Amberlough(101)

“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 lowered 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?”