was at the courtroom in her stead, though he had offered to come to Cantrell. She had insisted, pleading her influence as an alumnus. He didn’t seem convinced.
“Frankly,” she said to Merritt, “I’m surprised you still wanted Stephen to come.”
“I won’t lie to you.” He looked down, frowning, and spoke to his blotter rather than to her. “There was some dissent among the faculty. But ultimately, the majority came down in Stephen’s favor. If he places alongside his peers, academically, and rectifies the … irregularities in his behavior, he’s welcome to return for the spring term. After all, he isn’t his uncle, is he?”
“No,” said Lillian, “he isn’t.” Nor am I my father. She wondered if Merritt had been one of the dissenters. From his embarrassment, she didn’t think so. He was ashamed of his colleagues. If he had been overruled, he would be angry.
“No. Of course. He’s just a child. And it’s this school’s job to see he fulfills his potential.”
Lillian did not remind Merritt that her brother had attended Cantrell at Stephen’s age, and certainly fulfilled some kind of potential.
“When do you think you’ll know?” she asked. Stephen was due to finish up with the proctor soon. Lillian would pick him up from the hall after this meeting.
“We should have an answer back to you within a week, I think. Perhaps two. Plenty of time to plan for spring. Whatever the results.”
“Thank you,” she said, and rose to leave.
Merritt shook her hand, and added, “Ms. DePaul, I do want you to know: I hope to see Stephen on the platform at commencement.”
She felt some satisfaction that she had read him correctly; she still had the knack for that, at least. “You’re very kind, Headmaster Merritt.”
He shook his head. “My elder brother was in Liso. In the Spice War. The way that he was treated, when he came home … I think for him it was worse than the fighting. As if spitting on a soldier could right the wrongs of nations.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, hovering awkwardly between the coatrack and her chair, unwilling to rush out on the one person in Gedda who’d shown her some sympathy. Or at least shown Stephen some.
Merritt shrugged. “He does all right these days. But there was a time … well. I would like to spare your son some of that, if I can. Not to say he will have an easy time here, or whatever secondary school you choose next year. You know how they are, at that age.”
And how they stayed, most of the time.
Glancing at the clock above his office hearth, Merritt said, “You’d better go—he’ll be wrapping up any minute. We’ll be in touch.”
She finally pulled her coat down from the rack and slipped it on. “I look forward to it.”
* * *
Stephen was waiting on the front steps of the main hall, breath steaming. It was a fine day, for the time of year: searingly blue sky, frost lingering in the shade. The green tongues of daffodils had begun to appear around the fountain in the quad. The cross quarter was behind them, Equinox looming, and the election was not far off.
“I’m starving,” said Stephen, as soon as she came within hearing distance.
“Sorry,” said Lillian. “Merritt kept me back chatting. Late lunch at the Akill Stairs?”
“Kind of expensive,” said Stephen, frowning.
Lillian, who had been brought up not to talk about money, kept her flinch on the inside. Of course, you could only raise a child like that if you had enough you never fretted or fought over it. “You let me worry about that.”
The Akill Stairs was a local institution—a pub on the north corner of the town square, its front windows facing south across the green. Prices were kept high—the town saw a lot of comings and goings, and most of that went through the Stairs at one point or another. It was a mainstay of families visiting for matriculation, commencement, the beginning and end of term.
As such, it was nearly empty now. Just a few village people, who clearly knew the owners, gathered around a wireless set at one end of the bar. A middle-aged woman in an apron saw them enter and broke off from the crowd.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “Shouldn’t all be knotted up around the radio, but it’s a slow day in here and a fast one on the wireless.”
Lillian felt a current up her spine, and it straightened her. “Has there been news?”
“You haven’t heard yet? DePaul’s done a runner.”
“What?”
“He’s gone. Left this morning and they’re only just telling us. Should have got the word out earlier, so folk would know to look for him.”
Queen’s sake, if the woman had known what to look for she’d be down Lillian’s throat already; hadn’t people always said that she and Cyril could pass for twins?
“Mum?”
Lillian put her hand on Stephen’s shoulder, pressing slightly too hard for affection. It meant silence, and he obliged. She didn’t dare look down at his face.
“Pity,” she said. “But perhaps they had their reasons.” She didn’t expect Makricosta had enough sway in that quarter to hold the hounds off for so long. He might have once, but now? Likely they had only been embarrassed.
“Anyway,” said the woman, “what can I get for you?”
“Just a quick lunch. We’d like to get back to the city before supper.”
“Of course. But it’s a week or so until the end of term! What are you doing getting out early? Lucky nubbin, are you?”
“Uh,” said Stephen.
Lillian squeezed his shoulder. “A death in the family.”
“Oh, poor lambs. I’m so sorry. I’ll leave you alone. Two fish pies all right? The trout’s from the Akill itself, and smoked by my lady. Mellie, two fish pies. Will you, love?”
A stout woman with graying dun hair looked up from the radio. “Now, Sam?”
“News won’t change in the next ten minutes. If it does, I’ll give you the form when you come back. Now shake off the dross!” She turned back to Lillian. “Sorry. She can be a sow, but this time at least she’s got good reason. Her sister was Catwalk, and died of cholera in the camps. She was truly looking forward to his hanging. Anything to drink?”
“Burdock and seltzer,” said Lillian, faintly. “And … um, pint of the session?”
“At the table as soon as you are. Have a seat. You look pale all of the sudden.”
“I skipped breakfast
.”
She didn’t remember sitting down, but there she was quite suddenly, facing Stephen over a water-ringed table against the back wall. The sound of the wireless reached them there quite easily, so they heard the repetition of the bulletin on the hour, and then the rapid patter of a reporter. For once Lillian took in none of the news; the landlady’s words were still running circles in her head.
Her sister was Catwalk … died of cholera in the camps … looking forward to his hanging. How could things get so twisted around? The founder of the Catwalk had been Cyril’s friend. She had hung on his arm and charmed the deputy commissioner: there was a report about that in Cyril’s file, written in his own hand. And a recommendation—never sent—that the Ospies approach Lehane and bring her into the fold as a fox.
But that would never come to light in Lillian’s lifetime. Not while Gedda wanted a dead hero to worship and a living villain to hang.
Sam brought two glasses and set them down, adding to the collection of circular stains on the wood. “Pies in a moment, nubbins.”
When she had gone back to the small crowd at the radio, Lillian leaned forward over the table and their glasses and spoke softly to Stephen. “Eat fast and don’t make a fuss. We need to get through this without a scene.”
One of those shifts came over him, pulling him back from the cusp of grown. His eyes turned wide and fear made his face slack and soft, unsure about the mouth.
“Buck up, beastie,” she told him. “We’re undercover.”
And even though she’d just told Merritt that her son was nothing like his uncle, even though she hoped he wouldn’t meet his uncle’s fate or be forced into any of the same corners, she was proud to see how quickly he pulled himself straight and put on a mask.
* * *
They made it back to Coral Street just before plates were due on the table. There were cars parked all along the block, and lurking shadows on the stoop of number twenty-four. Luckily, the old carriage house had been converted into a garage. Lillian turned into the narrow, cobbled alley that ran behind the town houses and prayed none of the pen-fencers had set up here. A prayer that went unheard: Her headlights passed over two slouching figures to either side of the carriage house who swiftly unslouched themselves to reveal a man and a woman. Each of these took a window of the car and began to hammer on them.
Lillian leaned into the horn, refusing to meet the eyes of her assailants. Eventually, Magnusson would—
Yes, there were the doors. She struck the accelerator with too much force and bounced into the garage, scattering journalists. Magnusson had a harder time shutting the sliding doors so quickly on his own. Lillian got out of the car and went to help him.
“Ms. DePaul,” said the woman, shining a torch in her face. “Were you aware of what your brother was planning?”
She put her body weight against one of the heavy slabs of wood, which squealed on its casters.
“Ms. DePaul,” said the man, “did you assist in his escape?”
Magnusson grunted. There was a shriek of rusty metal, and doors struck home. Lillian shot the bolt and let a breath out into the darkness.
“Ah,” said Magnusson. “Apologies. I was in a hurry.” Somewhere to her left she heard him shuffle, and then the snap of a switch. Light from a dim bulb warmed the garage, showing Stephen half out of the passenger side. One of his hands clutched the door, the other the back of his seat. He had that trembling lip again.
The passage to the house stood open, and Lillian heard footsteps and then saw Jinadh. He nearly fell down the bare plank stairs, and Stephen did not protest when his father gathered him into a tight embrace. Over Stephen’s head, Jinadh gave Lillian a look that said she was next.
If he could catch her. She had been thinking, as she drove. And now, she had work to do.
What she had told Cyril was true: Someone needed to apologize for their family. Their ambitious, ruthless, mess-making family. From Grandmama the general all the way down to Stephen’s blown-up car. And it wasn’t going to be Cyril, clearly.
“Ms. Higata has been ringing,” said Magnusson. “And the police have come around. They had a warrant, but found nothing.”
Stones. In all the upset, Lillian had forgotten to reach out to Rinko. At least she’d had a good alibi: She had been standing in front of the judge. Though that wouldn’t keep her safe from the rest of the investigation. It was one place to start apologizing, anyway. But Lillian had some bigger fences to clear first.
“I’ll speak with Ms. Higata later.” She went around the driver’s side, avoiding the comfort she knew Jinadh wanted to bestow—if she had it now, she’d fall apart. “In the meantime, will you bring a pot of coffee up to my office? Thank you.”
She couldn’t look at Jinadh, but not looking didn’t phase him; she felt his hand close on her wrist before she got through the door.
«Moon-eyes,» he said, tugging gently. «At least let me kiss you. I’ve been worried past endurance.»
Probably furious, too. He wouldn’t say in front of Magnusson or Stephen, but she wagered he had clocked her—that she’d been out of the city on purpose for Cyril’s disappearance.
But he really did look awful: face slack, bags beneath his eyes. If he was angry, it had long ago yielded to his fear. So she paused on the threshold and let him gather her in his arms, surrounding her with the smells of tobacco and leather and Marygale soap. His kiss was bitter. He’d been smoking, which he didn’t, often. Nerves.
«I love you,» he said.
“I’ve got to make a call.” When he frowned, she kissed him again and said, «I’m sorry. You know I love you, too.»
* * *
Getting ahold of Opal Saeger at this hour, on this evening, took some ingenuity. Lillian had no card; Saeger had sent her a telegram to arrange their last meeting. And her number wasn’t listed in the directory.
She went through Honora, who was flustered to receive the call, but was eventually convinced to give her the home exchange of a campaign liaison. The liaison, in turn, prevaricated nearly past Lillian’s endurance. Eventually she said—did not snap—“If you’re worried, why don’t you ring her up and ask if she’d like to speak to me. I’ll wait here by the telephone. All night, if necessary.”
She hadn’t even finished her coffee before the ringer went again.
“Lillian?” It was Saeger, on the line. “What’s this about? Rauleigh said you want to meet.”
“I do. I … do you still need a campaign manager?”
A badly muffled snort. “I know I’m slipping in the polls, but I’m not sure how much you’ll help.”
She turned her cup in its saucer, watching the surface of the coffee shiver. “I’ll admit I don’t look good on paper.”
“You don’t look good in the papers, either. I’m already down by a pile of chips in that game, and we’ve just about reached the last hand. What are you angling for, exactly?”
“I know who blew up that warehouse,” she said. “And I know why.”
Silence ate the line up for far too long. “And you’re only going to tell me if I give you a job.”
Lillian wrestled with her ambitions and anxieties and it came to a draw. “I’ll tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you and you won’t owe me anything. But … I would appreciate your consideration. Either before the election or after, if the gambit I have in mind succeeds.”
“All right,” said Saeger. “You’ve got it. Provided you aren’t in prison yourself for aiding in this jailbreak.”
“I was out of town all day,” said Lillian. A truth, swiftly followed by a lie. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Lucky you.” There was irony in that, but Lillian failed to catch its meaning. “Nine tomorrow morning?” Saeger asked, businesslike once more. “Better make it unofficial. Lyle’s again?”
“Is it open at nine?”
“It can be.”
“Lyle’s, then. I’ll be bringing someone along, if that’s all right.”
“As long a
s they’re not packing a snubby.”
She couldn’t promise—given Daoud’s line of work he might well carry a gun. But she was fairly sure he wouldn’t aim it at Saeger. “Nobody’s going to be shot.”
“Good enough for me.” And she rang off.
Sykes House was next, but they regretted to inform her Mr. Qassan was no longer in residence. Cursing, she reached for the telephone directory and flipped through it at speed until she turned up Cross-Costa Imports. It was far past business hours, but maybe, if fortune’s wind filled her sails …
“Cross-Costa Imports, Jamila Osogurundi speaking. Because you’ve called long past business hours and my clerks are gone. What in damnation do you want?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Lillian. “I’m trying to find Daoud Qassan.”
“Qassan? Hundred to one. You ever try craps? He’s sleeping in the office tonight. Tossed out on his rear. Unlucky in love.” Lillian heard the impact of a palm over the mouthpiece, and then a muffled “Qassan! Telephone!”
Another series of shufflings, and then: “Hello?”
«Daoud. It’s Lillian.»
«Oh.» She heard his steadying breath. «Is … is everything all right?»
«As much as I know, yes. I am only calling because I want you to meet someone. Tomorrow, at nine in the morning. Are you free?”
«Meet who?»
«I do not want to say on this line. If the ACPD had any inkling what Cross-Costa got up to, it would be tapped. And they’d find someone who spoke Porashtu. «Only tell me yes or no.»
«What is the favor?»
«Sorry?»
«Someone told me, just the other day, I would be well advised to learn what favor was being asked of me before I granted it.»
She made a fist and tapped it with great restraint against the pages of the directory. He was right, and she owed it to him. But how to say?
«You said you did not think you were … » She tapped her fist again, not frustrated this time, but searching for the word. «Challenging. I am offering you an opportunity to be that.»
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