If he admitted it to himself, with the Ospies gone, she wouldn’t care who used her name. Not as long as there were posters up on Temple Street, and unlicensed prostitutes in Eel Town could bribe the hounds to stroll the other way. She had got what she wanted. He had promised to tell people what she had done, and he had failed.

It was a failure he’d been happy to bury. Just one of several. Many. It was easier to tell himself that he was doing the right thing, when really he was just keeping his heart wrapped in cotton, packed in straw.

When he was young, he had never understood how people could feel disgusted with themselves. Even the foulest crimes had failed to stir his conscience, because they were in service to a worthy end: his own security and comfort. Age had given him clarity, on that subject at least.

“When will you return?” Daoud asked, and Aristide wondered how long silence had taken up the line between them.

“I’m not sure. Book me outbound and we’ll arrange the rest later.”

There was a pause, in which implications settled like stones.

“I will ring the airfield,” said Daoud, at last. “For … for…”

“Mr. Ambrose van Weill,” said Aristide. An Enselmese entrepreneur. That was the name Cyril had written on his new passport, supplied by Asiyah in order to avoid any awkward questions that might arise. When Lillian turned tail on the Ospies they dragged her whole family through the midden, and some people had long memories. Acherby was gone now, but the stories had been printed. And no matter where one’s sympathies lay, Cyril DePaul lay opposite.

“For Mr. van Weill,” said Daoud. “I’m not sure there will be anything tomorrow. But perhaps the day after? Two days at the most, if the weather is fine.”

“Two days,” said Aristide. As the words traveled through the line he felt a swell of dread. Two days, with a man who couldn’t speak to him without sneering. Two more days of listening to those nightmares. Of staring at a wall that had once been a door, ajar.

It was much better for him to fly ahead. Sharing a ship voyage would have been too much.

“And you?” asked Daoud, reminding him of the telephone in his hand, hard against his cheek. “Will you be flying to Rarom the same day?”

“Yes,” said Aristide, “I suppose I’d better. Cross will tear me up and down, when she hears what I’ve agreed to.”

“She might not be the only one,” said Daoud, and rang off before Aristide could retort.

CHAPTER

SIX