Amberlough(77)

“Damnation, Makricosta, I know. You’ve said it twice. But—”

“But nothing,” said Ari, biting the “t” so sharply Cordelia could hear his teeth click. “Your friend’s in hospital. You’re shattered, I understand. But plague it all, Malcolm Sailer—” Malcolm winced, and Cordelia wondered whether it was because the northern curse called Tory to mind, or because Ari had used his full name. “—that stage will not stay empty tonight. If it does, they’ve won.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much about politics,” said Malcolm, tapping a column of ash right onto the floor.

“Malcolm, this is your livelihood. At least pretend you understand the consequences of your actions.” Ari leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If you cancel tonight’s show, you have given them everything. If you put on any act the Ospies don’t like, they’ll know they can attack your stagefolk on the street and close you down.”

“Well I can’t exactly run a show with my cast in hospital, can I?” Malcolm’s nicotine-stained snarl put Cordelia in mind of the yellow fangs of a cornered street dog. “Can’t imagine you’d be too thrilled to end up at the wrong end of a cosh, yourself.”

“No,” said Aristide. “But I’d like it far less if I knew it worked. Put on the show, Malcolm.”

Liesl nodded. “He’s right, Mr. Sailer. You’ve got to.”

Malcolm didn’t look at either of them. He stared straight at Cordelia. She stared back, into the familiar darkness rimmed with red. The skin under his eyes was soft and purple with exhaustion. She’d kissed him there, in the hollows above his cheekbones. She remembered the faint brush of his eyelashes against her nose.

Looking in his face now was like catching her reflection in a dark shop window. For a moment, she saw a stranger. Then, she saw her own aching need to be alone, to grieve. But when she spoke, despite his desperate eyes, all she said was, “Do it.”





CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

There were riots, in the week after Taormino’s arrest. Not big ones, but enough to get the ACPD hopping in the fourth precinct. Students and theatricals—volatile types—and farther south, in Eel Town, all the Amberlinians who’d operated in the ample shadows of the old administration.

Cyril was insulated from most of it, mewed in an Ospie safe house in a northern suburb of the city, on Van der Joost’s orders. He couldn’t tell if they honestly wanted him out of harm’s way, or if they were just suspicious and keeping a close eye on him. He hoped it was the former. That meant he was valuable, and his work had done them good. And good work meant new IDs and permits and a ticket out, for him and for Ari: the point of the whole endeavor.

The flat’s small windows overlooked a narrow alley. Summer weather made it stuffy, so Cyril went around mostly in a cotton undershirt with his braces dangling, smoking perpetual cigarettes. Nita, the girl who brought his papers and correspondence, had also grudgingly delivered a carton of cheap straights. Officially, the Ospies disapproved of Gedda’s booming tobacco trade because the majority of the leaves were imported. But some, mostly new temple Hearther types like Nita, objected on moral grounds—that it was a foreign, decadent habit.

Cyril put Nita at twenty or twenty-one years old, newly down from university. He hated her, but hid it with professional skill. During today’s visit, she had dropped off a pile of dispatches from his nascent network of traitorous police. It felt good to have informants, especially trapped here until the foxes trailing him could be dealt with. He was just finishing up his reading when the intercom from the front door buzzed. He tapped the button, dropping a fine spray of cigarette ash across the grille. “Yes?”

“A woman here to see you, sir.” The doorman was one of Van der Joost’s people. “Mr. Satzen brought her by.”

Cordelia. It had to be. And something must be wrong. The note in the bouquet of roses had said “for emergencies.” Inside was the exchange for Rudolf Satzen, an Ospie courier. He hadn’t meant for Rudy to bring her here, just to act as a messenger. But Cordelia probably always got what she wanted, in the end. “Send her up.”

He heard the lift mechanism wheeze behind the walls, and within a minute, footsteps in the corridor. He waited for her to knock, but instead, the door handle rattled. It was locked, but she kept at it. Then she knocked, like she was trying to hammer through. He ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray, stretched his braces back over his shoulders, and went to let her in.

Through the peephole, he caught her in profile, her hand to her mouth. When he turned the lock, her head snapped around and she nailed him with a glare straight through the glass. Suddenly, he worried he would need the help of the heavy across the hall, the bruiser set to guard him from anyone who made it this far with murder on their mind.

When he opened the door, she pushed past him wordlessly, but stopped just a few steps past the threshold.

“Have a seat,” he said. “Can I get you a drink? No gin, but there’s rye, and I think a bottle of sherry.”

“No.” She didn’t turn to face him.

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?”

“Not from you.” The line of her shoulders was tight and shaking. “That’s what I came to say.”

Damnation. “What can I do to change your mind?”