As if the memory were rising through muddy water, Konrad Van der Joost’s flabby face coalesced in his mind’s eye: threatening Cyril’s sister, if he misbehaved.

“I’m not awfully thrilled about the reward for services rendered,” Aristide went on. “She wants me to … She’s got some appointment in the provisional government, and wants me to make an appearance at this ceremony. Shake some hands, make her look capable, and well-connected.”

“Sounds like she hasn’t changed much.” It didn’t get the smile that it should have: that cruel curve of thin lips that said they were the only two in on a caustic joke.

“Yes, well. I told her no, but…”

And it hung there. No follow-up. Ari had caught him slipping in his bad behavior, the habits more appropriate for interrogation than for small talk, and was going to make him own up to it. He’d have to keep playing the game.

Power struggles. His breath caught. Once, it would have been lust. Now it was a mix of anger and fear, left over from conversations like this one in tone, though weightier in content. Conversations in which the person who came out on top was the one who ended up alive.

“But what?” Cyril asked, the pressure of his fingers putting dimples in the paper of his straight.

Ari stared into the remains of his drink. He’d put two double martinis away faster than Cyril would have credited, if he hadn’t seen people do worse, faster. Maybe these eight years hadn’t worn on Aristide as gently as it seemed.

Cyril’s straight had burnt down to his fingers. He put it out and slipped the butt into his pocket. Saw Ari follow the motion, and caught the flicker of a shadow that passed over his face, the deepening of the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“The ceremony,” he said. “Cyril, it’s a dedication. For a memorial on Temple Street. Right where the Bee was. For the Catwalk. But mostly, for Cordelia.”

So Cordelia Lehane was dead.

Cyril wondered how this should make him feel. Surprised? He wasn’t. He’d been half sure he was going to get her killed during the course of their association. Distraught? He was leagues beyond that. Guilty? This was just another bucket into the bay. There were ripples from the impact, certainly—he imagined her face would be swapped in for any number of other faces when he staggered into nightmares tonight—but good luck picking out this particular sin from the general cold depths of his self-loathing.

Cordelia Lehane was dead because of him. So were a lot of people. Nothing he’d done in the jungle had changed that.