Besides, the firelit obscurity of Custler’s dining room set a satisfying scene for their conversation. It also meant there was no pretense. No sooner had the wine come uncorked than Custler said, “You’re lowballing us on your offer.”

“In response to an initial quote that was, quite frankly, ludicrous.” Aristide sliced into his beef. It was very pink in the middle, and the juice ran in rivulets across his plate.

Custler smiled into her glass. “I like you already.”

“Better than Jamila?”

Swallowing hurriedly, Custler flapped a hand. “No, no. Oso’s fine. But if I can deal with the boss, I’d rather. And you just happened to be in town. Lucky me. Written your speech yet?”

The meat in his mouth suddenly lost its savor. He choked it down, and instead of answering he asked her, “Will you be at the dedication?”

Custler snorted, and put her elbows on the table to roll a cigarette. “That’s Emmeline’s crowd, not mine.”

The way she said the name put Aristide in mind of the way Cross sometimes referred to her husband, or the cargo pilot they kept it up with on and off, when he flew shipments to Rarom. An affectionate kind of derision that conveyed unintended volumes about the speaker’s intimacy with the subject.

He filed this useful piece of information away, right beside his observations of the dusty mantel and the scent of vacancy that hung about Custler’s rooms.

“Perhaps we’ll cross paths,” he said. “Gracious of her to attend, when the Catwalk wreaked such havoc with her livelihood.”

“Are you kidding?” Custler sawed at her beef with gusto. “WCRC’s picked up some lucrative contracts from the temps—the provisional government. We’re not just running trains, you know. We’re building rails for pay.”

“Which means,” said Daoud, “you ought to be amenable to a lower rate when it comes to shipping Cross-Costa’s goods.” He removed another leather folio from his briefcase and slid it across the table. An adapted version of the prospectus they had brought to Jamila; shorter on detail than the internal version, and the rest of it polished to shine.

“It speaks,” said Custler. “I was starting to think you just kept him to fetch and carry. And maybe to improve the scenery.”

Like Frye does you? Aristide thought but did not say.

Custler set her twist in the ashtray beside her plate and took up the folder. There was a protracted silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Daoud caught Aristide’s eye, then let it fall. Inconveniently, Aristide felt his cheeks warm with shame. He hoped his complexion would conspire with the unsteady light to hide it.

After an interminable overview of the figures provided, Custler set them down, retrieved her twist, and took a long drag. “I don’t know,” she said. “This is a lot to move, and a ticklish time to be moving it.”