Daoud slapped a leather folio down onto Jamila’s desk. “A prospectus for Geddan expansion, based on the assumption of a deal with West Cultham. Will it be possible?”

Jamila stared at him blankly for a moment, until a smile began to build on her face. It was very wide by the time she finished. She slapped Daoud on the back—he made a sound like oof—and picked the folio up but did not open it.

“That depends on you, my friends. I buttered this roll; you’ve got to put it on the grill to fry. Hah. Fry, Frye. That’s a good one. Though you’re going to be dealing with a peach named Frances Custler, not the lady herself. West Cultham is held in trust until the election. And if Frye wins, Custler’s the head of WCRC throughout her term.”

“Nominally,” said Daoud, tone sour.

Jamila jabbed a finger at him. “Hit it in one.”

“How short is that jess?” asked Aristide.

“That’s the question, ain’t it? She’s been cagey with me. ’Course she wants the world to think Frye’s washed her hands of the operation. Saeger’s already all over her for mixing profit and politics.”

“And you think she’ll tell me?”

“Not a chance,” said Jamila. “But maybe you can suss her better than me. Anyway, she said she’d bend her knees with you. And that’s a start.”

They joined Frances Custler at her home for dinner that evening—she was free, and the rest of Aristide’s week was promised to the provisional government and Lillian DePaul.

Custler kept a bachelor apartment on Ionidous Avenue. The place looked only half lived-in, and was quite a comedown from Aristide and Daoud’s rooms at Sykes House. She could probably afford better. Aristide wondered why she kept the place, and where she spent the rest of her time when she wasn’t laying her head down here.

Custler herself was a broad-shouldered woman of perhaps forty-five, short hair styled slick with pomade. Though her rooms were chill, she wore shirtsleeves and those rolled up to show freckled, densely muscled forearms. She had the air of a factory foreman, though her waistcoat and wristwatch read money if one could parse the language. Aristide, as it happened, was fluent.

They could have, he supposed, gone to some public establishment, but electoral tensions were high; many eyes were straining to catch a fault. And Custler’s landlord kept a serviceable kitchen. He brought them gratin and a roast: simple fare, but good quality cooked well. Where he’d got ahold of it was anyone’s guess; the meat at Sykes House had been thin and tough at lunch, a cheap cut dressed up with vinegar and salt. Aristide suspected there were juicier chops available, if one had the cash and the contacts.