Perhaps he ought to be trussed like a contrary sheep and taken forcibly from Gedda. But Aristide could guess enough about what Cyril had endured to know that this would be unforgivable. The only other option seemed to be changing Gedda to suit Cyril, and it was a little late in the campaign to put his name on the ticket.

But he didn’t need to run for office to effect change. To put a halt to the proposed tribunals, he only needed to scratch the prospects of the person who’d proposed them. Or ensure her success on his own terms.

Custler, bless her, had dropped this neat idea straight into his lap. Now, all he had to do was pick it up and give it a shine.

“Hm,” she said, casing him like a breeder eyeing horseflesh. “You’re real quiet all of the sudden.”

“Headache,” he said, and pushed back from the railing. “They come on suddenly sometimes.”

“Really? You should see a doctor. My brother-in-law had aches like that and took real sick and died. When they cut his head open he had a tumor like this.” She made a fist. “Gave him delusions, too. Real bad.”

He smiled thinly. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Daoud was still elbows-deep in paperwork when Aristide returned to the hotel. A smudge of ink colored his cheekbone, just above the carefully barbered edge of his beard.

“Sell all my shares,” said Aristide, flinging his gloves onto the sideboard.

Daoud looked up from his work, eyebrows furrowed. He was going to need spectacles soon, from the pained wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. «Once again?»

“My shares in Cross-Costa. Sell them. Yours, too, if you like.”

Shaking his head like he was trying to clear water from his ears, Daoud asked, “I—all of them?”

Reconsidering, Aristide sank onto the sofa and stretched out. “Oh, all right. Maybe half. Keep our fingers in the pie for verisimilitude.”

“Veri—” Daoud paused. “Aristide, what are you planning, that we need to tell a lie?”

“I didn’t have to plan a thing,” he said. “Custler came up with this one all on her own, and dropped it neatly into my lap.”

Without looking, he felt the intensity of Daoud’s skepticism on him like a spotlight. “Whatever you are going to do,” he said, and Aristide heard the rustle of papers collected into a pile. “Cross is not going to like it, is she?”

“It will destroy our Geddan business, if not Cross-Costa Imports entirely. Bring me a drink while you’re up?”

Because he had risen from his chair in alarm. Now, taken aback, he hovered with his hands slightly raised.

“A brandy, please. And don’t skimp. I know you’re liable to.”