He half-rose for a better angle, but the nail-picking guard pushed him back down. Both guards stepped forward to the open door and as he watched the first one jerked and fell forward, hitting the pavement outside. The second had time to lift her gun, but followed her companion before she could shoot.

A mountainous slab of human appeared from below the bumper with a pry bar in one hand and a pistol tucked into his belt. How had he got all those shots off from his position?

Then Cyril noticed the passenger in the delivery truck, unscrewing a silencer from her own sidearm. The driver had both hands on the wheel.

“Come on,” said the man with the pry bar. “Out. Or do I gotta drag you?”

Cyril only gaped for a moment. Then he was out the back of the van, trying to avoid the corpses on the asphalt and keep his balance with cuffed hands. His rescuer—probably two hundred pounds, looked Lisoan but spoke like an Eel Town sculler—steadied him and then half-carried him around the back of the delivery van. He cringed, afraid of being spotted by whoever had pulled up behind, but saw yet another box van behind this one. The driver, a middle-aged Chuli man in a flat cap and spectacles, waggled his fingers in greeting.

Cyril stared hard through the windshield, disbelieving. But before he could confirm his suspicions, he was bundled into the midst of cold, wet, and briny stink, and the canvas flap pulled down across the light.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

“I’m glad you could take the time to drive all this way,” said the headmaster—Merritt, not Porks, as Lillian had to keep reminding herself. Stephen’s irreverent slang was infectious.

She bit down on the darkly humorous response that threatened—What else had she to do, these days?—and also on the very serious complaints. Petrol was expensive, and so was spending the night in a hotel. The school could easily have sent a proctor to the city for Stephen’s exams, but she had the sense this was a test: Would she jump through these hoops to see her son reinstated at Cantrell?

Yes. She would. Because if everything else was out of her control, at least this was something she could throw her energy behind.

And anyway, it was an alibi. Cyril was meant to be arraigned today. Meant to be. Jinadh was at the courtroom in her stead, though he had offered to come to Cantrell. She had insisted, pleading her influence as an alumnus. He didn’t seem convinced.

“Frankly,” she said to Merritt, “I’m surprised you still wanted Stephen to come.”