Two days had not been enough time. Jamila had come to him late, had given him no time for the kind of planning this venture required. There were bribes he would have liked to pay, if he knew to whom they should go. He had his Erikh Prosser passport—unused since he traveled to Porachis, always kept close in case of need—and a ticket under that name, but no papers or itinerary for Cyril. As it stood, there was half a plan for the extraction, a hotel two countries over, and Saeger’s word somebody would help them get there. After that, if they made it so far, things would go more smoothly.

Then again, when he had time and resources, all his plans had gone awry. Maybe this strategy—or lack thereof—would serve him better.

Leaning on the doorframe, Aristide looked out at the gloomy parlor, empty of its boxes now. Daoud’s coat was still missing, and now his hat and scarf had gone as well. Silence hung over the room, disturbed only by the occasional chime of a distant trolley bell.

And in the center of his otherwise empty desk, a flimsy booklet. Perhaps three inches by four. Aristide wove across the room and dropped heavily into the chair.

Thick green card stock embossed with the Enselmese national crest, placed on a piece of the hotel stationery. A note, in Daoud’s hand: From a friend.

Aristide opened it to reveal a haggard photograph of Cyril DePaul, partially obscured by visa stamps, above the name Ambrose van Weill.

Well. That would solve some problems, maybe. Not as it was, of course. This passport was a piece of evidence in Cyril’s convenient fraud case. But perhaps, if altered slightly …

Mother’s tits, it had come to this. Forgery had never been a strong suit, for the monarch of the demimonde. The closest he had ever come to caught was forging cheques, early in his career. Once he could afford it, he hired folk to make his fakes for him. What he wouldn’t give for Zelda Peronides now.

Scamming in this city used to come as easily as breathing. But this was the only gasp of air he’d gotten, so he’d better take it.

Cyril had borrowed Aristide’s pen to fill out the pages of the passport, so the nib and ink wouldn’t be a problem. The penmanship, however …

It occurred to him that he couldn’t remember what Cyril’s handwriting looked like, and whether or not this was it. He had never learned to copy the other man’s signature or calligraphy. Why would he have needed to know?

Letting out a ragged breath, he held the passport close to his eyes to study the idiosyncrasies, and then realized the text was blurry because his spectacles were still beside the bed. Once he had retrieved them and held them in his hand, he realized the offending extremity was shaking.