Amberlough(27)
Berhooven returned with a plate of smoked salmon and two glasses. He noticed Cyril watching the trio on the bandstand, now talking animatedly over their drinks. The accordionist, eldest of the three, had a weathered brown face and broad nose. She kept pushing back her dark curls, which threatened to cover her eyes like the shaggy fur of a sheepdog.
“Ah, so you spotted Sofie.” Berhooven laid a wafer of lurid pink fish across a cracker. “I wondered if we might see her here tonight.”
“Does she make a habit out of slumming with musicians?” But the familiarity between the three people on the bandstand told Cyril it went beyond that.
“Oh, our Sofie’s been keeping it up with those two since last summer. She’s asked them both to marry her, but her mother put a stop to it.”
“Both of them? One right after the other?”
“No,” said Berhooven. “Together. The ancient temples in Gedda allow for bigamy.”
“The Queen’s Cult?” asked Cyril, who knew already but wasn’t himself, and had to pretend.
“Yes. Keeler’s family are all Hearthers, just like most of your Ospies. The husband didn’t subscribe to anything, except maybe a religious interest in the stock markets. From what I’ve heard, the eldest Miss Keeler converted to the old religion as soon as she was of age.”
“I can’t imagine her mother was pleased.”
“As far from it as you can think. But the real scrapping came with the marriage proposal. Minna threatened to disinherit her.”
“But she’s already losing the business to her brother-in-law.”
“Well, yes. But she still has a comfortable allowance and a share in the mill.” He shook his head. “If you ask me, Minna’s more afraid for Sofie than anything else. If the banns are posted for her wedding, they go into the public record. You’ve probably heard what Acherby has to say about the temples. And with the Ospies on the make, Minna doesn’t want her daughter down as a cultist in a bigamous marriage. Let alone a bigamous marriage with a Chuli.”
“Chuli?” Cyril asked. Again, he knew, but Landseer wouldn’t.
“Nomadic shepherds, in the Cultham Mountains. Not Enselmese, not Farbourgere. They’ve always had a hard time, and if the Ospies get their way, well … it’s not just the states they want to unify. Society, religion, culture … the Chuli are scrapped. Nobody wants ’em and they don’t want nobody.” A rueful twist to Berhooven’s mouth hinted at his next admission. “I should know. My granny was one. Not such a fine accordionist, though.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Play ‘Feer Miri’!”
The accordionist looked over Sofie’s shoulder and saw him. She nodded and picked up the squeezebox, settling it across Sofie’s knees, her arms around Sofie’s waist. Sofie caught Cyril’s eye, and nodded a greeting.
Cyril looked away, back at Berhooven. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I know why you’re here.”
Cyril’s stomach dropped to the floor, but Berhooven went on. “Konrad’s been after all of us to bring you round. Woo you like a courtesan after favors from the queen. The Ospies have the people’s support in the north and the east, but the people don’t have money. The mill owners here can give a little, but not enough—if they could give, they wouldn’t need Acherby in office.”
“And this is how you’re going to convince me?” asked Cyril, raising his voice over the first yelping minor chords of Berhooven’s requested Chuli jig. “A few pints of beer in a regionalist pub, and a tragic love story?”
“Nonsense,” said Berhooven. “I just want to make sure you have a good time.”
“So you’re not advocating for the regionalist cause?”
Berhooven’s offended scoff was just this side of farcical. “Mr. Landseer. Only think how that would look to our friends uptown. I’d be drummed out of business.”
The use of his work name threw Cyril for a moment. In the din of the pub, under the glittering swathes of mirrored stars, he had almost forgotten who he was supposed to be.
*
His reports to Culpepper started out optimistic, but took a turn for the frustrated as the unionists continued to dance around. They were solicitous, but wouldn’t confide; Pollerdam came up in conversation repeatedly. Cyril began to understand that the absent mill owner was Landseer’s opposite number, another set of deep pockets whose compunctions might not keep him from contributing. If he gave, and took the edge off of the Ospie’s hunger, Cyril might lose leverage. So far, he’d stayed in the north and kept to himself, but as the weeks dragged on without development, Cyril’s anxiety intensified. He wanted this done. He wanted to incriminate the lot of them and get back home.
He was dressing for a fundraiser gala when he got the telegram. The party was a last-minute affair, ostensibly pooling money for a big publicity push in the final week of election season. Rumor had it Pollerdam was finally due down, and there were hints he might be generous.
One of the hotel staff knocked on his door as he was tugging his cuffs into place. When he answered, she handed him an onionskin paper, folded and sealed.
“Wire for you, sir,” she said, and clicked her heels. He tipped her and waved her off.
Hotel bar Stop fifteen minutes Stop Rye Soda End