Amberlough(17)

If Culpepper was “the Skull,” to the Foxhole, “the Gentleman” was Josiah Hebrides, Amberlough’s primary representative to the upper assembly of Gedda’s parliament. Cyril’s stomach sank further into turmoil.

On the fifth floor, Memmediv gave Cyril a sour look over the tops of his reading spectacles.

“Morning, Memmediv.” Cyril had discovered on the ride over that he’d lost his cigarette case during last night’s activities. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a straight?”

The secretary made a small noise through his impressive nose. “Honestly.” But he pulled a black leather case from his pocket and flipped it open. His hooded glare followed Cyril, who took time picking. The row of crisp white tubes had a tendency to blur together, and the smell of tobacco made him dizzy with craving and sickness in equal measure.

Memmediv was saved from giving up his cigarettes by Culpepper, who chose that moment to stick her head out the door.

“DePaul,” she said, and nothing else. But it was enough that Cyril groaned and straightened up. “Vaz,” Culpepper went on, and she must have been distracted, because usually she was scrupulously professional with Memmediv. “Be a swan and fetch us some coffee?”

“Yes, Vasily,” said Cyril. “Do.”

Culpepper leveled a thin finger at Cyril. “You. In here.” The finger curled.

Gathering himself, Cyril sighed and followed her.

“Don’t embarrass me in front of Hebrides,” she said, close to his ear. “If you hurl on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up.”

“Ada.” He put his hand between her mouth and his ear. “After coffee. Please. “

She was about to snap at him—he could feel the sharp intake of her breath against his cheek—but she didn’t get the words out.

“DePaul!”

“Mr. Hebrides.” Cyril let his hand be drawn into a vigorous shake. Hebrides’s grip was dry and warm, his palm meaty. He was shorter than Cyril, but probably weighed half again as much: a solid man with flushed features and black, receding hair. Gray gleamed under the dye.

“How are you keeping?” He stopped pumping Cyril’s arm, but kept his hand and drew him close to slap his back. In mint condition, Cyril would’ve borne this jovial greeting with better spirits. But while his liver worked to exorcise half a bottle of the city’s best absinthe, all he could do was nod and try, wanly, to smile.

“A little worse for wear, eh?” Hebrides pulled out Culpepper’s plush leather chair. “Have a seat. Need a straight?”

Cyril settled into the soft, creaking cushions. “Gasping for one.”

“I’m glad a few of Ada’s foxes still know how to have fun.” Hebrides flipped open his cigarette case and slipped out two gold-banded straights. “She’s come down hard on her pups. When old Aurelio was in charge of the ’hole … well. There were more than a few of his agents who stumbled in late reeking of gin. Always got their jobs done, though.” Hebrides spoke with a thick urban drone, the hallmark of a city-born Amberlinian.

“DePaul’s methods have become … unorthodox in the last year.” Culpepper set her stack of files down and favored Cyril with a sneer. “But I’m confident he’ll clean up well.”

“And quickly too, I hope.” Hebrides lit his cigarette, then tossed the matchbook to Cyril. “Your ticket’s booked for next week.”

“Precipitous.”

“Efficient.” Culpepper drew up the guest chair and sat across from Cyril. “You’ve read the letters. Do you have any questions?”

“A few. Landseer’s wormed his way into this cohort very smoothly. But what for? I mean, it looks like they want his money, but why? To buy votes? What’s the point of sending me?”

“Not buying votes, no,” said Culpepper. “The Ospies need financial support. Their constituency is made up of people hurt by shipping tariffs; money’s tight by default.”

“So I’m tempting them to…”

“Tell us all their dirty secrets.” Hebrides rubbed his hands together. “Make them convince you. Landseer won’t get a return on his investment unless the Ospies win the election. So make them tell you how they’ll do it. The reports coming out of Nuesklend say the Ospies have the results sewn up. But no one’s talking; we don’t have proof enough to scuttle Acherby’s plans.”

“Ah,” said Cyril. “So I’m bait. A honeypot.”

“A moneypot, more like.” Hebrides laughed at his own joke. “Hold out, DePaul, like a blush boy playing for his rent. Hold out.”

“And Staetler. She’s given the all-clear?” Tatié had been unofficial. White work, they called it, for the paper between the lines. Unconstitutional, and dangerous. But with the permission of Staetler, Nuesklend’s governing primary …

“She’s promised to endorse our action during the endgame.” From the look on Culpepper’s face, she knew it wasn’t what Cyril wanted to hear. “But you understand, she can’t issue any official permissions. We aren’t sure who in her office or the Nuesklend Foxhole is on the Ospie payroll.”

The door swung inward and Memmediv entered, hip first, bearing a tray of cups, sugar, and a salver of cream. He set it down in the midst of a stiff silence, under the weight of a secret conversation obviously suspended. But working in Central, Cyril supposed, he must be used to that sort of thing. He managed it with grace.