“I exist in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction,” he said, considering his brandy. “But it will certainly stay my hand.”

Aristide didn’t know his way around Amberlough’s press corps anymore. He couldn’t pick his quarry based on past work or favors owed, or on the understanding that the owner of their enterprise would like them to do one small thing for a gentleman who would call tomorrow.

He asked Jamila, but that got him a shrug—apparently her influence in the city extended largely underground. Well, she’d only been here six months or so—give her a little while and she’d have them all on strings, and the strings tied to her belt.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have a little while. Briefly stumped, he finally remembered Lillian’s husband was some stripe of paperfolk. He’d left things badly with her, but Daoud had spent Solstice drinking and jawing with Jinadh, and hadn’t lately gotten into a shouting match with the lady of the house. Still, he wasn’t keen on Aristide’s plot, so best to approach it from an angle.

“Didi,” he said, over steak and eggs in the Sykes House breakfast room. “What paper does Mr. Addas write for, again?”

“The Observer,” said Daoud. “Owned by Siebenthal’s. And he’s an editor, not a columnist. Why?”

“I was hoping he could put me in touch with a few of his colleagues. I find myself in need of a pen-fencer.”

That got him a raised eyebrow. “What for?”

“Insurance,” said Aristide, which brought the eyebrow back down to meet its fellow in a worried frown. “You might inquire for me. You seemed to be quite friendly by the end of our Solstice stay.”

“And Lillian will not speak to you,” finished Daoud. “Or anyway, you have not tried.”

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture this morning.” Aristide sliced into his steak, or tried to. Sykes House may have had a very good kitchen, but the cook’s morals apparently prevented them from buying on the black market, where they might have found meat that would yield beneath his silverware. “Ask Jinadh if he knows anyone who might be starving for a big break. Someone hungry. The political pages, or perhaps crime?”

“If you tell me what you want this for, maybe I will do it.”

Aristide paused in sawing. “I’m sorry, darling. Please remind me who signs your checks?”

“Cross-Costa,” said Daoud. “I act in the company’s best interest. And lately I fear that you do not.”

A bite of steak finally gave way. “Ask him today,” said Aristide, and put it in his mouth to forestall further conversation.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN