“Actually,” he said, and saw the furrows melt from her face. She’d have them back, and worse, in a moment. “I need someone here. Someone to keep an eye on the Ospies. Preferably from within.”
To his surprise, she laughed. “A double agent,” she said. “Aren’t you lucky you know one already?” She paused, sucked at her teeth. “I’d have to play like I was turning. I mean, I’d really have to turn. And they’d want to use me to spy on the Foxhole. That’s three handlers to please at once, Mack.”
“I understand if that’s somewhat … intimidating.”
“Nah.” She grinned. “Sounds like a thrill to me.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I been waitin’ for this one my whole life.”
Cross’s confidence was reassuring, even if she did sound mad. “I’m going to back off from you for a while,” he said. “Just so you don’t look suspicious. Will you let me know when you’re in place?”
She reached across the table and plucked the gaudy rosette from his hatband. “You just bet I will.”
*
His errands took him slowly but steadily south. If he had a tail, he hoped they would admire his efficiency instead of suspecting his final destination. He’d bought most of the foxes on his case and wasn’t worried what they thought, but until Cross wormed her way into the Ospie ranks, Acherby’s people were an unknown quantity.
He stopped in at I Fa’s flat during her morning receiving hours, less for pleasure than for business. She was heavily invested in a few of his ventures, and things wouldn’t go well for her if her finances came under scrutiny by Ospie agents. Then he headed down the wharves, rendezvousing with some of his ground-floor operators. Last, before answering Cyril’s summons, he went up Elver Street into the heart of the southwest quarter. In the attic of Peronides Fine Arts and Antiques, Aristide sat across from his three frightened clients and told them they could no longer stay in Amberlough.
“But Taphir’s safe,” protested Sofie, gripping her husband’s knee.
“Depends what you mean by ‘safe,’” said the boy, putting his hand over hers. “I will need to keep my head down for a bit.”
“But that’s not hard in this city.” Sofie looked at Aristide with huge, beseeching eyes. “Am I right, Mr. Makricosta?”
“A year ago,” he said, “you could have remained here, and done very well indeed. But not now. If you wish to stay together, and stay safe, you must get out of Gedda entirely.”
“But—” Sofie looked around the room, as if she might find something to counter Aristide’s pronouncement.
“Surely you’ve seen today’s papers,” said Aristide.
“Papers?” Mab spoke, finally, and her tone was acid. “We’ve been cooped up in this aerie for nigh on a week now. How are we supposed to get any news?”
He realized they truly didn’t know, and he didn’t relish telling them. Especially as he knew on whose golden head the blame could be squarely placed.
“Evidence has emerged that is more than enough to remove Josiah Hebrides from office. You can expect a swift decline of regionalist influence in Amberlough. I advise emigrating before doing so becomes impossible.”
Exhaustion replaced Sofie’s outrage. Her knuckles went white between Taphir’s. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“Do you have any friends or relatives abroad?”
“No one I would trust,” said Sofie. Mab shook her head. All eyes turned to Taphir’s pinched face.
“I have an aunt,” he said, “back in Porachis. We haven’t spoken in a few years, but she might be worth a try.”
Mab rubbed thumb and forefinger along her eyebrows. “‘Worth a try’ en’t exactly confidence-inspiring.”
“Have you got a better idea?” he snapped. “I spent the last two days in a lockbox and I don’t like the idea of going back. At least we’ll be out of Gedda.”
A strangled sob escaped Sofie, who put her fist to her teeth.
Aristide smoothed his lapels. “I can arrange for passage to the Port of Berer, and move your money. Mr. Emerson, it might be better to leave any correspondence with your aunt until you make landfall in Porachis.”
Taphir nodded, his dark eyes wide and somber.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Aristide. Brushing attic dust from his trousers, he left Sofie crying between her two silent spouses.
*
When he gave his last cabbie directions, the woman looked him up and down and asked, “You sure?”
“As a keystone,” said Aristide, and climbed into the back of the hack. In reality, he was puzzled, and not a little apprehensive. What could Cyril possibly want? And why now, for queen’s sake, when half the rotten Foxhole was probably looking for him with their teeth bared and their blood up? He’d be arrested, if they could find him. Or maybe just shot.
The streets got dirtier, the buildings more ramshackle, as he traveled toward Eel Town.