Cold fear filled the groove of his spine. “What?”
“It wasn’t supposed to come to threats.” Van der Joost sounded almost apologetic. “But you have no choice, DePaul. Not really. We have the police force here, and mercenary ships on the mill owners’ payrolls”—he spread one hand on the table to represent Nuesklend—“and the army in Tatié.” He put the other hand down, and drew them both together, matching thumbs and index fingers.
The spade-shaped hollow between Van der Joost’s palms showed Cyril his city, hemmed in. “And if I’m not keen on the idea of treason?”
There was a weighty pause. Then, instead of an ultimatum, Van der Joost said something unexpected and banal, but all the more chilling for that.
“You don’t want to be here, do you?”
“You mean Nuesklend in general, or sitting here, across from you?”
“I mean on this action. In the field. My sources say Culpepper pulled you out from behind a desk to do this job. But I’ve read your personnel file. I know about Tatié.”
Cyril curled his hand into a fist, breaking the crease at the front of his trousers.
“You were stationed within the army, reporting on their training and their capabilities. Amberlough likes to keep a close eye on her neighbors. Especially her well-armed ones. A navy and volunteer militias are no use against a landlocked military power.”
And Tatié was rabidly unionist. Though the ongoing border conflict with Tzieta occupied most of the army’s attention, things were changing under Moritz’s regime, probably at Acherby’s behest.
“Blown, tortured, nearly killed. And Culpepper hushed it up, to keep Amberlough out of a civil war. She used to be your case officer, didn’t she? That must have stung.”
“It was good policy,” said Cyril, through gritted teeth. “You said yourself: We couldn’t fight them. As it was, the reparations Amberlough paid were brutal.” It was illegal for a state to use FOCIS agents in domestic rivalries, especially given the military aspect of the action. Cyril’s presence implied mistrust. “It was more than I should have expected.”
“But not as much as you wanted.” Van der Joost sat back in his chair. “I have it on good authority you were reluctant to return to active service.”
“Purely speculation.” True, nonetheless.
“Do this for the party, and you have my word you’ll never be put in the field again.”
“And if I don’t do this, I’ll die in it?”
He didn’t get an answer, but Van der Joost’s silence had an affirmative heft.
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Cyril. “I’m not thrilled.”
Van der Joost’s chuckle felt jarring, though in retrospect Cyril’s gross understatement had struck an almost humorous note.
“You’ve read my file,” he continued. “You know who I am. Well, I’ve read up on Acherby and the blackboots too. I know your platform. I won’t condemn myself to a life of celibacy, or risky assignations in the shadows. If I die now, I’m dead, fine.” His hands felt like ice, but he made himself say it. He might be a coward, but he was also a hedonist. “If I help you, I destroy the city that lets me live my life, and I end up a pariah, or in prison.”
“Are you saying you’d rather die now?”
“Of course not,” said Cyril. He wanted it to come out smooth, but it just sounded desperate. “I want you to make treachery worth my while.”
“You’re not in a bargaining position.”
“Yes,” said Cyril. “I am. First off: You’re right. I’m the Master of the Hounds. I already have the police in my hands. Second, my death puts the foxes’ ears up. You don’t want that. So here’s my proposal: I’ll help you tear down the four-state system. I’ll tie the ACPD up with a bow and hand them over. But when it’s all said and done, you get me—and my assets—out of the country.”
Van der Joost’s expression shifted from blank shock to sly approval. “I think that could be arranged. We could procure you a residential visa, for Porachis, say. You have family there, don’t you? A sister, a nephew?”
There was a subtle threat in that. Cyril logged it, but said nothing. His sister was a diplomat, and smarter than him, besides. She would be safe even if he ended up scratched. Probably.
“There is a certain elegance in it.” Van der Joost’s smile was flat and slow, reptilian. “You help us consolidate our power, and we help you escape it.”
Cyril thought of the vise that would tighten around the citizens of Amberlough, the lives he would destroy. And suddenly he remembered Aristide calling the whole fiasco “just a little bit of politics.” He was overconfident; he would never expect this, never see it coming. “There’s one more thing.”
Van der Joost raised an eyebrow.
“A second visa. For a friend.” He knew he was testing the limits of his precarious position, but fortune’s wind never filled timid sails. He wasn’t hugely surprised when Van der Joost shook his head.
“That I cannot do. Not yet.”