Cyril peeled himself out of bed hideously early the next morning and briefly considered the merits of vomiting. Perhaps on Aristide. The other man stretched like a sensual fresco across more than his share of the mattress, lustrous tangles of hair fanned out against the linens. He looked peaceful, sated, and not at all like he’d been up in the night searching through Cyril’s things. Drunk, Cyril was a fitful sleeper, and he hadn’t missed Aristide’s nocturnal reconnaissance.
Swiping his billfold from the nightstand—Ilse must be back in, and already pressing his abandoned trousers—Cyril staggered to the washroom. He looked like a tragic melodrama: shadowed, bloodshot eyes, his neck and chest mottled with bruises … One particularly livid splotch colored his jaw. He desperately needed a shave.
What he got instead was a face full of cold water, and his briefcase. It was exactly as he had left it, untroubled by Aristide’s nosiness. The leather was beaded with moisture on one side, but the lock was dry. He held out hope for the contents.
Wrapped in one of Ari’s ridiculous robes—poisonous green velvet that did nothing for his complexion—Cyril hauled himself to the parlor and collapsed into the wingback chair by the bookcase. Ilse came when he rang, her cheeks still rosy from a cold commute.
“Get me a pot of coffee,” Cyril said. His stomach lurched. “And maybe a wastebasket.”
She nodded and disappeared, returning a few moments later with the basket. “Coffee in a minute or two, Mr. DePaul.”
She was true to her word. He was still contemplating the clean bottom of the wastebasket when he heard the faint whistle of a kettle somewhere in the flat. The smell of brewing coffee sent rich tendrils through the stillness of the parlor. Cyril released his grip on the basket and put it on the floor, within easy reach.
Ilse returned bearing a tray and a folding table, which she set up at Cyril’s right elbow. In addition to coffee, she’d brought him a tumbler of … something.
“Ilse,” he said, tipping the brownish orange concoction to catch the light from the table lamp. “What is this?”
“Mr. Makricosta’s proven hangover remedy,” she said. “An egg with tomato juice, a healthy dash of fish sauce, and three spoonfuls of hot chili paste. Oh, and a little bit of black pepper bounce. The liquor takes the edge off.”
He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly through his mouth against the briny, bitter smell of the potion. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.
She snorted and made herself scarce.
Taken all at once, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, though he was briefly blinded by the spice. He poured a cup of coffee against his exhaustion and splitting headache. With the key from his billfold, he unlocked his briefcase.
It was stupid to read this here. But Ari wouldn’t be up for another hour or so—the sky outside the arching parlor windows remained deep purple in the west, the barest flush of gray light creeping over the gabled roofs and chimney pots across the river.
He flipped the cover of the file. Focusing on the words made his eyes ache, but he was a professional, for queen’s sake, and a hangover was not going to dull his edge.
As if to chastise him for his confidence, his stomach contracted unexpectedly. He lurched for the wastebasket, but nothing came up. Setting the basket aside, he picked up the file and straightened the ruffled papers.
According to a one-page biography of the fictitious Sebastian Landseer, Cyril’s new working identity was an obscenely wealthy landowner in the Hellican Islands who had contacted the owner of a Nuesklend textile mill some five years back with a proposition: He could source wool from farmers on the islands and facilitate shipping to the Nuesklend mills. Taxes on international shipping were only nominally higher than interstate, and the quality was better. Nobody bought wool from Farbourgh anymore. Landseer had hit the timing perfectly: His offer coincided with the worst year of ovine skin blight Farbourgere farmers had seen in a decade.
The typeset on Landseer’s outgoing letters matched Central’s standard-issue typewriters, copies of the originals. The replies were of varied appearance, from different people typing and writing on different paper, with different ink. Cyril paged through and took note of the names: Rotherhite, Keeler, Berhooven, Pollerdam … Mill owners, Landseer’s colleagues in the textile industry, all prominent Ospies. Because Landseer’s occupation and lifestyle kept him far from Gedda, and a stranger to his peers, it was possible now for Cyril to take over and leave these people none the wiser.