They carried on quite a pleasant conversation for the rest of the flight. And by “they” Cyril meant Aowamma and van Weill. He sat back in his seat and watched it happen from very far away.

“Mack,” said Cross, their brand-new blacklist spread in front of her. “These are our best customers.”

Facing Merrilee Cross and her dangling cigarillo in the smoke-filled offices of Cross-Costa Imports, the prospect of explaining this change of plans was even less appealing than it had been in Dadang. But worth it. Aristide kept repeating that, hoping he would feel the truth of it sometime soon. Especially now that Cyril was well away, and less like a man than a strange, unsettling dream.

“Nevertheless,” he said. “They’ve got to go. I’ve cut a deal with someone I’d rather not disappoint.”

“I don’t want to disappoint them.” Merrilee jabbed the list with a stiff finger. “Holy stones. We tell Oreeta Ngdoze we won’t sell to her anymore, I don’t give us good odds on making it through to the rains.”

“I think you’re handicapping us a little harshly.” He’d been running the same calculations since his dinner with Asiyah. Dealing with Cyril had taken most of his time, so that he only found himself free to meet about business after the plane to Hyrosia taxied down the runway.

They had dined in Asiyah’s suite at the Waolla-hai. Over pilau and fish curry, Asiyah had given him a list of names that included five of their best customers, and three of their most dangerous.

“I cannot offer you protection,” Asiyah told him, when he pointed out the risks. “And I do not think you need it as badly as you say.”

Cross-Costa had arrangements with private security, it was true, but, “A couple of hired truncheons aren’t going to keep me in one piece if Ngdoze decides she wants me in several.”

That got him a shrug. “That is your affair. Now that DePaul is safely on his way to Gedda, I will appreciate a swift show of your gratitude before you, also, leave the country.”

He should have been more careful with his telephone calls. Cross would quarter him if she ever learned how widely open he’d left that flank. In fairness—he hated when that phrase was applicable to his own actions, because it always accompanied some idiocy that could have been avoided—in fairness, he had been somewhat distracted. Still was. There had been packing to do, arrangements to be made. And that was just the logistics. The rest of it—the hiss of soap against stubble, sunlight slanting through eyelashes lowered in sleep—he couldn’t possibly approach head-on. And certainly not until everything else had been dispatched.