At the man's name, the others stir and try to straighten themselves, like children caught by a strict parent. Anderson forces down an instinctive chill. "I wish you hadn't done that," he mutters.
Otto grimaces. "I thought he died."
"Blister rust never gets the chosen ones, don't you know?"
Everyone stifles a laugh as a form shambles out of the gloom. Hagg's face is flushed, and sweat speckles his face. He surveys the Phalanx solemnly. "Hello, all." He nods his head to Lucy. "Still trafficking with these sort, then?"
Lucy shrugs. "I make do." She nods at a chair. "Don't just stand there. Have a drink on us. Tell us your stories." She lights her opium pipe and draws on it as the man pulls up the chair beside her and sags into it.
Hagg is a solid man, well-fleshed. Not for the first time, Anderson thinks how interesting it is that Grahamite priests, of all their flock, are always the ones whose waistlines overflow their niche. Hagg waves for whiskey, and surprises everyone when a waiter appears at his elbow almost immediately.
"No ice," the waiter says on arrival.
"No, no ice. Of course not." Hagg shakes his head emphatically. "Don't want the damn calories spent, anyway."
When the waiter returns, Hagg takes the drink and downs it instantly, then sends the waiter back for a second. "It's good to be back in from the countryside," he says. "You start missing the pleasures of civilization." He toasts them all with his second glass and downs it as well.
"How far out were you?" Lucy asks around the pipe clamped in her teeth. She's starting to look a little glassy from the burning tar.
"Near the old border with Burma, Three Pagodas pass." He looks sourly at them all as if they are guilty of the sins he researches. "Looking into ivory beetle spread."
"Not safe up there, I heard." Otto says. "Who's the jao por?"
"A man named Chanarong. And he was no trouble at all. Far easier to work with him than the Dung Lord or any of the small jao por in the city. Not all of the godfathers are so focused on profits and power." Hagg looks back pointedly. "For those of us who aren't interested in pillaging the Kingdom of coal or jade or opium, the countryside is safe enough." He shrugs. "In any case, I was invited by Phra Kritipong to visit his monastery. To observe the changes in ivory beetle behavior." He shakes is head. "The devastation is extraordinary. Whole forests with not a leaf on them. Kudzu, and nothing else. The entire overstory is gone, timber fallen everywhere."
Otto looks interested. "Anything salvageable?"
Lucy gives him a look of disgust. "It's ivory beetle, you idiot. No one around here wants that."
Anderson asks, "You say the monastery invited you up? Even though you're a Grahamite?"
"Phra Kritipong is enlightened enough to know that neither Jesus Christ nor the Niche Teachings are anathema to his kind. Buddhist and Grahamite values overlap in many areas. Noah and the martyr Phra Seub are entirely complementary figures."
Anderson stifles a laugh. "If your monk saw how Grahamites operate back home, he might see it differently."
Hagg looks offended. "I am not some preacher of field burnings. I am a scientist."
"Didn't mean any offense." Anderson pulls out a ngaw, offers it to Hagg. "This might interest you. We just found them in the market."
Hagg eyes the ngaw, surprised. "The market? Which one?"
"All over," Lucy supplies.
"They showed up while you were gone," Anderson says. "Try it, they're not bad."
Hagg takes the fruit, studying it closely. "Extraordinary."
"You know what they are?" Otto asks.
Anderson peels another fruit for himself, but even as he does, he listens closely. He would never directly ask the question of a Grahamite, but he's perfectly willing to let others do the work.
"Quoile thought it was a leechee," Lucy says. "Is he right?"
"No, not a lychee. That's for certain." Hagg turns it in his hand. "It looks like it could be something the old texts called a rambutan." Hagg is thoughtful. "Though, if I recall correctly, they're somewhat related."
"Rambootan?" Anderson keeps his expression friendly and neutral. "That's a funny name. The Thais all call them ngaw."
Hagg eats the fruit, spits the fat pit into his palm. Examines the black seed, wet with his saliva. "I wonder if it will breed true."
"You could put it in a flower pot and find out."
Hagg gives him an irritated look. "If it doesn't come from a calorie company, it will breed. The Thais don't make sterile generips."
Anderson laughs. "I didn't think the calorie companies made tropical fruits."
"They make pineapples."
"Right. Forgot." Anderson waits. "How do you know so much about fruits?"
"I studied biosystems and ecology at Alabama New University."
"That's your Grahamite college, right? I thought all you studied was how to start a field burning."
The others suck in their breath at the provocation, but Hagg just looks back coldly. "Don't bait me. I'm not that sort. If we're ever going to restore Eden, it will take the knowledge of ages to accomplish it. Before I came over, I spent a year immersed in Pre-Contraction Southeast Asian Ecosystems." He reaches across and takes another fruit. "This must gall the calorie companies."
Lucy fumbles for another fruit. "You think we could fill a clipper ship with these and send them back across the water? You know, play calorie company in reverse? People would pay a fortune for them, I'll bet. New flavor and all? Sell it as a luxury."
Otto shakes his head. "You'd have to convince them it's not blister-rust tainted; the red skin will make people nervous."
Hagg nods agreement. "It's a route best not pursued."
"But the calorie companies do it." Lucy points out. "They ship seeds and food wherever they want. They're global. Why shouldn't we try the same?"
"Because it goes against all the Niche Teachings," Hagg says gently. "The calorie companies have already earned their place in hell. There's no reason you should be eager to join them."
Anderson laughs. "Come on, Hagg. you can't seriously be against a little entrepreneurial spirit. Lucy's on to something. We could even put your face on the side of the crates." He makes a sign of Grahamite blessing. "You know, approved by the Holy Church and all that. Safe as SoyPRO." He grins. "What do you think of that?"
"I would never participate in such blasphemy." Hagg scowls. "Food should come from the place of its origin, and stay there. It shouldn't spend its time crisscrossing the globe for the sake of profit. We went down that path once, and it brought us to ruin."
"More Niche Teachings." Anderson peels another fruit. "There must be a niche for money somewhere in Grahamite orthodoxy. Your cardinals are fat enough."
"The teachings are sound, even if the flock strays." Hagg stands abruptly. "Thank you for the company." He frowns at Anderson, but reaches across the table and grabs one more fruit before stalking away.
As soon as he's gone, everyone relaxes. "Christ, Lucy, why'd you do that?" Otto asks. "That man creeps me out. I left the Compact so I could get away from Grahamite priests looking over my shoulder. And you have to call one over?"
Quoile nods morosely. "I heard there's another priest here at the joint embassy now."
"They're everywhere. Like maggots." Lucy waves at them. "Toss me another fruit."
They return to their gorging. Anderson watches them, curious to see if these well-travelled creatures will have any other ideas about its provenance. The rambutan is an interesting possibility, though. Already, despite the bad news about the destroyed algae tanks and nutrient cultures, the day is turning out better than expected. Rambutan. A word to send back to Des Moines and the researchers. A route of investigation into the origins of this mysterious botanic object. Somewhere, there will be a historical record of it. He'll have to go back to his books and see if he can find—
"Look who's here," Quoile mutters.
Everyone turns. Richard Carlyle, in a perfectly pressed linen suit, is climbing the stairs. He
takes off his hat as he reaches the shade, fanning himself.
"I fucking hate that man," Lucy mutters. She lights another pipe, draws hard.
"What's he smiling about?" Otto asks.
"Hell if I know. He lost a dirigible, didn't he?"
Carlyle pauses in the shade, scans the patrons across the room, nods at all of them. "Pretty hot one," he calls out.
Otto stares at him, red-faced and bullet-eyed, and mutters, "If it hadn't been for his fucking politicking, I'd be a rich man today."
"Don't be dramatic." Anderson pops another ngaw into his mouth. "Lucy, give the man a puff of your pipe. I don't feel like having Sir Francis kick us out into the heat for brawling."
Lucy's eyes have gone glassy with opium, but she waves the pipe in Otto's general direction. Anderson reaches across and plucks it from her fingers and gives it to Otto, before standing and picking up his empty glass. "Anyone else want something?" Desultory shakes of the head.
Carlyle grins as he arrives at the bar. "You get poor old Otto sorted out?"
Anderson glances back. "Lucy smokes serious opium. I doubt he'll be able to walk, let alone fight anyone."
"Devil's drug, that."
Anderson toasts him with his empty glass. "That, and booze." He peers over the edge of the bar. "Where the hell's Sir Francis?"
"I thought you were here to answer that question."
"I guess not," Anderson says. "You lose much?"
"Some."
"Really? You don't seem bothered." Anderson gestures back at the rest of the Phalanx. "Everyone else is pissing and moaning about how you keep interfering with politics, cozying up with Akkarat and the Trade Ministry. But here you are smiling ear to ear. You could be a Thai."
Carlyle shrugs. Sir Francis, elegantly dressed, carefully coiffed, emerges from a back room. Carlyle asks for whiskey and Anderson holds up his own empty glass.
"No ice," Sir Francis says. "The mulie men want more money to run the pump."
"Pay them, then."
Sir Francis shakes his head as he takes Anderson's glass. "If you bargain when they squeeze your balls, they will only squeeze again. And I cannot bribe the Environment Ministry to give me access to the coal grid like you farang."
He turns away and pulls down a bottle of Khmer whiskey, pours an immaculate shot. Anderson wonders if any of the rumors about the man are true.
Otto, now mumbling incoherently about "fugging dribigles," claims that Sir Francis was an old Chaopraya, a high assistant to the crown, forced out of the palace in a power play. This theory has as much merit as the idea that he is former servant of the Dung Lord, retired, or that he is a Khmer prince, displaced and living incognito ever since the Thai Kingdom was enlarged to swallow the East. Everyone agrees he must have been of high rank—it's the only thing that explains his disdain for his patrons.
"Pay now," he says as he sets the shots on the bar.
Carlyle laughs. "You know our credit's good."
Sir Francis shakes his head. "You both lost plenty at the anchor pads. Everyone knows it. Pay now."
Carlyle and Anderson shell out coins. "I thought we had a better relationship than that," Anderson complains.
"This is politics." Sir Francis smiles. "Maybe you are here tomorrow. Maybe you are swept away like Expansion plastic on a beach. There are whisper sheets on all the street corners, calling for Captain Jaidee to be made a chaopraya advisor to the palace. If he rises, then all you farang. . ." he makes a shooing motion with his hand, "all gone." He shrugs. "General Pracha's radio stations are calling Jaidee a tiger and hero, and the student associations have been calling for the Trade Ministry to be closed down and placed under the white shirts. The Trade Ministry lost face. Farang and Trade are close like farang and fleas."
"Nice."
Sir Francis shrugs. "You do smell."
Carlyle scowls. "Everyone smells. It's the goddamn hot season."
Anderson intercedes. "I suppose Trade is seething, losing face like that." He takes a sip of the warm whiskey and grimaces. He used to like room-temperature liquor, before he came here.
Sir Francis counts their coins into his cash box. "Minister Akkarat is still smiling, but the Japanese want reparations for their losses and the white shirts will never give them. So either Akkarat will pay to make up for what the Tiger of Bangkok has done, or he will lose face to the Japanese as well."
"You think the Japanese will leave?"
Sir Francis makes a face of disgust. "The Japanese are like the calorie companies, always looking for a way in. They will never go away." He moves to the other end of the bar, leaving them once again isolated.
Anderson pulls out a ngaw and offers it Carlyle. "Want one?"
Carlyle takes the fruit and holds it up for examination. "What the hell is this?"
"Ngaw."
"It reminds me of cockroaches." He makes a face. "You're an experimental bastard. I'll give you that." He pushes the ngaw back across to Anderson and carefully wipes his hand on his trousers.
"Afraid?" Anderson goads.
"My wife liked eating new things, too. Couldn't stop herself. Had the madness for flavor. Just couldn't resist trying new foods." Carlyle shrugs. "I'll wait and see if you're spitting up blood next week."
They lean back on their stools and gaze across the dust and heat to where the Victory Hotel gleams white. Down an alley a washing woman has set out laundry in pans near the rubble of an old high-rise. Another is washing her body, carefully scrubbing under her sarong, its fabric clinging to her skin. Children run naked through the dirt, jumping over bits of broken concrete that were laid down more than a hundred years ago in the old Expansion. Far down the street the levees rise, holding back the sea.
"How much did you lose?" Carlyle finally asks.
"Plenty. Thanks to you."
Carlyle doesn't respond to the jab. He finishes his shot and waves for another. "Really no ice?" he asks Sir Francis. "Or is this just because you think we'll be gone tomorrow?"
"Ask me tomorrow."
"If I'm still here tomorrow will you have ice then?" Carlyle asks.
Sir Francis flashes a grin. "Depends how much you keep paying mulies and megodonts for unloading freight. Everyone talks about getting rich burning calories for farang. . . so no ice for Sir Francis."
"But if we're gone, no drinkers. Even if Sir Francis has got all the ice in the world."
Sir Francis shrugs. "As you say."
Carlyle scowls at the Thai man's back. "Megodont unions, white shirts, Sir Francis. Everywhere you turn, there's another open hand."
"Price of doing business," Anderson says. "Still, the way you were smiling when you came in, I thought you hadn't lost anything at all."
Carlyle takes his new whiskey. "I just like seeing all of you on the veranda looking like your dogs died from cibiscosis. Anyway, even if we've had losses, no one's chained us in a Khlong Prem sweat cell. No reason not to smile about that." He leans close. "This isn't the last of the story. Not by a long shot. Akkarat's still got some tricks up his sleeve."
"If you push hard enough on the white shirts, they always bite back." Anderson warns. "You and Akkarat made a lot of noise, talking about tariff and pollution credit changes. Windups, even. And now my assistant is telling me the same things that Sir Francis just said: all the Thai newspapers are calling our friend Jaidee a Queen's Tiger. Celebrating him."
"Your assistant? You mean that paranoid yellow card spider you keep in your offices?" Carlyle laughs. "That's the problem with you. You all sit around, bitching and wishing, and meanwhile I'm changing the rules of the game. You're all Contraction thinkers."
"I'm not the one who lost a dirigible."
"Cost of doing business."
"I'd think losing a fifth of your fleet would be more than just a cost."
Carlyle makes a face. He leans close and lowers his voice. "Come on, Anderson. This tiff with the white shirts isn't what it seems. Some people have been waiting for them to go too far." He pauses, making sure his
words are understood. "Some of us have been working toward it, even. I've just come from speaking with Akkarat himself, and I can assure you the news is about to turn in our favor."
Anderson almost laughs, but Carlyle wags an admonishing finger. "Go ahead, shake your head now, but before I'm done you'll be kissing my ass and thanking me for the new tariff structures, and we'll all have reparations in our bank accounts."
"The white shirts never pay reparations. Not when they burn a farm, not when they confiscate a cargo. Never."
Carlyle shrugs. He looks out toward the hot light of the veranda and observes, "The monsoons are coming."
"Not likely." Anderson gives the blazing day a sour look. "They're already late by two months."
"Oh, they're coming all right. Maybe not this month. Maybe not next, but they're coming."
"And?"
"The Environment Ministry is expecting replacement equipment for the city's levee pumps. Critical equipment. For seven pumps." He pauses. "Now, where do you think that equipment is sitting?"
"Enlighten me."
"All the way across the Indian Ocean." Carlyle flashes a sudden shark-like smile. "In a certain Kolkata hanger that I happen to own."
The air seems to have left the bar. Anderson glances around, making sure no one is close. "Christ, you silly bastard. Are you serious?"
It all makes sense, now. Carlyle's bragging, his certainty. The man has always had a freebooter's willingness to take risks. But it's difficult to distinguish bluster from sincerity with Carlyle. If he says he has Akkarat's ear, perhaps he only speaks with secretaries. It's all talk. But this. . . .
Anderson starts to speak but sees Sir Francis approaching and turns away instead, grimacing. Carlyle's eyes sparkle with mischief. Sir Francis sets a new whiskey beside his hand, but Anderson doesn't care about drinks anymore. As soon as Sir Francis retreats, he leans forward.
"You're holding the city hostage?"
"The white shirts seem to have forgotten they need outsiders. We're in the middle of a new Expansion and every string is connected to every other string, and yet they're still thinking like a Contraction ministry. They don't understand how dependent they've already become on farang." He shrugs. "At this point, they're just pawns on a chess board. They have no idea who moves them, and couldn't stop us even if they tried."