If he lived, at least he could limit his errors to the logical progression of his own decisions. And if he was lucky, temper them with a success or two. If he was very, very lucky, he could make amends.

Cordelia was dead, put up on a plaque and made into a symbol. He could die and be the same: her opposite number, like Ari used to be onstage. Pathetic traitor to her keen and clever saint. But if he lived …

He could not fix all the wrong that he had done; too many of those doors were shut. But this one—the one that led to Aristide—might at least stand ajar.

A shame that it was far too late to see what lay on the other side.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

The bombing of a warehouse full of merchandise was, of course, cause for a company meeting.

Cross being in Liso, she sent a telegram that Aristide and Jamila should handle things and arrange a radio call only if necessary.

So although he had many other things on his mind—Cyril looked sick in prison greens; Cyril had lost weight he could ill afford; as soon as the election was over, Cyril would become a spectacle and then a corpse—Aristide found himself climbing out of a cab with Daoud at the unremarkable offices of Cross-Costa Imports once again.

«You are going to tell her what I did,» said Aristide, shoulders hunched more in misery than against the wind.

«Of course I am.» Daoud went ahead of him, and didn’t hold the door.

Jamila welcomed them with open arms, jollier than anyone Aristide had interacted with in the recent past. She wore a smile and a napkin tucked into her collar. A paper plate of flatbread and curried peanut lamb sat steaming on her desk.

“Boys!” she said, slapping the blotter on either side of her lunch. The two clerks jumped, one of them starting so violently he struck the carriage return. “Have a seat. You two—” this to the clerks, “—stroll off.”

They ran like startled hares.

“You are in a very good mood, considering.” Daoud sat sulkily across from her.

She laughed. «Respected little brother—» there was an ironic tinge to the diminutive Porashtu honorific “—this may look bad, but the gods saw fit to gift us with a blessing called insurance.” She scooped up a bite of curry and, still chewing, said, “The payout’s the value of the goods we shipped on paper, which I was clever enough to pitch high. Not because I expected a disaster, see, but because I always like to be prepared. And!” She finally swallowed, then paused for a belch. “It’s risk-free now. No tar sitting around for any hounds to find. No moving it, no distribution. A pain for all the folk who would have made money on it selling, but for us? It doesn’t hurt near as bad as it looks.”