Amberlough(72)

“Evidence has emerged that is more than enough to remove Josiah Hebrides from office. You can expect a swift decline of regionalist influence in Amberlough. I advise emigrating before doing so becomes impossible.”

Exhaustion replaced Sofie’s outrage. Her knuckles went white between Taphir’s. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“Do you have any friends or relatives abroad?”

“No one I would trust,” said Sofie. Mab shook her head. All eyes turned to Taphir’s pinched face.

“I have an aunt,” he said, “back in Porachis. We haven’t spoken in a few years, but she might be worth a try.”

Mab rubbed thumb and forefinger along her eyebrows. “‘Worth a try’ en’t exactly confidence-inspiring.”

“Have you got a better idea?” he snapped. “I spent the last two days in a lockbox and I don’t like the idea of going back. At least we’ll be out of Gedda.”

A strangled sob escaped Sofie, who put her fist to her teeth.

Aristide smoothed his lapels. “I can arrange for passage to the Port of Berer, and move your money. Mr. Emerson, it might be better to leave any correspondence with your aunt until you make landfall in Porachis.”

Taphir nodded, his dark eyes wide and somber.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Aristide. Brushing attic dust from his trousers, he left Sofie crying between her two silent spouses.

*

When he gave his last cabbie directions, the woman looked him up and down and asked, “You sure?”

“As a keystone,” said Aristide, and climbed into the back of the hack. In reality, he was puzzled, and not a little apprehensive. What could Cyril possibly want? And why now, for queen’s sake, when half the rotten Foxhole was probably looking for him with their teeth bared and their blood up? He’d be arrested, if they could find him. Or maybe just shot.

The streets got dirtier, the buildings more ramshackle, as he traveled toward Eel Town.

“Here is fine,” said Aristide, when the cabbie crossed the intersection of Solemnity and Cane. She stopped at the curb. He paid twice the fare and thanked her. As she pulled away, he saw her eyes in the mirror, giving him one last doubting look.

The Stevedore was tucked down the back of an alley off of narrow, twisting Rifle Row. Broken glass choked the wet gutters. A steep set of stairs led down from the footpath to a basement door, marked with a tin sign painted in chipped lead white. The air inside reeked of spilled beer and stale smoke.

A few red-eyed patrons cased him when he walked through the door, but evidently found him less interesting than their pints. He checked his watch: one thirty-five. Cyril might be running late. Or he might be dead.

A low doorway at the back of the room led to a corridor that ended in a service stair to the left. At the right, it doglegged. Aristide made the turn and found himself in a second room, smaller and darker than the first, cluttered with tables. The chairs were up at most of them, crooked legs sticking into the air like the feet of dead animals. But in the rear corner, at a table lit by a chimneyed taper, Cyril sat with his back to one wall. A second chair stood empty against the other.

Weaving between the disused tables, Aristide took Cyril’s measure. He’d dressed down for the locale—a tweed flat cap and a collarless shirt, an oily rag around his neck. He had the details right even down to his ragged, hand-rolled cigarette. Despite his attire, he was clean-shaven. The circles Aristide remembered beneath his eyes were gone.

“You look well.” Aristide lowered himself into the empty chair.

Cyril snorted. Smoke barreled from his nostrils and twisted through the candlelight. “Thanks.”

“Will you please tell me why we’re meeting in this wretched place? You could’ve come by the theatre. Cordelia’s anxious about you. You g-g-gave her a bit of a scare, apparently.”

Stubbing out his cigarette, Cyril sat back in his chair and removed his cap. A lock of pomaded hair fell out of place and curved across his forehead. With an impatient gesture, he flicked his head to the side. The movement was ineffectual, but Cyril didn’t try again. Aristide had to check his hand from rising to smooth the stray bit of hair. The jerk of the chin, the fleeting irritation—familiarity cut keenly. How many times had he seen that same blond crescent fall against Cyril’s brow?

“I hope,” said Aristide, looking away, “you weren’t planning on an assignation.”

“Ari, please. If it was sex I wanted, we wouldn’t be in the basement of the Stevedore. No matter who was on my tail.”

“Is there anyone?”

“Of course. You don’t think the Ospies would give me my parole. I’m doing good work for my handler, but he doesn’t trust me. He’s afraid I’m going to embarrass him.”

“So it was you. Who scratched Taormino, I mean. And Hebrides, too?”

A self-deprecating smile hooked the corner of Cyril’s mouth. “You noticed?”

“I could hardly fail to. Which means Culpepper will notice too. Has she sent anyone after you?”

“Not yet, but she will. I can handle it, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s sweet of you. I’m flattered.”

“Cyril, why are we here? Tell me I didn’t come all the way across t-t-town to flirt in a dirty basement.”