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Cattanay. I understand your frustration. But I think I can assure you that the council will be in a more receptive mood after I have done than they are at the moment.”
    Somewhat mollified, yet still agitated, Cattanay expressed doubt as to Rosacher’s claim, but when Rosacher told him that his business involved a considerable financial settlement, he sat down again. And when Rosacher inquired what his proposal entailed, he opened his portfolio and displayed a number of sketches that detailed a scheme for killing Griaule by means of poisoned paint applied to his skin. The idea seemed ludicrous on the face of it, yet Rosacher was forced to acknowledge that the basic notion was ingenious. He asked how long it might take to complete the job.
    “I’m not sure,” said Cattanay. “It will take two years at least to organize the project, to build the scaffolding and vats in which to mix the paint. We’ll have to employ dozens of men, perhaps a hundred and more, to supply us with timber for fuel. That’ll require another year or two. Then we’ll have to create the painting and give the poison time to act. The whole process could take twenty or thirty years. Maybe more. I imagine something will go wrong every single day…problems I haven’t envisioned.”
    Arthur snorted in derision and Cattanay glared at him. “They’ve run through all the unsubtle methods of killing him and failed,” he said. “You know, burning him, stabbing him, and so forth. Of course now I think about it there’s one method they haven’t essayed. They could hold up a gigantic portrait of this fellow to Griaule’s face”—he jabbed his thumb at Arthur—“and make a loud noise. I expect that might do the job.”
    Arthur snarled and reached for the knife tucked into his waistband, but Rosacher put a hand on his forearm by way of restraint and said to Cattanay, “Fascinating! How did you come up with the idea?”
    “Some friends and I were in a tavern and we got to talking about schemes to make money. Painting the dragon was one of the schemes. I’ve fleshed it quite a bit since that evening, but the original idea, it was a joke, really. A joke made by a group of friends who’d had too much to drink.”
    The functionary, who had vanished into the council chamber while Cattanay described his scheme, returned and told Rosacher that he could go in.
    Inside the chamber, an austere, spacious room with thick beams supporting the ceiling and windows overlooking the valley, offering a view of the hills enclosing its eastern reach, five men sat in high-backed chairs at a mahogany table, a ceramic pitcher and glasses set before them. With a single exception, they were fleshy and gray-haired, clad in sober suits, but the bearded man at their center, Wallace Febres-Cordero, possessed a gravitas the others did not and, though Rosacher had not met him until that moment, he divined from this brief observance that Febres-Cordero was the person he would have to sway. He took a seat in a wooden chair (the only one available) facing the table and Arthur stationed himself at his shoulder.
    “Good morning, gentlemen,” Rosacher said. “I’m Richard Rosacher and this is my associate, Arthur Honeyman. How can we assist you?”
    “As you know,” said Febres-Cordero in a mannered baritone, “the council has no authority over you as regards the production of drugs. We have no laws that would apply, yet we may find ourselves obligated to write new law should you continue on your present course.”
    “And why is that?” Rosacher asked.
    “My God, man!” A thin, balding council member at the end of the table, Paltz by name, brought the flat of his hand down with a smack. “You’ve addicted half the population of Morningshade to your poison!”
    “It’s closer to three-quarters, but let’s not quibble,” said Rosacher.
    “We’ve had numerous complaints about your activities,” said Febres-Cordero. “Every moral authority is up in arms against