“Ada.” He put his hand between her mouth and his ear. “After coffee. Please. “
She was about to snap at him—he could feel the sharp intake of her breath against his cheek—but she didn’t get the words out.
“DePaul!”
“Mr. Hebrides.” Cyril let his hand be drawn into a vigorous shake. Hebrides’s grip was dry and warm, his palm meaty. He was shorter than Cyril, but probably weighed half again as much: a solid man with flushed features and black, receding hair. Gray gleamed under the dye.
“How are you keeping?” He stopped pumping Cyril’s arm, but kept his hand and drew him close to slap his back. In mint condition, Cyril would’ve borne this jovial greeting with better spirits. But while his liver worked to exorcise half a bottle of the city’s best absinthe, all he could do was nod and try, wanly, to smile.
“A little worse for wear, eh?” Hebrides pulled out Culpepper’s plush leather chair. “Have a seat. Need a straight?”
Cyril settled into the soft, creaking cushions. “Gasping for one.”
“I’m glad a few of Ada’s foxes still know how to have fun.” Hebrides flipped open his cigarette case and slipped out two gold-banded straights. “She’s come down hard on her pups. When old Aurelio was in charge of the ’hole … well. There were more than a few of his agents who stumbled in late reeking of gin. Always got their jobs done, though.” Hebrides spoke with a thick urban drone, the hallmark of a city-born Amberlinian.
“DePaul’s methods have become … unorthodox in the last year.” Culpepper set her stack of files down and favored Cyril with a sneer. “But I’m confident he’ll clean up well.”
“And quickly too, I hope.” Hebrides lit his cigarette, then tossed the matchbook to Cyril. “Your ticket’s booked for next week.”
“Precipitous.”
“Efficient.” Culpepper drew up the guest chair and sat across from Cyril. “You’ve read the letters. Do you have any questions?”
“A few. Landseer’s wormed his way into this cohort very smoothly. But what for? I mean, it looks like they want his money, but why? To buy votes? What’s the point of sending me?”
“Not buying votes, no,” said Culpepper. “The Ospies need financial support. Their constituency is made up of people hurt by shipping tariffs; money’s tight by default.”
“So I’m tempting them to…”
“Tell us all their dirty secrets.” Hebrides rubbed his hands together. “Make them convince you. Landseer won’t get a return on his investment unless the Ospies win the election. So make them tell you how they’ll do it. The reports coming out of Nuesklend say the Ospies have the results sewn up. But no one’s talking; we don’t have proof enough to scuttle Acherby’s plans.”
“Ah,” said Cyril. “So I’m bait. A honeypot.”
“A moneypot, more like.” Hebrides laughed at his own joke. “Hold out, DePaul, like a blush boy playing for his rent. Hold out.”
“And Staetler. She’s given the all-clear?” Tatié had been unofficial. White work, they called it, for the paper between the lines. Unconstitutional, and dangerous. But with the permission of Staetler, Nuesklend’s governing primary …
“She’s promised to endorse our action during the endgame.” From the look on Culpepper’s face, she knew it wasn’t what Cyril wanted to hear. “But you understand, she can’t issue any official permissions. We aren’t sure who in her office or the Nuesklend Foxhole is on the Ospie payroll.”
The door swung inward and Memmediv entered, hip first, bearing a tray of cups, sugar, and a salver of cream. He set it down in the midst of a stiff silence, under the weight of a secret conversation obviously suspended. But working in Central, Cyril supposed, he must be used to that sort of thing. He managed it with grace.
“Thank you, Memmediv,” said Culpepper, her professional manner reassembled.
“No trouble.” He retreated and shut the heavy door behind him.
Hebrides settled onto a corner of Culpepper’s desk and dashed cream into one of the cups. “Doctor says to take it black,” he confided. “But when half the nation stands against you, I say take it however you damn well please.”
Cyril curled his hands around his own cup, breathing the dark scent deep down into his queasy center. “So,” he said. “I dangle a blank check in front of their noses and make them convince me. And you’re hoping to shut it down before things come to a head?”
“Ideally. You get the evidence; we bring an accusation. The regionalists mount a fraud suit against Acherby, destroy his political career, and get him thrown in the trap.”
“And what if I can’t get you anything until after the election?”
“Same story. Just riskier. Possession is nine-tenths, et cetera.” Culpepper hitched an ankle over her knee. Her trouser leg pulled up, showing a length of muted argyle sock.
“Can’t you just get Nuesklend’s Master of the Hounds on this? It sounds like a police matter to me. Or maybe ask parliament for election monitors?”