Instead of attempting it, the major drained his glass, then held it up and waved for another refill. Stafford finished the whiskey, too. He also waved for a fresh one. Maybe the first would have numbed his tongue enough to keep him from tasting the second so much. And his brain needed more numbing than it had got yet.

Only after Major Duncan got halfway down his third glass of rum did he say, "I can't tell you for certain, Consul. The snoops made sure they questioned each man alone. In their boots, I would have done the same thing. Doesn't make life any easier for us, though."

"No. It doesn't," Stafford said. He'd never denied Newton's competence-he'd only regretted the other Consul's adherence to the vile cause of equality for niggers and mudfaces. "Have you got any notion how much they know?"

"More than they ought to. That's all I can tell you for sure," Duncan answered. "Knowing anything at all is too damned much."

"So it is. Well, I did need to know that myself, and I thank you for bringing me word," Jeremiah Stafford said. "We should leave separately." It might help less than Stafford wished it would. Anyone who saw the major wouldn't forget him in a hurry, and might also remember his companion too well.

"I was last in. I should be first out," Sam Duncan said. Why that followed eluded Stafford, but he didn't argue. Life was too short. And so Duncan gulped what was left of the rum, stood up, and draped himself in his cape once more. He couldn't have been less conspicuous had he caught fire.

The man he'd decked was just starting to sit up when he swept by. Stafford wondered whether Duncan would flatten him again-for the sport of it, you might say. But the officer just walked into the night.

"Who was that crazy son of a bitch?" someone asked.

"Beats me," someone else answered. "He may look dumber'n a honker, but he's nobody you'd want to mess around with-that's for damned sure. Ain't it, Scrap Iron?"

Scrap Iron proved to be Major Duncan's victim. He rubbed the side of his head again, then winced and thought better of it. "He better hope I never see him again," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

And well it might. The fellow who'd addressed him laughed and said, "You better hope you never see him again." Thus do the heroes fall. Scrap Iron got to his feet. He needed three tries, but he made it. When he set money on the bar, the man behind it poured him a restorative.

Consul Stafford slid out of the tavern. He had a pistol on his belt, too. In this part of town, you might need one. Better to have and not need than to need and not have. Gas lamps lit the streets and sidewalks in richer quarters of New Hastings. Hereabouts, the only warning a passerby gave was the glowing coal on the end of his cigar. And if he didn't smoke a cigar, he gave no warning at all-which was just what footpads had in mind.

Stafford didn't quite sigh with relief when he reached a lighted street. A less disciplined man surely would have, though. He made his way back to his residence. A couple of sentries stood outside the door. One puffed on a stogie-all of it visible under a hissing gas lamp-while the other sent up smoke signals from a pipe.

The cigar smoker's rifle musket screaked on its sling as he shifted weight. How many longarms just like that did the insurrectionists have? One would have been too many, and they had far more than one.

"Out late tonight, sir," the sentry said.

"Some business I needed to attend to," Stafford answered.

"Yes, sir," the sentry said. But his eyes slid toward his comrade's. Did they think his business had to do with someone perfumed and softly curved? As a matter of fact, Stafford did not care one broad copper cent for what they thought. His wife's opinion was another matter. Was Annabelle sitting up in there, waiting for him to come back? A man might take a mistress, but flaunting one was bad form.

Here, though, Stafford had done no such thing. And all he smelled of were whiskey and pipeweed-no perfume. Annabelle ought to notice that-if she was in a mood to notice anything.

She was waiting for him, darning socks by the light of a lantern. She was small and dark and sad-looking, as any mother who'd buried three babies would have been. Jeremiah Stafford feared he might be the last of his line. Annabelle put down the sock she was working on (she was shortsighted, which helped her with the needle if not with the wider world) and blinked up at him. Like the sentry, she said, "You were out late."

"Business," he said, as he had before. But he would explain to his wife, where he wouldn't for a no-account soldier: "Sam Duncan."

"Ah. Your… friend." She knew the name if not the man. Her voice didn't say whether she believed him.

He described Duncan's disguise and the way it concealed and proclaimed at the same time. He also described how the major had rusted Scrap Iron. Annabelle smiled faintly. "Quite a man," she said.

"Yes-almost as much as he thinks he his. If only he had more common sense to go with his courage and strength. That costume! Good Lord!" Stafford rolled his eyes.

"And why did you have to meet him in some low dive? Why wouldn't a walk around the Senate House do as well?" Annabelle asked.

"Because if anyone connected to northern Senators or to my esteemed fellow Consul"-Stafford's tone turned the praise into a filthy lie-"saw us walking together, he would understand why we were talking together, whereupon trouble would immediately follow. You know we are quietly doing what we can to aid the states against the servile insurrection?"

"Well, of course." His wife had been born in the state of Cosquer, too, down close to the border with Gernika. She came from a slaveholding family, as he did. In fact, the threat of uprisings always seemed worse in that part of the country. Gernika had still been Spanish Atlantis when she was a girl, and Spanish Atlantis always sizzled and sometimes exploded. The dons squeezed all they could from their copperskins and blacks, and squeezed out hatred along with everything else.

"You see," Stafford said. "Duncan's news was that Consul Newton has found out about our quiet efforts. Having learned of them, he is doubtless doing everything in his power to thwart them."

"How wicked of him! No wonder you went out, then, Jeremiah," Annabelle said, and something behind Stafford's breastbone unknotted. Whatever she had thought, she believed him now. She went on, "What can you do to stop him from disrupting things?"

That question cut to the quick. "I don't know yet," Consul Stafford admitted. "But knowing we have a problem is bound to give us our best chance of keeping it from getting worse."

Before his wife could answer, a clock that had been quietly ticking on a side table chimed the hour: two in the morning. Annabelle yawned. "Come to bed," she said. "Whatever your best chance may be, you can't do anything about it till the sun comes up."

Stafford feared the nighttime might prove better. Some of the deeds that wanted doing would be dark. She was right about tonight, though-and her yawn was contagious. "Sleep," he said longingly.

Things looked less bleary in the morning, if not necessarily better. Stafford primed his pump with several cups of strong, sugared coffee. Men from north of the Stour were more likely to drink tea. Leland Newton did, as Stafford had seen. The Consul from Cosquer thought he got the edge on his colleague in the morning.

Whether he could keep it might be another story. Consul Newton was up and doing ahead of him. Instead of ignoring him, as Newton often did, the other Consul made a point of buttonholing him. "I have a question for you, sir: one concerning the safety of the nation," Newton said.

"I have had a good many questions of that sort for you lately, sir," Stafford answered. "You seem less than less than willing to answer them, however. But let it be as you wish for now-how can I say no?"