“The news,” he said, voice so even that his tic might have been a figment of Aristide’s imagination. “From Gedda.”

“Good luck finding a signal.” Aristide sat up, dragging the blankets with him. Despite himself, he was interested. They were nearly out of any kind of danger now, but it might be good to know what kind of silt they had kicked up behind them.

“You can usually get it,” said Cyril, “or at least, you used to be able to. And transmitters are better now. Though the weather—ah, wait. That was it.”

Silence as he moved the dial by millimeters. The static and the rain became one sound. Then, out of the white noise, a garbled, shushing voice. It grew stronger as Cyril fine-tuned the dial.

“—claims are still unsubstantiated. But Qassan’s close association with the company adds credence to his story. Here he is speaking to FWAC’s Laurie Kostos on last night’s After Dinner Hour.”

“Well,” said Cyril. “It’s not what I was—”

“Hush.” Aristide sat forward, bare feet on the cold floor.

“You’re saying Makricosta tried to blackmail Emmeline Frye to save DePaul from the tribunals she’d proposed?” Laurie Kostos might not think he had a radio voice, but it was certainly unmistakable, even with a weak signal. “And this is why she blew her own warehouse and blamed it on the Catwalk.”

Cyril, face still close to the radio, slid his eyes in Aristide’s direction. Aristide feigned intense concentration on the broadcast.

“I am.” In contrast to Kostos, Aristide almost didn’t recognize Daoud. If they hadn’t introduced him by his surname, if the story wasn’t so familiar … his voice sounded deeper, and Aristide wasn’t sure if it was the airwaves or an affectation. Resignation no longer colored his words, nor spite. He sounded sure of himself, unburdened by misgivings. “In addition to acting as Mr. Makricosta’s secretary, we were engaged in a … personal relationship, and so I was privy to information beyond the scope of Cross-Costa’s business. That warehouse exploded shortly after Aristide approached Frye, and it held large quantities of Lisoan poppy tar that Cross-Costa had entrusted to WCRC, our primary Geddan shipping partner. That was not a terrorist attack. That was retribution.”

Cyril switched the set off and stared at him. Digging deep, Aristide summoned a trace of the man Malcolm Sailer had put behind a microphone. It powered one saucy shrug, and a “Don’t say I never did anything sweet for you, spicecake.”

It didn’t make Cyril smile, but it melted some of the ice out of his expression.

“I’m almost proud of him,” said Aristide, swaddling himself more tightly in the displaced bedclothes. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the nerve.”

“Perhaps he finally lost patience with you,” Cyril said. “You can be unbearably vexing.”

“Yes, but usually he just puts up with it.” Aristide paused. “Put up. Past tense.”