Amberlough(111)

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 difficult 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.”