“But not like you?” Cyril followed him as he ducked into an alley. A door was propped open onto the narrow cobbled walkway, and Berhooven waved him inside. The crowd forced them to maneuver slowly.
“Oh,” said Berhooven, guiding Cyril to a table, “I move with the tide. And I could use a tax break or two. You saw the state of my poor buggy. Here, you first. Mind your step—the floor’s wet.” They slid into a booth, under an orange-paned lantern on a looped gold chain. The shallow arch of the ceiling was painted deep blue, spangled with mirrored tiles to imitate stars. Heat rose from the mass of bodies and warmed the room. On a low stage, a duo of accordion and double-reeded pipe wailed away at a syncopated reel. Smoke hung in a ragged veil over the heads of patrons and dancers.
“Put up your feet,” said Berhooven. “I’ll see about drinks.”
The band brought their reel to a staggering, stuttering, breakneck finale, and the dancers applauded. In the general rush for the bar, Cyril lost Berhooven. Scanning the press, he saw sailors from Liso, Hyrosia, and coastal Enselem. Three young women in Nuesklan police cadet uniforms drank in the corner, seemingly oblivious to the gaggle of prostitutes cruising the establishment. Cyril wondered if they knew yet, these laughing girls so smart in their jodhpurs and epaulets, that their force was on the Ospie payroll.
A flash of green drew his attention to the bandstand, where the piper and accordionist were arranging their instruments for the set break. A woman in a black dress and a green silk bolero had just brought them each a tall glass of cloudy beer. A familiar woman, with hair the color of buckwheat honey.
Sofie handed one glass to the piper, a willowy young man in a patchwork jacket. She kissed him, and Cyril smiled at what Sofie’s mother would no doubt consider an unsuitable attachment. Then, the accordionist set aside her squeezebox and opened her arms. Sofie sat on the woman’s broad lap and kissed her too, barely saving her beer from a spill.
Berhooven returned with a plate of smoked salmon and two glasses. He noticed Cyril watching the trio on the bandstand, now talking animatedly over their drinks. The accordionist, eldest of the three, had a weathered brown face and broad nose. She kept pushing back her dark curls, which threatened to cover her eyes like the shaggy fur of a sheepdog.
“Ah, so you spotted Sofie.” Berhooven laid a wafer of lurid pink fish across a cracker. “I wondered if we might see her here tonight.”
“Does she make a habit out of slumming with musicians?” But the familiarity between the three people on the bandstand told Cyril it went beyond that.
“Oh, our Sofie’s been keeping it up with those two since last summer. She’s asked them both to marry her, but her mother put a stop to it.”
“Both of them? One right after the other?”
“No,” said Berhooven. “Together. The ancient temples in Gedda allow for bigamy.”
“The Queen’s Cult?” asked Cyril, who knew already but wasn’t himself, and had to pretend.
“Yes. Keeler’s family are all Hearthers, just like most of your Ospies. The husband didn’t subscribe to anything, except maybe a religious interest in the stock markets. From what I’ve heard, the eldest Miss Keeler converted to the old religion as soon as she was of age.”
“I can’t imagine her mother was pleased.”
“As far from it as you can think. But the real scrapping came with the marriage proposal. Minna threatened to disinherit her.”
“But she’s already losing the business to her brother-in-law.”
“Well, yes. But she still has a comfortable allowance and a share in the mill.” He shook his head. “If you ask me, Minna’s more afraid for Sofie than anything else. If the banns are posted for her wedding, they go into the public record. You’ve probably heard what Acherby has to say about the temples. And with the Ospies on the make, Minna doesn’t want her daughter down as a cultist in a bigamous marriage. Let alone a bigamous marriage with a Chuli.”
“Chuli?” Cyril asked. Again, he knew, but Landseer wouldn’t.
“Nomadic shepherds, in the Cultham Mountains. Not Enselmese, not Farbourgere. They’ve always had a hard time, and if the Ospies get their way, well … it’s not just the states they want to unify. Society, religion, culture … the Chuli are scrapped. Nobody wants ’em and they don’t want nobody.” A rueful twist to Berhooven’s mouth hinted at his next admission. “I should know. My granny was one. Not such a fine accordionist, though.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Play ‘Feer Miri’!”
The accordionist looked over Sofie’s shoulder and saw him. She nodded and picked up the squeezebox, settling it across Sofie’s knees, her arms around Sofie’s waist. Sofie caught Cyril’s eye, and nodded a greeting.
Cyril looked away, back at Berhooven. “Why are you telling me all this?”