He’d helped the Kingdom of Liso keep tabs on militias making incursions over the border. And he’d been tortured for it. He’d escaped that, and helped royalist cells build their networks in the north, undermining the authority of Gedda’s puppet government from within. He’d helped the rebels capture Ospie-backed troops and contractors who’d gone on to summary executions on their knees in the mud.

He’d lost sight, after a while, of whether that was a step toward redemption or one more thing he should hate about himself.

Cordelia Lehane was dead, but unlike so many other people dead at his hand, on his watch, with his blessing, at least the people who loved her would have a chance to bow their heads and say goodbye.

“You should go,” said Cyril.

“Apologizing to a plaque won’t do her any good.” Aristide nibbled moodily at a piece of flatbread.

Their meal had finally arrived: brisket, spicy lentils, collards cooked with nigella and fenugreek. Cyril wasn’t hungry, but began to eat anyway, out of habit. The part of him that was still hunkered down in Mayaoba—or slinking along the rain-slick game trail between Niallo Benggi and Niallo Kreb—that part told him to eat and keep eating until he filled his belly, because there wouldn’t be more coming at regular intervals.

“She’s dead, Cyril. I could dig her up and piss in her eye and get nothing but mud for my troubles.”

“Still.” He swallowed too much brisket, nearly choked. “You were her friend.”

Ari looked about to protest, but changed tack at the last moment and said, “So were you.”

“She wouldn’t want me there.” He thought of the look on her face when she’d come to his miserable bolt-hole after someone she loved had died—no one he knew, or had ever met, but someone he had helped to kill regardless. He’d tried to mend the bridge between them by saying they both did what was necessary to survive.

You’re nothing like me, she’d told him. Least I been honest about my ugliness.

“She would. If only just … oh, what did she say? So she could slap your teeth out.”

“I’d take it, and thank her.” Uncharacteristically, Aristide missed the innuendo. Granted, Cyril only caught the joke after he’d made it, and found it in poor taste.

Plucking the twist of lemon from his martini, Aristide began to fiddle with it, worrying the oily rind until it tore in two. He stared at the pieces for the span of a breath. When he let it out, he said, “You’re right. I’m a coward. I ought to go.”

Cyril shrugged, turned his whiskey on its napkin.

After an interminable silence, Ari began, “The last thing she said—”