Ospie propaganda painted Nuesklend and Amberlough as wicked twins, exclusive economic gatekeepers; but in this colorless limpet of a city, Cyril saw nothing that reminded him of home.
He arrived at the Klipsee raw-cheeked but refreshed, in body if not in spirit, and gave his name. It wasn’t the first time he’d called himself Landseer—he’d been using it with every ticket taker and customs clerk on his journey west—but it felt different now, and it got a different reaction. Obsequious staff showed him to a quiet, dark-paneled room, offering him coffee, brandy, and some sort of absurdly red local liqueur.
Two men arrived shortly after Cyril’s coffee. A tall, underweight character with a severe mustache—“Willem Rotherhite. It’s good to meet you at last, Mr. Landseer!”—and a doughy man with a bland round face and thinning hair. Cyril recognized him, from the photograph in his file, but let himself be introduced.
“This is Konrad Van der Joost,” said Rotherhite. “An associate of mine.”
“Textiles?” asked Cyril.
“If only,” said Van der Joost, casting his pale eyes around the richness of the room. “No, we’re in the same chapter of the One State Party.”
“Oh, Konrad, let’s not get into it just yet. We’ve got a month or so to get our friend to open up his wallet. Have a brandy first, Seb, and let’s hear about Ibet. I’ll wager the slopes were fine, this time of year, and the schoolgirls finer. They all go up to the mountains for mid-quarter break, from the university. I studied for a few years there, back in my halcyon days.”
Cyril admitted the skiing had been excellent, but kept mum on the condition of the students. He’d read the letters; Landseer was cautious at first, socially. Even with a few years’ worth of correspondence, this was his first meeting with Rotherhite in person, and he’d never spoken to Van der Joost. Crass remarks could wait until Landseer was more comfortable.
They chatted for an hour or so, and lunched on bass and plovers’ eggs. Cyril let himself be talked into a glass of the scarlet digestif, which turned out to be tart cherry bounce—a Nuesklend specialty. Conversation was trivial. When Rotherhite checked his watch over brandy and declared it was time for his next appointment, Cyril shook his hand and accepted an invitation to dine at his home later in the week.
“I’ll have some of the others round,” he said, “Keeler and her girls, and maybe old Berhooven. I’m sure they’d love to see you in the flesh. The young misses Keeler especially.” His wink was theatrical, almost flirtatious, but not in the way Aristide’s would have been. Cyril had a pang, and ignored it.
Van der Joost lingered after Rotherhite had gone. Cyril smoked and swirled his brandy, waiting for the other man to make some conversation. When it came, it made him catch his breath.
“You know, you’re not at all what I expected.” Van der Joost was busy slicing the end of a cigar, and didn’t see Cyril flinch. “From Rotherhite’s description of your letters.”
“Really?” He steadied himself with a sip of brandy. Not blown, not yet. “You thought I’d be … what? Older? Less charming?”
Van der Joost smiled around his cigar, puffing against the wick of an elaborate table lighter. “I can’t say I’m sorry you defied my expectations.”
“Well, Mr. Van der Joost,” said Cyril, grinding out his straight, “I’ll endeavor to go on defying them. Good day.”
Van der Joost’s handshake was cold and a little clammy. When Cyril was safely out of the room, he wiped his palm clean on his jacket. The fine dark wool wouldn’t show the sweat.
*
Cyril’s walk in the rain caught up with him; he contracted a nasty head cold for the next few days, rereading the Landseer letters and quizzing himself on his four main correspondents. Rotherhite he’d met—a widower, but a bit of a man about town. Then there was Pollerdam, a sober man with keen business skills, not apt to stray far from his factories. Berhooven was full of stories of rowdy weekends and big losses at the gambling table, but he could probably afford to lose.
Keeler was the most interesting. A widow, and Rotherhite said she had children, though she’d never mentioned them in her letters. Acherby hadn’t been too shy when it came to his opinions on working women—he was a raving Hearther evangelist—so Keeler must be supporting the unionists for purely financial reasons. Nuesklend’s mills would profit from lower shipping tariffs.