“I wouldn’t dare,” said Aristide. “I asked for a plate of something a while back and I think I’ve earned the cook’s undying hatred. Things seem a little frantic downstairs.”

“Thank you for the tip. I’ll leave them be.”

“Your driver,” he said. “Martí. She’s Tatien, isn’t she?” The bar spoon chimed against the beaker as he stirred.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Was she at all mixed up with Memmediv’s messy little venture?”

“You mean independence? I think not. Magnusson tells me she’s quite a patriot. Apparently she was out of service for some time, volunteering with her hometown militia to fight the separatists. Her most recent reference is some five years old.” And she had come cheap, because of that. “Still, good at her job.”

Aristide returned to his chair, setting his feet up on the ottoman and letting his cocktail rest on his midriff. “I think I might have pinned her rather sharply.”

“She’s sturdy; she’ll recover.” The whiskey had settled in her empty stomach, making her reckless with her reminiscence. “You never heard from Memmediv, did you? After Hadhariti?”

Before he answered, Aristide tipped the better part of his martini down his throat. Fist to his sternum, he closed his eyes against some sudden pain: an ulcer, a rising belch. What finally came out was a strangled cough, wet and throaty. Even then he made her wait, rising to refill his glass.

Around the curve of his elbow, she watched him pour: mostly gin, a miserly splash of vermouth. More liquor than she thought might fit into his glass. “I last saw him on the border. I think … Cordelia would have kept in some kind of contact.” He said the name like he worried it would break. “But he certainly didn’t have anything to say to me. Likewise, frankly.”

“Not even to do business?” she asked.

“My business is based in Liso.”

“Imports and exports,” she said.

“A euphemism.” The lid of the ice bucket struck home too hard. Then, a small concession: “I never worked with him. Not once. We aren’t in the arms game, anyway.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, though whatever games Cross-Costa played were still likely to be dangerous and dirty. “Have you told Cyril what you know?”

Until now he had neatly avoided eye contact with movement and a mobile expression. Now he met her gaze, unwavering. “Have you?”

Breath cooled her palate; she realized her mouth was open. As if she might answer his question.

Before she could decide, she heard the door and voices raised in song. A familiar foreign mode, the tune wavering like water or flame between each note. The singers were loud, their Porashtu slurred and indistinct.

“It sounds as though the pub has closed,” she said, “and the party has come here.”