Amberlough(71)

In his own cupped palm, Aristide held a matchbook from a grisly dive just north of Eel Town. He flipped it open and saw one match missing, and one torn in half. At the corner of the cardboard flap was the message TIED UP till then, written in smudged pencil and block letters to disguise the hand.

He took a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Cyril’s messenger. “Thank you. Go see Ilse in the kitchen.”

There was lots to do before half one: people to see and plans to make, all over the city. The weather was fine enough for springtime plaid—a heather ground crosshatched with pale green and blue. As a final flourish, on his way out the door, Aristide stuck a cheap gold rosette in his hatband. It had come last week in one of the endless bouquets punters sent backstage, and he’d been trying to figure out what to do with it since. He wasn’t worried about looking too gaudy in the rough neighborhoods where he was headed—in Amberlough, people knew who he was. And if that failed … the cut of his suit might telegraph money, but the tailor who’d constructed it had done so with respect for hidden holsters.

Reflected sunlight bounced off the Heyn. When Aristide ducked into the Little Camphor Bar, he had to blink spangles from his eyes.

Cross was in the private dining room upstairs. She nodded Aristide into the seat opposite hers and started talking, without preamble.

“I’m not staying in the Foxhole,” she said. “Not now. Things are going sour like milk.”

“I didn’t imagine you would,” he said.

“Question is, do you have a full-time spot for me? I can probably get myself back to Liso, if you need somebody there. But to be honest…”

“You’ve been there two years and you’d like to stay at home a while longer, yes. Even with things as they are?”

“Amberlough is where I hang my hat,” she said. “I’d like to stick by her while she wades through this mess.”

“Then this may be a tricky sell.” He’d been turning it over for a while, this idea. Even before Cyril scratched the regionalists. The Ospie threat had been looming for some time, and Aristide always liked to be prepared.

“You want me abroad?” Tired lines pinched the corners of her mouth. “I thought you would.”

“Actually,” he said, and saw the furrows melt from her face. She’d have them back, and worse, in a moment. “I need someone here. Someone to keep an eye on the Ospies. Preferably from within.”

To his surprise, she laughed. “A double agent,” she said. “Aren’t you lucky you know one already?” She paused, sucked at her teeth. “I’d have to play like I was turning. I mean, I’d really have to turn. And they’d want to use me to spy on the Foxhole. That’s three handlers to please at once, Mack.”

“I understand if that’s somewhat … intimidating.”

“Nah.” She grinned. “Sounds like a thrill to me.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“I been waitin’ for this one my whole life.”

Cross’s confidence was reassuring, even if she did sound mad. “I’m going to back off from you for a while,” he said. “Just so you don’t look suspicious. Will you let me know when you’re in place?”

She reached across the table and plucked the gaudy rosette from his hatband. “You just bet I will.”

*

His errands took him slowly but steadily south. If he had a tail, he hoped they would admire his efficiency instead of suspecting his final destination. He’d bought most of the foxes on his case and wasn’t worried what they thought, but until Cross wormed her way into the Ospie ranks, Acherby’s people were an unknown quantity.

He stopped in at I Fa’s flat during her morning receiving hours, less for pleasure than for business. She was heavily invested in a few of his ventures, and things wouldn’t go well for her if her finances came under scrutiny by Ospie agents. Then he headed down the wharves, rendezvousing with some of his ground-floor operators. Last, before answering Cyril’s summons, he went up Elver Street into the heart of the southwest quarter. In the attic of Peronides Fine Arts and Antiques, Aristide sat across from his three frightened clients and told them they could no longer stay in Amberlough.

“But Taphir’s safe,” protested Sofie, gripping her husband’s knee.

“Depends what you mean by ‘safe,’” said the boy, putting his hand over hers. “I will need to keep my head down for a bit.”

“But that’s not hard in this city.” Sofie looked at Aristide with huge, beseeching eyes. “Am I right, Mr. Makricosta?”

“A year ago,” he said, “you could have remained here, and done very well indeed. But not now. If you wish to stay together, and stay safe, you must get out of Gedda entirely.”

“But—” Sofie looked around the room, as if she might find something to counter Aristide’s pronouncement.

“Surely you’ve seen today’s papers,” said Aristide.

“Papers?” Mab spoke, finally, and her tone was acid. “We’ve been cooped up in this aerie for nigh on a week now. How are we supposed to get any news?”

He realized they truly didn’t know, and he didn’t relish telling them. Especially as he knew on whose golden head the blame could be squarely placed.