Jamila had helped him, and might continue to do so, if he didn’t ask too much. He might get a few spare hands off her, as long as her name didn’t enter into things. He set that aside for the morning.

If they came out the other side of the escape unscathed, they wouldn’t be able to stay in Gedda. He considered the options. Ports were bottlenecks and boats were traps. A land border would be better.

The idea of Enselem made his chest tighten, an iron band of irrational panic that made him think again of the prescription for amyl nitrate that he’d hastily torn to bits. He didn’t like to think of himself as superstitious, but he wouldn’t plan on crossing those mountains again.

Besides, he had friends in Tatié. Or, if not friends, the kind of contacts he no longer had in Amberlough. And in a war zone it was very easy to get lost.

Going by car would afford them flexibility, but cars needed fuel, which meant stops along the way: opportunities to be spotted. He also didn’t currently have one. Nor did he have time to buy one tabletop or ready cash for anything illicit. Unfortunately, trains out of Gedda no longer stopped in Tatié, not unless you had a stack of papers as high as your head and months to wait around for clearance. And he didn’t feature flinging himself out of one at speed before they hit the Ibetian border.

He lost track of the time making mental circles. The hour was very late when he heard the parlor door and the sound of boots toed off against the floor.

“Didi?” he called out, gin and loneliness overcoming his better judgment.

A long pause. He imagined Daoud standing, sock footed, considering his options. Maybe sighing. Then, “Aristide? You are still awake?”

Aristide didn’t bother to answer. The bedroom door swung open, just wide enough to show a slender silhouette against the parlor lights. “Are you ill?”

“I need you to make a phone call.”

“Right now?”

Aristide levered himself up and swallowed against a surge of nausea. “Yes. I know it’s late. Early. But…”

“What is this?” asked Daoud, pushing the door open wider. Aristide blinked. Blind, he felt Daoud sit on the foot of the bed.

“Call Lillian,” he said. Sacred arches, his head hurt.

“Aristide, it’s half three.”

“We’re both awake. Call her right rotten now.”

“To ask her what, exactly?”

“She knows Saeger. They’ve talked. Might know where to reach her.”

“Absolutely not. What are you—?”

He stopped abruptly, because Aristide had gripped his upper arm. Tightly. As tight as he never had when he really wanted to. Through the layers of Daoud’s coat he could feel the give of flesh, the stubbornness of bone.