Amberlough(113)

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.

Something in him felt like it had been cut, leaving him adrift. Amberlough was a name, a fantastical city that no longer existed. He had said as much in his letter to Cyril, but realized now he hadn’t truly believed it. The photograph of the smoking ruin on Temple Street … that convinced him.

Halfway up the hill, he heard footsteps on the path. Farah was jogging toward him, her sensible boots grinding stones into the mud.

“Mr. Sangster,” she panted. “You had a wire.”

His heart jumped, searing through the melancholy that had gathered in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the yellow slip of onionskin paper from her outstretched hand. “I’m sorry, about earlier.”

“Never you mind.” She patted his arm. “These are hard times, and you’re upset.”

He half nodded, staring at the telegram. No oranges.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she said, “but do you know anyone in Amberlough? The way your face fell, when you saw that photo, I thought…”

“No.” He had to swallow against a dry throat. Lies came to him easily. The truth was much, much harder. “No, I don’t think I do.”

*

He walked into gathering clouds with a curious feeling, like someone had finally drawn out a needle he hadn’t felt go in: a pulling, emptying sensation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. There was nothing supernatural about it—he didn’t believe in restless spirits or telepathy. He didn’t know if the weightless, tugging feeling in his center meant anything beyond his own acquiescence.