Amberlough(30)

“Are you saying you’d rather die now?”

“Of course not,” said Cyril. He wanted it to come out smooth, but it just sounded desperate. “I want you to make treachery worth my while.”

“You’re not in a bargaining position.”

“Yes,” said Cyril. “I am. First off: You’re right. I’m the Master of the Hounds. I already have the police in my hands. Second, my death puts the foxes’ ears up. You don’t want that. So here’s my proposal: I’ll help you tear down the four-state system. I’ll tie the ACPD up with a bow and hand them over. But when it’s all said and done, you get me—and my assets—out of the country.”

Van der Joost’s expression shifted from blank shock to sly approval. “I think that could be arranged. We could procure you a residential visa, for Porachis, say. You have family there, don’t you? A sister, a nephew?”

There was a subtle threat in that. Cyril logged it, but said nothing. His sister was a diplomat, and smarter than him, besides. She would be safe even if he ended up scratched. Probably.

“There is a certain elegance in it.” Van der Joost’s smile was flat and slow, reptilian. “You help us consolidate our power, and we help you escape it.”

Cyril thought of the vise that would tighten around the citizens of Amberlough, the lives he would destroy. And suddenly he remembered Aristide calling the whole fiasco “just a little bit of politics.” He was overconfident; he would never expect this, never see it coming. “There’s one more thing.”

Van der Joost raised an eyebrow.

“A second visa. For a friend.” He knew he was testing the limits of his precarious position, but fortune’s wind never filled timid sails. He wasn’t hugely surprised when Van der Joost shook his head.

“That I cannot do. Not yet.”

The last phrase caught Cyril’s attention. “But maybe?”

“I suspect this is the sort of ‘friend’ you would be unwilling to sacrifice under Mr. Acherby’s governance. Therefore, I cannot promise anything. It would be risky for me to facilitate such an … elopement. But I might consider taking that risk if your work—and behavior—prove satisfactory.”

“My behavior?”

“You may do what you wish when you are in Porachis,” said Van der Joost. “But while you are in Gedda, working under the auspices of Caleb Acherby, you will adhere to the party line. I cannot help you if you make me look too lenient.”





PART

2





CHAPTER

EIGHT

Cordelia woke up late on the morning after the election with a roaring headache. Her hair was tangled in a glittering paste tiara; face paint stained her pillow regionalist gold and blue. Amberlinians couldn’t vote in the western elections, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t celebrate.

A naked Lisoan boy sprawled upside down in the bed, one foot propped on the headboard. His broad chest rose and fell with whistling snores. Cordelia stretched and rubbed the crusted makeup from her eyes, then reached for her alarm clock, which she had not set the night before.

“Oh, queen’s cunt.” She kicked free of the snarled sheets and hit the cold floor. “Get up, you!” She grabbed a handful of the boy’s woolly dreadlocks and shook his head. “I need to get to work.”

Still torched from whatever he’d been taking the night before, he only smiled and reached out for her. She sneered and shook free. “I gotta get to work. Ten minutes before I throw you out, clothes or none.”

He staggered into his trousers, gathered everything else, and made a hasty exit.

The taps downstairs ran icy cold, so Cordelia washed up fast. Shivering but clean, she sprinted back upstairs to throw on culottes and one of Malcolm’s old sweaters she still had lying around.

She had to make the next trolley if she didn’t want a hiding from him. He’d stayed surly with her, after the Tory scrap, and while they’d had a few good nights, on the whole he was thornier with her than anyone else at the club.

But she didn’t worry long about it. By the time she got on the trolley, she’d seen the papers.

Surprise Acherby victory sweeps Nuesklend. Acherby takes western seat.

It was all any of the passengers were talking about. She turned to the man next to her, who had a copy of the Clarion spread across his knees.

“What’s it say?” she asked. “It can’t be true, can it? Everybody said Riedlions was a shoo-in.”

“She shoulda been.” His impressive white mustaches rose and fell as he sighed. “There’s more than a few crying false. ‘Allegations of fraud,’ is what the paperfolk are saying.”

“And no wonder!” Cordelia didn’t hold back her reedy whine; no need to play fine and fancy at this end of Station Way. “Ain’t no Nuskie with half a bit of sense would cast a ballot for that dredged-up dog prick.”

“And we all know it, don’t we?” He folded up his paper. “This’ll get sorted out fast, see if it don’t.” As the trolley drew to a stop, he handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “I’m through with it. Got enough troubles hangin’ on my tie.”

*

At the theatre, most everybody was gathered in the house. Seated around the mosaic tables, the cast and crew smoked and talked and passed the afternoon papers between them.