He scratched the side of his face with the pen and wondered if cheap ink was traceable to a specific geographic location. Or if it were toxic. Either way, Michael would know. There was a time when he also would have known. No, that wasn't true. There was only ever a time when Michael would have been there to know for him.
But Michael wasn't there and he hadn't been in a long, long time. Dunne wasn't Lent Alis, anymore, if he ever had been, and he had ever really been anyone's brother, or it had only ever been Lent Alis. If his life had turned out better, he might have thought it amusing that a name made up on the spot, hungover from majollico and teenage sex under the blaring Genani sun could have ever meant anything.
He didn't really want to talk to Michael. He never wanted to talk to Michael again. And he was
more than sure the Imperial Minister felt the same. But there wasn't much else to do, except for what he should
have done all along:
Burn the Letter.
It would have burned so easily.
Instead, it bred. It multiplied. Mitosis. A new letter, even more cryptic, even more cursed, even more illicit, from one more dead man to another, or better yet, between two men who had never even lived. He sealed it without blood or spit or alchemy. Just wax and fire. and then he put his jacket back on, locked the door behind him, and bought a cup of coffee, an overcooked pastry, and a newspaper from Orlan on his way to Monterro's.
It was nine thirty-seven in the morning when Dunne stood on the step of Monterro’s half-block rectangle of an urban palace, replete with its ancient and reproduced Iskan flourishes, and pulled the bell cord twice. After a three-minute delay, the middle-aged housekeeper who served as Monterro’s surrogate mother, majordomo, and personal assistant opened the door and led him into the sitting room where the Lord of Misk sat in a particularly bright purple satin robe. He looked more like a Lord than the man who was called the High Minister, anyway, and he may as well have been him, as well, for only Monterro mattered in Misk. It didn’t really matter which Monterro, whichever was alive and held the keys to the vault was enough. For now, it was Erivan.
"Good morning."
Monterro smiled; his face looked like a split melon.
"I need a favor."
Dunne tried to smile back, as much as his muscles allowed.
"Would you like some breakfast? Lyume made a fantastic green and yorishik quiche this morning--you really should try some, its delightful. And nourishing. Did you know the Castian diet doesn't get nearly enough microbes? It's because we don't eat enough fermented dairy--it's why so many here end up with stomach failings when we get older. I refuse. I enjoy food too much to lose my stomach. And yorishik has the highest concentration of microbes of any cheese--and it isn't terrible on the palate, either, especially not how Lyume makes it. It's an Iskan recipe, of course, but she's retooled it with--"
"I'm alright, thanks."
Dunne spoke and sat without invitation.
"I appreciate it, but I already ate. Sorry to bother you so early. I do need a favor, though."
"Sure."
Monterro nodded and glanced up from the newspaper in front of him.
"What can I do for you? I owe you I s'pose after what you did for me with Sindal. You should be getting an invitation to Gennie's wedding in a few days once she settles on a font. It'll be the 9th of the 9th. Auspicious and all, you know? Mark the date."
"Uh...alright. Congratulations."
Dunne nodded and did whatever the opposite of marking a date was.
"I need you to get your people in Violl to get this to Michael Chevre, sooner the better."
He placed the envelope on the round orangestrick table. Monterro lifted it with a rotund hand, inspected it, and nodded.
"Can you do it?"
"Course. Course I can do it."
The melon smiled and tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his robe.
"I'd estimate three or four days' time. Good?"
He asked, and Dunne nodded.
"It isn't more treason, is it?"
"No."
Dunne shook his head.
"If anything, it's fuckin patriotism."
"Well, now I'm intrigued, but I'll leave it. I owe you that much. Let me know if it turns out lucrative, will ya? Lucrative and patriotic's the best combo there is, you know?"
Monterro turned his wrist and slid the newspaper across the table. It wasn't the Misk-ionet, but the Castian United Press daily.
"You seen this?