It had started small. Defeated at his original purpose and pushed south by fighting once war began in earnest, Aristide brought Daoud south and settled in Rarom, near the airfield. There was a seedy little bar where the pilots liked to drink and soon Aristide had a good rapport with Wedi, who kicked a carton or two his way when she thought they might not be missed.

Merrilee came down from Ul-Mejj when he started to cut in on her market. By then her city was on the front line anyway, so they set up their company in his backyard. Fewer unexploded shells.

They did well for themselves, redistributing rice and tobacco amongst the highest bidders. Police and royal agents largely looked the other way if their palms stayed greasy. But a prince would be another matter, especially now that the war was over and the royal family had face to save and laws to impose in the land they had reclaimed from republican control, where Porachin aid was sorely needed.

Aristide was prepared for a friendly tip. He was prepared for a royal summons. He was not prepared for what followed Asiyah’s pleasantries.

“I have some news about a mutual friend,” he said.

Their shared acquaintances fluttered through Aristide’s mind like a handful of shuffled business cards. Pulan? Lillian? He kept in contact, if irregularly, with both of them by post, and sometimes by radio call if a special occasion warranted, though those were expensive and a pain in the rear to organize. Usually it was letters, and occasionally a telegram. In fact, Lillian had cabled him last week, with an invitation to an event he had flatly refused. He wouldn’t cut the ribbon on a memorial so she could curry favor with Gedda’s ministerial candidates. Not that memorial, anyway.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing that Asiyah’s silence had dragged into expectancy. “Who is it?”

“I cannot say on this line.”

Which meant clandestine work. Conspiracy. Espionage. Aristide had less to do with foxes than with thugs these days. Pulan, Asiyah could have mentioned on the telephone. If not her, then …

As if the final tumbler of a stubborn lock had given way, the realization snapped into place with metallic clarity. It had been five years, but perhaps the jungle had given up its prize after all.

“Where?” His fingers tightened on the receiver; resin creaked at the seams.

“There is a flight to Dadang tonight,” said Asiyah, and Aristide realized he had answered for a different, more pedestrian value of the word.

“No,” he said. “Where did you find…?” It wasn’t that he remembered not to say the name. Only that he couldn’t.

“Pack a bag,” said Asiyah, “and be at the airfield by nine o’clock.”