“As you might expect.” He fell back in his chair, sighing heavily as if he could purge the conversation, and nodded at the folders. “What are those?”

“Customs forms,” he said. “Cargo manifests. All things associated with bringing a vessel into this harbor and unloading our wares. I had thought we might review them, but if you need…” He trailed off, as if unsure what Aristide might need in this situation.

In fact, even Aristide wasn’t sure. To go forward with the deal would put money in the pocket of a woman who had as good as tied a noose around Cyril’s neck. But to falter now would break Cross-Costa to little purpose. Aristide did not like grand gestures if they were also useless. A boycott that accomplished nothing wasn’t a statement; it was pathetic. To that end, “No. I’m quite ready to look at them.”

Daoud sat down gingerly across from him and lifted the cover of the first document. He paused halfway, clearly struggling with words that wouldn’t come. “Aristide. I apologize, but … I overheard the last part of your conversation and … what is your relationship to Mr. DePaul at this time?”

That wasn’t even a conversation he was ready to have with himself, let alone with his … secretary. Or whatever Daoud was to him. So. “Certainly nothing to do with imports and exports. Shall we begin?”

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Frye’s numbers in the polls began to rise. She had followed Lillian’s advice to the letter—or her campaign manager had—and entered onto the scene well-armed with a point-by-point implementation plan for a series of tribunals: retroactive justice for all the folk who had been wronged by the Ospies. And the whole state of Amberlough, the whole rotten country, had been grievously wronged by Cyril.

Saeger played a poor game of catch-up after Frye’s strong start out of the gate. This was where her Catwalk connections ought to have served her best, but Frye had been given lead time, leaving Saeger floundering in the dust. There was no way she could approach the issue without agreeing with the opposition. Her efforts made her sound conciliatory and slightly pitiful, which—like white silk—looked ill on her.

«You’ll make yourself crazy,» said Jinadh, when Magnusson brought Lillian’s habitual stack of papers to the breakfast table.

“I’m not already?” she asked, trying for levity and missing by a hair. Jinadh made a face she might have taken exception to, if the news had not been more important.

The Telegraph, the Clarion, Federal Call, Farbourgh Times … she’d revised her subscriptions in the wake of the disaster after Solstice. International affairs had fallen rather by the wayside, in her order of priorities.

She traced a headline with one finger. «Frye is proposing judges already, and she isn’t even in the Cliff House. If she’s elected, she’s really going to do this.»