The last phrase caught Cyril’s attention. “But maybe?”
“I suspect this is the sort of ‘friend’ you would be unwilling to sacrifice under Mr. Acherby’s governance. Therefore, I cannot promise anything. It would be risky for me to facilitate such an … elopement. But I might consider taking that risk if your work—and behavior—prove satisfactory.”
“My behavior?”
“You may do what you wish when you are in Porachis,” said Van der Joost. “But while you are in Gedda, working under the auspices of Caleb Acherby, you will adhere to the party line. I cannot help you if you make me look too lenient.”
PART
2
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Cordelia woke up late on the morning after the election with a roaring headache. Her hair was tangled in a glittering paste tiara; face paint stained her pillow regionalist gold and blue. Amberlinians couldn’t vote in the western elections, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t celebrate.
A naked Lisoan boy sprawled upside down in the bed, one foot propped on the headboard. His broad chest rose and fell with whistling snores. Cordelia stretched and rubbed the crusted makeup from her eyes, then reached for her alarm clock, which she had not set the night before.
“Oh, queen’s cunt.” She kicked free of the snarled sheets and hit the cold floor. “Get up, you!” She grabbed a handful of the boy’s woolly dreadlocks and shook his head. “I need to get to work.”
Still torched from whatever he’d been taking the night before, he only smiled and reached out for her. She sneered and shook free. “I gotta get to work. Ten minutes before I throw you out, clothes or none.”
He staggered into his trousers, gathered everything else, and made a hasty exit.
The taps downstairs ran icy cold, so Cordelia washed up fast. Shivering but clean, she sprinted back upstairs to throw on culottes and one of Malcolm’s old sweaters she still had lying around.
She had to make the next trolley if she didn’t want a hiding from him. He’d stayed surly with her, after the Tory scrap, and while they’d had a few good nights, on the whole he was thornier with her than anyone else at the club.
But she didn’t worry long about it. By the time she got on the trolley, she’d seen the papers.
Surprise Acherby victory sweeps Nuesklend. Acherby takes western seat.
It was all any of the passengers were talking about. She turned to the man next to her, who had a copy of the Clarion spread across his knees.
“What’s it say?” she asked. “It can’t be true, can it? Everybody said Riedlions was a shoo-in.”
“She shoulda been.” His impressive white mustaches rose and fell as he sighed. “There’s more than a few crying false. ‘Allegations of fraud,’ is what the paperfolk are saying.”
“And no wonder!” Cordelia didn’t hold back her reedy whine; no need to play fine and fancy at this end of Station Way. “Ain’t no Nuskie with half a bit of sense would cast a ballot for that dredged-up dog prick.”
“And we all know it, don’t we?” He folded up his paper. “This’ll get sorted out fast, see if it don’t.” As the trolley drew to a stop, he handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “I’m through with it. Got enough troubles hangin’ on my tie.”
*
At the theatre, most everybody was gathered in the house. Seated around the mosaic tables, the cast and crew smoked and talked and passed the afternoon papers between them.
“Delly!” Tory stood on his chair and waved for her to come over. She went, reluctantly. She’d tried to avoid him, the last month, just to keep out of the pot with Malcolm. But the tight cliques and couples of the theatre were unraveling right now. Hearsay flew between the tables about Acherby, and Nuesklend. The air was electric with nervous laughter and cocky assurances that Staetler would put the old Ospies in the corner quick enough.
“How’s it turning?” she asked, sliding into a seat.
“How’s it look like?” Tory stubbed out the butt of a twist and let his hands rest on the table for a moment. Then, unable to stop fidgeting, he got out his tobacco and rolling papers and made up another one. “Plague and pesteration, but what must’ve happened last night in Nuesklend?”
“They counted their cards,” she said. “Paperfolk are all saying it. No matter if the fat fish were backing the Ospies, everybody knew Riedlions was going to win the seat.”
“You seem fair confident. Not worried about the Ospies taking over and shutting down all Amberlough’s tit shows?” He licked the edge of his rolling paper and twisted it into a neat tube, pinched at each end. “I s’pose you’ve always been a day-to-day type.”
She didn’t think he meant it as an insult. Not Tory. “It’s better than sitting on my ass, smoking all my shag.” She flicked the end of his freshly rolled cigarette. “It’s a heavyweight kinda battle. Nothing any of us welters can do about it.”
“No?”
“Not unless you’re packing a snubby and planning to cozy up to Acherby some night soon.”