Under the low ceiling of a dark taverna, empty at midday, the silence between them seemed compressed, pressurized. Ari ordered a cocktail in rough Porashtu, which the bartender half-spoke—a double martini, very dry, with a twist. Cyril lit another cigarette. The constant availability of something he’d had to scrounge for made it hard to stop. Nicotine hummed beneath his skin. He took a handful of matchbooks when the bartender’s back was turned, and put them in his jacket pocket. Perhaps the suit hadn’t been such a bad idea. A tunic and trousers wouldn’t have afforded him so many spots to stash his spoils.

“You know,” said Aristide, after his first martini arrived. “I’m not particularly hungry.”

Cyril snorted. “Looking after your figure?”

“And you do feel like eating?”

Stones, the arch of his eyebrow put a cramp in Cyril’s gut that had nothing to do with hunger. He took a rueful drag on his straight and then rolled it between his fingers, letting smoke flow through his field of vision like fog rolling in. It helped when he spoke; made the world feel far away. “Why lunch, then?”

“Because Asiyah’s safe house didn’t have a bar.” Aristide put the rest of his drink down his gullet and gestured for another one. “Rye and soda, still? I think I see a bottle of Carter Bowles back there.”

Cyril shrugged. He hadn’t had rye since … well, he’d stopped counting. He was unused to preference and frankly, at this juncture, it seemed pointless. “I’ll take what I can get.”

They sat, unspeaking, as the bartender mixed and poured. It wasn’t until Cyril put the first warm swallow of whiskey into his belly that he finally said, “What are you doing in Liso, anyway? Acherby’s gone.” Dissolved his government and stepped down under pressure, assassinated three days later stepping out of a car. That news had made it even into the jungle. “I’d have thought you’d be back in Amberlough as soon as the Ospie flag went off the pole.”

Aristide tugged fussily at the wet napkin underneath his glass. “You’d have thought wrong.”

Cyril leaned on the fault before he considered the consequences. “Can’t go back, or won’t?”

“Haven’t,” said Aristide, the lines around his mouth hardening.

“Why?” Cyril could feel the sharp edges of the question as he asked it, knew he looked a little rabid. “Scared of what you’ll find?”

“I’ve been very busy.” He said it too crisply.

“Getting to know my family?” Despite himself, Cyril was curious about that.

“It was quite a while ago. We were both in Porachis at the same time. The Ospies had her on a bit of a short jess; I helped to get her out of it.”