“Nobody goes in,” one of the bruisers said when he approached the steps. “’Cept when they’ve got a key to the building and we know their face.”

“How much will it cost to give you knowledge of mine?”

“Nah,” said his fellow. “We ain’t like that.”

“Does the name Cordelia Lehane mean much to you?”

“Much as it does to anyone. You ain’t special for knowing it.”

“Oh, but I am. Go on. You can ask Saeger if you like. Tell her Aristide Makricosta wants to see her. I’ll wait down here.”

And he did, until Saeger appeared on the doorstep in a sweater hastily thrown over pyjamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes and looking not in the least ministerial.

“Makricosta,” she said. “I … not that it ain’t a pleasure to meet you, but…”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “Or at least, I hope it will be.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” she said.

“We can get rid of him, if you want,” said a bruiser.

Saeger shook her head, then chafed her arms. “Temple bells. It’s too cold to stand here jawing.”

“Well then, I guess you’d better let me in,” said Aristide.

Looking more bemused than aggravated, Saeger stood aside and waved him up the steps.

“The thing that you’re asking me to do,” said Saeger, a little while later, “it could ruin me.”

She was in the kitchen, making coffee. Aristide sat at her dining room table, taking in the spare apartment with its single bed. From the scrubbed table and counters, the bare floors, and recently beaten rug, he guessed at any other time those rumpled sheets would have been folded tight, the quilt tucked in at the edges. But he had hauled her out from under the covers at an inexcusable hour. Of course she hadn’t made the bed for him.

“Forgive me for saying so—ah, thank you.” The mug—enameled tin—nearly burnt his fingers. “But you’re already ruined. Frye as good as nailed a terrorist attack on you.”

“That wasn’t my folk.”

He bit down on I know. That wouldn’t get him anywhere he wanted to be.

“Stones,” said Saeger. “‘My folk.’ They ain’t even that anymore. There ain’t a Catwalk. Those hatch marks are just a handy flag to wave.”

“No Catwalk?” he said. “Really?”

She shrugged. “Sure there’s folk who were Catwalk. But Gedda don’t need that now. And it ain’t like bombing trains gives me any right or sense to lead a country.” She blew on her coffee, staring despondently at the wall. “I ain’t just a fighter. I wish more people clocked that.”

“I’m not asking you to fight,” he said.