The Family Trade

Charles Stross



"The Family Trade shows that Charles Stross is no longer a beginner to watch,
but a star to watch."      —Mike Resnick

"Quirky, original, and entertaining. The Family Trade could be The Godfather of
all fantasy novels."
—Kevin J. Anderson, New York Times bestselling author of A Forest of Stars

THE MERCHANT PRINCES The Family Trade
The six families of the Clan rule the kingdom of Gruinmarkt from behind the
scenes, a mixture of nobility and criminal conspirators whose power to walk
between the worlds makes them rich in both. Braids of family loyalty and
intermarriage provide a fragile guarantee of peace, but a recently-ended civil
war has left the families shaken and suspicious.
Caught up in schemes and plots centuries in the making, Miriam Beckstein is
surrounded by unlikely allies, forbidden loves, lethal contraband, and, most
dangerous of all, her family. Her unexpected return to this world will supersede
the claims of other clan members to her mother's fortune and power, and whoever
killed her mother will be happy to see her dead, too.
Behind all this lie deeper secrets still, which threaten everyone and everything
she has ever known. Patterns of deception and interlocking lies, as intricate as
the knotwork between the universes.
"The Family Trade is one of those rare delights—a book that is fun,
intelligently written, and which leaves a reader breathlessly wondering what
will happen next. Readers Beware: Stross weaves a tale that continually builds
to an engrossing climax. Once you get into this, you'll find yourself hooked."
—David Farland
"At last, a story in which a character from our world is plunged into another,
and doesn't act like a complete idiot. Miriam Beckstein is sharp-witted enough
not to waste time trying to pretend that she can avoid the dilemmas that have
been forced on her, while being human enough to let her emotions guide her into
risky territory."
"Stross not only creates a alternate world that is fascinating and original, he
even does the unheard of, for a fantasist: His depiction of our world is deep
and real. Many a fantasist is able to create, or at least borrow from Tolkien, a
reasonably interesting milieu in which the characters can cavort, but when they
try their hand at showing something from the real world, like, in this case, the
society of high finance, they embarrass themselves by revealing how little they
know."
"No such problem with Stross. He knows this world backward and forward, and
seems to have thought of everything. His characters behave in ways that make
sense. They know all the things they should know, and don't know the things they
shouldn't. The result is that we readers can trust this author completely, dive
into this story and let it carry us wherever the current flows."
"Not to mention the fact that it's simply a great adventure, full of dangers, of
plots within plots, of forbidden love and political murder. Science fiction is
in good hands with Charles Stross here to lead the new generation."
—Orson Scott Card
"Charles Stress's "The Family Trade is an intuitive, irreverent, and delightful
romp into an alternate world where business is simultaneously low and high tech,
and were romance, murder, marriage, and business are hopelessly intertwined—and
deadly."                       —E. Modesitt, Jr.

Book One of the Merchant Princes
 Charles Stross
TOR®
fantasy
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for
this "stripped book."
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book
are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE FAMILY TRADE
Copyright © 2004 by Charles Stress
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions
thereof, in any form.
Edited by David G. Hartwell
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 0-765-34821-7
EAN 978-0765-34821-0
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004049576
First edition: December 2004
First mass market edition: May 2005
Printed in die United States of America 098765432
For Steve and Jenny Glover
No novelist works in a creative vacuum. Whatever we do, we owe a debt to the
giants upon whose shoulders we stand. This book might not have happened if I
hadn't read the works of H. Beam Piper and Roger Zelazny.
Nor would this book have been written without the intervention of several other
people. My agent, Caitlin Blaisdell, nudged me to make a radical change of
direction from my previous novels. David Hartwell of Tor encouraged me further,
and my wife, Feorag, lent me her own inimitable support while I worked on it.
Other friends and critics helped me in one way or another; I'd like to single
out for their contributions my father, Jan Goulding, Paul Cooper, Steve Glover,
Andrew Wilson, Robert "Nojay" Sneddon, Cory Doctorow, Sydney Webb, and James
Nicoll. Thank you all.


PART 1
 Pink Slip
WeatherMan

Ten and a half hours before a mounted knight with a machine gun tried to kill
her, tech journalist Miriam Beckstein lost her job. Before the day was out, her
pink slip would set in train a chain of events that would topple governments,
trigger civil wars, and kill thousands. It would be the biggest scoop in her
career, in any journalist's career— bigger than Watergate, bigger than 9/11—and
it would be Miriam's story. But as of seven o'clock in the morning, the story
lay in her future: All she knew was that it was a rainy Monday morning in
October, she had a job to do and copy to write, and there was an editorial
meeting scheduled for ten.
The sky was the colour of a dead laptop display, silver-gray and full of rain.
Miriam yawned and came awake to the Monday morning babble of the anchorman on
her alarm radio.
"—Bombing continues in Afghanistan. Meanwhile, in business news, the markets are
down forty-seven points on the
word that Cisco is laying off another three thousand employees," announced the
anchor. "Ever since 9/11, coming on top of the collapse of the dot-com sector,
their biggest customers are hunkering down. Tom, how does it look from where
you're sitting—"
"Shut up," she mumbled and killed the volume. "I don't want to hear this." Most
of the tech sector was taking a beating. Which in turn meant that The Industry
Weatherman's, readers—venture capitalists and high-tech entrepreneurs, along
with the wannabe day traders—would be taking a beating. Her own beat, the
biotech firms, were solid, but the collapsing internet sector was making waves.
If something didn't happen to relieve the plummeting circulation figures soon,
there would be trouble.
Trouble. Monday. "I'll give you trouble," she muttered, face forming a grin that
might have frightened some of those readers, had they been able to see it.
'Trouble is my middle name." And trouble was good news, for a senior reporter on
The Industry Weatherman.
She slid into her bathrobe, shivering at the cold fabric, then shuffled along
stripped pine boards to the bathroom for morning ablutions and two minutes with
the electric toothbrush. Standing before the bathroom mirror under the merciless
glare of the spotlights, she shivered at what she saw in it: every minute of her
thirty-two years, in unforgiving detail. "Abolish Monday mornings and Friday
afternoons," she muttered grimly as she tried to brush some life into her
shoulder-length hair, which was stubbornly black and locked in a vicious rear-
guard action against the ochre highlights she bombarded it with on a weekly
basis. Giving up after a couple of minutes, she fled downstairs to the kitchen.
The kitchen was a bright shade of yellow, cosy and immune to the gloom of autumn
mornings. Relieved, Miriam switched on the coffee percolator and made herself a
bowl of granola—what Ben had always called her rabbit-food breakfast.
Back upstairs, fortified by an unfeasibly large mug of coffee, she had to work
out what to wear. She dived into her
closet and found herself using her teeth to tear the plastic bag off one of the
three suits she'd had dry-cleaned on Friday—only to discover it was her black
formal interview affair, not at all the right thing for a rainy Monday pounding
the streets—or at least doing telephone interviews from a cubicle in the office.
She started again and finally managed to put together an outfit. Black boots,
trousers, jacket, turtle-neck, and trench coat: as black as her Monday morning
mood. / look like a gangster, she thought and chuckled to herself. "Gangsters!"
That was what she had to do today. One glance at her watch told her that she
didn't have time for makeup. It wasn't as if she had to impress anyone at the
office anyway: They knew damned well who she was.
She slid behind the wheel of her four-year-old Saturn, and thankfully it started
first time. But traffic was backed up, one of her wiper blades needed replacing,
the radio had taken to crackling erratically, and she couldn't stop yawning.
Mondays, she thought. My favourite day! Not. At least she had a parking space
waiting for her—one of the handful reserved for senior journalists who had to go
places and interview thrusting new economy executives. Or money-laundering
gangsters, the nouveau riche of the pharmaceutical world.
Twenty minutes later she pulled into a crowded lot behind an anonymous office
building in Cambridge, just off Somerville Avenue, with satellite dishes on the
roof and fat cables snaking down into the basement. Headquarters of The Industry
Weatherman, journal of the tech VC community and Miriam's employer for the past
three years. She swiped her pass-card, hit the elevator up to the third floor,
and stepped out into cubicle farm chaos. Desks with PCs and drifts of paper that
overflowed onto the floor: A couple of harried Puerto Rican cleaners emptied
garbage cans into a trolley laden with bags, to a background of phones ringing
and anchors gabbling on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox. Black space-age Aeron chairs
everywhere, all wire and plastic, electric chairs for a fully wired future.
" 'Lo, Emily," she nodded, passing the departmental secretary.
"Hi! With you in a sec." Emily lifted her finger from the "mute" button, went
back to glassy-eyed attention. "Yes, I'll send them up as soon as—"
Miriam's desk was clean: The stack of press releases was orderly, the computer
monitor was polished, and there were no dead coffee cups lying around. By tech
journalist standards, this made her a neat freak. She'd always been that way
about her work, even when she was a toddler. Liked all her crayons lined up in a
row. Occasionally she wished she could manage the housework the same way, but
for some reason the skill set didn't seem to be transferable. But this was work,
and work was always under control. I wonder where Paulie's gotten to?
"Hi, babe!" As if on cue, Paulette poked her head around the side of the
partition. Short, blonde, and bubbly, not even a rainy Monday morning could dent
her enthusiasm. "How's it going? You ready to teach these goodfellas a lesson?"
" 'Goodfellas?'" Miriam raised an eyebrow. Paulette took the cue, slid sideways
into her cubicle, and dropped into the spare chair, forcing Miriam to shuffle
sideways to make room. Paulie was obviously enjoying herself: It was one of the
few benefits of being a research gofer. Miriam waited.
"Goodfellas," Paulette said with relish. "You want a coffee? This is gonna take
a while."
"Coffee." Miriam considered. "That would be good."
"Yeah, well." Paulette stood up. "Read this, it'll save us both some time." She
pointed out a two-inch-thick sheaf of printouts and photocopies to Miriam, then
made a beeline for the departmental coffeepot.
Miriam sighed and rubbed her eyes as she read the first page. Paulie had done
her job with terrifying efficiency yet again: Miriam had only worked with her on
a couple of investigations before—mostly Miriam's workload didn't require the
data mining Paulette specialized in—but every single time she'd come away
feeling a little dizzy.
Automobile emissions tests in California? Miriam squinted and turned the page.
Failed autos, a chain of repair shops buying them for cash and shipping them
south to Mexico
and Brazil for stripping or resale. "What's this got to do with—" she stopped.
"Aha!"
"Nondairy creamer, one sweetener," said Paulie, planting a coffee mug at her
left hand.
"This is great stuff," Miriam muttered, flipping more pages. Company accounts. A
chain of repair shops that— "I was hoping you'd find something in the small
shareholders. How much are these guys in for?"
"They're buying about ten, eleven million in shares each year." Paulette
shrugged, then blew across her coffee and pulled a face. "Which is crazy,
because their business only turns over about fifteen mill. What kind of business
puts eighty percent of its gross into a pension fund? One that bought two
hundred and seventy-four autos last year for fifty bucks a shot, shipped them
south of the border, and made an average of forty thousand bucks for each one
they sold. And the couple of listed owners I phoned didn't want to talk."
Miriam looked up suddenly. "You phoned them?" she demanded.
"Yes, I—oh. Relax, I told them I was a dealership in Vegas and I was just doing
a background check."
" 'Background check.'" Miriam snorted. "What if they've got caller-ID?"
"You think they're going to follow it up?" Paulette asked, looking worried.
"Paulie, you've got eleven million in cash being laundered through this car
dealership and you think they're not going to sit up and listen if someone
starts asking questions about where those beaters are coming from and how come
they're fetching more than a new Lexus south of the border?"
"Oh. Oh shit."
"Yes. 'Oh shit' indeed. How'd you get into the used car trail anyway?"
Paulette shrugged and looked slightly embarrassed. "You asked me to follow up
the shareholders for Proteome Dynamics and Biphase Technologies. Pacific Auto
Services looked kind of odd to me—why would a car dealership have a pension fund
sticking eight digits into cutting-edge proteome research? And there's another
ten like them, too. Small mom-and-pop businesses doing a lot of export down
south with seven- or eight-digit stakeholdings. I traced another—flip to the
next?"
"Okay. Dallas Used Semiconductors. Buying used IBM mainframe kit? That's not
our—and selling it to—oh shit."
"Yeah." Paulie frowned. "I looked up the book value. Whoever's buying those
five-year-old computers down in Argentina is paying ninety percent of the price
for new kit in cash greenbacks—they're the next thing to legal currency down
there. But up here, a five-year-old mainframe goes for about two cents on the
dollar."
"And you're sum all this is going into Proteome and Biphase?" Miriam shook the
thick sheaf of paper into shape. "I can't believe this!"
"Believe it." Paulette drained her coffee cup and shoved a stray lock of hair
back into position.
Miriam whistled tunelessly. "What's the bottom line?"
" 'The bottom line?'" Paulette looked uncomfortable. "I haven't counted it, but—
"
"Make a guess."
"I'd say someone is laundering between fifty and a hundred million dollars a
year here. Turning dirty cash into clean shares in Proteome Dynamics and Biphase
Technologies. Enough to show up in their SEC filings. So your hunch was right."
"And nobody in Executive Country has asked any questions," Miriam concluded. "If
I was paranoid, I'd say it's like a conspiracy of silence. Hmm." She put her mug
down. "Paulie. You worked for a law firm. Would you call this ...
circumstantial?"
" 'Circumstantial?'" Paulette's expression was almost pitying. "Who's paying
you, the defence? This is enough to get the FBI and the DA muttering about
RICO."
"Yeah, but..." Miriam nodded to herself. "Look, this is heavy. Heavier than
usual anyway. I can guarantee you that if we spring this story we'll get three
responses. One will be Bowers in our hair, and the other will be a bunch of
cease-
and-desist letters from attorneys. Freedom of the press is all very well, but a
good reputation and improved circulation figures won't buy us defence lawyers,
which is why I want to double-check everything in here before I go upstairs and
tell Sandy we want the cover. Because the third response is going to be oh-shit-
I-don't-want-to-believe-this, because our great leader and teacher thinks the
sun shines out of Biphase and I think he's into Proteome too."
"Who do you take me for?" Paulette pointed at the pile. "That's primary, Miriam,
the wellspring. SEC filings, public accounts, the whole lot. Smoking gun. The
summary sheet— " she tugged at a Post-it note gummed to a page a third of the
way down the stack—"says it all. I was in here all day yesterday and half the
evening—"
"I'm sorry!" Miriam raised her hand. "Hey, really. I had no idea."
"I kind of lost track of time," Paulette admitted. She smiled. "It's not often I
get something interesting to dig into. Anyway, if the boss is into these two,
I'd think he'd be glad of the warning. Gives him time to pull out his stake
before we run the story."
"Yeah, well." Miriam stood up. "I think we want to bypass Sandy. This goes to
the top."
"But Sandy needs to know. It'll mess with his page plan—"
"Yeah, but someone has to call Legal before we run with this. It's the biggest
scoop we've had all year. Want to come with me? I think you earned at least half
the credit..."
They shared the elevator up to executive row in silence. It was walled in
mirrors, reflecting their contrasts: Paulette, a short blonde with disorderly
curls and a bright red blouse, and Miriam, a slim five-foot-eight, dressed
entirely in black. The business research wonk and the journalist, on their way
to see the editorial director. Some Mondays are better than others, thought
Miriam. She smiled tightly at Paulette in the mirror and Paulie grinned back: a
worried expression, slightly apprehensive.
The Industry Weatherman was mostly owned by a tech venture capital firm who
operated out of the top floors of the building, their offices intermingled with
those of the magazine's directors. Two floors up, the corridors featured a
better grade of carpet and the walls were genuine partitions covered in oak
veneer, rather than fabric-padded cubicles. That was the only difference she
could see—that and the fact that some of the occupants were assholes like the
people she wrote glowing profiles of for a living. I've never met a tech VC who
a shark would bite, Miriam thought grumpily. Professional courtesy among
killers. The current incumbent of the revolving door office labelled editorial
director—officially a vice president—was an often-absent executive by the name
of Joe Dixon. Miriam led Paulette to the office and paused for a moment, then
knocked on the door, half-hoping to find he wasn't there.
"Come in." The door opened in her face, and it was Joe himself, not his
secretary. He was over six feet, with expensively waved black hair, wearing his
suit jacket over an open-necked dress shirt. He oozed corporate polish: If he'd
been ten years older, he could have made a credible movie career as a captain of
industry. As it was, Miriam always found herself wondering how he'd climbed into
the boardroom so young. He was in his mid-thirties, not much older than she was.
"Hi." He took in Miriam and Paulette standing just behind her and smiled. "What
can I do for you?"
Miriam smiled back. "May we have a moment?' she asked.
"Sure, come in." Joe retreated behind his desk. "Have a chair, both of you." He
nodded at Paulette. "Miriam, we haven't been introduced."
"Oh, yes. Joe Dixon, Paulette Milan. Paulie is one of our heavy hitters in
industrial research. She's been working with me on a story and I figured we'd
better bring it to you first before taking it to the weekly production meeting.
It's a bit, uh, sensitive."
" 'Sensitive.'" Joe leaned back in his chair and looked straight at her. "Is it
big?"
"Could be," Miriam said noncommittally. Big? It's the
biggest I've ever worked on! A big story in her line of work might make or break
a career; this one might send people to jail. "It has complexities to it that
made me think you'd want advance warning before it breaks."
"Tell me about it," said Joe.
"Okay. Paulie, you want to start with your end?" She passed Paulette the file.
"Yeah." Paulie grimaced as she opened the file and launched into her
explanation. "In a nutshell, they're laundries for dirty money. There's enough
of a pattern to it that if I was a DA in California I'd be picking up the phone
to the local FBI office."
"That's why I figured you'd want to know," Miriam explained. "This is a big
deal, Joe. I think we've got enough to pin a money-laundering rap on a couple of
really big corporations and make it stick. But last November you were talking to
some folks at Proteome, and I figured you might want to refer this to Legal and
make sure you're fire-walled before this hits the fan."
"Well. That's very interesting." Joe smiled back at her. "Is that your file on
this story?"
"Yeah," said Paulette.
"Would you mind leaving it with me?" he asked. He cleared his throat. "I'm kind
of embarrassed," he said, shrugging a small-boy shrug. The defensive set of his
shoulders backed his words. "Look, I'm going to have to read this myself.
Obviously, the scope for mistakes is—" he shrugged.
Suddenly Miriam had a sinking feeling: It's going to be bad. She racked her
brains for clues. Is he going to try to bury us?
Joe shook his head. "Look, I'd like to start by saying that this isn't about
anything you've done," he added hurriedly. "It's just that we've got an
investment to protect and I need to work out how to do so."
"Before we break the story." Miriam forced another, broader, smile. "It was all
in the public record," she added. "If we don't break it, one of our competitors
will."
"Oh, I don't know," Joe said smoothly. "Listen, I'll get
back to you in an hour or so. If you leave this with me for now, I just need to
go and talk to someone in Legal so we can sort out how to respond. Then I'll let
you know how we're going to handle it."
"Oh, okay then," said Paulette acceptingly.
Miriam let her expression freeze in a fixed grin. Oh shit, she thought as she
stood up. "Thanks for giving us your time," she said.
"Let yourselves out," Joe said tersely, already turning the first page.
Out in the corridor, Paulette turned to Miriam. "Didn't that go well” she
insisted.
Miriam took a deep breath. "Paulie."
"Yeah?"
Her knees felt weak. "Something's wrong."
"What?" Paulette looked concerned.
"Elevator." She hit the "call" button and waited in silence, trying to still the
butterflies in her stomach. It arrived, and she waited for the doors to close
behind them before she continued. "I may just have made a bad mistake."
" 'Mistake?'" Paulette looked puzzled. "You don't think—"
"He didn't say anything about publishing," Miriam said slowly. "Not one word.
What were the other names on that list of small investors? The ones you didn't
check?"
"The list? He's got—" Paulette frowned.
"Was Somerville Investments one of them?"
"Somerville? Could be. Why? Who are they?"
"Because that's—" Miriam pointed a finger at the roof and circled. She watched
Paulette's eyes grow round.
"I'm thinking about magazine returns from the newsstand side of the business,
Paulie. Don't you know we've got low returns by industry standards? And people
buy magazines for cash."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry, Paulie."
When they got back to Miriam's cubicle, a uniformed security guard and a suit
from Human Resources were already waiting for them.
"Paulette Milan? Miriam Beckstein?" said the man from HR. He checked a notepad
carefully.
"Yes?" Miriam asked cautiously. "What's up?"
"Would you please follow me? Both of you?"
He turned and headed for the stairwell down to the main entrance. Miriam glanced
around and saw the security guard pull a brief expression of discomfort. "Go on,
ma'am."
"Go on," echoed Paulette from her left shoulder, her face white.
This can't be happening, Miriam thought woodenly. She felt her feet carrying her
toward the staircase and down, toward the glass doors at the front.
"Cards, please," said the man from Human Resources. He held out his hand
impatiently. Miriam passed him her card reluctantly: Paulette followed suit.
He cleared his throat and looked them over superciliously. "I've been told to
tell you that The Industry Weatherman won't be pressing charges," he said.
"We'll clear your cubicles and forward your personal items and your final
paycheck to your addresses of record. But you're no longer allowed on the
premises." The security guard took up a position behind him, blocking the
staircase. "Please leave."
"What's going on?" Paulette demanded, her voice rising toward a squeak.
"You're both being terminated," the HR man said impassively. "Misappropriation
of company resources; specifically, sending personal e-mail on company time and
looking at pornographic Web sites."
" 'Pornographic—'" Miriam felt herself going faint with fury. She took half a
step toward the HR man and barely noticed Paulette grabbing her sleeve.
"It's not worth it, Miriam," Paulie warned her. "We both know it isn't true."
She glared at the HR man. "You work for Somerville Investments, don't you?"
He nodded incuriously. "Please leave. Now."
Miriam forced herself to smile. "Better brush up your r6-sume," she said shakily
and turned toward the exit.
Two-thirds of her life ago, when she was eleven, Miriam had been stung by a
hornet. It had been a bad one: Her arm had swollen up like a balloon, red and
sore and painful to touch, and the sting itself had hurt like crazy. But the
worst thing of all was the sense of moral indignation and outrage. Miriam-aged-
eleven had been minding her own business, playing in the park with her
skateboard—she'd been a tomboy back then, and some would say she still was—and
she hadn't done anything to provoke the angry yellow-and-black insect. It just
flew at her, wings whining angrily, landed, and before she could shake it off it
stung her.
She'd howled.
This time she was older and much more serf-sufficient— college, pre-med, and her
failed marriage to Ben had given her a grounding in self-sufficiency—so she
managed to say good-bye to an equally shocked Paulie and make it into her car
before she broke down. And the tears came silently—this time. It was raining in
the car park, but she couldn't tell whether there was more water inside or
outside. They weren't tears of pain: They were tears of anger. That bastard—
For a moment, Miriam fantasized about storming back in through the fire door at
the side of the building, going up to Joe Dixon's office, and pushing him out of
the big picture window. It made her feel better to think about that, but after a
few minutes she reluctantly concluded that it wouldn't solve anything. Joe had
the file. He had her computer—and Paulie's—and a moment's thought told her that
those machines would be being wiped right now. Doubtless, server logs showing
her peeking at porn on the job would be being fabricated. She'd spoken to some
geeks at a dot-com startup once who explained just how easy it was if you wanted
to get someone dismissed. "Shit," she mumbled to herself and sniffed. "I'll have
to get another job. Shouldn't be too hard, even without a reference."
Still, she was badly shaken. Journalists didn't get fired for exposing money-
laundering scams; that was in the rules
somewhere. Wasn't it? In fact, it was completely crazy. She blinked away the
remaining angry tears. / need to go see Iris, she decided. Tomorrow would be
soon enough to start looking for a new job. Or to figure out a way to break the
story herself, if she was going to try and do it freelance. Today she needed a
shoulder to cry on—and a sanity check. And if there was one person who could
provide both, it was her adoptive mother.
Iris Beckstein lived alone in her old house near Lowell Park. Miriam felt
obscurely guilty about visiting her during daytime working hours. Iris never
tried to mother her, being content to wander around and see to her own quiet
hobbies most of the time since Morris had died. But Miriam also felt guilty
about not visiting Iris more often. Iris was convalescent, and the possibility
of losing her mother so soon after her father had died filled her with dread.
Another anchor was threatening to break free, leaving her adrift in the world.
She parked the car in the road, then made a dash for the front door—the rain was
descending in a cold spray, threatening to turn to penetrating sheets—and rang
the doorbell, then unlocked the door and went in as the two-tone chime echoed
inside.
"Ma?"
"Through here," Iris called. Miriam entered, closing the front door. The hallway
smelled faintly floral, she noticed as she shed her raincoat and hung it up: The
visiting home help must be responsible. "I'm in the back room."
Doors and memories lay ajar before Miriam as she hurried toward the living room.
She'd grown up in this house, the one Morris and Iris had bought back when she
was a baby. The way the third step on the staircase creaked when you put your
weight on it, the eccentricities of the downstairs toilet, the way the living
room felt cramped from all the bookshelves—the way it felt too big, without Dad.
"Ma?" She pushed open the living room door hesitantly.
Iris smiled at her from her wheelchair. "So nice of you to visit! Come in! To
what do I owe the pleasure?"
The room was furnished with big armchairs and a threadbare sofa deep enough to
drown in. There was no television—neither Iris nor Morris had time for it—but
there were bookcases on each wall and a tottering tower of paper next to Iris's
chair. Miriam crossed the room, leaned over, and kissed Iris on top of her head,
then stood back. "You're looking well," she said anxiously, hoping it was true.
She wanted to hug her mother, but she looked increasingly frail—only in her
fifties, but her hair was increasingly gray, and the skin on the backs of her
hands seemed to be more wrinkled every time Miriam visited.
"I won't break—at least, I don't think so. Not if you only hug me." Iris
grimaced. "It's been bad for the past week, but I think I'm on the mend again."
The chair she sat in was newer than the rest of the furniture, surrounded by the
impedimenta of invalidity: a little side trolley with her crochet and an
insulated flask full of herbal tea, her medicines, and a floor-standing lamp
with a switch high up its stem. "Marge just left. She'll be back later, before
supper."
"That's good. I hope she's been taking care of you well."
"She does her best." Iris nodded, slightly dismissively. "I've got physiotherapy
tomorrow. Then another session with my new neurologist, Dr. Burke—he's working
with a clinical trial on a new drug that's looking promising and we're going to
discuss that. It's supposed to stop the progressive demyelination process, but I
don't understand half the jargon in the report. Could you translate it for me?"
"Mother! You know I don't do that stuff any more—I'm not current; I might miss
something. Anyway, if you go telling your osteopath about me, he'll panic. I'm
not a bone doctor."
"Well, if you say so." Iris looked irritated. "All that time in medical school
wasn't wasted, was it?"
"No, Mom, I use it every day. I couldn't do my job without it. I just don't know
enough about modern multiple sclerosis drug treatments to risk second-guessing
your specialist, all right? I might get it wrong, and then who'd you sue?"
"If you say so." Iris snorted. "You didn't come here just to talk about that,
did you?"
Damn, thought Miriam. It had always been very difficult to pull one over on her
mother. "I lost my job," she confessed.
"I wondered." Iris nodded thoughtfully. "All those dotcoms of yours, it was
bound to be infectious. Is that what happened?"
"No." Miriam shook her head. "I stumbled across something and mishandled it
badly. They fired me. And Paulie ... Remember I told you about her?"
Iris closed her eyes. "Bastards. The bosses are bastards."
"Mother!" Miriam wasn't shocked at the language—Iris's odd background jumped out
to bite her at the strangest moments—but it was the risk of misunderstanding.
"It's not that simple; I screwed up."
"So you screwed up. Are you going to tell me you deserved to be fired?" asked
Iris.
"No. But I should have dug deeper before I tried to run the story," Miriam said
carefully. "I was too eager, got sloppy. There were connections. It's deep and
it's big and it's messy; the people who own The Weatherman didn't want to be
involved in exposing it."
"So that excuses them, does it?" asked Iris, her eyes narrowing.
"No, it—" Miriam stopped.
"Stop making excuses for them and I'll stop chasing you." Iris sounded almost
amused. "They took your job to protect their own involvement in some dirty
double-dealing. Is that what you're telling me?"
"Yeah. I guess."
"Well." Iris's eyes flashed. "When are you going to hang them? And how high? I
want a ringside seat!"
"Ma." Miriam looked at her mother with mingled affection and exasperation. "It's
not that easy. I think The Weatherman's owners are deeply involved in something
illegal. Money laundering. Dirty money. Insider trading too, probably. I'd like
to nail them, but they're going to play dirty if I try. It took them about five
minutes to come up with cause for dismissal, and they said they wouldn't press
charges if I kept my mouth shut."
"What kind of charges?" Iris demanded.
"They say they've got logfiles to prove I was net-surfing pornography at work.
They ... they—" Miriam found she was unable to go on speaking.
"So were you?" Iris asked quietly.
"No!" Miriam startled herself with her vehemence. She caught Iris's sly glance
and felt sheepish. "Sorry. No, I wasn't. It's a setup. But it's so easy to
claim—and virtually impossible to disprove."
"Are you going to be able to get another job?" Iris prodded.
"Yes." Miriam fell silent.
"Then it's all right. I really couldn't do with my daughter expecting me to wash
her underwear after all these years."
"Mother!" Then Miriam spotted the sardonic grin.
"Tell me about it. I mean, everything. Warm a mother's heart, spill the beans on
the assholes who took her daughter's job away."
Miriam flopped down on the big overstuffed sofa. "It's either a very long story
or a very short one," she confessed. "I got interested in a couple of biotech
companies that looked just a little bit odd. Did some digging, got Paulette
involved— she digs like a drilling platform—and we came up with some dirt. A
couple of big companies are being used as targets for money laundering.
"Turns out that The Weatherman's parent company is into them, deep. They decided
it would be easier to fire us and threaten us than to run the story and take
their losses. I'm probably going to get home and find a SLAPP lawsuit sitting in
my mailbox."
"So. What are you going to do about it?"
Miriam met her mother's penetrating stare. "Ma, I spent three years there. And
they fired me cold, without even trying to get me to shut up, at the first
inconvenience. Do you really think I'm going to let them get away with that if I
can help it?"
"What about loyalty?" Iris asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I gave them mine." Miriam shrugged. "That's part of why this hurts. You earn
loyalty by giving it."
"You'd have made a good feudal noble. They were big on loyalty, too. And blind
obedience, in return."
"Wrong century, wrong side of the Atlantic, in case you hadn't noticed."
Now Iris grinned. "Oh, I noticed that much," she conceded. "No foreign titles of
nobility. That's one of the reasons why I stayed here—that, and your father."
Her smile slipped. "Never could understand what the people here see in kings and
queens, either the old hereditary kind or the modern presidential type. All
those paparazzi, drooling after monarchs. I like your line of work. It's more
honest."
"Harder to keep your job when you're writing about the real world," Miriam
brooded gloomily. She struggled to sit a little straighter. "Anyway, I didn't
come around here to mope at you. I figure I can leave job-hunting until tomorrow
morning."
"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" Iris asked pointedly. "You
mentioned lawsuits-—or worse."
"In the short term—" Miriam shrugged, then took a deep breath. "Yes," she
admitted. "I guess I'll be okay as long as I leave them alone."
"Hmm." Iris looked at Miriam sidelong. "How much money are we talking about
here? If they're pulling fake lawsuits to shut you up, that's not business as
usual."
"There's—" Miriam did some mental arithmetic— "about fifty to a hundred million
a year flowing through this channel."
Iris swore.
"Ma!"
"Don't you 'Ma' me!" Iris snorted.
"But—"
"Listen to your old ma. You came here for advice, I'm going to give it, all
right? You're telling me you just happened to stumble across a money-laundering
operation that's handling more money in a week than most people earn in their
life. And you think they're going to settle for firing you and hoping you stay
quiet?"
Miriam snorted. "It can't possibly be that bad, Ma, this isn't goodfellas
territory, and anyway, they've got that faked evidence."
Iris shook her head stubbornly. "When you've got criminal activities and
millions of dollars in cash together, there are no limits to what people can
do." For the first time, Miriam realized with a sinking feeling, Iris looked
worried. "But maybe I'm being too pessimistic—you've just lost your job and
whatever else, that's going to be a problem. How are your savings?"
Miriam glanced at the rain-streaked window. What's turned Ma so paranoid? she
wondered, unsettled. "They're not doing badly. I've been saving for the past ten
years."
"There's my girl," Iris said approvingly.
"I put my money into tech-sector shares."
"No, you didn't!" Iris looked shocked.
Miriam nodded. "But no dot-coms."
"Really?"
"Most people think that all tech stocks are down. But biotech stocks actually
crashed out in ninety-seven and have been recovering ever since. The bubble last
year didn't even touch them. People need new medicines more than they need
flashy Web sites that sell toys, don't they? I was planning on paying off my
mortgage year after next. Now I guess it'll have to wait a bit longer—but I'm
not in trouble unless I stay unemployed over a year."
"Well, at least you found a use for all that time in med school." Iris looked
relieved. "So you're not hard up."
"Not in the short term," Miriam corrected instinctively. "Ask me again in six
months. Anyway. Is there anything I can get you while I'm here?"
"A good stiff drink." Iris clucked to herself. "Listen, I'm going to be all
right. The disease, it comes and it goes—another few weeks and I'll be walking
again." She gestured at the aluminium walking frame next to her chair. "I've
been getting plenty of rest and with Marge around twice a day I can just about
cope, apart from the boredom. I've even been doing a bit of filing and cleaning,
you know, turning out the dusty old corners?"
"Oh, right. Turned anything up?"
"Lots of dustballs. Anyway," she continued after a moment. "There's some stuff
I've been meaning to hand over to you."
" 'Stuff.'" For a moment, Miriam couldn't focus on the problem at hand. It was
too much to deal with. She'd lost her job and then, the very same day, her
mother wanted to talk about selling her home. "I'm sorry, I'm not very focused
today."
"Not very—" Iris snorted. "You're like a microscope, girl! Most other people
would be walking around in a daze. It's not very considerate of me, I know, it's
just that I've been thinking about things and there's some stuff you really
should have right now. Partly because you're grown up and partly because it
belongs to you—you might have some use for it Stuff that might get overlooked."
Miriam must have looked baffled because Iris smiled at her encouragingly. "Yes.
You know, 'stuff.' Photograph albums, useless things like Morris's folks' birth
certificates, my old passport, my parents' death certificates, your adoption
papers. Some stuff relating to your birth-mother, too."
Miriam shook her head. "My adoption papers—why would I want them? That's old
stuff, and you're the only mother I've ever had." She looked at Iris fiercely.
"You're not allowed to push me away!"
"Well! And who said I was? I just figured you wouldn't want to lose the
opportunity. If you ever felt like trying to trace your roots. It belongs to
you, and I think now is definitely past time for you to have it. I kept the
newspaper pages too, you know. It caused quite a stir." Miriam made a face. "I
know you're not interested," Iris said placatingly. "Humour me. There's a box."
"A box."
"A pink and green shoebox. Sitting on the second shelf of your father's bureau
in the guest bedroom upstairs. Do me a favour and fetch it down, will you?"
"Just for you."
Miriam found the box easily enough. It rattled when she picked it up and carried
it, smelling of mothballs, down to the living room. Iris had picked up her
crochet again and
was pulling knots with an expression of fierce concentration. "Dr. Hare told me
to work on it," she said without looking up. "It helps preserve hand-eye
coordination."
"I see." Miriam put the box down on the sofa. "What's this one?"
"A Klein-bottle cosy." Iris looked up defensively at Miriam's snort. "You should
laugh! In this crazy inside-out world, we must take our comforts from crazy
inside-out places."
"You and Dad." Miriam waved it off. "Both crazy inside-out sorts of people."
"Bleeding hearts, you mean," Iris echoed ominously. "People who refuse to bottle
it all up, who live life on the outside, who—" she glanced around— "end up
growing old disgracefully." She sniffed. "Stop me before I reminisce again. Open
the box!"
Miriam obeyed. It was half-full of yellowing, carefully folded newsprint and
elderly photocopies of newspaper stories. Then there was a paper bag and some
certificates and pieces of formal paperwork made up the rest of its contents.
"The bag contained stuff that was found with your birth-mother by the police,"
Iris explained. "Personal effects. They had to keep the clothing as evidence,
but nobody ever came forward and after a while they passed the effects on to
Morris for safekeeping. There's a locket of your mother's in there—I think you
ought to keep it in a safe place for now; I think it's probably quite valuable.
The papers—it was a terrible thing. Terrible."
Miriam unfolded the uppermost sheet; it crackled slightly with age as she read
it. unknown woman found stabbed, baby taken into custody. It gave her a most
peculiar feeling. She'd known about it for many years, of course, but this was
like seeing it for the first time in a history book, written down in black and
white. "They still don't know who she was?" Miriam asked.
"Why should they?" Iris looked at her oddly. "Sometimes they can reopen the case
when new evidence comes to light, or do DNA testing, but after thirty-two years
most of the
witnesses will have moved away or died. The police officers who first looked
into it will have retired. Probably nothing happens unless a new lead comes up.
Say, they find another body or someone confesses years later. It's just one of
those terrible things that sometimes happen to people. The only unusual thing
about it was you." She looked at Miriam fondly.
"Why they let two radicals, one of them a resident alien and both of them into
antiwar protests and stuff like that, adopt a baby—" Miriam shook her head. Then
she grinned. "Did they think I would slow you down or something?"
"Possibly, possibly. But I don't remember being asked any questions about our
politics when we went to the adoption agency—it was much easier to adopt in
those days. They didn't ask much about our background except whether we were
married. We didn't save the newspapers at the time, by the way. Morris bought
them as morgue copies later."
"Well." Miriam replaced the news clipping, put the lid back on the box, and
contemplated it. "Ancient history."
"You know, if you wanted to investigate it—" Iris was using that look on her,
the penetrating diamond-tipped stare of inquisition, the one Miriam tried to
think herself into when interviewing difficult customers—"I bet a journalist of
your experience would do better than some doughnut stuffed policeman on a
routine job. Don't you think?"
"I think I really ought to help my real mother figure out what she's going to do
about not going stir-crazy while she gets better," Miriam replied lightly.
"There are more immediate things to investigate, like whether your tea is cold
and if there are any cookies in the kitchen. Why don't we leave digging up the
dead past for some other time?"

sLippeRs

 Miriam drove away slowly, distractedly, nodding in time to the beat of the
wind- shield wipers. Traffic was as bad as usual, but nothing untoward
penetrated her thoughts.
She parked, then hunched her shoulders against the weather and scurried to her
front door. As usual, her keys got muddled up. Why does this always happen when
I'm in a hurry? She wondered. Inside, she shook her way out of her raincoat and
jacket like a newborn moth emerging from its sodden cocoon, hung them on the
coat rail, then dumped her shoulder bag and the now-damp cardboard box on the
old telephone table and bent to unzip her boots. Free of the constraints of
leather, her feet flexed luxuriously as she slid them into a pair of battered
pink slippers. Then she spotted the answering machine's blinking light. "You
have new messages," she sang to herself, slightly manic with relief at being
home. "Fuck 'em." She headed for the kitchen to switch on the coffeepot, then
poured a mug and carried it into her den.
The den had once been the dining room of this suburban home, a rectangular space
linked to the living room by an archway and to the kitchen by a serving hatch.
Now it was a cramped office, two walls jammed with bookcases and a third
occupied by a huge battered desk. The remaining wall was occupied by a set of
french windows opening onto the rear deck. Rain left twisting slug trails down
the windows, kicking up splashes from the half-submerged ceramic pots outside.
Miriam planted the coffee mug in the middle of the pile of stuff that
accumulated on her desk and frowned at the effect. "It's a mess," she said
aloud, bemused. "How the hell did it get this untidy?"
'This is bad" she said, standing in front of her desk. "You hear me?" The
stubborn paperwork and scattering of gadgets stubbornly refused to obey, so she
attacked them, sorting me letters into piles, opening unopened mail and
discarding the junk, hunting receipts and filing bills. The desk turned out to
be almost nine months' deep in trivia, and cleaning it up was a welcome
distraction from having to think about her experience at work. When the desk
actually showed a clear surface— and she'd applied the kitchen cleaner to the
coffee rings—she started on the e-mail. That took longer, and by the time she'd
checked off everything in her in-box, the rain battering on the windows was
falling out of a darkening sky as night fell.
When everything was looking shipshape, another thought struck her. "Paperwork.
Hmm." She went through into the hall and fetched the pink and green shoebox.
Making a face, she upended it onto the desk. Papers mushroomed out, and
something clattered and skittered onto the floor. "Huh?"
It was a paper bag. Something in it, a hard, cold nucleus, had spilled over the
edge of the desk. She hunted around for a few seconds, then stooped and
triumphantly deposited bag and contents next to the pile of yellowing clippings,
rancid photocopies, and creamy documents. One of which, now that she examined
it, looked like a birth certificate—no, one of those forms that gets filled in
in place of a birth certificate when the full details are unknown. Baby Jane
Doe, age approximately six weeks, weight blah, eye colour green, sex female,
parents unknown... for a moment Miriam felt as if she was staring at it down a
dark tunnel from a long way away.
Ignoring the thing-that-rattled, Miriam went through the papers and sorted
these, too, into two stacks. Press clippings and bureaucracy. The clippings were
mostly photocopies: They told a simple—if mysterious—tale that had been familiar
to her since the age of four. A stabbing in the park. A young woman—apparently a
hippie or maybe a Gypsy, judging by her strange clothes—found dead on the edge
of a wooded area. The cause of death was recorded as massive blood loss caused
by a deep wound across her back and left shoulder, inflicted by some kind of
edged weapon, maybe a machete. That was unusual enough. What made it even more
unusual was the presence of the six-week-old baby shrieking her little heart out
nearby. An elderly man walking his dog had called the police. It was a seven-day
wonder.
Miriam knew the end to that story lay somewhere in Morris and Iris Beckstein's
comforting arms. She'd done her best to edit this other dangling bloody end to
the story out of her life. She didn't want to be someone else's child: She had
two perfectly good parents of her own, and the common assumption that blood ties
must be thicker than upbringing rankled. Iris's history taught better—the only
child of Holocaust refugees settled in an unfriendly English town after the war,
she'd emigrated at twenty and never looked back after meeting and marrying
Morris.
Miriam shook out the contents of the paper bag over the not-quite birth
certificate. It was a lens-shaped silver locket on a fine chain. Tarnished and
dull with age, its surface was engraved with some sort of crest of arms: a
shield and animals. It looked distinctly cheap. "Hmm." She picked it up and
peered at it closely. This must be what Ma told me about, she thought. Valuable?
There was some sort of catch under the chain's loop. "I wonder..."
She opened it.
Instead of the lover's photographs she'd half-expected, the interior of the
shell contained a knotwork design, enamel painted in rich colours. Curves of
rich ochre looped and inter-
penetrated, weaving above and beneath a branch of turquoise. The design was
picked out in silver—it was far brighter than the exposed outer case had
suggested.
Miriam sighed and leaned back in her sprung office chair. "Well, there goes that
possibility," she told the press clippings gloomily. No photographs of her
mother or long-lost father. Just some kind of tacky cloisonné knotwork design.
She looked at it closer. Knotwork. Vaguely Celtic knot-work. The left-hand cell
appeared to be a duplicate of the right-hand one. If she traced that arc from
the top left and followed it under the blue arc—
Why had her birth-mother carried this thing? What did it mean to her? (The blue
arc connected through two interlinked green whorls.) What had she seen when she
stared into it? Was it some kind of meditation aid? Or just a pretty picture? It
certainly wasn't any kind of coat of arms.
Miriam leaned back further. Lifting the locket, she dangled it in front of her
eyes, letting the light from the bookcase behind her catch the silver
highlights. Beads of dazzling blue-white heat seemed to trace their way around
the knot's heart. She squinted, feeling her scalp crawl. The sound of her heart
beating in her ears became unbearably loud: There was a smell of burning toast,
the sight of an impossible knot twisting in front of her eyes like some kind of
stereoisogram forming in midair, trying to turn her head inside out—
Three things happened simultaneously. An abrupt sense of nausea washed over her,
the light bulb went out, and her chair fell over backward.
"Ouch! Dammit!" Something thumped into Miriam's side, doubling her over as she
hit the ground and rolled over, pulling her arms in to protect her face. A
racking spasm caught her by the gut, leaving her feeling desperately sick, and
the arm of the chair came around and whacked her in the small of her back. Her
knees were wet, and the lights were out. "Shit!" Her head was splitting, the
heartbeat throb pounding like a jackhammer inside her skull, and her stomach was
twisting. A sudden flash of fear: This can't be a migraine. The onset is way too
fast. Malignant hypertension?
The urge to vomit was strong, but after a moment it began to ebb. Miriam lay
still for a minute, waiting for her stomach to come under control and the lights
to come back on. Shit, am I having an aneurism? She gripped the locket so
tightly that it threatened to dig a hole in her right fist. Carefully she tried
to move her arms and legs: Everything seemed to be working and she managed a
shallow sigh of relief. Finally, when she was sure her guts were going to be
alright, she pushed herself up onto her knees and saw—
Trees.
Trees everywhere.
Trees inside her den.
Where did the walls go?
Afterward, she could never remember that next terrible minute. It was dark, of
course, but not totally dark: She was in twilight on a forested slope, with
beech and elm and other familiar trees looming ominously out of the twilight.
The ground was dry, and her chair lay incongruously in a thicket of shrubbery
not far from the base of a big maple tree. When she looked around, she could see
no sign of her house, or the neighbouring apartments, or of the lights along the
highway. Is there a total blackout? she wondered, confused. Did I sleepwalk or
something?
She stumbled to her feet, her slippers treacherous on leaf mulch and dry grass
stems. She shivered. It was cold—not quite winter-cold but too damned chilly to
be wandering around in pants, a turtleneck, and bedroom slippers. And—
"Where the hell am I?" she asked the empty sky. "What the hell?"
Then the irony of her situation kicked in and she began to giggle, frightened
and edgy and afraid she wouldn't be able to stop. She did a twirl, in place,
trying to see whatever there was to see. Sylvan idyll at nightfall, still-life
with deranged dot-com refugee and brown office furniture. A gust of wind rattled
the branches overhead, dislodging a chilly shower of fat drops: A couple landed
on Miriam's arms and face, making her shudder.
The air was fresh—too fresh. And there was none of the
subliminal background hum of a big city, the noise that never completely died.
It didn't get this quiet even out in the country—and indeed, when she paused to
listen, it wasn't quiet; she could hear distant birdsong in the deepening
twilight.
She took a deep breath, then another. Forced herself to thrust the hand with the
locket into her hip pocket and let go of the thing. She patted it obsessively
for a minute, whimpering slightly at the pain in her head. No holes, she thought
vaguely. She'd once worn pants like this where her spare change had worn a hole
in the pocket lining and eventually spilled on the ground, causing no end of a
mess.
For some reason, the idea of losing possession of the locket filled her with a
black terror.
She looked up. The first stars of evening were coming out, and the sky was
almost clear of cloud. It was going to be a cold night.
"Item," she muttered. "You are not at home. Ouch. You have a splitting headache
and you don't think you fell asleep in the chair, even though you were in it
when you arrived here." She looked around in wild surmise. She'd never been one
for the novels Ben occasionally read, but she'd seen enough trashy TV serials to
pick up the idea. 1\vilight Zone, Time Squad, programs like that. "Item: I don't
know where or when I am, but this ain't home. Do I stay put and hope I
automagically snap back into my own kitchen or... what? It was the locket, no
two ways about it. Do I look at it again to go back?"
She fumbled into her pocket nervously. Her fingers wrapped around warm metal.
She breathed more easily. "Right. Right."
Just nerves, she thought. Alone in a forest at night—what lived here? Bears?
Cougars? There could be anything here, anything at all. Be a fine joke if she
went exploring and stepped on a rattler, wouldn't it? Although in this
weather... "I'd better go home," she murmured to herself and was about to pull
the locket out when she saw a flicker of light in the distance.
She was disoriented, tired, had just had a really bad day, and some cosmic
trickster-god had dumped a magic amulet on her to see what she'd do with it.
That was the only explanation, she reasoned afterward. A sane Miriam would have
sat down and analysed her options, then assembled a plan of action. But it
wasn't a sane Miriam who saw those flickers of orange light and went crashing
through the trees downhill toward them.
Lights. A jingle, as of chains. Thudding and hollow clonking noises—and low
voices. She stumbled out into the sudden expanse of a trail—not a wide one, more
of a hiking trail, the surface torn up and muddy. Lights! She stared at them, at
the men on horseback coming down the trail toward her, the lantern held on a
pole by the one in the lead. Dim light glinted off reflecting metal, helmet, and
breastplate like something out of a museum. Someone called out something that
sounded like: "Curl!" Look. He's riding toward me, she thought dazedly. What's
that he's—
Her guts liquid with absolute fright, she turned and ran. The flat crack of
rifle fire sounded behind her, repeated short bursts firing into the night.
Invisible fingers ripped at the branches overhead as Miriam heard voices raised
in hue and cry behind her. Low branches scratched at her face as she ran,
gasping and crying, uphill away from the path. More bangs, more gunshots—
astonishingly few of them, but any at all was too many. She ran straight into a
tree, fell back winded, brains rattling around inside her head like dried peas
in a pod, then she pushed herself to her feet again faster than she'd have
believed possible and stumbled on into the night, gasping for breath, praying
for rescue.
Eventually she stopped. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her slippers. Her
face and ribs felt bruised, her head was pounding, and she could barely breathe.
But she couldn't hear any sounds of pursuit. Her skin felt oddly tight, and
everything was far too cold. As soon as she was no longer running, she doubled
over and succumbed to a fit of racking coughs, prolonged by her desperate
attempts to muffle them.
Her chest was on fire. Oh god, any god. Whoever put me here. I just want you to
know that I hate you!
She stood up. Somewhere high overhead the wind sighed. Her skin itched with the
fear of pursuit. I've got to get home, she realized. Now her skin crawled with
another fear—fear that she might be wrong, that it wasn't the locket at all,
that it was something else she didn't understand that had brought her here, that
there was no way back and she'd be stranded—
When she flicked it open, the right-hand half of the locket crawled with light.
Tiny specks of brilliance, not the phosphorescence of a watch dial or the
bioluminescence of those plastic disposable flashlights that had become popular
for a year or two, but an intense, bleached blue-white glare like a miniature
star. Miriam panted, trying to let her mind drift into it, but after a minute
she realized all she was achieving was giving herself a headache. "What did I do
to make it work?" she mumbled, puzzled and frustrated and increasingly afraid.
"If she could make it—"
Ah. That was what she'd been doing. Just relaxing, meditating. Wondering what
the hell her birth-mother had seen in it. Miriam gritted her teeth. How was she
going to re-create that sense of detached curiosity? Here in a wild forest at
night, with strangers shooting at her in the dark? How—she narrowed her eyes.
The headache. If I can see my way past it, I could—
The dots of light blazed up for a moment in glorious conflagration. Miriam jack-
knifed forward, saw the orange washout of streetlights shining down on a well-
mowed lawn. Then her stomach rebelled and this time she couldn't keep it down.
It was all she could do to catch her breath between heaves. Somehow her guts had
been replaced by a writhing snake, and the racking spasms kept pulsing through
her until she began to worry about tearing her oesophagus.
Noise of a car slowing—then speeding up again as the driver saw her vomiting. A
yell from the window, inarticulate, something like "Drunk fucking bums!"
Something clattered into the road. Miriam didn't care. Dampness and cold
clenched their icy fingers around her, but she didn't care: She was back in
civilization, away from the threatening trees
and her pursuer. She stumbled off the front lawn of somebody's house and sensed
harsh asphalt beneath her bare feet, stones digging into her soles. A road sign
said it was somewhere she knew. One of the other side roads off Grafton Street,
which her road also opened off. She was less than half a mile from home.
Drip. She looked up. Drip. The rain began to fall again, sluicing down her
aching face. Her clothes were stained and filthy with mud and vomit. Her legs
were scratched and felt braised. Home. It was a primal imperative. Put one foot
in front of another, she told herself through the deafening hammering in her
skull. Her head hurt, and the world was spinning around her.
An indefinite time—perhaps ten minutes, perhaps half an hour—later, she saw a
familiar sight through the downpour. Soaked to the skin and shivering, she
nevertheless felt like a furnace. Her house seemed to shimmer like a mirage in
the desert when she looked at it. And now she discovered another problem—she'd
come out without her keys! Silly me, what was I thinking? she wondered vaguely.
Nothing but this locket, she thought, weaving its chain around her right index
finger.
The shed, whispered a vestige of cool control in the back of her head.
Oh, yes, the shed, she answered herself.
She stumbled around the side of her house, past the cramped green rug that
passed for a yard, to the shed in back. It was padlocked, but the small side
window wasn't actually fastened and if you pulled just so it would open outward.
It took her three tries and half a fingernail—the rain had warped the wood
somewhat—but once open she could thrust an arm inside and fumble around for the
hook with the key dangling from it on a loop. She fetched the key, opened the
padlock—dropping it casually on the lawn—and found, taped to the underside of
the workbench, the spare key to the french doors.
She was home.

on   side

Somehow Miriam found her way upstairs. She worked this out when she awakened
sprawled on her bed, feet freezing and hot shivers chasing across her skin while
a platoon of miners with pickaxes worked her head over. It was her bladder that
woke her up and led her still half-asleep to the bathroom, where she turned on
all the lights, shot the deadbolt on the door, used the toilet, and rummaged
around for an Advil to help with the hangover symptoms. "What you need is a good
shower," she told herself grimly, trying to ignore the pile of foul and stinking
clothes on the floor that mingled with the towels she'd spilled everywhere the
night before. Naked in a brightly lit pink and chromed bathroom, she spun the
taps, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and tried to think her way past the haze
of depression and pain.
"You're a big girl," she told the scalding hot waterfall as it gushed into the
tub. "Big girls don't get bent out of shape by little things," she told herself.
Like losing her job. "Big girls
deal with divorces. Big girls deal with getting pregnant while they're at
school, putting the baby up for adoption, finishing med school, and retraining
for another career when they don't like the shitty options they get dealt. Big
girls cope with marrying their boyfriends, then finding he's been sleeping with
their best friends. Big girls make CEOs shit themselves when they come calling
with a list of questions. They don't go crazy and think they're wandering around
a rainy forest being shot at by armoured knights with assault rifles." She
sniffed, on the edge of tears.
A first rational thought intruded: I'm getting depressed and that's no good.
Followed rapidly by a second one: Where's the bubble bath? Bubble bath was fun.
Bubble bath was a good thought. Miriam didn't like wallowing in self-pity,
although right now it was almost as tempting as a nice warm shower. She went and
searched for the bubble bath, finally found the bottle in the trashcan—almost,
but not entirely, empty. She held it under the tap and let the water rinse the
last of the gel out, foaming and swirling around her feet.
Depression would be a perfectly reasonable response to losing my job, she told
herself, if it was actually my fault. Which it wasn't. Lying back in the scented
water and inhaling steam. But going nuts? I don't think so. She'd been through
bad times. First the unplanned pregnancy by Ben, in her third year at college,
too young and too early. She still couldn't fully articulate her reasons for not
having an abortion; maybe if that bitch from the student counselling service
hadn't simply assumed ... but she'd never been one for doing what everyone
expected her to do, and she'd been confident—maybe too confident—in her
relationship with Ben. Hence the adoption. And then, a couple of years later
when they got married, that hadn't been the smartest thing she'd ever done
either. With twenty-twenty hindsight it had been a response to a relationship
already on the rocks, the kind that could only end in tears. But she'd weathered
it all without going crazy or even having a small breakdown. Iron control,
that's me. But this new thing, the stumbling around the
woods being shot at, seeing a knight, a guy in armour, with an M-16 or
something—that was scary. Time to face the music. "Am I sane?" she asked the
toilet duck.
Well, whatever this is, it ain't in DSM-FV. Miriam racked her memory for decade-
old clinical lectures. No way was this schizophrenia. The symptoms were all
wrong, and she wasn't hearing voices or feeling weird about people. It was just
a single sharp incident, very vivid, realistic as—
She stared at her stained pants and turtleneck. "The chair," she muttered. "If
the chair's missing, it was real. Or at least something happened."
Paradoxically, the thought of the missing chair gave her something concrete to
hang on to. Dripping wet, she stumbled downstairs. Her den was as she'd left it,
except that the chair was missing and there were muddy footprints by the french
doors. She knelt to examine the floor behind her desk. She found a couple of
books, dislodged from the shelf behind her chair when she fell, but otherwise no
sign of anything unexpected. "So it was real!"
A sudden thought struck her and she whirled then ran upstairs to the bathroom,
wincing. The locket!—
It was in the pocket of her pants. Pulling a face, she carefully placed it on
the shelf above the sink where she could see it, then got into the bathtub. I'm
not going nuts, she thought, relaxing in the hot water. It's real.
An hour later she emerged, feeling much improved. Hair washed and conditioned,
nails carefully trimmed and stripped of the residue of yesterday's polish, legs
itching with mild razor-burn, and skin rosy from an exfoliating scrub, she felt
clean, as if she'd succeeded in stripping away all the layers of dirt and
paranoia that had stuck to her the day before. It was still only lunchtime, so
she dressed again: an old T-shirt, jeans that had seen better days, and an old
pair of sneakers.
The headache and chills subsided slowly, as did the lethargy. She headed
downstairs slowly and dumped her dirty clothing in the washing machine. Then she
poured herself a glass of orange juice and managed to force down one
of the granola bars she kept for emergencies. This brought more thoughts to
mind, and as soon as she'd finished eating she headed downstairs to poke around
in the gloom of the basement.
The basement was a great big rectangular space under the floor of the house. The
furnace, bolted to one wall, roared eerily at her; Ben had left lots of stuff
with her, her parents had passed on a lot of their stuff too, and now one wall
was faced in industrial shelving units.
Here was a box stuffed with old clothing that she kept meaning to schlep to a
charity shop: not her wedding dress—which had gone during the angry month she
filed for divorce—but ordinary stuff, too unimportant to repudiate. There was an
old bag full of golf clubs, their chromed heads dull and speckled with rust. Ben
had toyed with the idea of doing golf, thinking of it as a way up the corporate
ladder. There was a dead lawn mower, an ancient computer of Ben's—probably a
museum piece by now—and a workbench with vice, saws, drill, and other
woodworking equipment, and maybe the odd bloodstain from his failed attempts to
be the man about the house. There on that high shelf was a shotgun and a box of
shells. It had belonged to Morris, her father. She eyed it dubiously. Probably
nobody had used it since Dad bought it decades ago, when he'd lived out west for
a few years, and what she knew about shotguns could be written on one side of a
postage stamp in very large letters, even though Morris had insisted on teaching
her to use a handgun. Some wise words from the heavyweight course on industrial
espionage techniques the Weatherman HR folks had paid for her to take two years
ago came back: You're a journalist, and these other folks are investigators.
You're none of you cops, none of you are doing anything worth risking your lives
over, so you should avoid escalating confrontations. Guns turn any confrontation
into a potentially lethal one. So keep them the hell out of your professional
life! "Shotgun, no," she mused. "But. Hmm. Handgun." Must stop talking to
myself, she resolved.
"Do I really expect them to follow me here?" she asked
the broken chest freezer, which gaped uncomprehendingly at her. "Did I just
dream it all?"
Back upstairs, she swiped her leather-bound planner from the desk and poured
another glass of orange juice. Time to worry about the real world, she told
herself. She went back to the hall and hit the "play" button on the answering
machine. It was backed up with messages from the day before.
"Miriam? Andy here. Listen, a little bird told me about what happened yesterday
and I think it sucks. They didn't have any details, but I want you to know if
you need some freelance commissions you should give me a call. Talk later? Bye."
Andy was a junior editor on a rival tech-trade sheet. He sounded stiff and
stilted when he talked to the telephone robot, not like a real person at all.
But it still gave her a shiver of happiness, almost a feeling of pure joy, to
hear from him. Someone cared, someone who didn't buy the vicious lie Joe Dixon
had put out. That bastard really got to me, Miriam wondered, relief replaced by
a flash of anger at the way she'd been treated.
Another message, from Paulette. Miriam tensed. "Miriam, honey, let's talk. I
don't want to rake over dead shit, but there's some stuff I need to get straight
in my head. Can I come around?"
She hit the "pause" button. Paulette sounded severely messed up. It was like a
bucket of ice water down her spine. / did this. I got us both fired, she began
thinking, and her knees tried to turn to jelly. Then she thought, Hold on. I
didn't fire anybody! That switched on the anger again, but left her feeling
distinctly shaky. Sooner or later she'd have to talk to Paulie. Sooner or—
She hit the "next message" button again.
Heavy breathing, then: "Bitch. We know where you live. Heard about you from our
mutual friend Joe. Keep your nose out of our business or you'll be fucking
sorry"—click.
Wide-eyed, she turned and looked over her shoulder. But the yard was empty and
the front door was locked. "Bastards," she spat. But there was no caller-ID on
the message
and probably not enough to get the police interested in it. Especially not if
Joe's minions at The Weatherman started mud slinging with forged fire-wall logs:
They could make her look like the next Unabomber if they wanted to. For a
moment, outrage blurred her vision. She forced herself to stop panting and sit
down again, next to the treacherous, venomous answering machine. "Threaten me in
my own home, will you? Fuck."
The gravity of her situation was only just sinking in. "Better keep a gun under
my pillow," she muttered under her breath. "Bastards." The opposite wall seemed
to be pulsing slightly, a reaction to her fury. She felt her fingers clenching
involuntarily. "Bastards." Kicking her out of her job and smearing her
reputation wasn't enough for them, was it? She'd show them—
—Something.
After a minute she calmed down enough to face the remaining message on the
answering machine. She had difficulty forcing herself to press the button. But
the next message wasn't another threat—quite the opposite. "Miriam, this is
Steve from The Herald. I heard the news. Get in touch."
For that, she hit the "pause" button yet again, and this time frowned and
scribbled a note to herself. Steve wasn't a chatty editor, like Andy; Steve
treated words like dollar bills. And he wouldn't be getting in touch if it
didn't involve work, even freelance work. A year ago he'd tried to head-hunt
her, offering a big pay raise and a higher position. Taking stock of her
options—and when they were due to mature—she'd turned him down. Now she had
reason to regret it.
That was the end of her mailbox, and she hit the "erase" button hard enough to
hurt her finger. Two editors talking about work, a former office mate wanting to
chew over the corpse—and what sounded like a death threat. This isn't going to
go away, she realized. I'm in it up to my neck now. A stab of guilt: So is
Paulie. I'll have to talk to her. A ray of hope: For someone who's unemployed, I
sure get a lot of business calls. A conclusion: Just as long as I stay sane I
should be all right.
The living room was more hospitable right now than the chairless den, its huge
french doors streaked with rain falling from a leaden sky. Miriam went through,
considered building a fire in the hearth, and collapsed into the sofa instead.
The combination of fear, anger, and tension had drained most of her energy.
Opening her planner, she turned to a blank page and began writing:
I NEED WORK
Call Andy and Steve. Pass "Go." Collect freelance commissions. Collect two
hundred dollars. Keep up the mortgage payments.
I AM GOING CRAZY
Well, no. This isn't schizophrenia. I'm not hearing voices, the walls aren't
going soft, and nobody is beaming orbital mind control lasers at me.
Everything's fine except I had a weird fugue moment, and the office chair is
missing.
DID SOMEONE SLIP ME SOMETHING? Don't be silly: Who? Iris? Maybe she and Morris
tripped when they were younger, but she just wouldn't do that to me. Joe Dixon
is a sleazebag with criminal connections, but he didn't offer me a drink. And
who else have I seen in the past day? Anyway, that's not how hallucinogens work.
MAGIC
That's silly, too, but at least it's testable.
Miriam's eyes narrowed and she chewed the cap of her pen. This was going to take
planning, but at least it was beginning to sound like she had her ducks lined up
in a row. She began jotting down tasks:
1. Call Andy at The Globe. Try to sell him a feature or three.
2. Make appointment to see Steve at The Herald. See what he wants.
3. See Paulie. Check how she's doing. See if we can reconstruct the
investigation without drawing attention. See if we can pitch it at Andy or
Steve. Cover the angles. If we do this, they will turn nasty. Call FBI?
4. See if whatever I did last night is repeatable. Get evidence, then a witness.
If it's me, seek help. If it's not me...
5. Get the story.
That afternoon Miriam went shopping. It was, she figured, retail therapy. Never
mind the job-hunting, there'd be time for that when she knew for sure whether or
not she was going insane in some obscurely non-standard manner. It was October,
a pretty time of year to go hiking, but fall had set in and things could turn
nasty at the drop of a North Atlantic depression. Extensive preparations were
therefore in order. She eventually staggered home under the weight of a load of
camping equipment: tent, jacket, new boots, portable stove. Getting it all home
on the T was a pain, but at least it told her that she could walk under the
weight
A couple of hours later she was ready. She checked her watch for the fourth
time. She'd taken two ibuprofen tablets an hour ago and the propionic acid
inhibitor should be doing its job by now.
She tightened the waist strap of her pack and stretched nervously. The garden
shed was cramped and dark and there didn't seem to be room to turn around with
her hiking gear and backpack on. Did I put the spare key back? she asked
herself. A quick check proved that she had. Irrelevant thoughts were better than
Am I nuts?—as long as they weren't an excuse for prevarication.
Okay, here goes nothing.
The locket. She held it in her left hand. With her right she patted her right
hip pocket. The pistol was technically illegal—but as Ben had pointed out, he'd
rather deal with an unlicensed firearms charge than his own funeral. The
rattling memory of a voice snarling at her answering machine, the echo of rifle
fire in the darkness, made her pause for a moment. "Do I really want to do
this?" she asked herself. Life was complicated enough as it was.
Hell yes! Because either I'm mad, and it doesn't matter, or my birth-mother was
involved in something huge. Something much bigger than a billion-dollar money-
laundering scam through Proteome and Biphase. And if they killed her because of
it— A sense of lingering injustice prodded her conscience. "Okay," she told
herself. "Let's do it. I'm right behind myself." She chuckled grimly and flicked
the locket open, half-expecting to see a photograph of a woman, or a painting,
or something else to tell her she needed help—
The knot tried to turn her eyes inside out, and then the hut wasn't there any
more.
Miriam gasped. The air was cold, and her head throbbed— but not as badly as last
time.
"Wow." She carefully pushed the locket into her left pocket, then pulled out her
pocket dictaphone. "Memo begins: Wednesday, October 16, 8 p.m. It's dark and the
temperature's about ten degrees colder... here. Wherever the hell 'here' is."
She turned around slowly. Trees, skeletal, stretched off in all directions. She
was standing on a slope, not steep but steep enough to explain why she'd
skidded. "No sign of people. I can either go look for the chair or not. Hmm. I
think not"
She looked up. Wind-blown clouds scudded overhead, beneath a crescent moon. She
didn't turn her flashlight on. No call for attracting attention, she reminded
herself. Just look around, then go home...
"I'm an astronaut," she murmured into the dictaphone. She took a step forward,
feeling her pack sway on her back, toward a big elm tree. Turning around, she
paused, then
knelt and carefully placed an old potsherd from the shed on the leafy humus
where she'd been standing. "Neil and Buzz only spent eight hours on the moon on
that first trip. Only about four hours on the surface, in two excursions. This
is going to be my moonwalk." As long as I don't get my damn fool self shot, she
reminded herself. Or stuck. She'd brought her sleeping bag and tent, and a
first-aid kit, and Ben's pistol (just in case, and she felt wicked because of
it). But this didn't feel like home. This felt like the wild woods—and Miriam
wasn't at home in the woods. Especially when there were guys with guns who shot
at her like it was hunting season and Jewish divorcees weren't on the protected
list.
Miriam took ten paces up the hill, then stopped and held her breath, listening.
The air was chilly and damp, as if a fog was coming in off the river. There was
nothing to hear—no traffic noise, no distant rumble of trains or jets. A distant
avian hooting might signify an owl hunting, but that was it. "It's really
quiet," Miriam whispered into her mike. "I've never heard it so silent before."
She shivered and looked around. Then she took her small flashlight out and
slashed a puddle of light across the trees, casting long sharp shadows. "There!"
she exclaimed. Another five paces and she found her brown swivel chair lying on
a pile of leaf mould. It was wet and thoroughly the worse for wear, and she
hugged it like a long-lost lover as she lifted it upright and carefully put it
down. "Yes!"
Her temples throbbed, but she was overjoyed. "I found it," she confided in her
dictaphone. "I found the chair. So this is the same place." But the chair was
pretty messed up. Almost ruined, in fact—it had been a second hand retread to
begin with, and a night out in the rainy woods hadn't helped any.
"It's real," she said quietly, with profound satisfaction. "I'm not going mad.
Or if I'm confabulating, I'm doing it so damn consistently—" She shook her head.
"My birth-mother came here. Or from here. Or something. And she was stabbed, and
nobody knows why, or who did it." That brought her back to reality. It raised
echoes of her own situation, hints of anonymous threatening phone calls, and
other unfinished business. She sighed, then retraced her steps to the potsherd.
Massaging her scalp, she sat down on the spot, with her back to the nearby elm
tree.
She stopped talking abruptly, thrust the dictaphone into her hip pocket, pulled
out the locket, and held her breath.
The crunch of a breaking branch carried a long way in the night. Spooked, she
flicked the locket open, focused on its depths, and steeled herself to face the
coming hangover: She really didn't want to be out in the woods at night—at
least, not without a lot more preparation.
The next morning—after phoning Andy at The Globe and securing a commission for a
business supplement feature on VC houses, good for half a month's income, with
the promise of a regular weekly slot if her features were good enough—Miriam bit
the bullet and phoned Paulette. She was nerving herself for an answering machine
on the fifth ring when Paulette answered.
"Hello?" She sounded hesitant—unusual for Paulie.
"Hi, Paulie! It's me. Sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday, I had a migraine
and a lot of, uh, issues to deal with. I'm just about getting my head back
together. How are you doing? Are you okay?"
A brief silence. "About as well as you'd expect," Paulette said guardedly.
"Have you had any, uh, odd phone calls?"
"Sort of," Paulette replied.
Miriam tensed. What's she concealing?
"They sent me a reemployment offer," Paulie continued, guardedly.
"They did, did they?" asked Miriam. She waited a beat. "Are you going to take
it?"
"Am I, like hell!" Miriam relaxed slightly. Paulette sounded furious. She hadn't
expected Paulie to roll over, but it was good to get this confirmation.
"That bad, huh? Want to talk about it? You free?"
"My days are pretty open right now—listen, are you busy? How about I come over
to your place?"
"Great," Miriam said briskly. "I was worried about you, Paulie. After I got past
being worried about me, I guess."
"Well. Should I bring a pizza?"
"Phew..." Miriam took stock. Just a bitch session together? Or something more
going on? "Yeah, let's do that. I'll lay on the coffee right away."
"That'd be wonderful," Paulette said gratefully.
After she'd put the phone down, Miriam pondered her motives. She and Paulette
had worked together for three years and had hung out together in their off-
hours. Some people you met at work, socialized with, then lost contact after
moving on; but a few turned into friends for life. Miriam wasn't sure which
Paulie was going to turn out to be. Why did she turn the reemployment offer
down? Miriam wondered. Despite being shell-shocked from the crazy business with
the locket, she kept circling back to the Monday morning disaster with a
rankling sense of injustice. The sooner they blew the lid off it in public, the
sooner she could go back to living a normal life. But then the locket kept
coming back up. / need a sanity check, Miriam decided. Why not Paulie? Better to
have her think she'd gone nuts than someone whose friendship went back a long
way and who knew Iris. Or was it?
An hour later the doorbell rang. Miriam stood up and went to answer it, trying
to suppress her worries about how Paulette might be coming. She was waiting on
the doorstep, impatiently tapping one heel, with a large shopping bag in hand.
"Miriam!" Paulette beamed at her.
"Come in, come in." Miriam retreated. "Hey, what's that? Have you been all
right?"
"I've been worse." Paulie bounced inside and shut the door behind her, then
glanced around curiously. "Hey, neat. I was worried about you, after I got home.
You didn't look real happy, you know?"
"Yeah. Well, I wasn't." Miriam relieved her of her coat
and led her into the living room. "I'm really glad you're taking it so calmly.
For me, I put in three years and nothing to show for it but hard work and junk
bonds—then some asshole phoned me and warned me off. How about you? Have you had
any trouble?"
Paulette peered at her curiously. "What kind of warning?"
"Oh, he kind of intimated that he was a friend of Joe's, and I'd regret it if I
stuck my nose in any deeper. Playing at goodfellas, okay? I'd been worrying
about you ... What's this about a job offer?"
"I, uh—" Paulette paused. "They offered me my job back with strings attached,"
she said guardedly. "Assholes. I was going to accept till they faxed through the
contract."
"So why didn't you sign?" Miriam asked, pouring a mug of coffee while Paulette
opened the pizza boxes.
"I've seen nondisclosure agreements, Miriam. I used to be a paralegal till I got
sick of lawyers, remember? This wasn't a nondisclosure agreement; it was a
fucking straitjacket. If I'd signed it, I wouldn't even own the contents of my
own head—before and after working for them. Guess they figured you were the
ringleader, right?"
"Hah." There was a bitter taste in Miriam's mouth, and it wasn't from the
coffee. "So. Found any work?"
"Got no offers yet." Paulette took a bite of pizza to cover her disquiet.
"Emphasis on the yet. You?"
"I landed a freelance feature already. It's not going to cover the salary, but
it goes a hell of a way. I was wondering—"
"You want to carry on working die investigation."
It wasn't a question. Miriam nodded. "Yeah. I want to get the sons of bitches,
now more than ever. But something tells me moving too fast is going to be a
seriously bad idea. I mean, there's a lot of money involved. If we can redo the
investigative steps we've got so far, I figure this time we ought to go to the
FBI first—and then pick a paper. I think I could probably auction the story, but
I'd rather wait until the feds are ready to start arresting people. And I'd like
to disappear for a bit while they're doing that." A sudden bolt of realisation
struck Miriam, so that she almost missed Paulette's reply: The locket! That's
one place they won't be able to follow me! If—
"Sounds possible." Paulie looked dubious. "It's not going to be easy duplicating
the research—especially now that they know we stumbled across them. Do you
really think it's that dangerous?"
"If it's drugs money, you can get somebody shot for a couple of thousand bucks.
This is way bigger than that, and thanks to our friend Joe, they now know where
we live. I don't want to screw up again. You with me?"
After a moment, Paulette nodded. "I want them too." A flash of anger. "The
bastards don't think I matter enough to worry about."
"But first there's something I need to find out. I need to vanish for a
weekend," Miriam said slowly, a fully formed plan moving into focus in her mind—
one that would hopefully answer several questions. Like whether someone else
could see her vanish and reappear, and whether she'd have somewhere to hole up
if the anonymous threats turned real—and maybe even a chance to learn more about
her enigmatic birth-mother than Iris could tell her.
"Oh?" Paulette perked up. "Going to think things over? Or is there a male person
in play?" Male persons in play were guaranteed to get Paulie's notice: Like
Miriam, she was a member of the early thirties divorcee club.
"Neither." Miriam considered her next words carefully. "I ran across something
odd on Monday night. Probably nothing to do with our story, but I'm planning on
investigating it and I'll be away for a couple of days. Out of town."
"Tell me more!"
"I, um, can't. Yet." Miriam had worked it through. The whole story was just too
weird to lay on Paulie without some kind of proof to get her attention.
"However, you can do me a big favour, okay? I need to get to a rest area just
off a road near Amesbury with some hiking gear. Yeah, I know that sounds weird,
but it's the best way to make sure nobody's following
me. If you could ride out with me and drive my car home, then put it back there
two days later, that would be really good."
"That's ... odd." Paulette looked puzzled. "What's with the magical mystery
tour?"
Miriam improvised fast "I could tell you, but then I'd have to get you to sign a
nondisclosure agreement that would make anything The Weatherman offered you look
liberal. And the whole thing is super secret; my source might spike the whole
deal if I let someone in on it without prior permission. I'll be able to tell
you when you pick me up afterward, though." If things went right, she'd be able
to tell a more-than-somewhat-freaked Paulie why she'd vanished right in front of
her eyes and then reappeared in front of them. "And I want you to promise to
tell nobody about it until you pick me up again, okay?"
"Well, okay. It's not as if I don't have time on my hands." Paulette frowned.
"When are you planning on doing your disappearing act? And when do you want
picking up?"
"I was—they're picking me up tomorrow at 2 p.m. precisely," said Miriam. "And
I'll be showing up exactly forty-eight hours later." She grinned. "If you lie in
wait—pretend to be eating your lunch or something—you can watch them pick me
up."
Friday morning dawned cold but clear, and Miriam showered then packed her
camping equipment again. The doorbell rang just after noon. It was Paulette,
wearing a formal black suit. "My God, is it a funeral?"
"Had a job interview this morning." Paulette pulled a face. "I got sick of
sitting at home thinking about those bastards shafting us and decided to do
something for number one in the meantime."
"Well, good for you." Miriam picked up her backpack and led Paulie out the front
door, then locked up behind her. She opened her car, put the pack in, then
opened the front doors. "Did it go well?" she asked, pulling her seat belt on.
"It went like—" Paulette pulled another face. "Listen, I'm a business
researcher, right? Just because I used to be a paralegal doesn't mean that I
want to go back there."
"Lawyers," Miriam said as she started the engine. "Lots of work in that field, I
guarantee you."
"Oh yeah," Paulette agreed. She pulled the sun visor down and looked at herself
in the mirror. "Fuck, do I really look like that? I'm turning into my first ex-
boss."
"Yes indeed, you look just like—naah." Miriam thought better of it and
rephrased: "Congresswoman Paulette Milan, from Cambridge. You have the floor,
ma'am."
"The first ex-boss is in politics now," Paulie observed gloomily. "A real
dragon."
"Bitch."
"You didn't know her."
They drove on in amiable silence for the best part of an hour, out into the
wilds of Massachusetts. Up the coast, past Salem, out toward Amesbury, off
Interstate 95 and on to a four-lane highway, then finally a side road. Miriam
had been here before, years ago, with Ben, when things had been going okay.
There was a rest area up on a low hill overlooking Browns Point, capped by a
powder of trees, gaunt skeletons hazed in red and auburn foliage at this time of
year. Miriam pulled up at the side of the road just next to the rest area and
parked. "Okay, this is it," she said. There were butterflies in her stomach
again: I'm going to go through with it, she realized to her surprise.
"This?" Paulette looked around, surprised. "But this is nowhere!"
"Yeah, that's right. Best place to do this." Miriam opened the glove locker.
"Look, I brought my old camcorder. No time for explanations. I'm going to get
out of the car, grab my pack, and walk over there. I want you to film me. In ten
minutes either I'll tell you why I asked you to do this and you can call me rude
names—or you'll know to take the car home and come back the day after tomorrow
to pick me up. Okay?"

She got out in a hurry and collected her pack from the trunk. Then, without
waiting to see what Paulette did, she walked over to the middle of the parking
lot. Breathing deeply, she hiked the pack up onto her back and fastened the
chest strap—then pulled the locket out of the outer pocket where she'd stashed
it.
Feeling acutely self-conscious, she flicked it open and turned her back on the
parked car. Raised it to her face and stared into the enamelled knot painted
inside it. This is stupid, a little voice told her. And you 're going to have
your work cut out convincing Paulie you don't need to see a shrink.
Someone was calling her name sharply. She screened it out. Something seemed to
move inside the knot—
This time it was raining gently. Miriam winced at the sudden stabbing in her
head and pocketed the locket. Then she did what she'd planned all along: a
three-sixty-degree scan that took in nothing but autumn trees and deadfall.
Next, she planted her pack, transferred the pistol to her right hip pocket,
retrieved her camera and the recorder, and started taking snapshots as she
dictated a running commentary.
"The time by my watch is fourteen twelve hours. Precipitation is light and
intermittent, cloud cover is about six-sevenths, wind out of the northwest and
chilly, breeze of around five miles per hour. I think."
Snap, snap, snap: The camera had room for a thousand or so shots before she'd
have to change hard disks. She slung it around her neck and shouldered the pack
again. With the Swiss army knife Ben had given her on their second wedding
anniversary—an odd present from a clueless, cheating husband with no sense of
the difference between jewellery and
real life—she shaved a patch of bark above eye level on the four nearest trees,
then fished around for some stones to pile precisely where she'd come through.
(It wouldn't do to go back only to come out in the middle of her own car. If
that was possible, of course.)
As she worked, she had the most peculiar sensation: I'm on my second moon
mission, she thought. Did any of the Apollo astronauts go to the moon more than
once? Here she was, not going crazy, recording notes and taking photographs to
document her exploration of this extraordinary place that simply wasn't like
home. Whatever "home" meant, now that gangsters had her number.
"I still don't know why I'm here," she recorded, "but I've got the same alarming
prefrontal headache, mild hot and cold chills, probable elevated blood pressure
as last time. Memo: Next time bring a sphygmomanometer; I want to monitor for
malignant hypertension. And urine sample bottles." The headache, she realized,
was curiously similar to a hangover, itself caused by dehydration that triggered
inflammation of the meninges. Miriam continued: "Query physiological responses
to ... whatever it is that I do. When I focus on the knot. Memo: Scan the
locket, use Photoshop to rescale it and print it on paper, then see if the
pattern works as a focus when I look at it on a clipboard. More work for next
time."
They won't be able to catch me here, she thought fiercely as she scanned around,
this time looking for somewhere suitable to pitch her tent and go to ground.
I'll be able to nail them and they won't even be able to find me to lay a finger
on me! But there was more to it than that, she finally admitted to herself as
she hunted for a flat spot. The locket had belonged to her birth-mother, and
receiving it had raised an unquiet ghost. Somebody had stabbed her, somebody who
had never been found. Miriam wouldn't be able to lay that realization to rest
again until she learned what this place had meant to her mother—and why it had
killed her.
With four hours to go before sunset, Miriam was acutely aware that she didn't
have any time to waste. The temperature would dip toward frost at night and she
planned to be
well dug-in first. Planting her backpack at the foot of the big horse chestnut
tree, she gathered armfuls of dry leaves and twigs and scattered them across it—
nothing that would fool a real woodsman, but enough to render it inconspicuous
at a distance. Then she walked back and forth through a hundred-yard radius,
pacing out the forest, looking for its edge. That there was an edge came as no
surprise: The steep escarpment was in the same place here as on the hiking map
of her own world that she'd brought along. Where the ground fell away, there was
a breathtaking view of autumnal forest marching down toward a valley floor. The
ocean was probably eight to ten miles due east, out of sight beyond hills and
dunes, but she had a sense of its presence all the same.
Looking southwest, she saw a thin coil of smoke rising— a settlement of some
kind, but small. No roads or telegraph poles marred the valley, which seemed to
contain nothing but trees and bushes and the odd clearing. She was alone in the
woods, as alone as she'd ever been. She looked up. Thin cirrus stained the blue
sky, but there were no jet contrails.
"The area appears to be thinly populated," she muttered into her dictaphone.
"They're burning something—coal or wood—at the nearest settlement. There are no
telegraph poles, roads, or aircraft. The air doesn't smell of civilization. No
noise to speak of, just birds and wind and trees."
She headed back to her clearing to orient herself, then headed on in the
opposite direction, down the gentle slope away from her pack. "Note: Keep an eye
open for big wildlife. Bears and stuff." She patted her right hip pocket
nervously. Would the pistol do much more than annoy a bear? She hadn't expected
the place to be quite this desolate. There were no bears, but she ran across a
small stream— nearly fell into it, in fact.
There was no sign of an edge to the woods, in whichever direction she went. Nor
were there signs of habitation other than the curl of smoke she'd seen. It was
four o'clock now. She returned to her clearing, confident that nobody was
around, and unstrapped her tent from the backpack. It took half an hour to get
the dome tent erected, and another half-
hour with the netting and leaves to turn it into something that could be
mistaken for a shapeless deadfall. She spent another fifteen minutes returning
to the stream to fill her ten-litre water carrier. Another half-hour went on
digging a hole nearby, then she took ten minutes to run a rope over a bough and
hoist her bag of food out of reach of the ground. Darkness found her lighting
her portable gas stove to boil water for her tea. / did it, she thought
triumphantly. / didn't forget anything important! Now all she had to do was make
it through tomorrow and the morning of the next day without detection.
The night grew very cold without a fire, but her sleeping bag was almost
oppressively hot with the tent zipped shut. Miriam slept lightly, starting awake
at the slightest noise— worried at the possibility of bears or other big animals
wandering through her makeshift camp, spooked by the sigh of wind and the patter
of a light predawn rainfall. Once she dreamed of wolves howling in the distance.
But dawn arrived without misadventure and dragged her bleary-eyed from the tent
to squat over the trench she'd remembered to dig the day before. "The Girl Scout
training pays off at last," she dictated with a sardonic drawl.
A tin of sausages and beans washed down with strong black coffee made a passable
breakfast. "Now what?" she asked herself. "Do I wait it out with the camp or go
exploring?"
For a moment, Miriam quailed. The enormity of the wilderness around her was
beginning to grind on her nerves, as was the significance of the situation she'd
thrown herself into. "I could break a leg here and nobody would ever find me.
Or—" Gunfire in the night. "Someone stabbed my mother, and she didn't come here
to escape. There must be a reason why. Mustn't there?"
Something about the isolation made her want to chatter, to fill up the
oppressive silence. But the words that tumbled out didn't tell her much, except
that she was— Let's face it. I'm scared. This wasn't the sensible thing to do,
was it? But I haven't been doing sensible properly since I got myself fired on
Monday.
Unzipping the day pack from her backpack, she filled it with necessities, then
set out for the escarpment.
It was a clear, cold morning, and the wisp of smoke she'd seen yesterday had
disappeared. But she knew roughly where she'd seen it, and a careful scan of the
horizon with binoculars brought it into focus once more—a pause in the treeline,
punctuated by nearly invisible roofs. At a guess, it was about three miles away.
She glanced at the sky and chewed on her lower lip: Doable, she decided, still
half-unsure that it was the right thing to do. But I'll go out of my skull if I
wait here two days, and Paulie won't be back until tomorrow. Bearing and range
went into her notepad and onto the map, and she blazed a row of slashes on every
fifth tree along the ridgeline to help her on the way back. The scarp was too
steep to risk on her own, but if she went along the crest of the ridge, she
could take the easy route down into the valley.
Taking the easy route was not, as it happened, entirely safe. About half a mile
farther on—half a mile of plodding through leaf mounds, carefully bypassing
deadfalls, and keeping a cautious eye open—an unexpected sound made Miriam
freeze, her heart in her mouth and ice in her veins. Metal, she thought. That
was a metallic noise! Who's there? She dropped to a squat with her back against
a tree as a horse or mule snorted nearby.
The sound of hooves was now audible, along with a creaking of leather and the
occasional clatter or jingle of metalwork. Miriam crouched against the tree,
very still, sweat freezing in the small of her back, trying not to breathe. She
couldn't be sure, but it sounded like a single set of hooves. With her
camouflage-patterned jacket, knitted black face mask, and a snub-nosed pistol
clutched in her right hand, she was a sight to terrify innocent eyes—but she was
frightened half out of her own wits.
She held perfectly still as a peculiarly dressed man led a mule past, not ten
yards away from her. The animal was heavily overloaded, bulging wicker baskets
towering over its swaying back. Its owner wore leggings of some kind, but
was swathed from head to knees in what looked like an ancient and moth-eaten
blanket. He didn't look furtive; he just looked dirt-poor, his face lined and
tanned from exposure to the weather.
The mule paused. Almost absently, its owner reached out and whacked it across
the hindquarters with his rod. He grunted something in what sounded like German,
only softer, less sibilant
Miriam watched, fear melting into fascination. That was a knife at his belt,
under the blanket—a great big pigsticker of a knife, almost a short sword. The
mule made an odd sort of complaining noise and began moving again. What's in the
baskets? she wondered. And where's he taking it?
There were clearly people living in these woods. Better be careful, she told
herself, taking deep breaths to calm down as she waited for him to pass out of
sight. She pondered again whether or not she shouldn't go straight back to her
campsite. In the end curiosity won out—but it was curiosity tempered by edgy
caution.
An hour later, Miriam found a path wandering among the trees. It wasn't a paved
road by any stretch of the imagination, but the shrubbery to either side had
been trampled down and the path itself was muddy and flat: Fresh road-apples
told her which way the man with the mule had gone. She slashed a marker on the
tree where her path intersected the road, crudely scratching in a bearing and
distance as digits. If her growing suspicion was true, these people wouldn't be
able to make anything of it. She picked her way through the trees along one side
of the path, keeping it just in sight. Within another half-mile the trees ended
in a profusion of deadfalls and stumps, some of which sprouted amazing growths
of honey fungus. Miriam picked her way farther away from the path, then hunkered
down, brought out binoculars and dictaphone, and gave voice to her fascination.
"This is incredible! It's like a museum diorama of a medieval village in
England, only— Eww, I sure wouldn't drink from that stream. The stockade is
about two hundred yards away and they've cleared the woods all around it.
There are low stone walls, with no cement, around the field. It's weird, all
these rows running across it like a patchwork quilt made from pin-stripe
fabric."
She paused, focusing her binoculars in on a couple of figures walking in the
near distance. They were close enough to see her if they looked at the treeline,
so she instinctively hunched lower, but they weren't paying attention to the
forest. One of them was leading a cow—a swaybacked beast like something from a
documentary about India. The buildings were grayish, the walls made of stacked
bundles of something or other, and the roofs were thatched—not the picturesque
golden colour of the rural English tourist trap she'd once stayed in outside
Oxford, but the real thing, gray and sagging. "There are about twelve buildings;
none of them have windows. The road is unpaved, a mud track. There are chickens
or some kind of fowl there, pecking in the dirt. It looks sleazy and
tumbledown."
She tracked after the human figures, focused on the stockade. 'There's a gate in
the stockade and a platform or tower behind it. Something big's in there, behind
the wall, but I can't see it from here. A long house? No, this doesn't look ...
wrong period. These aren't Vikings, there's, uh—"
Around the curve of the stockade an ox came into view, dragging some kind of
appliance—a wooden plough, perhaps. The man walking behind it looked as tired as
the animal. "They're all wearing those blankets. Women too. That was a woman
feeding the chickens. With a headscarf wrapped around her face like a Muslim
veil. But the men wear pretty much the same, too. This place looks so poor.
Neglected. That guy with the mule—it must be the equivalent of a BMW in this
place!"
Miriam felt distinctly uneasy. History book scenes were outside her experience—
she was a creature of the city, raised with the bustle and noise of urban life,
and the sordid poverty of the village made her feel unaccountably guilty. But it
left questions unanswered. 'This could be the past; we know the Vikings reached
New England around the eleventh century. Or it could be somewhere else. How can
I tell if I
can't get in and see what's inside the stockade? I think I need an
archaeologist."
Miriam crouched down and began to snap off photographs. Here three hens pecked
aimlessly at the dirt by an open doorway, the door itself a slab of wood leaning
drunkenly against the wall of the hut. There a woman (or a man, the shapeless
robe made it impossible to be sure) bent over a wooden trough, emptying a bucket
of water into it and then lifting and pounding something from within. Miriam
focused closer—
"Wer find thee?" Someone piped at her.
Miriam jolted around and stared: The someone stared right back, frozen, eyes
wide. He looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed in rags and
barefoot: He was shorter than she was. Pipecleaner arms, legs like wire, big
brown eyes, and a mess of badly trimmed hair in a pudding-bowl cut. Time slowed
to a crawl. That's a skin infection, she realized, her guts turning to ice as
she focused on a red weal on the side of his neck. He was skinny, not as thin as
a famine victim but by no means well-fed. He had a stick, clenched nervously in
his hands, which he was bringing up—
Miriam glared at him and straightened up. Her right hand went to her hip pocket,
and she fumbled for the treacherous opening. "You'll be sorry," she snapped,
surprised at herself. It was the first thing that entered her head. Her hand
closed on the butt of the pistol, but she couldn't quite draw it—it was snagged
on something.
Oh shit. She yanked at her pocket desperately, keeping her eyes on his face,
despite knees that felt like jelly and a churning cold in her gut. She had a
strong flashback to the one time she was mugged, a desperate sense of
helplessness as she tried to disentangle the gun from her pocket lining and
bring it out before the villager hit her with his stick.
But he didn't. Instead, his eyes widened. He opened his mouth and shouted, "An
solda'des Koen!" He turned, dropping the stick, and darted away before Miriam
could react. A moment later she heard him wailing, "An solda!"
"Shit." The gun was in her hand, all but forgotten. Terror
 SIKUSS
lent her feet wings. She clutched her camera and ran like hell, back toward the
forest, heedless of any noise she might make. He nearly had me! He'll be back
with help! I've got to get out of here! Breathless fear drove her until branches
scratched at her face and she was panting. Then the low apple trees gave way to
taller, older trees and a different quality of light. She staggered along,
drunkenly, as behind her a weird hooting noise unlike any horn she'd heard
before split the quiet.
Ten minutes later she stopped and listened, wheezing for breath as she tried to
get her heart under control. She had run parallel to the path, off to one side.
Every instinct was screaming at her to run but she was nearly winded, so she
listened instead. Apart from the horn blasts, there were no sounds of pursuit.
Why aren't they following me? She wondered, feeling ill with uncertainty. What's
wrong? After a moment she remembered her camera: She'd lost the lens cap in her
mad rush. "Damn, I could have broken my ankle," she muttered. "They'd have
caught me for—" she stopped.
"That look in his eye." Very carefully, she unslung the camera and slid it into
a big outer hip pocket. She glanced around the clearing sharply, then spent a
moment untangling the revolver from her other pocket. Now that she had all the
time in the world, it was easy. "He was scared," she told herself, wondering.
"He was terrified of me! What was that he was shouting? Was he warning the
others off?"
She began to walk again, wrapped in a thoughtful silence. There were no sounds
of pursuit. Behind her the village hid in the gloom, like a terrified rabbit
whose path had just crossed a fox on the prowl. "Who are you hiding from?" she
asked her memory of the boy with the stick. "And who did you mistake me for?"
It was raining again, and the first thing she noticed once she crossed over—
through the blinding headache—was that Paulette was bouncing up and down like an
angry squirrel,
chattering with indignation behind the camcorder's view-finder. "Idiot! What the
hell do you think you were doing?" she demanded as Miriam opened the passenger
door and dumped her pack on the backseat. "I almost had a heart attack! That's
the second time you've nearly given me one this week!"
"I said it would be a surprise, right?" Miriam collapsed into the passenger
seat. "God, I reek. Get me home and once I've had a shower I'll explain
everything. I promise."
Paulette drove in tight-lipped silence. Finally, during a moment when they were
stationary at a traffic light, she said: "Why me?"
Miriam considered for a moment. "You don't know my mother."
"That's—oh. I see, I think. Anything else?"
"Yeah. I trusted you to keep your mouth shut and not to panic."
"Uh-huh. So what have you gotten yourself into this time?"
"I'm not sure. Could be the story of the century—the second one this week. Or it
could be a very good reason indeed for burying something and walking away fast.
I've got some ideas—more, since I spent a whole day and a half over there—but
I'm still not sure."
"Where's over there? I mean, where did you go?" The car moved forward.
"Good question. The straight answer is: I'm not sure—the geography is the same,
the constellations are the same, but the landscape's different in places and
there's an honest-to-god medieval village in a forest. And they don't speak
English. Listen, after I've had my shower, how about I buy supper? I figure I
owe you for dropping this on your lap."
"You sure do," Paulette said vehemently. "After you vanished, I went home and
watched the tape six times before I believed what I'd seen with my own two
eyes." Her hands were white on the steering wheel. "Only you could fall into
something this weird!"
"Remember Hunter S. Thompson's First Law of Gonzo Journalism: 'When the going
gets tough, the tough get weird'?" Miriam chuckled, but there was an edge to it.
Everywhere she looked there were buildings and neon lights and traffic. "God, I
feel like I spent the weekend in the Third World. Kabul." The car smelled of
plastic and deodorant, and it was heavenly—the stink of civilization. "Listen, I
haven't had anything decent to eat for days. When we get home I'm ordering take
out. How does Chinese sound?"
"I can cope with that." Paulette made a lazy right turn and slid into the slow-
moving stream of traffic. "Don't feel like cooking?"
"I've got to have a shower," said Miriam. "Then I've got a weekend of stuff to
put in the washing machine, several hundred pictures to download and index,
memos to load into the computer, and an explanation. If you figure I can do all
that and a pot roast too, then you don't know me as well as I think you do."
"That," Paulette remarked as she pulled over into the parking space next to
Miriam's house, "was a very mixed metaphor."
"Don't listen to what I say; listen to what I mean, okay?"
"I get the picture. Dinner's on you."
After half an hour in the bathroom, Miriam felt human, if not entirely dry. She
stopped in her bedroom for long enough to find some clean clothes, then headed
downstairs in her bare feet.
Paulette had parked herself in the living room with a couple of mugs of coffee
and an elegant-looking handbag. She raised an eyebrow at Miriam: "You look like
you've been dry-cleaned. Was it that bad?"
"Yeah." Miriam settled down on the sofa, then curled her legs up beneath her.
She picked up one of the mugs and inhaled deeply. "Ah, that's better."
"Ready to tell me what the hell is going on?"
"In a moment." Miriam closed her eyes, then gathered up the strands of still-
damp hair sticking to her neck and wound
them up, outside her collar. "That's better. It happened right after they
screwed us over, Paulie. I figured you'd think I'd gone off the deep end if I
just told you about it, which is why I didn't call you back the same day. Why I
asked you to drive. Sorry about the surprise."
"You should be: I spent an hour in the woods looking for you. I nearly called
the police twice, but you'd said precisely when you'd be back and I thought
they'd think / was the one who was nuts. 'Sides, you've got a habit of dredging
up weird shit and leaving me to pick up the pieces. Promise me there are no
gangsters in this one?"
"I promise." Miriam nodded. "Well, what do you think?"
"I think I'd like some lemon chicken. Sorry." Paulette grinned impishly at
Miriam's frown. "Okay, I believe you've discovered something very weird indeed.
I actually videoed you vanishing into thin air in front of the camera! And when
you appeared again—no, I didn't get it on tape, but I saw you out of the corner
of my eye. Either we're both crazy or this is for real."
"Madness doesn't come in this shape and size," Miriam said soberly. She winced.
"I need a painkiller." She rubbed her feet, which were cold. "You know I'm
adopted, right? My mother didn't quite tell me everything until Monday. I went
to see her after we were fired ..."
For the next hour Miriam filled Paulette in on the events of the past week,
leaving out nothing except her phone call to Andy. Paulette listened closely and
asked the right questions. Miriam was satisfied that her friend didn't think she
was mad, wasn't humouring her. "Anyway, I've now got tape of my vanishing, a
shitload of photographs of this village, and dictated notes. See? It's beginning
to mount up."
"Evidence," said Paulette. "That would be useful if you want to go public."
Suddenly she looked thoughtful. "Big if there."
"Hmm?" Miriam drank down what was left of her coffee.
"Well, this place you go to—it's either in the past or the future, or somewhere
else, right? I think we can probably rule out
the past or future options. If it was the past, you wouldn't have run across a
village the way you described it; and as for the future, there'd still be some
sign of Boston, wouldn't there?"
"Depends how far in the future you go." Miriam frowned. "Yeah, I guess you're
right. It's funny; when I was a little girl I always figured the land of make-
believe would be bright and colourful. Princesses in castles and princes to go
around kissing them so they turned into frogs—and dragons to keep the royalty
population under control. But in the middle ages there were about a thousand
peasants living in sordid poverty for every lord of the manor, who actually had
a sword, a horse, and a house with a separate bedroom to sleep in. A hundred
peasants for every member of the nobility— the lords and their families—and the
same for every member of the merchant or professional classes."
"Sounds grimly real to me, babe. Forget Hollywood. Your map was accurate, wasn't
it?"
"What are you getting at? You're thinking about... What was that show called:
Sliders'! Right?"
"Alternate earths. Like on TV." Paulette nodded. "I only watched a couple of
episodes, but... well. Suppose you are going sideways, to some other earth where
there's nobody but some medieval peasants. What if you, like, crossed over next
door to a bank, walked into exactly where the vault would be in our world,
waited for the headache to go away, then crossed back again?"
"I'd be inside the bank vault, wouldn't I? Oh"
"That, as they say, is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question," Paulette
commented dryly. "Listen, this is going to be a long session. I figure you
haven't thought all the angles through. What were you planning on doing with
it?"
"I—I'm." Miriam stopped. "I told you about the phone call."
Paulette looked at her bleakly. "Yeah. Did I tell you—"
"You too?"
She nodded. 'The evening after I told them to go fuck themselves. Don't know who
it was: I hung up on him and
called the phone company, told them it was a nuisance call, but they couldn't
tell me anything."
"Bastards."
"Yes. Listen. When I was growing up in Providence, there were these guys ... it
wasn't a rich neighbourhood, but they always had sharp suits. Momma told me
never to cross them—or, even talk to them. Trouble is, when they talk to you— I
think I need a drink. What do you say?"
"I say there're a couple of bottles in the cabinet," said Miriam, massaging her
forehead. "Don't mind if I join you."
Coffee gave way to a couple of modest glasses of Southern Comfort. "It's a
mess," said Paulette. "You, uh—we didn't talk about Monday. Did we?"
"No," Miriam admitted. "If you want to just drop it and forget the whole
business, I'm not going to twist your arm." She swallowed. She felt acutely
uneasy, as if the whole comfortable middle-class professional existence she'd
carved out for herself was under retreat. Like the months when she'd
subliminally sensed her marriage decaying, never quite able to figure out
exactly what was wrong until...
" 'Drop it?'" Paulette's eyes flashed, a momentary spark of anger. "Are you
crazy? These hard men, they're really easy to understand. If you back down, they
own you. It's simple as that. That's something I learned when I was a kid."
"What happened—" Miriam stopped.
Paulie tensed, then breathed out, a long sigh. "My parents weren't rich," she
said quietly. "Correction: They were poor as pigshit. Gramps was a Sicilian
immigrant, and he hit the bottle. Dad stayed on the wagon but never figured out
how to get out of debt. He held it together for Mom and us kids, but it wasn't
easy. Took me seven years to get through college, and I wanted a law degree so
bad I could taste it. Because lawyers make lots of money, that's numero uno. And
for seconds, I'd be able to tell the guys Dad owed where to get off."
Miriam leaned forward to top off her glass.
"My brother Joe didn't listen to what Momma told us," Paulette said slowly. "He
got into gambling, maybe a bit of
smack. It wasn't the drugs, but one time he tried to argue with the bankers.
They held him down and used a cordless drill on both his kneecaps."
"Uh." Miriam felt a little sick. "What happened?"
"I got as far as being a paralegal before I figured out there's no point getting
into a job where you hate the guts of everybody you have to work with, so I
switched track and got a research gig. No journalism degree, see, so I figured
I'd work my way up. Oh, you meant to Joe? He OD'd on heroin. It wasn't an
accident—it was the day after they told him he'd never walk again." She said it
with the callous disregard of long-dead news, but Miriam noticed her knuckles
tighten on her glass. "That's why I figure you don't want to ever let those guys
notice you. But if they do, you don't ever back off."
"That's—I'm really sorry. I had no idea."
"Don't blame yourself." Paulette managed an ironic smile. "I, uh, took a liberty
with the files before I printed them." She reached inside her handbag and
flipped a CD-ROM at Miriam.
"Hey, what's this?" Miriam peered at the greenish silver surface.
"It's the investigation." Paulie grinned at her. "I got everything before you
decided to jump Sandy's desk and get Joe to take an unhealthy interest in us."
"But that's stealing!" Miriam ended on a squeak.
"And what do you call what they did to your job?" Paulette asked dryly. "I call
this insurance."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. I don't think they know about it—otherwise we'd be in way deeper shit
already. Still, you should find somewhere to hide it until we need it."
Miriam looked at the disk as if it had turned into a snake. "Yeah, I can do
that." She drained her glass, then picked up the disk and carried it over to the
stereo. "Gotcha." She pulled a multidisk CD case from the shelf, opened it, and
slid the extra disk inside. "The Beggar's Opera. Think you can remember that?"
"Oh! Why didn't I think of doing that?"
"Because." Miriam grinned at her. "Why didn't I think of burning that disk in
the first place?"
"We each need a spare brain." Paulette stared at her. "Listen, that's problem
number one. What about problem number two? This crazy shit from another world.
What were you messing around with it for?"
Miriam shrugged. "I had some idea that I could hide from the money laundry over
there," she said slowly. "Also, to tell the truth, I wanted someone else to tell
me I wasn't going crazy. But going totally medieval isn't going to answer my
problem, is it?"
"I wouldn't say so." Paulette put her glass down, half-empty. "Where were we? Oh
yeah. You cross over to the other side, wherever that is, and you wander over to
where your bank's basement is, then you cross back again. What do you think
happens?"
"I come out in a bank vault." Miriam pondered. "They're wired inside, aren't
they? After my first trip I was a total casualty, babe. I mean, projectile
vomiting—" she paused, embarrassed. "A fine bank robber I'd make!"
"There is that," said Paulette. "But you're not thinking it through. What
happens when the alarm goes off?"
"Well. Either I go back out again too fast and risk an aneurism or ..." Miriam
trailed off. "The cops show and arrest me."
"And what happens after they arrest you?"
"Well, assuming they don't shoot first and ask questions later, they cuff me,
read me my rights, and haul me off to the station. Then book me in and stick me
in a cell."
"And then?" Paulette rolled her eyes at Miriam's slow uptake.
"Why, I call my lawyer—" Miriam stopped, eyes unfocused. "No, they'd take my
locket," she said slowly.
"Sure. Now, tell me. Is it your locket or is it the pattern in your locket? Have
you tested it? If it's the design, what if you've had it tattooed on the back of
your arm in the meantime?" Paulette asked.
"That's—" Miriam shook her head. "Tell me there's a flaw in the logic."
"I'm not going to do that." Paulette picked up the bottle and waved it over
Miriam's glass in alcoholic benediction. "I think you're going to have to test
it tomorrow to find out. And I'm going to have to test it, to see if it works
for me—if that's okay by you," she added hastily. "If it's the design, you just
got your very own 'Get Out of Jail Free' card. Doesn't matter if you can't use
it to rob bank vaults, there's any number of other scams you can run if you can
get out of the fix instantaneously. Say, uh, you walk into a bank and pull a
holdup. No need for a gun, just pass over a note saying you've got a bomb and
they should give you all the money. Then, instead of running away, you head for
the staff rest room and just vanish into thin air."
"You have got a larcenous mind, Paulie." Miriam shook her head in awe. "You're
wasted in publishing."
"No, I'm not." Paulette frowned seriously. "Y'see, you haven't thought this
through. S'pose you've got this super power. Suppose nobody else can use it—we
can try me out tomorrow, huh? Do the experiment with the photocopy of the locket
on you, then try me. See if I can do it. I figure it's going to be you, and not
me, because if just anybody could do it it would be common knowledge, huh? Or
your mother would have done it. For some reason somebody stabbed your mother and
she didn't do it. So these must be some kind of gotcha. But anyway. What do you
think the cops would make of it if instead of robbing banks or photographing
peasant villagers you, uh, donated your powers to the forces of law and order?"
"Law and order consists of bureaucracies," Miriam said with a brisk shake of her
head. "You've seen all those tedious FBI press conferences I sat in on when they
were lobbying for carnivore and crypto export controls, huh?" A vision unfolded
behind her eyes, the poisonous fire blossom of an airliner striking an
undefended skyscraper. "Jesus, Paulie, imagine if Al Qaida could do this!"
"They don't need it: They've got suicide volunteers. But
yeah, there are other bad guys who ... if you can see it, so can the feds.
Remember that feature about nuclear terrorism that Zeb ran last year? How the
NIRT units and FEMA were able to track bombs as they come in across the frontier
if there's an alert on?"
"I don't want to go there." The thought made Miriam feel physically ill. "There
is no way in hell I'd smuggle a nuclear weapon across a frontier."
"No." Paulette leaned forward, her eyes serious: "But if you have this ability,
who else might have it? And what could they do with it? There are some very
scary, dangerous national security implications here, and if you go public the
feds will bury you so deep—"
"I said I don't want to go there," Miriam repeated. "Listen, this is getting
deeply unfunny. You're frightening me, Paulie, more than those assholes with
their phone calls and their handle on the pharmaceutical industry. I'm wondering
if maybe I should sleep with a gun under my pillow."
"Get frightened fast, babe; it's your ass we're talking about. I've had two days
to think about your vanishing trick and our goodfella problem, and I tell you,
you're still thinking like an honest journalist, not a paranoid. Listen, if you
want to clean up, how about the crack trade? Or heroin? Go down to Florida, get
the right connections, you could bring a small dinghy over and stash it on the
other side, no problems—it'd just take you a while, a few trips maybe. Then you
could carry fifty, a hundred kilos of coke. Sail it up the coast, then up the
Charles. Bring it back over right in the middle of Cambridge, out of fucking
nowhere without the DEA or the cops noticing. They say one in four big shipments
gets intercepted—that's bullshit—but maybe one in five, one in eight... you
could smuggle the stuff right under their noses in the middle of a terrorist
scare. And I don't know whether you'd do that or not—my guess is not, you've got
capital-P principles—but that is the first thing the cops will think of."
"Hell." Miriam stared into the bottom of her glass, privately aghast. "What do
you suggest?"
Paulette put her own glass down. "Speaking as your legal adviser, I advise you
to buy guns and move fast. Mail the disk to another newspaper and the local FBI
office, then go on a long cruise while the storm breaks. That—and take a hammer
to the locket and smash it up past recognition."
Miriam shook her head, then winced. "Oh, my aching head. I demand a second
opinion. Where is my recount, dammit?"
"Well." Paulette paused. "You've made a good start on the documentation. We can
see if it's just you, run the experiments, right? I figure the clincher is if
you can carry a second person through. If you can do that, then not only do you
have documents, you've got witnesses. If you go public, you want to do so with a
splash — so widespread that they can't put the arm on you. They've got secret
courts and tame judges to try national security cases, but if the evidence is
out in the open they can't shut you up, especially if it's international. I'd
say Canada would be best." She paused again, a bleak look in her eye. "Yeah,
that might work."
"You missed something." Miriam stabbed a finger in Paulette's direction. "You.
What do you get?"
"Me?" Paulette covered her heart with one hand, pulled a disbelieving face.
"Since when did I get a vote?"
"Since, hell, since I got you into this mess. I figure I owe you. Noblesse
oblige. You're a friend, and I don't drop friends in it, even by omission."
"Friendship and fifty cents will buy you a coffee." Paulie paused for a moment,
then grinned. "But I'm glad, all the same." Her smile faded. "I didn't get the
law job."
"I'm sorry."
"Will you stop doing that? Every chance you get to beat yourself up for getting
me fired, you're down on your knees asking for forgiveness!"
"Oh, sorry. I didn't realize it was getting on your nerves," Miriam said
contritely.
"Fuck off!" Paulette giggled. "Pardon my French. Anyway. Think about what I
said. Tomorrow you can mail that disk to the FBI if you want, then go on a long
vacation. Or
stick around and we'll work on writing a story that'll get you the Pulitzer. You
can catch all the bullets from the goodfella hit men while I'll be your loyal
little gofer, get myself a star-spangled reference and a few points of the
gross. Like, fifty percent. Deal?"
"Deal. I think my head hurts." Miriam shuffled around and stood up. She felt a
little shaky: Maybe it was the alcohol hitting her head on an empty stomach.
"Where's that takeout?"
Paulette looked blank. "You ordered it?"
"No." Miriam snapped her fingers in frustration. "I'll go do that right now. I
think we have some forward planning to do." She paused unevenly in the doorway,
looking at Paulette.
"What?"
"Are you in?" she asked.
"Am I in? Are you nuts? I wouldn't miss this for anything!"

PART 2

They came for her in the early hours, long after Paulette had called a taxi and
Miriam had slunk into bed with a stomach full of lemon chicken and a head full
of schemes. They came with stealth, black vans, and Mac-10s: They didn't know or
care about her plans. They were soldiers. They had their orders; this was the
house the damp brown chair was collocated with, and so this was the target. That
was all they needed.
Miriam slept through the breaking of the french window in her den because the
two men on entry detail crowbarred the screens open, then rolled transparent
sticky polyurethane film across the glass before they struck it with rubber
mallets, then peeled the starred sheets right out of the frame. The phone line
had been cut minutes before; there was a cell-phone jammer in the back garden.
The two break-and-enter men took point, rolling into the den and taking up
positions at either side of the room. The light shed by the LEDs on her stereo
and computer glinted
dimly off their night-vision goggles and the optics of their guns as they waited
tensely, listening for any sign of activity.
Hand signals relayed the news from outside, that Control hadn't seen any signs
of motion through the bedroom curtains. His short-wavelength radar imager let
him see what the snatch crew's night-vision gear missed: It could pinpoint the
telltale pulse of warm blood right through a dry wall siding. Two more soldiers
in goggles, helmets, and flak jackets darted through the opening and into the
hall, cautiously extending small mirrors on telescoping arms past open doorways
to see if anyone was inside. Within thirty seconds they had the entire ground
floor swept clean. Now they moved the thermal imager inside: Control swept each
ceiling carefully before pausing in the living room and circling his index
finger under the light fitting for the others to see. One body, sleeping, right
overhead.
Four figures in black body armour ghosted up the staircase, two with guns, and
two behind them with specialist equipment. The master bedroom opened off the
small landing at the top of the stairs—the plan was to charge straight through
and neutralize the occupant directly.
However, they hadn't counted on Miriam's domestic untidiness. Living alone and
working a sixty-hour week, she had precious little time for homemaking: All her
neat-freakery got left behind at work each evening. The landing was crowded, an
overflowing basket of dirty clothing waiting for a trip down to the basement
beside a couple of bookcases that narrowed the upstairs hall so that they had to
go in single-file. But there were worse obstacles to come. Miriam's house was
full of books. Right now, a dog-eared copy of The Cluetrain Manifesto lay
facedown at one side of the step immediately below the landing. It was precisely
as cold as the carpet it lay on, so to the night-vision goggles it was almost
invisible. The first three intruders stepped over it without noticing, but the
fourth placed his right boot on it, and the effect was as dramatic as if it had
been a banana skin.
Miriam jolted awake in terror, hearing a horrible clattering noise on the
landing. Her mind was a blank, the word intruder running through it in neon
letters the size of headlines—she sat bolt upright and fumbled on the dressing
table for the pistol, which she'd placed there when she found she could feel it
through the pillow. The noise of the bedroom door shoving open was infinitely
frightening and as she brought the gun around, trying to get it untangled from
the pillowcase—Brilliant light lanced through her eyelids, a flashlight: "Drop
it, lady!"
Miriam fumbled her finger into the trigger guard—
"Drop it!" The light came closer, right in her face. "Now!"
Something like a freight locomotive came out of the darkness and slammed into
the side of her right arm.
Someone said, "Shee-it" with heartfelt feeling, and a huge weight landed on her
belly. Miriam gathered breath to scream, but she couldn't feel her right arm and
something was pressing on her face. She was choking: The air was acrid and
sweet-smelling and thick, a cloying flowery laboratory stink. She kicked out
hard, legs tangled in the comforter, gasping and screaming deep in her throat,
but they were muffling her with the stench and everything was fuzzy at the
edges.
She couldn't move. "Not funny," someone a long way away at the end of a black
tunnel tried to say. The lights were on now, but everything was dark. Figures
moved around her and her arm hurt—distantly. She couldn't move. Tired. There was
something in her mouth. Is this an ambulance? she wondered. Lights out.
The dogpile on the bed slowly shifted, standing up. Specialist A worked on the
subject with tongue depressor and tubes, readying her for assisted ventilation.
The chloroform pad sitting on the pillow was an acrid nuisance: For the journey
ahead, something safer and more reliable was necessary. Specialist B worked on
her at the same time, sliding the collapsible gurney under her and strapping her
to it at legs, hips, wrists, and shoulders.
"That was a fucking mess," snarled Control, picking up the
little snub-nosed revolver in one black-gloved hand. "Safety catch was on,
luckily. Who screwed up on the landing?"
"Sir." It was Point B. "There was a book. On the stairs."
"Bitchin'. Okay, get little Miss Lethal here loaded and ready to move. Bravo,
start the cleanup. I want her personal files, wherever she keeps them. And her
computer, and all the disks. Whoever the hell was with her this evening, I want
to know who they are too. And everything else. Charlie, pack her bags like she's
going on vacation—a long vacation. Clothing, bathroom stuff. Don't make a mess
of it. I want to be ready to evacuate in twenty minutes."
"Sir. Yes, sir." Control nodded. Point B was going to pull a shitwork detail
when they got home, but you didn't discipline people in the field unless they'd
fucked up bad enough to pull a nine-millimetre discharge. And Point B hadn't. A
month cleaning the latrines would give him time to think on how close he'd come
to getting plugged by a sleepy woman with a thirty-eight revolver.
Spec A was nearly done; he and Spec B grunted as they lifted the coffin-shaped
framework off the bed. Miriam was unconscious and trussed like a turkey inside
it. "Is she going to be okay?" Control asked idly.
"I think so," said Spec A. "Bad bruising on her right arm, and probably
concussed, but I don't expect anything major. Worst risk is she pukes in her
sleep and chokes on her own vomit, and we can deal with that." He spoke
confidently. He'd done paramedic training and Van Two was equipped like an
ambulance.
"Then take her away. We'll be along in half an hour when we're through
sanitizing."
"Yeah, boss. We'll get her home."
Control looked at the dressing table, strewn with underwear, month-old
magazines, and half-used toiletries. His expression turned to disgust at the
thought of searching through piles of dirty clothing. "Sky father, what a mess."
There was an office not far from Miriam's cell. The office was quiet, and its
dark oak panelling and rich Persian carpets gave it something of the ambiance of
a very exclusive Victorian gentleman's club. A wide walnut desk occupied the
floor next to the window bay. The top of the desk was inlaid with a Moroccan
leather blotter, upon which lay a banker's box full of papers and other
evidence.
The occupant of the office sat at the desk, reading the mess of photocopies and
memos from the file box. He was in his early fifties, thickset with the stomach
of middle age, but tall enough to carry it well. His suit was conservative: He
might have been a retired general or a corporate chairman. Neither guess would
be wrong, but neither would be the full truth, either. Right now he looked as if
he had a headache; his expression was sour as he read a yellowing newspaper
clipping. "What a mess," he murmured. "What a blessed mess..."
A buzzer sounded above the left-hand door.
The officeholder glanced at the door with wintry gray eyes. "Enter," he called
sharply. Then he looked back at the papers.
Footsteps, the sound of male dress shoes—leather-soled—on parquet, were abruptly
silenced as the visitor reached the carpeted inner sanctum.
"You summoned me, uncle? Is there any movement on my proposal? If anyone wants
me to—"
Angbard Lofstrom looked up again and fixed his nephew with a long icy stare. His
nephew shuffled, discomfited: a tall, blond fellow whose suit would not have
been out of place in an advertising agency's offices. "Patience," he said in
English.
"But I—"
"I said patience? Angbard laid the newspaper clipping flat on his blotter and
stared at his nephew. "This is not the time to discuss your proposal. About
which there is no news, by the way. Don't expect anything to happen soon; you
need to learn timing if you want to make progress, and the changes you are
suggesting we make are politically difficult."
"How much longer?" The young man sounded tense.
"As long as I deem necessary." Angbard's stare hardened. "Remember why you are
here."
"I—yes, my lord. If it pleases you to accept my apologies ..."
"How is the prisoner?" Angbard asked abruptly.
"Oh. Last time I checked—fifteen minutes ago—she was unconscious but sleeping
normally. She is in one of the doppelganger cells. I removed the mnemonic she
was wearing on her person and had one of the maids search her for tattoos. Her
cell has no mirror, no shaving apparatus. I left instructions that I am to be
called when she awakens."
"Hmm." Angbard chewed on his upper lip with an expression of deep disapproval.
"What does the doctor say?"
"The doctor says that he might have to splint her arm, later—there is bruising—
but she sustained no serious harm in the course of the pickup."
"Well." Angbard waved one hand in the direction of the chairs positioned before
his desk. "Sit down." His nephew sat with alacrity, his back stiff. "Do we have
any known loose ends, Earl Roland?"
"Yes, sir, but nothing critical. We have retrieved the documents, camera,
recorder, personal computer, and all the other effects that we could find. Her
house was untidy, but we are fairly sure we were able to locate everything—her
office was well-organized. The windows have been repaired, and the neighbours
informed indirectly that she is on assignment away from home. She is unmarried
and has few attachments." Roland looked faintly disapproving. "There is
reference to an elderly mother who lives alone. The only possible problem is
referred to in the contractor's report. Evidently on her last excursion a woman,
identity unknown, arrived, collected her car, then her person, and drove her
home. Presumably a friend. The problem is that she left the stakeout by taxi
without any notice—I assume she summoned it by means of a mobile telephone—and
our contractor team was too short-staffed to dispatch a tail. I have therefore
instructed them to continue surveillance and rein-
state the line tap, in the hope that the friend reappears. Once she does so—"
Roland shrugged.
"See that you do—I want them in custody as soon as possible." Angbard
harrumphed. "As to the prisoner's disposition ..." He paused, head cocked
slightly to one side.
"Sir?" Roland was a picture of polite attentiveness.
"The prisoner is to be treated with all the courtesy due to one of your own
station, indeed, as a senior Clan member, I say. As a respected guest, detained
for her own protection."
"Sir!" Roland couldn't contain his shock.
Angbard stared at him. "You have something to say, my earl?" he asked coldly.
Roland swallowed. "I hear and... and will of course obey," he said. "Just,
please permit me to say, this is a surprise—"
"Your surprise is noted" Angbard stated coldly. "Nevertheless, I will keep my
reasons to myself for the time being. All you need to know at present is that
the prisoner must be treated with, as they say, kidskin gloves." He stared at
the young officer intently, but he showed no sign of defiance: and after a
moment Angbard relented slightly. "This—" he gestured at the box before him—
"raises some most disturbing possibilities." He tapped one finger on the topmost
sheet. "Or had you noticed any strangers out with the Clan who are gifted with
the family talent?"
"Mm, no, sir, I had not." Roland looked suddenly thoughtful. "What are you
thinking?"
"Later," Angbard said tersely. "Just see she's transferred to a comfortable —
but securely doppelgangered — suite. Be polite and hospitable, win her trust,
and treat her person with the utmost respect. And notify me when she is ready to
answer my questions."
"I hear and obey," Roland acknowledged, less puzzled, but clearly thoughtful.
"See that you do," Angbard rumbled. "You are dismissed."
His nephew rose, straightened his suit jacket, and strode toward the door, a
rapier banging at his side. Angbard stared
at the door in silence for a minute after he had gone, then turned his eye back
to the items in the file box. Which included a locket that he had seen before—
almost a third of a century ago.
"Patricia," he whispered under his breath, "what has become of you?"
Daylight. That was the first thing that Miriam noticed. That—and she had the
mother of all hangovers. Her head felt as if it was wrapped in cotton wool, her
right arm hurt like hell, and everything around her was somehow wrong. She
blinked experimentally. Her head was wrapped in cotton wool—or bandages. And she
was wearing something unfamiliar. She'd gone to bed in her usual T-shirt, but
now she was wearing a nightgown—but she didn't own one! What's going on ?
Daylight. She felt muzzy and stupid and her head was pounding. She was thirsty,
too. She rolled over and blinked at where the nightstand should have been. There
was a whitewashed wall six inches from her nose. The bed she was lying in was
jammed up against a rough cinder-block wall that had been painted white. It was
as weird as that confused nightmare about the light and the chemical stink—
Nightmare?
She rolled the other way, her legs tangling up in the nightgown. She nearly fell
out of the bed, which was far too narrow. It wasn't her own bed, and for a
moment of panic she wondered what could possibly have happened. Then it all
clicked into place. "Gangsters or feds? Must be the feds," she mumbled to
herself. They must have followed me. Or Paulie. Or something.
A vast, hollow terror seemed to have replaced her stomach. They'll 'bury you so
deep,' she remembered. 'So deep' that—
Her throat felt sore, as if she'd spent the entire night screaming. Odd, that.
Maybe it was anticipation.
Somehow she swung her legs over the side of the strange
bed. They touched the floor much too soon, and she sat up, pushing the thin
comforter aside. The far wall was too close, and the window was set high up; in
fact, the whole room was about the size of a closet. There was no other
furniture except for a small stainless-steel sink bolted to the wall opposite
the door. The door itself was a featureless slab of wood with a peephole
implanted in it at eye level. She noted with a dull sense of recognition that
the door was perfectly smooth, with no handle or lock mechanism to mar its
surface: It was probably wood veneer over metal.
Her hand went to her throat. The locket was gone.
Miriam stood, then abruptly found that she had to lean against the wall to keep
upright. Her head throbbed and her right arm was extremely sore. She turned and
looked up at the window, but it was above the top of her head, even if she had
the energy to stand on the bed. High and small and without curtains, it looked
horribly like the skylight of a prison cell. Am I in prison? she wondered.
With that thought, Miriam lost what calm she had. She leaned against the door
and pounded it with her left hand, setting up a hollow racket, but stopped when
her hand began to throb and the fear swept back in a suffocating wave, driving a
storm surge of rage before it. She sat down and buried her face in her hands and
began to sob quietly. She was still in this position a few minutes later when
the door frame gave a quiet click and opened outward.
Miriam looked up suddenly as the door opened. "Who the fuck are you?" she
demanded.
The man standing in the doorway was perfectly turned out, from his black loafers
to the ends of his artfully styled blond hair: He was young (late twenties or
early thirties), formally dressed in a fashionable suit, clean-shaven, and his
face was set in neutral lines. He could have been a Mormon missionary or an FBI
agent. "Miss Beckstein, if you'd be so good as to come with me, please?"
"Who are you?" She repeated. "Aren't you guys supposed to read me my rights or
something?" There was something odd about him, but she couldn't quite get her
head around it.
Past his shoulder she could see a corridor, blurry right now—then she realized
what it was that she was having trouble with. He's wearing a sword, she told
herself, hardly believing her eyes.
"You seem to be labouring under a misapprehension." He smiled, not unpleasantly.
"We don't have to read you your rights. However, if you'll come with me, we can
go somewhere more comfortable to discuss the situation. Unless you're entirely
happy with the sanitary facilities here?"
Miriam glanced behind her, suddenly acutely aware that her bladder was full and
her stomach was queasy. "Who are you?" she asked uncertainly.
"If you come with me, you'll get your answers," he said soothingly. He took a
step back and something made Miriam suspect there was an implicit or else left
dangling at the end of his last sentence. She lurched to her feet unsteadily and
he reached out for her elbow. She shuffled backward instinctively to avoid
contact, but lost her balance against the edge of the bed: She sat down hard and
went over backward, cracking her head against the wall.
"Oh dear," he said. She stared up at him through a haze of pain. "I'll bring a
wheelchair for you. Please don't try to move."
The ceiling pancaked lazily above her head. Miriam felt sick and a little bit
drowsy. Her head was splitting. Migraine or anaesthesia hangover? she wondered.
The well-dressed man with the sword sticking incongruously out from under his
suit coat was back, with a wheelchair and another man wearing a green medical
smock. Together they picked her up and planted her in the chair, loose as a sack
of potatoes. "Oww," she moaned softly.
"That was a nasty bash," said her visitor. He walked beside the chair. Lighting
strips rolled by overhead, closed doorways to either side. "How do you feel?"
"Lousy," she managed. Her right arm had come out in sympathy with her skull.
"Who're you?"
"You don't give up, do you?" he observed. The chair turned a corner: More
corridor stretched ahead. "I'm
Roland, Earl Lofstrom. Your welfare is my responsibility for now." The chair
stopped in front of burnished stainless-steel panels—an elevator. Mechanisms
grumbled behind the door. "You shouldn't have awakened in that isolation cell.
You were only there due to an administrative error. The individual responsible
has been disciplined."
A cold chill washed down Miriam's spine, cutting through the haze of pain.
"Don't want your name," she muttered. "Want to know who you people are. My
rights, dammit."
The elevator doors opened and the attendant pushed her inside. Roland stepped in
beside her, then waved the attendant away. Then he pushed a button out of sight
behind her head. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise, but stopped
only a few seconds later. "You appear to be under a misapprehension," he
repeated. "You're asking for your rights. The, uh, Miranda declaration, yes?"
She tried to look up at him. "Huh?"
"That doesn't apply here. Different jurisdiction, you know." His accompanying
smile left Miriam deeply unnerved.
The elevator doors opened and he wheeled her into a silent, carpeted corridor
with no windows—just widely spaced doors to either side, like an expensive
hotel. He stopped at the third door along on the left and pushed it open, then
turned her chair and rolled it forward into the room within. "There. Isn't this
an improvement over the other room?"
Miriam pushed down on the wheelchair arms with both hands, wincing at a stab of
pain in her right forearm. "Shit." She looked around. "This isn't federal."
"If you don't mind." He took her elbow, and this time she couldn't dodge. His
grip was firm but not painful. "This is the main reception room of your suite.
You'll note the windows don't actually open, and they're made of toughened glass
for your safety. The bathroom is through that door, and the bedroom is over
there." He pointed. "If you want anything, lift the white courtesy phone. If you
need a doctor, there is one on call. I suggest you take an hour to recover, then
freshen up and get dressed. There will be an interview in due course."
"What is this place? Who are you people?" Finally Roland frowned at her. "You
can stop pretending you don't know," he said. "You aren't going to convince
anyone." Pausing in the doorway, he added, "The war's over, you know. We won
twenty years ago." The door closed behind him with a solid-sounding click, and
Miriam was unsurprised to discover that the door handle flopped limply in her
hand when she tried it. She was locked in.
Miriam shuffled into the white-tiled bathroom, blinked in the lights, then sat
down heavily on the toilet. "Holy shit," she mumbled in disbelief. It was like
an expensive hotel—a fiendishly expensive one, aimed at sheikhs and diplomats
and billionaires. The floor was smooth, a very high grade of Italian marble if
she was any judge of stonework. The sink was a moulded slab of thick green glass
and the taps glowed with a deep lustre that went deeper than mere gilding could
reach. The bath was a huge scalloped shell sunk into the floor, white and
polished, with blue and green lights set into it amid the chromed water jets. An
acre of fluffy white towels and a matching bathrobe awaited her, hanging above a
basket of toiletries. She knew some of those brand names; she'd even tried their
samplers when she was feeling extravagant. The shampoo alone was a hundred
dollars a bottle.
This definitely isn't anything to do with the government, she realized. / know
people who'd pay good money to be locked up in here!
She sat down on the edge of the bathtub, slid into one of the seats around its
rim, and spent a couple of minutes puzzling out the control panel. Eventually
she managed to coax half a dozen jets of aerated water into life. This is a
prison, she kept reminding herself. Roland's words haunted her: 'Different
jurisdiction, you know.' Where was she? They'd taken the locket. That implied
that they knew about it—and about her. But there was absolutely no way to square
this experience with what she'd seen in the forest: the pristine wilderness, the
peasant village.
The bedroom was as utterly over the top as the bathroom, dominated by a huge oak
sleigh-bed in a traditional Scandinavian style, with masses of down comforters
and pillows. Rather than fitted furniture there were a pair of huge oak
wardrobes and a chest of drawers and other, smaller, furniture—a dressing table
with mirror, an armchair, something that looked like an old linen press. Every
piece of furniture in the bedroom looked to be an antique. The combined effect
was overwhelming, like being expected to sleep in an auction house's display
room.
"Oh wow." She looked around and spotted the windows, then walked over to them. A
balcony outside blocked the view of whatever was immediately below. Beyond it
she had a breathtaking view of a sweep of forested land dropping away toward a
shallow valley with a rocky crag, standing proud and bald on the other side. It
was as untainted by civilization as the site of her camping expedition. She
turned away, disquieted. Something about this whole picture screamed: Wrong! at
her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
The chest of drawers held an unpleasant surprise. She pulled the top drawer
open, half-expecting it to be empty. Instead, it contained underwear. Her
underwear. She recognized the holes in one or two socks that she hadn't gotten
around to throwing away.
"Bastards." She focused on the clothing, mind spinning furiously. They're
thorough, whoever they are. She looked closer at the furniture. The writing desk
appeared to be an original Georgian piece, or even older, a monstrously valuable
antique. And the chairs, Queen Anne or a good replica—disturbingly expensive. A
hotel would be content with reproductions, she reasoned. The emphasis would be
on utility and comfort, not authenticity. If there were originals anywhere,
they'd be on display in the foyer. It reminded her of something that she'd seen
somewhere, something that nagged at the back of her mind but stubbornly refused
to come to the foreground.
She stood up and confirmed her suspicion that the
wardrobes held her entire range of clothing. More words came back to haunt her:
'There will be an interview in due course.' "I'm not in a cell," she told
herself, "but I could be. They showed me that much. So they're playing head
games. They want to play the stick-and-carrot game. That means I've got some
kind of leverage. Doesn't it?" Find out what they want, then get out of here
fast, she decided.
Half an hour later she was ready. She'd chosen a blouse the colour of fresh
blood, her black interview suit, lip gloss to match, and heels. Miriam didn't
normally hold with makeup, but this time she went the whole hog. She didn't
normally hold with power dressing either, but something about Roland and this
setup suggested that his people were much more obsessed with appearances than
the dot-com entrepreneurs and Masspike corridor startup monkeys she usually
dealt with. Any edge she could get...
A bell chimed discreetly. She straightened up and turned to look at the door as
it opened. Here it comes, she thought nervously.
It was Roland, who'd brought her up here from the cell. Now that she saw him in
the daylight from the windows with a clear head, her confusion deepened. He
looks like a secret service agent, she thought. Something about that indefinably
military posture and the short hair suggested he'd been ordered into that suit
in place of combat fatigues.
"Ah. You've found the facilities." He nodded. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," she said. "I see you ransacked my house."
"You will find that everything has been accounted for," he said, slightly
defensively. "Would you rather we'd given you a prison uniform? No?" He sized
her up with a glance. "Well, there's someone I have to take you to see now."
"Oh, goody It slipped out before she could clamp down on the sarcasm. "The chief
of secret police, I assume?"
His eyes widened slightly. "Don't joke about it," he muttered.
"Oh." Miriam dry-swallowed. "Right, well, we wouldn't want to keep him waiting,
would we?"
"Absolutely not," Roland said seriously. He held the door open, then paused for
a moment. "By the way, I really wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself trying
to escape. This is a secure facility."
"I see," said Miriam, who didn't—but had made her mind up already that it would
be a mistake to simply cut and run. These people had snatched her from her own
bed. That suggested a frightening level of—competence.
She approached the door warily, keeping as far away from Roland as she could.
"Which way?"
"Along the passage."
He headed off at a brisk march and she followed him, heels sinking into the
sound-deadening carpet. She had to hurry to keep up. When I get out of this
mess, I'm buying a new interview outfit—one I can run in, she promised herself.
"Wait one moment, please."
She found herself fetched up behind Roland's broad back, before a pair of double
doors that were exquisitely panelled and polished. Odd, she wondered. Where is
everybody? She glanced over her shoulder, and spotted a discreet video camera
watching her back. They'd come around two corners, as if the corridor followed a
rectangle: They'd passed a broad staircase leading down, and the elevator—there
ought to be more people about, surely?
"Who am I—"
Roland turned around. "Look, just wait," he said. "Security calls." She noticed
for the first time that he had the inside of his wrist pressed against an
unobtrusive box in the wall.
"Security?"
"Biometrics, I think it's called," he said. There was a click from the door and
he opened it slowly. "Matthias? Ish hafe gefauft des'usher des Angbard."
Miriam blinked—she didn't recognize the language. It sounded a bit like German,
but not enough to make anything out; and her high school German was rusty,
anyway.
"Innen gekomm', denn."
The door opened and Roland caught her right arm, tugged her into the room after
him, and let the door close. She pulled her arm back and rubbed the sore spot as
she glanced around.
"Nice place you've got here," she said. Thick draped curtains surrounded the
window. The walls were panelled richly in dark wood: The main piece of furniture
was a desk beside an inner office door. A broad-shouldered man in a black suit,
white shirt, and red tie waited behind the desk. The only thing to distinguish
the scene from a high-class legal practice was the submachine gun resting by his
right hand.
"Spresh'she de hoh'sprashe?"
"No," said Roland. "Use English, please."
"Okay," said the man with the gun. He looked at Miriam, and she had the
disquieting sense that he was photographing her, storing her face in his memory.
He had frizzy black hair, swept back from high temples, combined with a nose
like a hatchet and a glare like a caged hawk. "I am Matthias. I am the Boss's
secretary, which is, his keeper of secrets. That is his office door. You go in
there without permission over my dead body. This is not an, um, how would you
say it?" He glanced at Roland.
"Metaphor," Roland offered.
"Metaphor." Matthias looked at her again. He wasn't smiling. "The Boss is
expecting you. You may enter now."
Miriam looked sidelong at him as Roland marched over to the door and opened it,
then waved her forward. Matthias kept his eyes on her—and one hand close to the
gun. She found herself involuntarily giving him a wide berth, as she would a
rattlesnake. Not that he looked particularly venomous—a polite, clean-shaven man
in a pin-striped suit— but there was something about his manner... she'd seen it
before, in a young DEA agent she had dated for a couple of months before
learning better. Mike Fleming had been quietly, calmly, crazy, in a way that
made her cut and run before she got dragged too far in with him. He'd been quite
prepared to give his life for the cause he believed in—or to
make any other sacrifice for that matter: He was utterly unable to see the walls
of the box he'd locked himself in. The kind of guy who'd arrest a cripple with
multiple sclerosis for smoking a joint to deaden the pain. She suppressed a
shudder as she entered die inner office.
The inner office was as excessive as the suite they'd given her, die Mafia
special with the locked door and the auction house's ransom in antiques. The
floor was tiled in hand-polished hardwood, partially covered by a carpet that
was probably worth as much as her house. The walls were panelled in wood
blackened with age. There were a couple of discreet oil paintings of big red-
faced men in medieval-looking armour or classical robes posed before a castle,
and a pair of swords rested on pegs in the wall above the desk. There was a huge
walnut desk positioned beside the window bay and two chairs were drawn up before
it, positioned so that the owner of the office would be all but invisible from
the window.
Roland stopped before the desk, drew himself up to attention, and saluted. "My
lord, I have the pleasure of presenting to you... Miriam Beckstein."
The presence in the chair inclined his head in acknowledgment. "That is not her
real name, but her presence is sufficient. You may be at ease." Miriam squinted,
trying to make out his features against the glare. He must have taken her
expression for hostility, for he waved a hand: "Please be seated, the both of
you. I have no argument with you, ah, Miriam, if that is the name you wish to be
known by."
Roland surprised her by pulling a chair out and offering it to her. She startled
herself in turn by sitting down, albeit nervously, knees clenched together and
back stiffly erect "Who are you people?" she whispered.
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the light: She could see the man in the
high-backed chair smile faintly. He was in late middle age, possibly as old as
Morris Beckstein would have been, had he lived. His suit was sober—these people
dressed like a company of undertakers—but so well cut that it had to be hand-
tailored. His hair was graying, and his face was undistinguished, except for a
long scar running up his left cheek.
"I might ask the same question," he murmured. "Roland, be seated, I say!" His
tone of voice said he was used to being obeyed. "I am the high Duke Angbard of
house Lofstrom, third of that name, trustee of the crown of guilds, defender of
the king's honour, freeman of the city of Niejwein, head of security of the Clan
Reunified, prince of merchant-princes, owner of this demesne, and holder of many
more titles than that—but those are the principal ones." His eyes were the
colour of lead, a blue so pale she found them hard to see, even when they were
focused directly on her. "Also, if I am not very much mistaken, I am your
uncle."
Miriam recoiled in shock. "What?" Another voice echoed her. She glanced sideways
to see Roland staring at her in astonishment. His cool exterior began to crack.
"My father would never—" Roland began.
"Shut up," said Angbard, cold steel in his voice. "I was not referring to your
father, young man, but to your aunt once removed: Patricia."
"Would you mind explaining just what you're talking about?" Miriam demanded,
anger finally getting the better of her. She leaned forward. "Your people have
abducted me, ransacked my house, and kidnapped me, just because you think I'm
some kind of long-lost relative?"
Angbard nodded thoughtfully. "No. We are absolutely certain you're a long-lost
relative." He glanced at his nephew. "There is solid evidence."
Roland leaned back in his chair, whistled tunelessly, all military pretence
fled. He stared at her out of wide eyes, as if he was seeing a ghost.
"What have you got to whistle about?" she demanded.
"You asked for an explanation," Angbard reminded her. "The arrival of an unknown
world-walker is always grounds for concern. Since the war... suffice to say,
your appearance would have been treated drastically in those days. When you
stumbled across the old coast trail a week ago, and the patrol shot at you, they
had no way of knowing who
you were. That became evident only later—I believe you left a pair of pink
house-shoes behind?—and triggered an extensive manhunt. However, you are clearly
not connected to a traitorous faction, and closer research revealed some
interesting facts about you. I believe you were adopted?"
"That's right." Miriam's heart was fluttering in her ribs, shock and unpleasant
realization merging. "Are you saying you're my long-lost relatives?"
"Yes." Angbard waited a moment, then slid open one of the drawers in his desk.
"This is yours, I believe."
Miriam reached out and picked up the locket. Tarnished with age, slightly
battered—an island of familiarity. "Yes."
"But not this." Angbard palmed something else, then pushed it across the desk
toward her.
"Oh my." Miriam was lost for words. It was the identical twin to her locket,
only brightly shining and lacking some scratches. She took it and sprang the
catch—
"Ouch!" She glared at Roland, who had knocked it out of her hand. But he was
bending down, and after a moment she realized that he was picking it up, very
carefully, keeping the open halves facedown until it was upon the duke's
blotter.
"We will have to teach you how to handle these things safely," Angbard said
mildly. "In the meantime, my sister's is yours to keep."
"Your sister's," she echoed stupidly, wrapping her fingers around the locket.
"My sister went missing thirty-two years ago," Angbard said with careful lack of
emphasis. "Her caravan was attacked, her husband slain, and her guard massacred,
but her body was never found. Nor was that of her six-week-old daughter. She was
on her way to pay attendance to the court of the high king, taking her turn as
the Clan's hostage. The wilds around Chesapeake Bay, as it is called on your
side, are not heavily populated in this world. We searched for months, but
obviously to little effect."
"You found the box of documents," Miriam said. The effort of speaking was vast:
She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.
"Yes. They provide impressive supporting evidence—circumstantial but
significant. While you were unconscious, blood samples were taken for, ah, DNA
profiling. The results will be back tomorrow, but I am in no doubt. You have the
family face and the family talent—or did you think world-walking was
commonplace?—and your age and the documentary evidence fits perfectly. You are
the daughter Helge, born to my elder sister, Patricia Thorold Hjorth, by her
husband the western magistrate-prince, Alfredo Wu, and word of your survival is
going to set the fox among the Clan chickens with a vengeance when it emerges."
He smiled thinly. "Which is why I took the precaution of sending away the junior
members of the distaff side, and almost all the servants, before bidding you
welcome. It would not have done for the younger members of the Clan to find out
about your existence before I looked to your defence. Some of them will be
feeling quite anxious about the disruption of the braid succession, your
highness."
"Highness? What are you talking about?" Miriam could hear her voice rising, out
of control, but she couldn't get it under control. "What are you on? Look, I'm a
business journalist covering the Masspike corridor, not some kind of feudal
noble! I don't know about any of this stuff!" She was on her feet in front of
the desk. "What's world-walking, and what does it have to do—"
"Your highness," Angbard said firmly, "you were a business journalist, on the
other side of the wall of worlds. But world-walking is how you came here. It is
the defining talent of our Clan, of the families who constitute the Clan. It is
in the blood, and you are one of us, whether you will it or no. Over here, you
are the eldest heir to a countess and a magistrate-prince of the outer kingdom,
both senior members of their families, and however much you might wish to walk
away from that fact, it will follow you around. Even if you go back over there."
He turned to Roland, ignoring her stunned silence. "Earl Roland, you will please
escort your first cousin to her chambers. I charge you with her safety and
protection until further notice. Your highness, we will dine in my chambers this
evening, with one or two trustworthy guests, and I will have more words for you
then. Roland will assign servants to see to your comfort and wardrobe. I expect
him to deal with your questions. In the meantime, you are both dismissed."
Miriam glared at him, speechless. "I have only your best interests at heart,"
the duke said mildly. "Roland."
"Sir." Roland took her arm.
"Proceed."
Roland turned and marched from the office, and Miriam hurried to keep up, angry
and embarrassed and trying not to show it. You bastard! she thought. Out in the
corridor: "You're hurting me," she hissed, trying not to trip. "Slow down."
Roland slowed and—mercy of mercies—let go of her arm. He glanced behind, and an
invisible tension left his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said.
"You're sorry?" she replied, disbelievingly. "You nearly twisted my arm out of
its socket!" She rubbed her elbow and winced.
"I said I'm sorry. Angbard isn't used to being disobeyed. I've never seen anyone
take such liberties with him and escape punishment!"
"Punishment—" she stopped. "You weren't kidding about him being the head of
secret police, were you?"
"He's got many more titles than he told you about. He's responsible for the
security of the entire Clan. If you like, think of him as the head of the FBI
here. There was a civil war before you or I were born. He's probably ordered
more hangings than you or I have had hot dinners."
Miriam stumbled. "Ow, shit!" She leaned against the wall. "That'll teach me to
keep my eye on where I'm going." She glanced at him. "So you're telling me I
wasn't paying enough attention?"
"You'll be all right," Roland said slowly, "if you can adapt to it. I imagine it
must be a great shock, coming into your inheritance so suddenly."
"Is that so?" She looked him up and down carefully, unsure how to interpret the
raised eyebrow—Is he trying to tell
me something or just having a joke at my expense?—then a second thought struck
her. "I think I'm missing something here," she said, deliberately casually.
"Nothing around here is what it seems," Roland said with a little shrug. His
expression was guarded. "But if the duke is right, if you really are Patricia's
long-lost heir—"
Miriam recognized the expression in his eyes: It was belief. He really believes
I'm some kind of fairy-tale princess, she realized with dawning horror. What
have I got myself into!
"You'll have to tell me all about it. In my chambers."
 2.O
Roland led her back to her suite and followed her into the huge reception room
at its heart. He wandered over to the windows and stood there with his hands
clasped behind his back. Miriam kicked her heels off and sat down in the huge,
enveloping leather sofa opposite the window.
"When did you discover the locket?" he asked.
She watched him curiously. "Less than a week ago."
"And until then you'd grown up in ignorance of your family," he said. "Amazing!"
He turned around. His face was set in a faintly wistful expression.
"Are you going to just stand there?" she asked.
"It would be impertinent to sit down without an invitation," he replied. "I know
it's the case on the other side, but here, the elders tend to stand on points of
etiquette."
"Well—" her eyes narrowed. "Sit down if you want to. You're making me nervous.
You look as if you're afraid I'll bite."
"Um." He sat down uneasily on the arm of the big chair opposite her. "Well, it's
irregular, to say the least, to be here. You being unwed, that is."
"What's that got to do with it?" she snapped. "I'm divorced. Is that another of
the things you people are touchy about?"
" 'Divorced?' " He stared at her hand, as if looking for a ring. "I don't know."
Suddenly he looked thoughtful. "Customs here are distinctly different from the
other side. This is not a Christ-worshiping land." Another thought struck him.
"Are you, uh ... ?"
"Does Miriam Beckstein sound Christian to you?"
"It's sometimes hard to tell with people from the other side. Christ worship
isn't a religion here," he said seriously. "But you are divorced. And a world-
walker." He leaned forward. "What that means is you are automatically a Clan
shareholder of the first rank, eligible, unwed, and liable to displace a dozen
minor distant relatives from their Clan shares, which they thought safe. Your
children will displace theirs, too. Do you know, you are probably a great-aunt
already?"
To Miriam this was insupportable. "I don't want a huge bunch of feuding cousins
and ancestors and children! I'm quite happy on my own."
"It's not as simple as that." A momentary flash of irritation surfaced: "Our
personal happiness has nothing to do with the Clan's view of our position in
life. / don't like it either, but you've got to understand that there are people
out there whose plans will be disrupted by the mere knowledge of your existence,
and other people who will make plans for you, regardless of your wishes!"
"I—" she stopped. "Look, I don't think we've got this straight. I may be related
to your family by genetics, but I'm not one of you. I don't know how the hell
you think or what your etiquette is like and I don't care about being the orphan
of a countess. It doesn't mean anything to me." She sighed. "There's been some
huge mistake. The sooner we get it over with and I can go back to being a
journalist, the better."
"If you want it that way." For almost a minute he brooded, staring at the floor
in front of her. Miriam hooked one foot over the other and tried to relax enough
to force her shoulders back into the sofa. "You might last six weeks," he said
finally.
"Huh?"
He frowned at a parquet tile. "You can ignore your relatives, but they can't
ignore you. To them you're an unknown quantity. The Clan shareholders all have
the ability to walk the worlds, to cross over and follow you. Over here they're
rich and powerful—but your current situation makes them insecure because you're
unpredictable. If you do what's expected of you, you merely disrupt several
inheritances worth a baron's estate. If you try to leave, they will think you
are trying to form a new schismatic family, maybe even lure away family
splinters to set up your own Clan to rival ours. How do you think the rich and
powerful deal with threats to their existence?" He looked grave. "I'd rather not
measure you for a coffin so soon after discovering you. It's not every day I
find a new second cousin, especially one who's as educated and intelligent as
you seem to be. There's a shortage of good conversation here, you know."
"Oh." Miriam felt deflated, frightened. What happens to business life when
there's no limit to liability and the only people you can work with are your
blood relatives? Instinctively she changed the subject. "What did your uncle
mean about tonight? And servants, I mean, servants!"
"Ah, that." Roland slipped down into the seat at last, relaxing a little. "We
are invited to dine with the head of one of the families in private. The most
powerful family in the Clan, at that. It's a formal affair. As for the servants,
you're entitled to half a dozen or so ladies-in-waiting, your own guard of
honour, and various others. My uncle the duke sent the minor family members
away, but in the meantime there are maids from below stairs who will see to you.
Really I would have sent them earlier, when I brought you up here, but he
stressed the urgent need for secrecy and I thought—"
he paused. "You really did grow up over there, didn't you? In the middle
classes."
She nodded, unsure just how to deal with his sudden attack of snobbery. Some of
the time he seemed open and friendly, then she hit a blind spot and he was Sir
Medieval Aristocrat writ large and charmless. "I don't do upper class," she
said. "Well, business class, maybe."
"Well, you aren't in America any more. You'll have get used to the way we do
things here eventually." He paused. "Did I say something wrong?"
He had, but she didn't know how to explain. Which was why a couple of hours
later she was sitting naked in the bathroom, talking to her dictaphone, trying
to make sense of the insanity outside—without succumbing to hysteria—by treating
it as a work assignment and reporting on it.
"Now I know how Alice felt in looking-glass land," she muttered, holding her
dictaphone close to her lips. "They're mad. I don't mean schizophrenic or
psychotic or anything like that. They're just not in the same universe as anyone
else I know." The same universe was a slip: She could feel the hysterical
laughter bubbling up inside her. She bit her lower lip, painfully hard. "They're
nuts. And they insist I join in and play their game by their rules."
There was some bumping and thumping going on in the main room of the suite. That
would be the maidservants moving stuff around. Miriam paused the tape for a
moment, considering her next words. "Dear Diary. Forty-eight hours ago I was
hanging out in the forest, happy as a clam with my photographs of a peasant
village that looked like something out of the middle ages. I was exploring,
discovering something new, and it was great, I had this puzzle-box reality to
crack open, a whole new story. Now I discover that I own that village, and a
hundred more like it, and I literally have the power of life and death over its
inhabitants. I can order soldiers to go in and kill every last one of them, on a
whim. Once the Clans recognize me officially, at an annual session,
that is. And assuming—as Roland says—nobody assassinates me. Princess Beckstein,
signing off for The Weatherman, or maybe Business 2.0. Jesus, who'd have thought
I'd end up starring in some kind of twisted remake of Cinderella? Or that it
would turn out so weird?"
And I called Craig Venter and Larry Ellison robber barons in print, she thought
mordantly, keying the "pause" button again.
"Put that way it sounds funny, but it isn't. First I thought it was the feds who
broke in and grabbed me, and that's pretty damn scary to begin with. FEMA,
secret security courts with hearings held in camera. Then, it could have been
the mob, if the mob looked like FBI agents. But this could actually be worse.
These guys wear business suits, but it's only skin-deep. They're like sheikhs
from one of the rich Gulf Emirates. They don't dress up medieval, they think
medieval and buy their clothes from Saks or Savile Row in England."
A thought occurred to her. / hope Paulette's keeping the video camera safe. And
her head down. She had an ugly, frightened feeling that Duke Angbard had seen
right through her. He scared her: She'd met his type before, and they played
hardball—hard enough to make a Mafia don's eyes water. She was half-terrified
she'd wake up tomorrow and see Paulie's head impaled on a pike outside her
bedroom window. If only Ma hadn't given me the damned locket—
A tentative knock on the door. "Mistress? Are you ready to come out?"
"Ten minutes," Miriam called. She clutched her recorder and shook her head. Four
servants had shown up an hour ago, and she'd retreated into the bathroom. One of
them, called something like Iona, had tried to follow her. Apparently countesses
weren't allowed to use a bathroom without servants in attendance. That was when
Miriam had locked the door and braced the linen chest against it.
"Damn," she muttered and took a deep breath. Then she surrendered to the
inevitable.
They were waiting for her when she came out. Four women in severe black dresses
and white aprons, their hair
covered by blue scarves. They curtseyed before her as she looked around,
confused. "I'm Meg, if it please you, your highness. We is to dress you," the
oldest of them said in a soft, vaguely Germanic accent: Middle-aged and
motherly, she looked as if she would be more at home in an Amish farm kitchen
than a castle.
"Uh, it's only four o'clock," Miriam pointed out.
Meg looked slightly shocked. "But you are to be received at seven!" She pointed
out. "How're we to dress you in time?"
"Well." Miriam looked at the other three: All of them stood with downcast eyes.
/ don't like this, she thought. "How about I take something from my wardrobe—
yes, they kindly brought all my clothes along—and put it on?"
"M-ma'am," the second oldest ventured: "I've seen your clothes. Begging your
pardon, but them's not court clothes. Them's not suitable."
'Court clothes'? More crazy formal shit. "What would you suggest, then?" Miriam
asked exasperatedly.
"Old Ma'am Rosein can fit you up with something to measure," said the old one,
"should I but give her your sizes." She held up a very modern-looking tape
measure. "Your highness?"
"This had better be good," Miriam said, raising her arms. Why do I never get
this kind of service at the Gap? She wondered.
Three hours later Miriam was readied for dinner, and knew exactly why she never
got this kind of service in any chain store—and why Angbard had so many
servants. She was hungry, and if the bodice they'd squeezed her into allowed her
to eat when she got there she might consider forgiving Angbard for his
invitation.
The youngest maidservant was still fussing over her hair—and the feathers and
string of pearls she had woven into it, while lamenting its shortness—when the
door opened. It was, of course, Roland, accompanied now by a younger fellow, and
Miriam began to get an inkling of what a formal dinner involved.
"Dear cousin!" Roland saluted her. Miriam carefully met his eyes and inclined
her head as far as she could. "May I present you with your nephew twice removed:
Vincenze?" The younger man bowed deeply, his red embroidered jacket tightening
across broad shoulders. "You look splendid, my dear."
"Do I?" Miriam shook her head. "I feel like an ornamental flower arrangement,"
she said with some feeling.
"Charmed, ma'am," said Vincenze with the beginning of a stutter.
"If you would like to accompany me?" Roland offered her his arm, and she took it
with alacrity.
"Keep the speed down," she hissed, glancing past him at his younger relative,
who appeared to be too young to need to shave regularly.
"By all means, keep the speed down." Roland nodded.
Miriam stepped forward experimentally. Her maidservants had taken over an hour
to install her in this outfit: I feel like I've fallen into a medieval costume
drama, she thought. Roland's high linen collar and pantaloons didn't look too
comfortable, either, come to think of it. "What sort of occasion is this outfit
customary for?" she asked.
"Oh, any formal event where one of our class might be seen," Roland observed:
"except that in public you would have a head covering and an escort. You would
normally have much more jewellery, but your inheritance—" he essayed a shrug.
"Is mostly in the treasury in Niejwein." Miriam fingered the pearl choker around
her neck uncomfortably.
"You wore, um, American clothing today," she reminded him.
"Oh, but so is this, isn't it? But of another period. It reminds us whence our
wealth comes."
"Right." She nodded minutely. Business suits are informal dress for medieval
aristocrats'! And formal dress that was like something that belonged in a movie
about the Renaissance. Everything goes into the exterior, she added to her
mental file of notes on family manners.
Roland escorted her up the wide stairs, then at the tall
doors at the top a pair of guards in dark suits and dark glasses announced them
and ushered them in.
A long oak table awaited them in a surprisingly small dining room that opened
off the duke's reception room. Antique glass globes rising from brass stems in
the wall cast a pale light over a table glistening with silver and crystal. A
servant in black waited behind each chair. Duke Angbard was already waiting for
them, in similarly archaic costume: Miriam recognized a sword hanging at his
belt. Do swords go with male formal dress here? she wondered. "My dear niece,"
he intoned, "you look marvellous! Welcome to my table." He waved her to a seat
at the right of the head, black wood with a high back and an amazingly intricate
design carved into it.
'The pleasure's mine," Miriam summoned up a dry smile, trying to strike the
right note. These goons can kill you as soon as look at you, she reminded
herself. Medieval squalor waited at the gate, and police cells down in the
basement: Maybe this wasn't so unusual outside the western world, but it was new
to her. She picked up her skirts and sat down gingerly as a servant slid a chair
in behind her. The delicacy of its carving said nothing about its comfort—the
seat was flat and extremely hard.
"Roland, and young Vincenze! You next, by the Sky Father."
"P-pleased to accept," Vincenze quavered.
The outer door opened again, sparing him further risk of embarrassment, and a
footman called out in a low voice: "The Lady Margit, Chatelaine of Praha, and
her Excellency the Baroness Olga Thorold."
Six women came in, and now Miriam realized that she was probably underdressed,
for the two high-born each wore the most voluminous gowns she'd ever seen, with
trains that required two maids to carry them and hair so entangled in knots of
gold and rubies that they resembled birds' nests. They looked like divas from a
Wagner opera: the fat lady and the slim virgin. Margit of Praha was perhaps
forty, her hair beginning to turn white and her cheeks sagging slightly. She
looked as if she might be merry under other circum-
stances, but now her expression was grimly set. Olga Thorold, in contrast, was
barely out of adolescence, a coltish young girl with a gown of gold and crimson
and a neck swathed in gemstones that sparked fire whenever she moved. Olga
looked half-amused by Miriam's cool assessing glance.
"Please be seated," said Angbard. Olga smiled demurely and bowed her neck to
him. Margit, her chaperone, merely nodded and took a seat. "I believe you have
heard tell of the arrival of our returning prodigal," he commented. "Pitr, fetch
wine if you please. The Medoc."
"I have heard quite a few strangenesses today," Margit commented in English that
bore a strangely cupped accent. "This songbird in your left hand, she is the
daughter of your sister, long-lost. Is this true?"
"It is so," Angbard confirmed. A servant placed a cut-crystal glass of wine in
front of Miriam. She began to reach toward it, then stopped, noticing that none
of the others made such a gesture. "She has proven her heritage—the family
trait—and the blood tests received barely an hour ago affirm her. She is of our
bloodstock, and we have information substantiating, sadly, the death of her dam,
Patricia Thorold Hjorth. I present to you Helge, also known as Miriam, of
Thorold Hjorth, eldest heir surviving."
"So charmed!" Olga simpered at Miriam, who managed a wordless nod in reply.
Plates garnished with a starter materialized in front of everybody—roasted fowl
of some kind, tiny enough to fit in Miriam's gloved hand. Nobody moved, but
Angbard raised his hands. "In the name of the sky father—"
Miriam froze, so utterly startled that she missed the murmured continuation of
his prayer, the flick of wine from glass across the tabletop, the answering
murmur from Roland and Olga and Margit and the stuttered response from Vincenze.
He said this wasn't a Christian country, she reminded herself, in time to move
her lips as if saying something—anything, any response—just to fit in.
Completing
his brief prayer, Angbard raised his glass. "Eat, drink, and be safe under my
roof," he told them, then took a mouthful of wine. After which it appeared to be
open season.
Miriam's stomach grumbled. She picked up knife and fork and attacked her plate
discreetly.
"One hears the strangest stories, dear." Miriam froze and glanced across the
table: Margit was smiling at her sympathetically. "You were lost for so long, it
must have been terrible!"
"Probably." Miriam nodded absentmindedly and put her fork down. "And then again,
maybe not." She thought for a moment. "What have you heard?"
"Lots," Olga began breathlessly. "You were orphaned by savages and raised in a
workhouse as a scrub, isn't that so, nana? Forced to sleep in the fireplace
ashes at night! Then Cousin Roland found you and—"
"That's enough, dear," Margit said indulgently, raising a gloved hand. "It's her
story, to tell in her own way." She raised an eyebrow at Miriam. Miriam blinked
in return, more in startlement at the girl's artlessness than her chaperone's
bluntness.
"I would not mind hearing for myself how your upbringing proceeded," Angbard
rumbled.
"Oh. Indeed." Miriam glanced down, realizing that her appetizer had been
replaced by a bowl of soup—some kind of broth, anyway—while they spoke. "Well. I
wouldn't want to disappoint you—" she smiled at Olga—"but I had a perfectly
normal upbringing. You know my birth-mother disappeared? When she was found in,
uh, the other side, I was taken to a hospital and subsequently adopted by a
young childless couple." Of stone-throwing student radicals who grew up to be
academics, she didn't say. Olga was hanging on her every word, as if she was
describing some kind of adventure with pirates and exploits in far-off lands.
Either the girl was an idiot or she was so sheltered that all of this sounded
exotic to her. Probably the latter.
"A university professor and his wife, a critic and reviewer. I think there was
some issue with my—with Patricia's murder, so the adoption agency gave my
adoptive parents her
personal effects to pass on, but blocked inquiries about me from anywhere else,
it being a matter for the police: unsolved murder, unidentified victim, and so
on."
"There's only so much you can do to prevent a suicide bomber," Angbard said with
deceptive mildness. "But we're not at immediate risk here," he added, smiling at
Miriam, an expression clearly intended to reassure her. "I've taken special
measures to ensure our safety."
"Your schooling," Olga said. "Did you have a personal tutor?"
Miriam frowned, wondering just what she meant. "No, I went to college, like
everybody else," she said. "Premed and history of economics, then med school.
Then, well, instead of continuing with med school, I went back to college again
to study something else. Medicine didn't get on with me."
"You double-majored?" Roland interrupted.
"Yes, sort of." Miriam put her fork down. She couldn't eat any more, her stomach
felt too full and her back ached. She leaned her shoulders against the chair but
couldn't relax. "I switched to journalism. Did an MA in it." Her gloved hands
felt hot and damp. They reminded her of a long shift on a geriatric ward, a
different type of glove she'd ended up wearing for hours on end, cleaning up
blockages. Corn starch, she thought absentmindedly. Must get some dusting
powder. "I began on the biotech sector beat but found the IT industry shysters
more interesting." She paused. Olga's expression was one of polite
incomprehension, as if she'd suddenly begun speaking fluent Japanese.
"Yourself?"
"Oh, / had a personal tutor!" Olga enthused. "But Daddy didn't want to send me
away to school on the other side. We were having a spot of bother and he thought
I'd need too many bodyguards."
Angbard smiled again, in a manner that Miriam found disquietingly avuncular.
"There has been a threat of rebellion in Hel these past two years," he explained
with a nod in Miriam's direction. "Your father needed the troops. Perhaps next
year we can send you to Switzer-Land?"
"Oh, yes!" Olga clapped her hands together discreetly. "I'd like that."
"What would you like to study?" Miriam asked politely.
"Oh, everything! Deportment, and etiquette, and management of domestic events—
balls and banquets. It's so important to get the little things right, and how
are you to supervise everything if you don't know what your steward is doing?"
She gave a little squeal. "I do hope they'll let me continue with the violin,
though."
Miriam forced herself to keep a straight face. "I can see you're going to make a
very good marriage," she said, voice neutral. It all added up to a horribly
consistent picture: the older woman as chaperone, the total eagerness for the
description of her own upbringing and education, the wistfulness for a place at
an expensive finishing school. This could be a problem, she thought
dispassionately. If they expect me to behave like this, someone is going to be
very disappointed. And it won't be me...
"I'm sure she'll marry well," said Margit, venturing an opinion for the first
time. Vincenze whispered something to Roland, who forced a knowing chuckle.
"She's of the right age." Margit looked at Miriam dubiously. "I expect you'll—"
she trailed off.
"Discussions of Countess Helge's eventual disposition are premature," Angbard
said coolly. "Doubtless she will want to make a strong alliance to protect
herself. I'm sure she has a solid head on her shoulders, and will want to keep
it there." He smiled: a thin, humourless expression.
Miriam swallowed. You old bastard! You're threatening me! Servants removed her
plate and refilled her wine glass. Growing anger threatened to overwhelm her.
She took an overhasty mouthful to conceal her expression, leaving a bleeding
ring of lip gloss on the crystal. Her heart was pounding and she couldn't seem
to get enough air.
'To set your mind at ease, my dear, you are quite safe for the time being," said
Angbard. "This is a doppelgangered house, with a secured installation on the
other side, as strongly defended there as here—but if you were to venture
outside of it you would be in jeopardy. I am concerned about your other
relatives, such as the family Axl, and your late father's heirs of family Wu, in
the far west. A strong alliance would go a long way toward protecting you."
"An alliance," she said thickly. It seemed to be hot in the dining room. She
finished her glass, to buy some time. "Y'-know, it seems to me that you're
taking a lot for granted. That I'll fit in and adapt to your ways."
"Isn't that how it always works?" asked Olga, confused. A dessert appeared,
individual plates of chocolate truffles drizzled in syrup, but Miriam had no
room for food. Her meal sat heavily on the top of her stomach.
"Not always, no," Miriam said tightly. She picked up her full wineglass, then
frowned, remembering two—three?— refills before it, and put it down again, a
little harder than she'd intended. Roland smiled at her indulgently. They all
seemed to be smiling at her too much this evening, she noticed. As if they
expected her to break down in tears and thank them for rescuing her from a life
of drudgery. She forced herself to straighten her shoulders, sipped sparingly
from her glass, and tried to ignore the growing pains in the small of her back.
If she could just get through the remainder of the meal she'd be all right. "But
we'll worry about that when we get to it, won't we?" She mustered a pained smile
and everyone pretended she hadn't said anything. The strange cousin's faux pas,
she thought, as Vincenze asked Roland something about cavalry manoeuvres.
A few minutes later, Angbard rapped a silver dessert spoon on his glass. "If you
have finished eating, by all means let the after-dinner entertainment commence,"
he said.
Servants wheeled a tall trolley in and Miriam blinked in surprise. A huge
thirty-inch Sony flat-panel television faced them, glassy-eyed, blocking the
doorway. A black video recorder sat on a shelf below it, trailing cables. A
white-gloved footman handed the remote to the duke on a silver plate. He bowed
himself out as Angbard picked it up and pointed it at the set.
It was all Miriam could do to keep her jaw from dropping
when a familiar signature tune came welling out of concealed speakers around the
dining chamber. A helicopter descended onto a rooftop pad outside a penthouse
suite: The famous Stetson-wearing villain stepped out into a sea of family
intrigue. Miriam gulped down her wine without choking and reached for the
inevitable—invisible—refill, barely tasting it. Her nose was going numb, a
warning sign that she normally ignored at her peril, but this was just too
bizarre to take while remaining sober. Dallas! she thought, making it a curse.
As a choice of after-dinner videos, it was perfect. She'd been wrong about the
ordeal being nearly over: The meal was only the beginning.
Roland tried to say something as they left Angbard's rooms. "Hush," she said,
leaning on his arm as they descended the grand staircase. Her back ached and she
was wobbling on her heels. "Just get me back to my room."
"I think we need to talk," he said urgently.
"Later." She winced as they reached the corridor. Take lots of little steps, she
thought. The ache in her back was worst in the region of her kidneys. She felt
drunk. "Tomorrow."
He held the door open for her. "Please—"
She looked into his eyes. They were wide and appealing: He was a transparently
gallant, well-meaning young man— Young ? He's only a couple of years younger
than I am—with a great ass, and she instinctively distrusted that. 'Tomorrow,"
she said firmly, then winced. "I'm tired. Maybe after breakfast?"
"By all means." He stepped back and Miriam turned to close the door, only to
find the head maidservant, Meg, standing ahead of her.
"Ah. Meg." Miriam smiled experimentally. Glanced at the bathroom. "I've had a
long day and I'm going to bed shortly. Would you mind leaving?"
"But how is you to undress?" Meg asked, confused. "What if you want something in
the night?"
"What's the usual arrangement?" Miriam asked.
"Why, we sleep inside the door here, against your needs." She dipped her head.
"Oh my." Miriam sighed, and would have slumped but for her dress, which seemed
to be holding her upright. "Oh god." She took a stride toward the bathroom, then
caught herself on the door frame with one arm. "Well. You can start by
undressing me." It took the combined efforts of two maids ten minutes to strip
Miriam down to her underwear. Eventually something gave way and her ribs could
move again. "Oh. Oh!" Miriam took a breath, then gulped." 'Scuse me." She fled
dizzily into the bathroom, skidding on the tiled floor, and locked the door.
"Shit, shit..." she planted herself firmly on the toilet.
After a moment, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her gaze fell on the dictaphone
and she picked it up. "Memo to self," she muttered. "At a formal banquet the
pain in the small of your back might be the chair, but on the other hand it
might be your kidneys backing up." Four, no five, glasses of wine. She shook her
head, still wobbly, and took another deep breath. "And the breathing trouble.
Fuck 'em, next time—if they want formal, they can put up with whatever I can buy
off the rack in Boston. I'm not turning myself into an orthopaedic basket case
in the name of local fashion."
Miriam took another deep breath. "Right. More notes. Margit of Praha, middle-
aged, looks to be a chaperone for Olga Thorold, who seems to be senior to her.
Olga is a ditz. Thinks a Swiss finishing school is higher education. Main
ambition is to make a good marriage. I think Angbard may have been showing her
to me as a role model, fuck knows why—maybe that's what high-born women do
around here. I think Vincenze is just horribly shy. May be some sort of all-male
schooling for menfolk here. Their English is better than the women's. I wonder
if that means they get out more."
She hit the "pause" button, then finished with the toilet. Standing up, she
stripped off, then luxuriated in the sensation of having nothing at all in
contact with her skin.
A thought struck her. "I'm going to have a bath," she called through the door.
"Don't wait up for me. I don't need any help."
It was Miriam's third bath of the day, but it didn't strike her as excessive.
Her skin itched. She poured expensive bath salts and perfumed oil into the water
without remorse, then slid down into the sea of foam. "Memo: The bath obviously
came over from the other side. That means they must have some way of moving
heavy items. I need to find out how. If some asshole cousin is going to try
killing me because of my name, I'd like to know whether they're likely to use a
pistol or a B-52." A thought struck her. "It looks like they're stuck in a
development trap, like the Gulf Emirates. The upper class is fabulously rich and
can import luxury items to their heart's content, and send their kids for
education overseas, but they can't import enough, uh—stuff—to develop their
population base. Start an industrial revolution. Whatever." She leaned back,
feeling her spine unkink. "I wish I knew more about developing world economics.
Because if that's what this all boils down to, I'll have to change things."
She put the recorder down and soaped herself all over, trying to scrub away the
sweat and stress.
"Personal File: Roland. He's too damn smooth." She paused, biting her upper lip.
"Reminds me of the college jocks, same kind of clean-cut hunky outdoors thing,
except he's painfully polite and doesn't smell of beer or cigarettes. And he's
trying to hide something. Second cousin, which means, um. I have no idea what
that means in the context of this extended Clan-family structure thing, except
he treats me like I'm made of eggshells and soap bubbles. Great class, behaves
like a real gentleman, then again, he's probably a gold-plated bastard under the
smooth exterior. That, or Uncle Angbard is trying to throw us together for some
reason. And he is a tough cookie. Right out of The Godfather. Trust him as far
as you can throw him."
She leaned back farther. "Next Memo: sexual politics. These people are basically
medievals in suits. Olga is the giveaway, but the rest of it is pretty hard to
miss. Better not talk about Ben or the divorce, or the kid, they might get
weird. Maybe I can qualify as an aged spinster aunt who's too important to mess
with, and they'll leave me alone. But
if they expect me to lie back and act like a, a countess, someone's going to be
in trouble." And it could be me, she admitted. Stuck in a strange land with
weird and stifling customs, under guard the whole time—
"Memo: The locket is not unique. Duke Angbard owns its twin. He gave it to me to
keep and talked about a doppelgangered house. And the family trait. Which means
they know all about it—and about how it works and how you use them. Hmm. Find
out what they know before you start messing."
There was a lot to think about. "Most kids sometimes play make-believe, that
they're actually the long-lost prince or princess of a magical kingdom. Not
fucking Ruritania with poison-tasters, armed guards, and Dallas reruns as the
height of sophisticated after-dinner entertainment." She hummed tunelessly. "I
wonder where they get the money to pay for the toys?" Something Paulette had
said was trying to surface, but she couldn't quite remember what.
The bathtub drained and Miriam caught herself yawning as she towelled herself
dry. "Maybe it'll all go away in the morning," she told herself.

Miriam jolted awake with her eyes open and a strong sense of panic. Incoherent
but un- pleasant dreams dogged her: goggled soldiers looming over her bed, limbs
moving through molasses, too slow, too slow ...
The bed was too big, much too big. She groped for the side of it, floundering
across cold white sheets like an arctic explorer.
"Aagh." She reached open air, found herself looking down at the floor from an
unaccustomed height. Her arm hurt, her mouth tasted horrible—something had
obviously died in it the night before, and she ached everywhere but especially
in a tight band across her forehead. "Mornings!" The air was distinctly cold.
Shivering, she threw the comforter off and sat up, then jumped.
"What are you doing in here!" she squeaked, grabbing the covers.
"Excuse, ma'am—we required to attend?" The maid's ac-
cent was thick and hard to make out: English clearly wasn't her first language,
and she looked shocked, though whether it was at Miriam's nakedness or her
reaction to her presence wasn't clear.
"Well." Miriam held her breath for a moment, trying to get her heart under
control. "You can just wait outside the door. I'll be up in a minute."
"But how is you to be dress?" asked the woman, a rising note of unhappiness in
her voice.
"I'll take care of that myself." Miriam sat up again, this time holding the
bedding around her. "Out. I mean, right out of my chambers, all of you,
completely out! You can come back in half an hour. And shut the door."
She stood up as the door clicked shut, her heart still pounding. "How the hell
do they manage?" she wondered aloud. "Jesus. Royalty!" It came out as a curse.
It had never occurred to her to sympathize with the Queen of England before, but
the idea of being surrounded by flunkies monitoring her every breath gave her a
sinking feeling in her stomach.
I've got to get away from this for a while, she realized. Even if I can't avoid
them in the long term, they'll drive me mad if I don't get some privacy.
Domestic servants were something that had passed out of the American middle-
class lifestyle generations ago. Just the idea of having to deal with them made
Miriam feel as if she was about to break out in hives.
Right. I've got to get away for a bit. How? Where? Miriam glanced at the bedside
table and saw temporary escape sitting there, next to her dictaphone. Ah. A
plan! She approached the huge chest of drawers and rummaged through it, hunting
clothes. Ten minutes later she was dressed in urban casual—jeans, sneakers,
sweater, leather jacket. Someone had helpfully installed some of her bags in the
bottom of a cavernous wardrobe, and her small reporter's briefcase was among
them, preloaded with a yellow pad, pens, and some spare tapes and batteries.
She poked her nose around the bedroom door cautiously. No, there was nobody
lurking in ambush. It worked! She
told herself. A quick dash to the bathroom and she was ready to activate her
plan. Ready, apart from a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, anyway.
"Damn. I'll need money." She ransacked the reception room in haste, hunting for
her personal effects, and found them in a closed bureau of exquisite
workmanship—her wallet, driving license, credit cards, and house keys. Either
the servants didn't dare tamper with the private possessions of a relative of
the duke—or they didn't know what they were. She found some other items in the
bureau that shook her—her snub-nosed pistol and a box of ammunition that she
didn't remember buying. "What is this?" she asked herself before putting the gun
in her jacket pocket. She kept her hand around it. If what she was planning
didn't work ... well, she'd jump that hurdle when she reached it.
They're treating me as family, she realized. Adult, mature, sensible family, not
like Olga the ditz. Servants and assassins crawling out of the woodwork, it's a
whole different world. Oh my.
Carefully not thinking too hard about the likely consequences of her actions,
Miriam walked to the centre of the reception room between sofa and fireplace,
snapped open her locket with her left hand, and focused on the design inside.
"Owww!" She stumbled slightly and cradled her forehead. Vision blurred, and
everything throbbed. "Shit!" She blinked furiously through the pounding of her
abruptly upgraded headache. The room was still there: bureau, chairs, fireplace—
"I wondered how long you'd take," Roland said from behind her.
She whirled, bringing her gun to bear, then stopped. "Jesus, don't do that!"
Roland watched her from the sofa, one hand holding a pocket watch, the other
stretched out along the cushioned back. He was wearing a sports jacket and
chinos with an open-necked shirt, like a stockbroker on casual Friday.
The sofa was identical to the unoccupied one in the suite she'd just left—or so
close as to be its twin. But Roland
wasn't the only different feature of the room. The quality of light coming in
through the window was subtly altered, and some items had appeared on the side
table, and the bedroom door was shut. "This isn't the same apartment," she said
slowly, past the fog of headache. "It's a doppelganger, right? And we're on the
other side. My side."
Roland nodded. "Are you going to shoot me or not?" he asked. "Because if you
aren't, you ought to put that away."
"Oops. Sorry." She lowered the pistol carefully and pointed it at the floor.
"You startled me."
Roland relaxed visibly. "I think it's safe to say that you startled me, too. Do
you always carry a gun when you explore your house?"
"I hope you'll excuse me," she said carefully, "but after waking up in bed with
a stranger leaning over me for the second time in as many days, I tend to
overreact a little. And I wasn't sure how the duke would respond to me going
walkabout."
"Really?" He raised an eyebrow.
"No shit." She glanced around. The bathroom door was closed—she needed some
Tylenol or some other painkiller bad. "Do you keep hot and cold running servants
on this side, too?"
"Not many; there's a cook and some occasional cleaning staff, but mostly this is
reserved for Covert Operations, and we pay much more attention to secrecy. Over
here it's a ... a safe house, I guess you'd call it, not a palace. I take it you
haven't eaten—can I invite you to join me downstairs for breakfast?"
"As long as I don't have to dress for it," she said, checking then pocketing her
gun. She picked up her briefcase. "I dug the lecture about not being able to
hide, I don't want you to misunderstand me. But there are some things I really
need to do around town today. Assuming I'm not under house arrest?"
Roland shrugged. "I don't see why not," he said. "I can answer for your
security, in any case. Will you be able to do your stuff if I come along?"
Miriam looked out of the window and took a deep breath. "Well." She looked at
him again. "I guess so." Damn, there goes my chance to warn Paulie. "Is it
really that risky?"
"Breakfast first." He was already heading for the door. He added, over his
shoulder, "By now news of your arrival will have leaked out and junior members
of at least two of the other families will be desperate, absolutely desperate.
But they don't know what you look like so you probably don't need a permanent
bodyguard yet. And once your position is secure, they won't be able to touch
you."
" 'Breakfast,'" she said, " 'first.'"
There was a kitchen on the ground floor, but there was nothing medieval about
it. With its stainless-steel surfaces, huge chest freezer, microwave ovens, and
gas range, it could have been the back of a restaurant. The dining room attached
to it didn't look anything like Angbard's private apartment, either. It reminded
Miriam more of a staff room at an upmarket consultant's office. A couple of guys
in dark suits nodded at Roland from a table, but they were finishing up cups of
coffee and they cleared out as soon as he offered her a seat. "Tell me, what did
you think of, uh, Olga?"
While she tried to puzzle out what he meant by that question, a waitress
appeared, notepad poised. "What's on the menu this morning?" Miriam asked.
"Oh, anything you'd like." She smiled breezily. "Coffee, we have a whole range
of different types at present. Eggs, bacon, sausages, granola, breakfast cereal,
juice—whatever."
"Double espresso for me," said Roland. "Rye sourdough toast, extra-mature thick-
peel marmalade, unsalted butter. Two fried eggs, sunny-side up."
"Hmm. A large cappuccino for me, I think," said Miriam. "Can you manage a
Spanish omelette?"
"Sure!" Miss Breezy grinned at her. "With you in five minutes."
Miriam blinked at her receding back. "Now that is what I call service."
"We take it seriously around here," Roland said dryly. "That's why we go through
a Human Resources department."
"You run this household like a company." Miriam frowned. "In fact, this is a
family business, isn't it? That's what you're in." She paused. "Interuniversal
import/export. Right?"
"Right." He nodded.
"And you've been doing it for hundreds of years."
"Right you are," he said encouragingly. "You're figuring it out for yourself."
"It's not that hard." The distinctive noise of a coffee percolator made her
raise her head. "How do you think last night went?"
"I think—" he watched her examining him. "Do you know you've got a very
disquieting stare?"
"Yes." She grinned at him. "I practice in the mirror before I go in to an
interview. Sometimes it makes my victims give away more than they intended to.
And sometimes it just gives them bad dreams afterward."
"Eeh. I can see you'd be a bad enemy, Miss Beckstein."
"Miz, to you." She paused.
The waitress was back, bearing a tray laden with coffee, milk, and a sugar bowl.
"Call if you need anything more," she reassured them, then disappeared again.
Roland's eyes narrowed at he looked at her. "You remind me of when I was at
college," he said.
"You were at college?" she asked. "Over here, I mean?"
"Oh, yes." He picked up his espresso and spooned a small quantity of brown sugar
crystals into it.
"The girls don't seem to get that treatment," she pointed out sharply.
"Oh, but some of them do," he replied, blowing on his coffee. "At least, these
days, this generation. Olga is a throwback—or, rather, her father is. I'm not
sure quite what the duke was trying to prove, inviting you to dine with us, but
he said something about culture shock earlier. He's a perceptive old coot, gets
hold of some very unexpected ideas and refuses to let them go. I'm half-
wondering if he was testing you. Seeing if you'd break cover under stress or
how you'd hold up in public by using an audience he could silence if the need
arose."
"A-ha." She took a first sip of her coffee. "So what did you study?"
"As an undergrad, economics and history. Before Harvard, my parents sent me to
Dartmouth," he said quietly. "I think I went a bit crazy in my first couple of
years there. It's very different over here. Most of the older generation don't
trust the way everything has changed since 1910 or so. Before then, they could
kid themselves that the other side, this America, was just different, not
better. Like the way things were when our first ancestor accidentally stumbled
upon a way to visit a town in New England in 1720 or so. But now they're afraid
that if we grew up here or spent too much time we'd never want to come home."
"Sort of like defecting diplomats and athletes from the old Communist Bloc,"
Miriam prodded.
"Approximately." He nodded. "The Clan's strength is based on manpower. When we
go back, you and me, we'll have to carry some bags. Every time we cross over, we
carry stuff to and fro. It's the law, and you need a good reason to flout it.
There's a post room: You're welcome to come and go at will as long as you visit
it each time to carry post bags back and forth."
"A post room," she said.
"Yes, it's in the basement. I'll show you it after—ah, food."
For a few minutes they were both too busy to talk. Miriam had to admit that the
omelette she'd ordered was exceptionally good. As she was draining her coffee,
Roland took up the conversation again. "I'm over here to run some business
errands for the Boss today. I hope you don't mind if I take a few minutes out
while you're doing whatever it is you were planning to do?"
"No, I mean, be my guest—" Miriam was nonplussed. "I'm not sure," she added
slowly. "There are a few things I needed to do, starting with, well, just seeing
that I'm allowed out and about, know what I mean?"
"Did you have any concrete plans?" Roland looked interested.
"Well," she leaned back and thought. "I have—had, before all this landed on me—a
commission to write a feature for a magazine. Nothing hard, but I'll need my
iMac to write it on. And I must write it, if I don't want to vanish off the face
of the earth, career wise." She tried a smile. "Got to keep my options open. I'm
a working girl."
Roland nodded. "Okay. And after that?"
"Well. I was thinking about going home. Check my answering machine, make sure
everything's okay, reassure the neighbours that I'm all right, that kind of
thing." Make sure they haven't found Paulie's CD-ROM. Try to get a message to
her to keep her head down. "I don't have to stay for long," she added hastily.
"I'm not thinking about running away, if that's what you're worried about."
Roland frowned thoughtfully. "Listen, is it just your mail and phone that you
need? Because if so, it would be a lot safer just to divert everything. We've
got a telephone switch in the subbasement and we can slam your domestic
subscriber lines right over. But it would be a good thing if you avoided your
home for the next few days. I can send someone around if there's anything you
need, but—" he shrugged.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because." He put his butter knife down. "We, uh, when there's a succession
crisis or a war within the Clan, things can get very messy, very fast." He
paused for a moment, then rushed on: "I wouldn't want to risk anyone getting a
clean shot at you."
Miriam sat very still, blood pounding in her ears. "Does that mean what I think
it means?" she asked.
"Yes—your house is a target. We have it under surveillance, but accidents can
happen, someone can miss something, and you might be walking into a booby trap.
Tripwires inside the front door. It won't be secure until we've doppelgangered
it, which might take some time because it's way out in the sticks on this side,
and we'd need to fortify the area to stop anyone crossing over inside your
living room. It took days for us to find you, even with the office chair in the
forest as a marker. But you might not be so lucky next time."
"Oh." Miriam nodded to herself, absorbing this new and unwelcome fact. So you
found me by the chair? "What about my mother?"
Roland looked puzzled. "But your mother's—"
"No, I mean my adoptive mother." Miriam gritted her teeth. "You know, the woman
who raised me from a baby as her own? Who is now all alone and wheelchair-bound?
Is she at risk? Because if so—" she realized that her voice was rising.
"I'll see to it at once," Roland said decisively and pulled out his mobile
phone. It obviously hadn't occurred to him that Iris was of any importance.
"Do so," Miriam said tersely. "Or I'll never speak to you again."
"That's uncalled for." Roland looked serious. "Is there anyone else I should
know about?" he asked after a moment
Miriam took a deep breath. Here goes, she thought. "My ex-husband is remarried
and has a wife and child," she said. "Is he at risk?"
Roland mulled it over for a minute. "He's a commoner," he said finally. 'There
were no children and you're divorced. So I guess he's out of the frame."
No children. Miriam shook her head. "You'll have to tell me about your
inheritance laws," she said carefully. Oh, what complications! Someone out there
in America was a twelve-year-old girl—Miriam didn't know where, she only knew
general details about her adoptive family—who might have inherited Miriam's
current problem. She's too young, Miriam thought instinctively. And she has no
locket. But the adoption records were sealed and nobody but Ben and Iris knew
about the pregnancy. If the family hadn't found her, then—
"Oh, they're simple enough," said Roland, a slightly bitter note in his voice.
"The, um, family talent? It only breeds true among the pure-blooded line. They
found that out pretty early. It's what the biologists call a recessive trait. On
the
other side, um, marriage customs are different—cousin marriages are allowed, for
one thing—and for another, children who don't have the talent aren't part of the
Clan. But they're kept in the families. They form the outer, nonshareholding
part of the Clan, but if two of them marry some of their children may inherit
the talent."
Good news mixed with bad news. On the one hand, her daughter—who she hadn't seen
since two days after her birth—was safe from the attentions of the family, safe
to lead a normal life unless Miriam drew attention to her. As long as the family
dug no deeper than they had so far. On the other hand— "You're telling me that
my parents were cousins.”
"Second cousins once removed, I think," Roland replied. "Yes. By family law and
custom marrying out is forbidden. You might want to bear that in mind, by the
way, it's the one big taboo." He glanced aside nervously. "But you're probably
safe because you did it over here and divorced him before anyone knew." He was
staring at the wall, she realized, staring at something that wasn't there in an
attempt to avoid her gaze. Unpleasant memories? "Otherwise there would be
repercussions. Bad ones."
"You're telling me." She noticed her fingers turning white around the rim of her
coffee cup. "So presumably Uncle Angbard will make life hard for me if I try to
take off and he wants me to marry someone who's a not-too-close family member."
"That's an understatement." Roland's cheek twitched. "It's not as if the council
would give him any other options," he muttered.
"What else?" Miriam asked as the silence grew uncomfortable.
"Well!" Roland shook himself and sat up. He began ticking off points on his
fingers, his movements precise and economical and tense. "We are expected to
abide by the rules. First, when you come over here, you stop by the post room in
each direction and carry whatever's waiting there. You get a free pass this
time, but not in the future. Second, you check with Security before you go
anywhere. They'll probably
want you to carry a mobile phone or a pager, or a bodyguard if the security
condition is anything but blue—blue for cold. Oh, and third—" he reached into an
inner pocket— "the duke anticipated that you might want to go shopping, so he
asked me to give you this." He passed her an envelope, the hint of a smile
tugging at his lips.
"Hmm." Miriam opened it. There was an unsigned silvery-coloured Visa card inside
with her name on it "Hey, what's this?"
"Sign it." He offered her a pen, looking pleased with himself, then watched
while she scribbled on the back. "Your estate is in escrow for now, but you
should consider this an advance against your assets, which are reasonably
large." His grin widened. "There may be problems with the family, but spending
money isn't one of them."
"Oh." She slid it into her purse. "Any other messages from the duke?"
"Yes." Roland managed a straight face. "He said, 'Tell her she's got a two-
million-dollar credit limit and to try not to spend it all at once.'"
Miriam swore in a distinctly unladylike manner.
He laughed briefly. "It's your money, Miriam—Countess Helge. The import/export
trade your ancestors pioneered is lucrative, and you can certainly earn your
keep through it. Now how about we visit the post room so I can do my business,
and then maybe you can do whatever it is that you need to do?"
The post room was a concrete-lined subbasement, with pigeonholes sized to
accommodate the big wheeled aluminium suitcases that the family used for "mail."
Roland picked a clipboard from the wall and read through it. "Hmm. Just two
cases to FedEx today and that's it."
"Suitcases." She looked at them dubiously, imagining all sorts of illegal
contraband.
"Yes. Help me. Take that one. Yes, the handle locks into place as the wheels
come out."
Struggling slightly, Miriam tugged the big suitcase out of the post room and
into the stark cargo elevator next to it. Roland hit the button for the
basement, and they lurched upward.
"What's in these things?" she asked after a moment. "Tell me if it's none of my
business." I'm not sure I want to know, she thought, unable to avoid a flashback
to the meeting in Joe's office, the threats on her phone.
"Oh, it's perfectly legal," Roland assured her. "This is all stuff that is cheap
enough in Gruinmarkt and Soffmarkt or the other kingdoms of the coast and wants
shipping to the Outer Kingdom—that would be California and Oregon—on this side.
On the other side, there are no railroads or airports and cargo has to go by
mule train across the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains. Which are full of
nomad tribes, so it takes months and is pretty risky. We bring our goods across
to this side, heavily padded, and ship them by FedEx. The most valuable items in
here are the sealed letters sent by the family post—we charge several times
their weight in gold in return for a postal service that crosses the continent
in a week. We also move intelligence. Our western Clan members—the Wu family,
formerly known as Arnesen, and braided with the eastern families—exchange
information with us. By coordinating our efforts, we can protect our traditional
shipping on the other side from large bandit tribes like the Apache. It also
helps us exert political leverage beyond our numbers. For example, if the
Emperor Outside dies and there is a succession struggle, we can loan the Wu
family funds with which to ensure a favourable outcome and do so long before
news would otherwise reach us across the continental divide."
Miriam's eyes were nearly bulging as she tried to make sense of this. "You mean
there's no telegraph?" she asked.
"We are the telegraph," he told her. "As for the rest of what's in these
suitcases, it's mostly stuff that only comes from the east and is expensive in
the west. Like, for example, diamonds from India. They're expensive enough in
the Grainmarkt and almost impossible to get in the Outer Kingdom— it's much
cheaper to ship them across the Boreal Ocean by barque than the western ocean by
junk, especially since the Mongols refuse to trade with the east. Or penicillin.
The ability to guarantee that a prince's wife will not die of childbed fever is
worth more than any amount of precious stones."
"And going the other way ..."
"More messages. More diplomatic intelligence. Spices and garnets and rubies and
gold from the Outer Kingdom's mines."
Miriam nodded. The elevator doors opened onto the underground garage, and she
followed him out into the concrete maze.
Several vehicles were parked there, including a long black Mercedes limousine—
and her own slightly battered Saturn. Roland headed for the Merc. "Once we've
fitted your car with some extras, you can use it—if you want," he said. "But you
can use any of the other cars here, too."
Miriam shook her head, taking in a sleek Jaguar coupe parked behind a concrete
column. "I'm not sure about that," she murmured. What would it do for my
independence? she wondered, watching as Roland opened the Mercedes's trunk and
lifted the suitcases into it. The two-million-dollar card in her purse was much
more intoxicating than the wine last night, but didn't feel as real. I'll have
to try it, she realized. But what if I get addicted?
The Mercedes was huge, black, and carried almost a ton of armour built into its
smoothly gleaming bodywork. Miriam only realized this when she tried to open the
passenger side door—it was heavy, and as it swung open she saw that the window
was almost two inches thick and had a faint greenish tint. She sat down, pulled
her seatbelt on, and tugged the door shut. It thudded into position as solidly
as a bank vault.
"You're serious about being attacked," she said soberly.
"I don't want to alarm you," said Roland, "but the con-
tents of those two suitcases are worth the equivalent of twenty million dollars
each on the other side. And there are several hundred active family members that
we know of— and possibly ones we don't in hidden cells established by their
family elders to gain a competitive edge over their rivals in the Clan. You're
unusual in that you're a hidden one who was never intended to be hidden. The
families in camera could raid us, and unless we took precautions we'd be sitting
ducks. A young man like Vincenze—" he shrugged— "maybe a bit more mature.
Waiting on a street corner. Can set off a bomb or walk up behind someone and
shoot him, then just vanish into thin air. Unless there's a doppelganger on the
other side or maybe a hill where over here there's a cleared area, there's no
way of stopping that."
"Twenty million."
"At a very approximate exchange rate," Roland offered, starting the engine.
Bright daylight appeared from an electrically operated door at the top of the
exit ramp. He put the Mercedes in gear and gently slid forward. "We're fairly
safe, though. This car has been customized by the same people that made Eduard
Shevardnadze's car. The President of the Republic of Georgia."
"Should that mean something?" asked Miriam.
"Two RPG-7s, an antitank mine, and eighty rounds from a heavy machine gun. The
passengers survived."
"I hope we're not going to encounter that sort of treatment," she said with
feeling, reaching sideways to squeeze his fingers.
"We aren't." He squeezed back briefly, then accelerated up the ramp. "But
there's no harm in taking precautions."
They came up out of the ground near Belmont, and Roland chauffeured them
smoothly onto the Cambridge turnpike and then 1-95 and the tunnel. They exited
the highway near Logan International, and Roland drove toward the freight
terminal. Miriam relaxed against the black leather and propped her feet up
against the wooden dashboard. It smelled like a very expensive private club,
redolent of the stink of money. She'd been in rooms with billionaires before
and any number of sharkish venture capitalists, but somehow this was different.
Most of the billionaires she knew were manipulative jerks or workaholics,
obsessive and insecure about something or other. Roland, in contrast, was "old
money"—old and unselfconscious, mature as a vintage wine. So old that he'd never
known what it was like to be poor—or even upper-middle class. For a moment, she
felt a flash of green-eyed envy—then remembered the two-million-dollar ballast
in her purse.
"Roland, how rich am I?" she asked nervously.
"Oh, very," he said casually. He swung the Mercedes into the entrance to a
parking lot, where an automatic barrier lifted—also automatically—and then
brought them to a halt in front of an anonymous-looking office with a FedEx sign
above it. "I don't know for sure," he added, "but I think your share may run to
almost one percent of the Clan's net worth. Certainly many millions."
"Oh, how marvellous," she said sarcastically. Then more thoughtfully, "I could
pay all Iris's medical bills out of the petty cash. Couldn't I?"
"Yes. Help me with the suitcases?"
"If you help me sort out Iris's medical bills. Seriously."
"'Seriously'? Yes, I'll do that." She stood up and stretched, then waited while
Roland lifted the heavy cases out of the trunk. She took one and followed him as
he rolled the other up to the door, swiped a magnetic card, and entered under
the watchful eye of a security camera.
They came to a small office where a middle-aged man in a white shirt and black
tie was waiting. 'Today's consignment," said Roland. "I'd like to introduce you
to Miriam. She might be making runs on her own in future—if things work out.
Miriam, this is Jack. He handles dispatch and customs at this end."
"Thank you, sir," said Jack, handing Roland a board with a three-part form ready
to sign. "This is just a formality to confirm I've received everything," he
added for her benefit. Balding, overweight, and red-faced, Jack was about as
homely as anyone she'd seen since she'd been pitched
headfirst into this nightmare of aristocracy. Miriam smiled at him.
"There, that's it, then," he said, taking the papers back from Roland. "Have a
nice day, now!"
"My best to your wife," Roland replied. "Come on, Miriam. Time to go."
"Okay." She followed him back to the car. He started the engine and eased them
back out into the local traffic around the light industrial area. "Where next?"
"Oh, we pick up the cases for the return leg, then we're at liberty," he said.
"I thought you wanted to do some shopping? And some other things to see to? How
about a couple of hours at Copley Place and messing around Back Bay, then
lunch?"
"Sounds good," she agreed.
"Okay." He pulled over, into another parking lot. "Give me a hand again?"
"Sure."
They got out and Miriam followed him into yet another office. The procedure was
the same in reverse: Roland signed a couple of forms and this time collected two
identical, ribbed aluminium suitcases, each so heavy that Miriam could barely
carry hers. "Right, now into town," he said after he lifted them both into the
car's trunk. "It's almost ten o'clock. Think you've got time to hit the shops
and be back by five?"
"I'm sure I have." She smiled at him. "There's some stuff I could do with your
help for, actually. Want to hang around?"
"Delighted to oblige."
The Copley Place shops weren't exactly ideal, but it was totally covered and had
enough stuff in it to keep Miriam occupied for a couple of hours. The platinum
card didn't catch fire—it didn't even show signs of overheating when she hit
Niemann Marcus and some less obvious shops for a couple of evening outfits and
an expensive piece of rolling luggage.
After the first half hour, Roland did what many polite heterosexual men did:
zoned out and smiled or nodded whenever she asked him for an opinion. Which was
exactly what Miriam was hoping for, because her real goal wasn't to fill her
wardrobe with evening dresses and expensive lingerie (although that was an
acceptable side effect) but to pull out a bundle of cash and use some of it to
buy certain accessories. Such as a prepaid mobile phone and a very small Sony
laptop with a bundle of software ("If I can't go back home, I'll need something
to write my articles on," she pointed out to Roland, hoping he wouldn't figure
out how big a loss-leader that would make it). She finished her spree in a
sports shop, buying some outdoors tools, a pocket GPS compass, and a really neat
folding solar panel, guaranteed to charge her laptop up—which she picked up
while he was poking around a display of expensive hunting tackle.
She wasn't totally sure what she was going to do with this stuff, but she had
some ideas. In particular, the CD-ROMs full of detailed maps of the continental
United States and the other bits of software she'd slipped in under his nose
ought to come in handy. Even if they didn't, she figured that if Angbard
expected her to shop like a dizzy teenager, then she ought to get him used to
her shopping like a dizzy teenager. That way he 'II have one less handle on me
when I stop, she thought, a trifle smugly.
Twelve thousand dollars went really fast when she was buying Sony notebooks, and
even faster when she switched to Hermes and Escada and less well-known couture.
But it felt unreal, like play money. Some of the clothes would have %> be
altered to fit, and delivered: She took them anyway. '1 figure it can be altered
on the other side," she murmured to Roland by way of explanation. He nodded
enthusiastically and she managed to park him for a few minutes in a bookshop
next door to her real target, a second hand theatrical clothing shop for an old-
fashioned long skirt and shirtwaist that could pass for one of the servants.
Theatrical supplier, my ass, she thought. The escape committee is in!
Around two o'clock she took mercy on Roland, who by this time was flagging,
checking his watch every ten minutes and following her around like a slightly
dejected dog. "It's okay," she said, "I'm about done. How about we catch that
lunch you were talking about, then head back to the house? I've got to get some
of these clothes altered, which means looking up Ma'am Rosein, and then I need
to spend a couple of hours on the computer."
"That's great," Roland said with unconcealed sincerity. "How about some clam
chowder for lunch?"
Miriam really didn't go for seafood, but if it kept him happy that was fine by
her. "Okay," she said, towing along her designer escape kit. "Let's go eat!"
They ate. Over lunch she watched Roland carefully. He's about twenty-eight, she
thought. Dartmouth. Harvard. Real Ivy League territory and then some. Classic
profile. She sized him up carefully. Shaves well. Looks great. No visible bad
habits, painfully good manners. If there wasn't clearly something going on, I'd
be drooling. Wouldn't I? She thought. In fact, maybe there's something in that?
Maybe that's why Angbard is shoving us together. Or not. I need to find out more
about the skeletons in the Clan closet and the strange fruit rotting on the
family tree. And there were worse ways of doing that than chatting with Roland
over lunch.
"Why is your uncle putting you on my case?" she finally asked over dessert, an
exquisite crème Brule. "I mean, what's your background? You said he was thinking
one step ahead. Why you?"
"Hrrm." Roland stirred sugar into his coffee, then looked at her with frank blue
eyes. "I think your guess is as good as mine."
"You're unmarried." She kicked herself immediately afterward. Very perceptive,
Ms. Holmes.
"As if that matters." He smiled humourlessly. "I have an attitude problem."
"Oh?" She leaned forward.
"Let's just say, Angbard wants me where he can keep an eye on me. They sent me
to college when I was eighteen," he
said morosely. "It was—well, it was an eye-opener. I stayed for four years, then
applied to Harvard immediately. Economics and history. I thought I might be able
to change things back home. Then I decided I didn't want to go back. After my
first year or so, I'd figured out that I couldn't stay over here just on the
basis of my name—I'd have to work. So I did. I wasn't much of one for the girls
during that first degree—" he caught her speculative look— "or the boys."
"So?" Personal Memo: Find out what they think of sex, as opposed to marriage.
The two are not always interchangeable. "What next?"
"Well." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I wanted to stay over here. I got into a
postgrad research, program, studying the history of economic development in the
Netherlands. Met a girl named Janice along the way. One thing led to another."
"You wanted to marry her?" asked Miriam.
"Sky father, no!" He looked shocked. "The Clan council would never have stood
for it! Even if it was just over here. But I could buy us both a house over
here, make believe that—" He stopped, took a sip of coffee, then put his cup
down again. All through the process, he avoided Miriam's gaze.
"You didn't want to go back," she stated.
"You can cross over twice in a day, in an hour, if you take beta-blockers," he
said quietly. "Speaking of which." He extracted a blisterpack of pills from his
inner pocket and passed it across to her. "They do something about the
headaches. You can discharge your duty to Clan and family that way, keep the
post moving, and live nine-tenths of your life free of... of... of..."
Miriam waited for him to sort his tongue out.
"Jan and I had two years together," he finally said quietly. "Then they broke us
up."
"The Clan." Her mouth was dry. She turned the pack of pills over and over,
reading the label. "Did they—"
"Indirectly." He interrupted her deliberately, then finished his coffee cup.
"Look, she kept asking questions. Questions that I couldn't answer. Wasn't
allowed to answer. I'd have
been required to go home and marry someone of high rank within the Clan sooner
or later, just to continue the bloodline, but I'm a man. I'm allowed to spend
some time settling down. But eventually ... if we marry out we go extinct in
two, maybe three generations. And the money goes down faster, because our power
base is built on positive market externalities—have you—"
"Yes," she said, mouth dry despite the coffee she'd just swallowed without
tasting. "The more of you there are, the more nodes you've got to trade between
and the more effectively you can run your import/export system, right?"
"Right. We're in a population trap, and it takes special dispensation to marry
out. Our position is especially tenuous because of the traditional nobility; a
lot of them see us as vile upstarts, illegitimate and crude, because we can't
trace our ancestry back to one of the hetmen of the Norge fleet that conquered
the Gruinmarkt away from the Auslaand tribes about four, five hundred years ago.
We find favour with the crown, because we're rich—but even there we are in a
cleft stick: It does not do well to become so powerful that the crown itself is
threatened. If you get the chance to marry into the royal family—of Gruinmarkt
or of one of our neighbours—but that's the only way you could marry out without
the council coming down on you."
"Huh. Other kingdoms? Where did they come from, anyway? It's, I'd have said
medieval—"
"Nearly." Roland nodded. "I did some digging into it. You are aware that in your
world the feudal order of western Europe emerged from the wreckage of the Roman
Empire, imposed largely by Norse—Viking—settlers who had assimilated many of the
local ways? I am not sure, but I believe much the same origin explains our
situation here. On this coast, there are several kingdoms up and down the
seaboard. Successive waves of emigration from the old countries of the Holy
Empire conquered earlier kingdoms up and down the coast, forced into a
militarized hierarchy to defend themselves against the indigenous tribes.
Vikings, but Vikings who had assimilated the Roman church—the
worship of the divine company of gods—and such learning as the broken wreckage
of Europe had to offer. We sent agents across the Atlantic to explore the Rome
of this world thirty years or so ago: It lies unquiet beneath the spurs of the
Great Khan, but the churches still make burned offerings before the gods. Maybe
when there are more of us we will open up trade routes in Europe ... but not
yet."
"Um. Okay." Miriam nodded, reduced to silence by a sudden sense of cultural
indigestion. This is so alien! "So what about you? The Clan, I mean. Where do
you—we—fit into the picture?"
"The Clan families are mostly based in Gruinmarkt, which is roughly where
Massachusetts and New York and Maine are over here. But we, the Clan families,
were ennobled only in the past six generations or so—the old landholders won't
ever let you forget it. The Clan council voted to make children of any royal
union full members—that way, the third generation will be royalty, or at least
nobility, and have the talent. But nobody's married into one of the royal
families yet—either in the Gruinmarkt, or north or south for that matter.
"In the Outer Kingdom, to the west, things are different again—-there are civil
service exams. Again, we've got an edge there. We have schools over here and
ways to cheat. But I was talking about the population trap, wasn't I? The
council has a long arm. They won't let you go. And it'll take more than just one
person on the inside, pushing, to make them change. I've tried. I got a whole
huge reform program mapped out that'd break their dependency, begin developing
the Gruinmarkt—but the council tore it up and threw it out without even reading
it. Only Duke Angbard kept them from going further and declaring me a traitor."
"Let me get this straight," Miriam said, leaning forward. "You lived with Janice
until she couldn't put up with you not telling her what you were doing for two
hours a day, couldn't put up with not knowing about your background, and until
your elders began leaning on you to get married. Right?"
"Wrong," he said. "I told Uncle Angbard where he could
shove his ultimatum." He hunched over, a picture of misery. "But she moved out,
anyway. She'd managed to convince herself that I was some kind of gangster, drug
smuggler, whatever, up to my ears in no good. I was trying, trying, to get
permission to go over for good, to try to make it up to her, to make everything
all right. But she was killed by a car. A hit-and-run accident, the police
said."
He fell silent, story run down.
Well, she thought. Words failed her for a minute. "Were the two things
connected? Causally, that is?"
"You mean, did the council have her killed?" he asked harshly. "I don't know.
I've refused to investigate the possibility. Thousands of pedestrians are killed
by hit-and-run drivers every year. She'd walked out on me, and we might never
have got back together. And if I did discover that one of my relatives was
responsible, I'd have to kill them, wouldn't I? You didn't live through the war.
Trust me, you don't want to go there, to having assassins stepping out of thin
air behind people and garrotting them. Far better to let it lie."
"That doesn't sound like the same man speaking," she speculated.
"Oh, but it does." He smiled lopsidedly. "The half of me that is a cold-blooded
import/export consultant, not the half of me that's a misguided romantic
reformer who thinks the Gruinmarkt could industrialize and develop in less than
half a century if the Clan threw its weight behind the project. I'm hoping the
duke is listening ..."
"Well, he has you where he can keep an eye on you." Miriam paused. "For your own
good, to his way of thinking."
"Politics." Roland made it sound like a curse. "I don't care about who gets the
credit as long as the job gets done!" He shook his head distractedly. "That's
the problem. Too many vested interests, too many frightened little people who
think any progress that breaks the pattern of Clan business activities is a
personal attack on them. And that's before we even get started talking about the
old aristocracy, the ones who aren't part of us."
"He's keeping you under his thumb until he can figure out a way to get a hold on
you," Miriam suggested. "Some way of tying you down, maybe?"
"That's what I'm afraid of." He looked around, trying to catch the waiter's eye.
"I figured you'd understand," he said.
"Yes, I guess I do," she said regretfully. "And if that's what he's got in mind
for you, what about me?"
They drove back to the house in the suburbs in companionable silence. From the
outside, the doppelgangered mansion looked like a sedate business unit, possibly
a software company or an accounting firm. As they rolled onto the down ramp,
Roland cued the door remote, and the barrier rolled up into the ceiling. For the
first time Miriam realized how thick it was. "That's bombproof, isn't it?"
"Yup." He drove down the ramp without stopping and the shutters were already
descending behind them. "We don't have the luxury of a beaten fire zone on this
side."
"Oh." She felt a chill. "The threats. It's all real."
"What were you expecting, lies?" He slid them nose-first into a parking spot
next to the Jaguar, killed the engine, then systematically looked around before
opening the door.
"I don't know." She got out and stretched, looking around. 'The garage door.
That's what brought it home."
"The only home for the likes of us is a fortress," he said, not without
bitterness. "Remember the Lindbergh baby? We've got it a hundred times worse.
Never forget. Never relax. Never be normal."
"I don't—" she took a deep breath. "I don't think I can learn to live like
that."
"Helge—Miriam—" he stopped and looked at her closely, concerned. "It's not as
bad as it sounds."
She shook her head wordlessly.
"Really." He walked around the car to her. "Because you're not alone. You're not
the only one going through this."
"It's—" She paused. "Claustrophobic." He was standing
close to her. She stepped close to him and he opened his arms and embraced her
stiffly.
"I'll help, any way I can," he murmured. "Any way you want. Just ask, whatever
you need." She could feel his back muscles tense.
She hugged him. Wordless thoughts bubbled and seethed in her mind, seeking
expression. "Thank you," she whispered, "I needed that." Letting go.
Roland stepped back promptly and turned to the car's trunk as if nothing had
happened. "It'll all work out; we'll make sure of it." He opened the car's
trunk. "Meanwhile, can you help me with these? My, you've been busy."
"I assume we can get it all back?"
"Whatever you can carry," he said. "Even if it's just for a minute."
"Whatever," she said, bending to take the strain of another of the ubiquitous
silvery aluminium wheeled suitcases and her own big case stuffed with shopping.
"Downstairs and across?" he asked.
"Hmm." She shrugged. "Does the duke expect us to dine with him tonight?"
"Not that I've heard."
Well, okay, she mused. "Then we don't need to go back immediately."
"Mm." He opened the lift gates. "I'm afraid we do; we've got to keep the post
moving, you see. Two trips a day, five days on and five days off. It's the
rules." He waved her into the lift and they stood together as it began to
descend.
"Oh, well." She nodded. "I suppose ..."
"Would you mind very much if I invited you to dine with me?" he asked in a
sudden rush. "Not a formal affair, not at all. If you want someone else around,
I'm sure Vincenze is at a loose end ..."
She smiled at him uncertainly, surprised at her own reaction. She bit her lip,
trying not to seem overeager. "I'd love to dine with you," she said. "But
tonight I'm working. Tomorrow?"
"Okay. If you say so."
At the bottom of the shaft he led her into the post room. "What's here?" she
asked.
"Well." He pointed to a yellow square marked on the floor, about three feet by
three feet. "Stand there, facing that wall."
"Okay. What now?" she asked.
"Pick up the two cases—yes, I know they're heavy, you only need to hold them
clear of the floor for a minute. Do you think you can do that? And focus on that
cupboard on the wall. I'll look away and hit this button, and you do what comes
natural, then step out of the square—fast. I'll be through in a couple of
minutes; got an errand to run first."
"And—oh."
She saw the motorized screen roll up; behind it was a backlit knot like symbol
that made her eyes swim. It was just like the locket In fact, it was the same as
the locket, and she felt as if she was falling into it. Then her head began to
ache, viciously, and she slumped under the weight of the suitcases. Remembering
Roland's instructions, she rolled them forward, noting that the post room looked
superficially the same but the screened cupboard on this side was closed and
there were some scrapes on the wall.
"Hmm." She glanced around. No Roland, as yet. Well, well, well, she thought.
She glanced down at the case she'd carried over, blinked thoughtfully, then
walked over to the wall with the pigeonholes, where another case was waiting.
One that hadn't been prepared for her. She bent down and sprang the catch on it,
laid it flat on its side and lifted the lid. Her breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. She'd been hoping for gold, jewels,
scrolls, or maybe antibiotics and computers. This was what she'd been afraid of.
She shut the case and stood it upright again, then walked back to the ones she'd
brought over and concentrated on quieting her racing heartbeat and smoothing her
face into a welcoming, slightly coy smile before Roland the brilliant reformer,
Roland the sympathetic friend, Roland the lying bastard scumbag could bring his
own suitcase through.
Who did you think you were kidding? she wondered bitterly. You knew it was too
good to be true. And indeed it had been clear from the start that there had to
be a catch somewhere.
The nature of the catch was obvious and ironic with twenty-twenty hindsight, and
when she thought about it she realized that Roland hadn't actually lied to her.
She just hadn't asked the right questions.
What supplied the family's vast wealth on her own, the other, the American side
of the border? It sure wasn't a fast postal service, not when it took six weeks
to cross an untamed wilderness on pack mules beset by savage tribes. No, it was
a different type of service—one intended for commodities of high value, low
weight, and likely to be interrupted in transit through urban America. Something
that the family could ship reliably through their own kingdoms and move back and
forth to American soil at their leisure. In America they made their money by
shipping goods across the Gruinmarkt fast; in the Gruinmarkt they made their
money by moving goods across America slowly but reliably. The suitcase contained
almost twenty kilograms of sealed polythene bags, and it didn't take a genius
with degrees in journalism and medicine to figure out that they'd be full of
Bolivian nose candy.
She thought about the investigation she'd been running with Paulie, and she
didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she began whistling a song by
Brecht—Supply and Demand—as she picked up her own suitcase and headed for the
elevator to her suite.
My long-lost medievalist world-walking family are drug import/ export barons,
she realized. What the hell does that make me?
 WAY
Alone in her apartment with the door locked, Miriam began to unpack her suitcase
full of purchases. She'd arrived to find the maids in a state of near panic:
"Mistress, the duke, he wants to see you tomorrow lunchtime!" In the end she'd
dismissed them all except for Meg, the oldest, who she sat down with for a quiet
talk.
"I'm not used to having you around all the time," she said bluntly. "I know
you're not going to go away, but I want you to make yourselves scarce. Ask one
of the electricians to put a bell in, so I can call you when I need you. I don't
mind people coming in to tidy up when I'm out of my rooms, but I don't want to
be surrounded all the time. Can you do that?" Meg had nodded, but looked
puzzled. "Any questions?" Miriam asked. "No, ma'am," Meg had replied. But her
expression said that she thought Miriam's behaviour was distinctly strange.
Miriam sighed and pointed at the door. Maybe if I act like they're hotel
staff... "I'll want someone to come up in
about three hours with some food—a tray of cold stuff will do—and a pot of tea.
Apart from that, I don't expect to see anyone tonight and I don't want to be
disturbed. Is that okay?"
"Yes'm." Meg ducked her head and fled. "Okay, so that works," Miriam said
thoughtfully. Which was good because now she had some space to work in,
unobserved.
Fifteen minutes later the luggage was stowed where Miriam wanted it. Her new
laptop was sitting on the dresser, plugged in to charge next to a stack of
unopened software boxes. Her new wardrobe was hung up, awaiting the attentions
of a seamstress whenever Miriam had time for a fitting. And the escape kit, as
she was already thinking of it, was stashed in the suitcase at the back of the
wardrobe.
"Memo." She picked up her dictaphone and strolled through into the bathroom. It
was the place she found it easiest to think. Cool white tiles, fine marble,
nothing to aggravate the pounding headache she'd been plagued by for so much of
the past week. Plus, it had a shower—which she turned on, just for the noise.
"Need to look for a bug-sweeping kit next time I get time on the other side.
Must try the beta-blockers too, once I've looked up their side effects. Wonder
if they've got a trained doctor over here? Or a clinic of some kind? Anyway."
She swallowed. "New memo. Must get the dictation software installed on the
laptop, so I can transcribe this diary. Um. Roland and the family business bear
some thought." That's the understatement of the century, she told herself.
"They're... oh hell. They're not the Medelin cartel, but they probably ship a
good quantity of their produce. It's a family business, or rather a whole bunch
of families who intermarry because of the hereditary factor, with the Clan as a
business arrangement that organizes everything. I suppose they probably smuggled
jewels or gold or something before the drugs thing. The whole nine yards about
not marrying out—whether the ability is a recessive gene or not doesn't matter—
they've got omerta, the law of silence, as a side effect of their social setup.
In this world, they're upwardly mo-
bile nobles, merchant-princes trying to marry into the royal family. In my
world, they're gangsters. Mafia families without the Sicilian in-laws."
She hit the "pause" button for a moment.
"So I'm a Mafia princess. Talk about not getting involved with goodfellas! What
do I make of it?"
She paused again and noticed that she was pacing back and forth distractedly.
"It's blood money. Or is it? If these people are the government here, and they
say it's legal to smuggle cocaine or heroin, does that make it okay? This is one
huge can of worms. Even if you leave ethics out of the question, even if you
think the whole war on drugs is a bad idea like prohibition in the twenties,
it's still a huge headache." She massaged her throbbing forehead. "I really need
to talk to Iris. She'd set me straight."
She leaned her forehead against the cool tiles beside the mirror over the sink.
"Problem is, I can't walk away from them. I can't just leave, walk out, and go
back to life in Cambridge. It's not just the government who'd want to bury me so
deep the sun would never find me. The Clan can't risk me talking. Now that I
think about it, it's weird that they let Roland get as far as he did. Only. If
he's telling the truth, Angbard is keeping him on a short leash. What does that
suggest they've got in mind for me? A short leash and a choke collar?"
She could see it in her mind's eye, the chain of events that would unfold if she
were to walk into an FBI office and prove what she could do—maybe with the aid
of a sack of cocaine, maybe not. Maybe with Paulie's CD full of research, too,
she realized, sitting up. "Shit." A dawning supposition: Drug-smuggling rings
needed to sanitize their revenue stream, didn't they? And the business with
Biphase and Proteome was in the right part of the world, and the Clan was
certainly sophisticated enough... if her hunch was right, then it was, in fact,
her long-lost family's investments that Paulie was holding the key to.
In the FBI office first there'd be disbelief. Then the growing realization that
a journalist was handing them the drugs
case of the century. Followed by the hasty escalation, the witness protection
program offers—then their reaction to her demonstrated ability to walk through
walls. The secondary scenarios as the FBI realize that they can't protect her,
can't even protect themselves against assassins from another world. Then blind
panic and bad decisions.
"If the families decided to attack the United States at home, they could make al
Qaida look like amateurs," she muttered into her dictaphone, stricken. "They
have the resources of a government at their disposal, because over here they're
running things. Does that make them a government? Or so close it makes no
difference? They're rich and powerful on the other side, too. Another generation
and they'll probably be getting their fingers into the pie in D.C. I wonder.
They make their money from smuggling, and they're personally immune to attempts
to imprison them. The only thing that could hurt them would be if Congress
decriminalized all drugs, so the price crashed and they could be shipped
legally. Maybe the families are actually pushing the war on drugs? Paying
politicians to call for tougher sanctions, border patrols against ordinary
smugglers? Breaking the competition and driving the price up because of the law
of supply and demand. Damn."
She flicked the "stop" button on her dictaphone and put it down, shuddering. It
made a frightening amount of sense. / am sitting on a news story that makes the
attack on the World Trade Centre look like a five-minute wonder, she realized
with a sinking feeling. No, I am sitting in the middle of the story. What am I
going to do?
At that exact moment the telephone out in her reception room rang.
Old habits died hard, and Miriam was out of the bathroom in seconds with the
finely honed reflexes of a journalist with an editor on the line. She picked the
phone up before she realized there were no buttons, nothing to indicate it could
dial an outside line. "Yes?"
"Miriam?"
She froze, heart sinking. "Roland," she said distantly.
"You locked your door and sent your maids away. I wanted to make sure you're all
right."
" 'All right.'" She considered her next words carefully. "I'm not all right,
Roland. I looked in the suitcase. The other one, the one waiting in the post
room." Her chest felt tight. He'd lied to her: but on the other hand, she'd been
holding more than a little back herself—
A pause. "I know. It was a test. The only question was which one you'd open. I
don't know if it makes any difference, but I was ordered to give you the
opportunity. To figure it all out for yourself. 'Give her enough rope' were his
exact words. So now you know."
"Know what?" she said flatly. "That he's an extremely devious conspirator or
about the family's dirty little secret?"
"Both." Roland waited for her to reply.
"I feel used," she said calmly. "I am also extremely pissed off. In fact, I'm
still working out how I feel about everything. It's not the drugs, exactly: I
don't think I've got any illusions about that side of things. I studied enough
pharmacology to know the difference between propaganda and reality, and I saw
enough shit in med school from ODs and drunk drivers and people coughing up lung
cancers to know you get the same results whether the drug's illegal or not. But
the manipulative side of it—there's a movie on the other side called The
Godfather. Have you ever seen it?"
"Yes. That's it, exactly." He sounded dryly amused. "By the way, Don Corleone
asked me to tell you that he expects to see you in his office tomorrow at ten
o'clock sharp." His voice changed, abruptly serious. "Please don't shout at him.
I think it's another test, but I'm not sure what kind— whichever, it could be
very dangerous. I don't want to see you get hurt, Miriam. Or Helge, as he'll
call you. But you're Miriam to me. Listen, for your own good, whatever he says,
don't refuse a direct order. He is much more dangerous than he looks, and if he
thinks you'll bite him, he may put family loyalty aside, because his real
loyalty is to the Clan as a whole. You're a close family member, but the Clan,
by the law of families, comes first. Just sit tight and remember
that you've got more leverage than you realize. He will want you to make a
secure alliance, both to keep you safe— for the memory of his stepsister—and to
shore up his own position. Failing that, he'll be able to pretend to ignore you
as long as you don't disobey a direct order. Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"Yes." Her heart pounded. "So it's going to happen."
"What?"
"Fucking Cinderella. Never mind. Roland, I am not stupid. I need some time to
myself to think, that's all. I'm angry with you in the abstract, not the
particular. I don't like being made to jump through hoops. I hear what you're
saying. Do you hear me ?"
"Yes." A pause. "I think I do. I'm angry too."
"Oh, really?" she asked, half-sarcastically.
"Yes." This time, a longer pause. "I like your sense of humour, but it's going
to get you into deep trouble if you don't keep it under control. There are
people here who will respond to sarcasm with a garrotte. Trying to change the
way the Clan works from the inside is hard."
"Good-bye." She hung up hastily and stood next to the phone for a long minute,
heart thudding at her ribs, head throbbing in time to it. The smell of leather
car seats was strong in her nose, the echo of his smile over lunch fixed in her
mind's eye. Duke's orders, she thought. Well, he would say that, wouldn't he?
She managed to pull herself away from the telephone and walked back into her
bedroom, to the dresser with the tiny Picture book computer perched next to the
stack of disks and the external DVD-ROM drive. She had software to install. She
riffled through disks containing relief maps of North America, an electronic
pharmacopoeia, and a multimedia history of the Medici families. She put them
down next to the encyclopaedia of medieval history and other textbooks that had
seemed relevant.
Once she'd made her first notes for the article Steve had commissioned, she'd
start installing the software. Then she had a long night of cramming ahead,
reading up on the great
medieval merchant princes and their dynasties. The sooner she got a handle on
this situation, the better ...
Another morning dawned—a Sunday, bright and cold. Miriam blinked tiredly and
threw back her bed clothes to let the cold air in. / may be getting used to
this, she thought blearily. Oh dear. She looked at her watch and saw that the
ten o'clock interview with Duke Angbard was worryingly close. "Shit," she said
aloud, but was gratified to note that the word brought no maidservants scurrying
out of the woodwork. Even better, the outer suite was empty except for a
steaming jug of strong coffee and a tray piled with croissants, just as she'd
requested. "I could get used to this level of room service," she muttered under
her breath as she dashed into the bathroom. The computer was still running from
last night, a Screensaver showing.
She laid out her clothes for the meeting with the duke. After a moment's
thought, she dressed conservatively, choosing a suit with a collarless jacket
that buttoned to her throat. "Think medieval," she told herself. "Think demure,
feminine, unprovocative." For a touch of colour, she tied a bright silk scarf
round her throat. "Think camouflage." And remember what Roland said about not
defying the old bastard openly. At least, not yet. How and where to get the
leverage was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, of course, to be followed
by the bonus question of when and how to use it to shaft him, but she doubted
she'd find such tools conveniently lying around while she lived as a guest—or
valued prisoner—in his house. This whole business of being beholden to a
powerful man left a nasty taste in her mouth.
However, there was one thing she could carry to even up the odds—a very potent
equalizer. To complete her ensemble, Miriam chose a small black makeup bag,
clearly too small to hold a gun or anything threatening. She didn't load it down
with much: just a tube of lipstick, some tissues, and a running dictaphone.
The door to her suite was cooperating today, she noted as she pushed into the
corridor outside. She remembered the
way to the duke's suite and made her way quietly past a pair of diligent
maidservants who were busy polishing the brass-work on one of the doors and a
footman who appeared to be replacing the flowers on one of the ornamental side
tables. They bowed out of her way and she nodded, passing them hastily. The
whole palace appeared to be coming awake, as if occupants who had been sleeping
were coming out of the woodwork to resume their life.
She reached the duke's outer office door and paused. Big double doors, closed,
with a room on the other side. She took a deep breath and pushed the button set
beside the door.
"Wer ish?" His voice crackled tinnily: a loose wire somewhere.
"It's Miriam—Helge. I believe the duke wanted to talk to me," she replied to the
speaker.
"Enter." The lock clicked discreetly and Miriam pushed the door inward. It was
astonishingly heavy, as if lined with steel, and it drifted shut behind her.
Matthias, the frightening secretary, was waiting behind the big desk in
shirtsleeves, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. This time she noted
the pile of papers in front of him. Some of them looked like FedEx waybills, and
some of them looked like letters.
"Helge. Miriam." Matthias nodded to her, almost friendly.
"Yes." Why does he make me so nervous? She wondered. Was it just the shoulder
holster he wore so conspicuously? Or the way he avoided eye contact but scanned
across and around her all the while?
"You have an appointment," he said. "But you should call first, before setting
out. So that we can send an escort for you."
" 'An escort' ?" She asked. "Why would I want an escort?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't you? You are a lady of status, you deserve
an escort. To be seen without one is a slight to your honour. Besides, someone
might seek to take advantage of the deficiency in order to approach you."
"Uh-huh. I'll think about it." She nodded at the inner door. "Is he ready?"
"One moment." Matthias stood, then knocked on the door. A muttered exchange
followed. Matthias pulled the door ajar, then held it for her. "You may enter,"
he said, his expression unreadable. As she passed his desk, he moved to place
his body in front of the papers there.
Miriam pretended not to notice as she entered the lion's den. As before, Duke
Angbard was seated at his writing desk, back to the window, so that she had to
squint into the light to see him. But this time there was nobody else present,
and he rose to welcome her into his study.
"Ah, Miriam, my dear niece. Please come in."
He was trying for the kindly uncle role, she decided, so she smiled warmly in
return as she approached the desk. "Uncle. Uh, I'm unfamiliar with the proper
form of address. I hope you don't mind if I call you Angbard?"
"Not in private." He smiled benevolently down at her. "In public, it would be
best to call me 'your Excellency' or 'uncle,' depending on context—official or
familial. Please have a seat."
"Thanks." She sat down opposite him, and he sat down in turn. He was wearing
another exquisitely tailored suit of conservative cut with, she couldn't help
noticing, a sword. It was curved: a sabre, perhaps, but she couldn't be sure—the
blades with which she was most familiar were scalpels. "Is there anything in
particular you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Oh, many things." His broad wave took in half the world. "It isn't customary
here to introduce conversations with business, but I gather you are accustomed
to a life conducted at a brisker pace." He leaned back in his chair, face
shadowed. "Roland tells me you opened the second case," he said briskly. "What
have you to say for yourself?"
Ah, the moment of truth. Miriam leaned back, consciously mirroring his posture.
"Well, I'd have to say that only an idiot lets themselves be sucked into any
business arrangement without a full awareness of what it involves," she said
slowly. "And nobody had ordered me not to peek. You should also note that I'm
here to discuss it with you, and the
only other person who knows about it is Roland. What do you think?"
"I think that shows a necessary level of discretion," he replied after a moment.
"Now. What is your opinion of the business? And of your own relationship to it?"
"It makes a lot of sense for a group of families in the position that ours so
clearly occupies," she said, carefully trying to avoid giving the wrong
impression. "I can see why you might want to test a new, ah, family member. As
businesses go it is neatly orchestrated and appears to be efficiently ran." She
shrugged, biting back the urge to add: for an eighteenth-century family concern.
As business organizations go, it's still in the dark ages... "And it's hardly
appropriate for me to comment on where that platinum credit card came from, is
it?"
"Indeed not," he said acerbically. "But you seem to be clear on your position."
A sudden tightening of the skin around his eyes. "Are you a drug user?" he
asked.
"Me?" She laughed, mentally crossing her fingers. "No! Never." At least, not
heroin or crack. Please don't let him ask about anything else. Like many
students, she'd acquired a passing familiarity with marijuana, but had mostly
given it up some time ago. And she didn't think he was the type to count coffee,
cigars, or whiskey as drugs.
"That's good," he said seriously. "Most users are indiscreet. Can't keep
secrets. Bad for business."
"Sobriety is next to godliness," she agreed, nodding enthusiastically, then
wondered if she'd overdone it when he fixed her with a slightly jaundiced stare.
Oops, five glasses of wine, she remembered—and shrugged self-deprecatingly. His
glare slowly faded.
"You have your mother's sly tongue," he commented. "But I didn't call you here
to ask you questions about your opinion of our business. I gather that Roland
has been filling in a few of the gaps in your education—some of them, like a
working knowledge of high tongue, will take a long time to remedy—but I dare say
he has not been forthcoming in full
with the details of your position in the Clan. Is that the case?"
Miriam could feel her forehead wrinkle. "He said I was rich and of very high
position. But he didn't explain in detail, no. Why?"
"Well, then," said the duke, "perhaps I had better hasten to explain. You see,
you are in a unique position—two unique positions."
"Really? What kind?" she asked brightly. Missionary or. ...
"You know that there are five families in the Clan," Angbard began. "These are
Lofstrom—the senior family— Thorold, Hjorth, Wu, Arnesen, and Hjalmar. Yes, I
know that's six. The familial name does not necessarily correspond to a lineage.
Our families are the descendants of the children of the founder, Angmar
Lofstrom. He had many children, but the blood ran thin—only when their children
married and the great-grandchildren showed the family trait were we able to come
together to form the Clan."
He cleared his throat. "Wu is not the name of one of our original ancestors; it
is a name that the second son of line Arnesen took upon emigrating to the Outer
Kingdom, two thousand miles to the west, perhaps a hundred and twenty years ago.
The idea was that family Wu would become our western arm, trading with us by way
of the Union Pacific Railroad, to mutual benefit. That wasn't the first attempt,
by the way. Angmar the elder's youngest son, Marc, tried to cross the wilderness
far earlier, but the attempt came to nothing and Marc was lost. So, we have
branches on both sides of the Continental Divide. And a history of other
families. Once there were seven lineages—but I digress."
"But how does it all work?" Miriam asked. "How does the Clan come out of all
this?"
"The Clan is not what you'd call a limited liability company—it is a
partnership. A family firm, if you like. You see, we hold our lands and riches
and titles in common trust for the Clan, which operates in concert and receives
the profits from all our ventures. The Clan makes use of all who have
the world-walking talent—the members of the inner families—and arranges or
authorizes marriages that braid the families together across generations,
avoiding both out-breeding and too many close kin marriages. It also controls
the outer family—those who lack the talent, but whose children might possess it
if they marry like with like—and finds jobs for them over here. For example,
Matthias cannot ever visit Boston on his own—but he has a talent for security,
and makes a most excellent mailed fist. We number almost five hundred world-
walkers now, and with two thousand in the outer families the pickings at the
lower ranks are slim."
He coughed. "One iron rule is that family members are required to marry into
another family lineage—otherwise the blood runs thin within a generation. The
only exceptions are by prior dispensation of the council, to permit an alliance
outside the Clan, such as adoption into the nobility. The second iron rule is
that inheritance follows Clan shareholdings, not lineage or family. If you die,
your children inherit whatever the Clan allocates to them—you hold your estates
from the Clan, they don't belong to you because without the Clan you would be
nothing. The system is supposed to encourage cooperation and it usually
succeeds, but there are exceptions. Sixty years ago, a war broke out within the
Clan, between families—Wu and Hjorth on one side, Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen,
and Hjalmar on the other. Nobody is certain what started it any more—those who
knew died early on—but my personal supposition is that the Wu family, in their
ambition to climb into the eternal palace itself, exposed themselves to court
intrigue and were turned into a weapon against us by the palace of the Outer
Kingdom, which considered the Wu lineage to be a threat. In any event, it was a
bloody period in our history. During the war years, our numbers fell from
perhaps a thousand of the true blood to fewer than two hundred. The war ended
thirty-five years ago with a treaty, solemnized by the marriage of Patricia
Lofstrom Thorold to Alfredo Wu. Patricia was my half-sister, and I inherited
custody of the Lofstrom estates."
He paused to clear his throat. "Your mother's death is now
confirmed, although neither her nor Alfredo's body was recovered. Since then,
there has been no pretender to the estates of the Thorold-Hjorth shareholding,
which were therefore administered as a trusteeship under the order of the high
crown."
" 'The high crown?'"
"Yes, the royal family," he said irritably. "You don't have one, I know. We have
to put up with them, and they can be a blithering nuisance!"
"Ah, I think I begin to see." She crossed her ankles. "So. There's a big
shareholding in the Clan enterprise, under the control of an external party who
knows who and what you are. Then I come along and offer you a lever to take it
back under the family's control. Is that right?"
"Yes. As long as nobody kills you first," he said.
"Now, wait a minute!" She leaned forward. "Who would do that? And why?"
"Oh, several parties," Angbard said with what Miriam found a distinctly
unnerving tone of relish. "The crown, to maintain their grip on almost a tenth
of our properties and revenues without forcing an outright war with their most
powerful nobles. Whoever killed Patricia, for the same reason. Any of the
younger generations of lineages Hjorth and Thorold, who must be hoping that the
shares will escheat to them in due course should no pretender emerge and should
those families re-create the braid of inheritance. And finally, the Drug
Enforcement Agency."
"What are they doing here?"
"They aren't, I merely name them as another party who would take an instant
dislike to you were they to become appraised of your existence." He smiled
humourlessly. "Think of it as a test, if you like."
"Ri-i-ight," she drawled. / already figured that much out for myself, thanks. "I
believe I see where you're coming from, Uncle. One question?"
"Ask away, by all means."
"Roland. Does he have a motive?"
Angbard startled her by laughing loudly. "Roland the
dreaming runaway?" He leaned back in his chair. "Roland, who tried to convince
us all to sign away our lands to the peasantry and set up a banking system to
loan them money? Roland the rebel He's squandered all the credibility he might
have built by refusing to play the game over here. I think Roland Lofstrom will
make a suitable husband for Olga Thorold. And she should make him an excellent
wife— she'll slow him down and that's necessary, he has disruptive tendencies.
Once he's yoked to the Clan, it might be time to revisit some of his ideas, but
as things stand the council can't afford to be seen taking him seriously—by
rebelling in his youth he has automatically tainted any valid reformist ideas he
may present. Which is a shame. Meanwhile, you are my direct niece. Patricia,
your mother, was the daughter of my father's first wife. Roland, in contrast, is
the son of my half-brother, by my father's third wife. He's not a blood relative
of yours—at least, not within four generations. Three wives, three children,
three scandals! My father lent our affairs much complexity ...
"Anyway, Roland will create another Thorold-Lofstrom braid, which will be of
considerable use to my successor, whoever he is. But he's not important and he
has no stake in your disarray. In fact, that is why it was safe for him to know
of your existence so early."
Miriam shook her head. The family intricacies confused her, and she was left
with nothing but a vague impression of plaited families and arranged marriages.
"Have you asked Olga's opinion about this?" she asked.
"Why would I? She'll do as she's told for the good of the Clan. She's a sweet
child."
"Oh, that's all right then," Miriam said, nodding slightly and biting her cheek
to keep a straight face.
"Which brings me to you, again," Angbard nodded. "Obviously, you are not a sweet
child. You're an experienced dowager, I would say, and sharp as a razor. I
approve of that. But I hope I have made it clear to you that your future is
inextricably tied to the Clan. You can't possibly go back into obscurity on the
other side—your enemies would seek you
out, whether you will it or no. Nor can you afford not to take sides and find a
protector."
"I see," she stated, biting the words out sharply.
"I think it would be best for you to see something of the other families before
we discuss this further," Angbard continued, ignoring her coolness. "As it
happens, Olga is summoned to pay attendance upon the person of the king for the
next three months, who as it also happens is not one of us— it would be a good
thing at this juncture for you to make your debut before the royal court and
that part of the Clan that is in residence in the capital in her company. Your
presence should lure certain lice out of the bedding in, ah, a controlled
manner. Meanwhile you will not entirely be at a loose end, or without support,
when you make the rounds of the eligible nobility before the annual grand
meeting at Beltaigne, seven months hence. Olga can advise you on bloodlines and
shareholdings and etiquette, and begin language lessons. I place no obligation
upon you to make a hasty alliance, just so long as you understand your
situation."
"Right. So I'm to go looking for an alliance—a husband who meets with your
approval—at court. When do you expect me to do this?" Miriam asked, with a
forced brightness that concealed her slowly gathering anger. "I assume you're
planning on exhibiting me widely?"
"Olga departs tomorrow morning by stage," Angbard announced. "You shall travel
with her, and on arrival at court in Niejwein she will help you select your
ladies-in-waiting— of low but family rank, not base servants such as you have
had here. Your maids are already packing your bags, by the way." He fixed her
with a coldly unamused smile. "Think of it as a test, if you like. You do see
this is for your own long-term good, don't you?" he asked.
"Oh, I see, all right," Miriam said and smiled at him, as sweet as cyanide-laced
marzipan. "Yes, I see everything very clearly indeed."
Miriam politely declined the duke's invitation to lunch and returned to her
apartment in a state of barely controlled fury. Her temper was not made better
by the discovery that her maids had packed most of her clothes in heavy wooden
trunks.
"Fuck!" She spat at the bathroom mirror. "You will be good, won't you," she
muttered under her breath. "Patronizing bastard, my dear."
Murderous bastard, a still small voice reminded her from inside. Duke Angbard
was quite capable of killing people, Roland had said. Paulie's words came back
to haunt her: 'If you back down, they own you; it's as simple as that.' And what
the hell was that crack about luring lice out of the bedding meant to mean? She
sobered up fast. / need advice, she decided. And then a thought struck her—a
thought simultaneously wicked and so delicious that it brought a smile to her
lips. A perfect scheme, really, one that would gain her exactly what she needed,
while simultaneously sending an unequivocal message to the duke, if she went all
the way through with it. She raised one middle digit: "Sit and swivel!" she
whispered triumphantly. Yeah, that will work!
She headed back into the suite, chased her maids out, shut the door, and picked
up the phone. "Put me through to Earl Roland," she demanded in her most
imperious voice.
"Yes, ma'am," the operator confirmed. "One moment."
"Roland?" she said, suddenly much less confident. 'Roland the dreamer,' his
uncle called him. Roland the disruptive influence, who looked too good to be
true. Did she go through with this? Just picking up the phone made her feel
obscurely guilty. It also gave her a thrill of illicit anticipation.
"Miriam! What can I do for you?"
"Listen," she said, licking her suddenly dry lower lip. "About yesterday. You
invited me to ... dinner? Does that invitation still stand?"
"You've seen the old man?" he asked.
"Yes." She waited.
"Oh. Well, yes, the invitation still stands. Would you like to come?"
"As long as it's just you and me. No servants, no company, no nothing."
"Oh!" He sounded amused. "Miriam, have you any idea how fast word of that would
get around, now that the palace is fully staffed again? That sort of thing just
doesn't happen you know. Not with servants."
"It's not like that: I need confidential advice," she said. Lowering her voice,
"They must know I've spent over thirty years on the other side. Can I catch a
couple of hours with you, without anyone snooping?"
"Hmm." He paused for a bit. "Only if you can manage to become invisible. Listen,
I am in the suite on the floor above you, second along. I'll have dinner laid
out at six, then send the servants away. Still, it'll be best if nobody sees
you. It would cause tongues to wag—and give your enemies words to throw back at
you."
"I'll think of a way," she promised. "Lay on the wine and dress for dinner. I'll
be seeing you."

The small town of Svarlberg squatted at the mouth of the Fall River on the
coast, a day's ride south of Fort Lofstrom. Overlooked by a crumbling but huge
stone fortress built in the Romans model, brought to the western lands by
survivors of the Roman Gothic war against the Turkic occupiers of Constantinople
and now used as a bulwark against threat of invasion by sea, Svarlberg was home
to a thriving fishing community and a harbour much used by coast-hugging
merchants.
Not that many merchants would put into this harbour so late in the year. A few
late stragglers coming down the coast from the icy trapping settlements up
north, and perhaps an overdue ship braving the North Atlantic winter to make the
last leap from the Ice Isles to western civilization—but winter was beginning to
bite, and only rich fools or the truly desperate would brave the boreal gales
this late in the year.
When the horseman reined in his tired mount outside the port-side inn, wearily
slid out of the saddle, and banged on
the door, it took a minute for the owner to open the hole and look out. "What
are you wanting?" he asked brusquely.
"Board, beer, and stable." The rider held up a coin so the innkeeper could see
it. "Or are you already asleep for the winter, like a bear fattened on salmon
since I was here last, Andru?"
"Ah, come you in." Andru the innkeeper unbarred the heavy door and yelled over
his shoulder: "Markus! Markus! Where is the boy?" A freezing draft set him to
shivering. "It's perishing cold out. Will you be staying long this time, sir?"
A thin boy came rushing out of the kitchens. "Ma said I was to—" he began.
"Horse," said Andru. "Stable. Brash. Oats. You know what to do."
"Yes, master." The boy half-bowed cringingly, then waited while the rider
unstrapped one saddle bag before leading the gelding around the side of the inn.
"Layabout would rather stay in the warmth," Andru said, shaking his head and
glancing along the street in the vain hope of some more passing trade, but it
was twilight, and everyone with any sense was already abed. He stepped aside to
let his customer in, then pulled the door shut. "What'll it be first, sir?"
"Whatever you've got." The rider bared his teeth in a smile half-concealed by a
heavy scarf. "I'm expecting a visitor tonight or tomorrow. If you've got a
private room and a pipe, I'll take it."
"Be at your ease sir, and I'll sort it out immediately." The innkeeper hurried
off, calling: "Raya! Raya! Is the wake room fit for a king's man?"
The inn was half-empty, dead as a doornail by virtue of the time of day and the
season of year. A drunken sailor lay in one corner, snoring quietly, and a
public scribe sat at one end of a table, mumbling over a mug of mulled wine and
a collection of fresh quills as he cut and tied them for the next week's
business. It was definitely anything but a thriving
scene. Which suited the horseman fine, because the fewer people who saw him
here, the better.
A moment later, the innkeeper bustled up—"This way, this way please, kind sir!"—
and herded the rider through a side door. "We've laid out the wake room for you,
sir, and if you will sit for it a selection of cold cuts and a bottle of the
southern wine: Will that be sufficient? It's late in the season but we will be
roasting a lamb tomorrow if you should be staying—"
"Yes, yes—" the innkeeper hurried out again and the rider settled himself in the
armchair beside the table and stretched out his legs, snarling quietly when the
kitchen girl didn't hurry to remove his boots fast enough.
Two hours later he was nodding over his second cup of wine—the room was passably
warm, and a couple of large chunks of sausage and pickled tongue had filled his
belly comfortably—when there was a discreet tap on the door. He was on his feet
instantly, gun at the ready. "Who is it?" he asked quietly.
"When the dragon of the north wind blows—shit, is that you, Jacob?"
"Hello, Esau." Jacob dragged the door open one-handed. The revolver vanished.
"It's freezing out there." The man called Esau blew on his fingers, shook his
head, then began to peel his gloves off.
Jacob kicked the door shut. "You really need to observe proper security
discipline," he said.
"Yeah well, and how many times have we done this?" Esau shrugged. "Stupid
Christ-cultist names from the far-side, dumb pass-phrases and secret handshakes—
"
"If I was ill and sent a proxy, the dumb pass-phrases would be the only thing
that could tell you who they were," Jacob pointed out.
"If you were ill, you'd have radio'd ahead to call off the meeting. Is that a
bottle of the local emetic? I'll have a drop."
"Here. Settle down." Jacob poured. "What have you got for me?"
Esau shrugged. "This." A leather purse appeared, as magically as Jacob's pistol.
"Pharmaceutical-grade, half a kilo."
"That'll do." Jacob transferred it to his belt pouch without expression.
"Anything else?"
"Well." Esau settled down and picked up the full glass. "Certain feathers have
been—ruffled, shall we say—by the news of those pink slippers. That account was
supposed to have been settled a very long time ago. Do you have an update for
me?"
"Yes." Jacob nodded, then picked up his own glass. "Nothing good. A couple more
sightings and then a search and sweep found a very wet chair in the woods near
Fort Lofstrom. It was from the other side. Need I say any more? It was too
obvious to cover up, so the old man sent a snatch squad through and they pulled
in a woman. Age thirty-two, professional journalist, and clearly a long-lost
cousin."
"A woman journalist? Things are passing strange over there."
"You're telling me. Sometimes I get to visit on business. It's even weirder than
those sheep-shagging slant-eyes on the west coast." Jacob put the empty glass
down—hard—on the table. "Why does this shit always happen when I'm in charge?"
"Because you're good," soothed Esau. "Don't worry, we'll get it sorted out and
I'm pretty sure the—control—will authorize a reward for this. It's exactly what
we've been looking out for all these years." He smiled at Jacob and raised his
glass. "To your success."
"Huh." But Jacob raised his (empty) glass right back, then refilled both of
them. "Well. The old asshole put the runaway on her case, but she's turning out
to be a bit hot. She's the grand dowager's granddaughter, you know? And a tear-
away. All too common in women from over there, you knew. She's poking her nose
into all sorts of corners. If the old bat recognizes her formally, seven shades
of shit will hit the Clan council balance of power, but I have a plan that I
think will cover the possibility. She could be very useful if I can coopt her."
"What about her mother?" Esau leaned forward.
"Dead." Jacob shrugged. "The baby was adopted on the other side. That's why she
was missing for so long. We've got the foster mother under surveillance, but..."
he shook his head. "It's a thirty-two-year-old trail. What do you expect?"
"I expect her to—" Esau frowned. "Look, I'm going to have to break cover on this
and go get instructions from my superiors. There may be pre-existing orders in
effect for just this situation, but if not it would be as well for you to
proceed as you see fit. Anything that keeps the Clan from asking awkward
questions is all right by us, I think. And I don't want to risk using one of
your magical radio thingies in case they've got a black chamber somewhere
listening in. Are you going to be here overnight?"
"I will be." Jacob nodded. "I was planning to leave in the morning, though."
"That's all right. I'll cross over and ask for directions. If anyone knows
anything, I'll pass on your instructions before you leave." He rubbed his
forehead in anticipation, missing Jacob's flash of envy, which was in any case
quickly masked. "If I don't show, well, use your imagination. We don't need the
Clan raking over the evidence ..."
"Evidence that might point to your faction's existence."
"Exactly."
Servants were invisible, Miriam realized, as she hurried through the narrow
rough-walled corridor below stairs. Take this particular servant, for example.
She was wearing the long black skirt, white blouse, and starched apron of a
parlour maid, hurrying along beneath a tray with a pot of coffee on it. Nobody
paid her a second glance. Maybe they should have, she decided, carefully putting
one foot in front of another. The servant outfit was inauthentic, machine-woven,
obviously wrong if anyone had looked closely, and bulked up from hiding
something underneath. But the house was still in upheaval, individual servants
were mostly beneath notice to the noble occupants, and the staff was large
enough
that she didn't expect to be noticed by the real maids. This is going to be
really useful, Miriam decided, balancing the tray carefully as she mounted the
staircase.
The tight spiral steps were a trial, but she managed not to tread on her hem as
she wound her way up to the floor above. Once she squeezed against the wall to
let an equerry by: He glanced at her in mild disgust and continued on. Score one
to the invisible woman, she told herself. She stalked along the corridor, edgy
with anticipation. Planning this move in cold blood was all very well, but she
wouldn't be able to go through with it if the idea of an illicit assignation
with Roland didn't set her pulse racing. And now she came to the final passage,
she found her blood wasn't cool at all.
She found the right door and entered without knocking. It was another private
apartment, seemingly empty. She put the tray down on the sideboard beside the
door, then looked around. One of the side doors opened: "I didn't order—oh."
"We meet again." She grinned nervously at him, then dropped the latch on the
door. "Just in case," she said.
Roland looked her up and down in mild disbelief. "The mistress of disguise? It's
a good thing I swept the room earlier. For bugs," he added, catching her raised
eyebrow.
"Well, that was prudent. You look great, too." He'd dressed in a black tuxedo,
she noted with relief. He'd taken her seriously; she'd been a little worried.
"Where's the bathroom?"
"Through there." He looked doubtful.
"Back in a minute," she said, ducking inside.
She closed the door, hastily untied her servant's apron, shook her hair out of
the borrowed mob cap, then spent a minute fumbling with her waistband. She
stripped off the servant's outerwear, then paused to look in a mirror. "Go kill
him, girl," she told herself. She deftly rolled on a coat of lip gloss,
installed earrings and a single string of pearls. Finally she pulled on her
black evening gloves, did an experimental twirl that set two thousand dollars'
worth of evening dress swirling, blew herself a kiss in the mirror, and stepped
out.
Roland was waiting outside, holding a goblet of wine out
toward her: He nearly dropped it when he saw her. "You look absolutely
spectacular," he said, finally. "How did you do it?"
"Oh, it wasn't hard." She shrugged her shoulders, which were bare. "You could
conceal an arsenal under one of those maids' uniforms." / know. I did. She took
the glass from him, then took his hand, led him to the sofa. "Sit." She sat
herself, then patted the leather seat next to her. "We need to talk."
"Sure." He followed her, looking slightly dazzled.
She felt a stab of tenderness mixed with regret, unsettling and unexpected.
What am I really doing here? she half-wondered, then shoved the thought aside.
"Come on. Sit down." He sat in the opposite corner of the huge leather sofa, one
arm over the back, the other cradling his glass in front of him, almost hiding
behind it. "I had my chat with Angbard today."
"Ah." He looked defensive.
She took a sip from the glass and smiled at him. The wine was more than good, it
was excellent, a rich, fruity vintage with a subtle aftertaste that reminded her
of strawberries and freshly mowed lawns. She fired another smile at him, and he
cracked, took a mouthful, and tried to smile back.
"Roland, I think the duke may be lying to us—separately. Or merely being
economical with the truth."
"Ah, 'lying'?" He looked cautiously defensive.
"Lying." She sighed, then looked at him sidelong. "I'm going to tell you what he
told me, then you can tell me if that's what he told you. Do you think you can
do that? No need to reveal any secrets ..."
" 'Secrets,'" he echoed. A shadow flickered across his face. "Miriam, there are
things I'm not allowed to tell you, and I don't like it, but it's possible that—
well, some of them may be seeds."
'"Seeds'?"
"Tests, for me, to see if I can keep secrets." He took a mouthful of the
Cabernet. "Stuff that, if I tell you, will probably make you do something
predictable, so that he'll know I told you. Do you understand? I'm not
considered trustworthy. I came back with ideas about, well, about trying to
change the way things are done. Ideas that upset a lot of people. The duke seems
to like me—or at least think some of my ideas could be useful—but he certainly
doesn't trust me. That's why he keeps me so close at hand."
"Yes." She nodded thoughtfully. Her opinion of him rose yet again: He doesn't
lie to himself. "I guessed that. Which is why I'm going to tell you what he told
me and you're just going to decide whether to confirm it if it's true."
"Uh, okay." He was intensely focused on her. Good, she thought, feeling a little
thrill. She slid one leg over the other, let a calf encased in sheer black
stocking sneak out. The game's afoot, she thought to herself, then noticed his
response and felt her breath catch in her throat. Then again, maybe it's not all
a game.
"Okay, this is what he told me. He says I'm in an exposed position and liable to
be attacked, maybe murdered, if I don't dig myself inextricably into the Clan
power structure as soon as possible. He says I have some discretion, but I ought
to marry within the families and do it soon. Which I think is bullshit, but I
let him lead me on. So he's sending me to the royal court with Olga, for a
formal presentation and coming-out. We leave tomorrow." When she said tomorrow
he frowned.
"There's more." She paused to drink, then put her empty glass down. Her stomach
felt warm, relaxed. She met his eyes. "Is what he told me about expecting me to
find a husband among the families what you heard?"
"Yes." Roland nodded. "I didn't know you were to leave tomorrow, though," he
said, sounding a little disappointed.
Miriam straightened up and leaned toward him. "Yes, well, he also discussed
you," she said. "He said he's going to marry you off to Olga."
"Bastard—" Roland's raised his glass to hide his expression, then drank its
contents straight down.
"What, no comment?" Miriam asked, her heart pounding. This was the critical
moment—
"I'm sorry. Not your fault," he said hoarsely. "I'd guessed
he was going to try something to tie me down, but not that crude." He shook his
head frustratedly. "Stupid." He took a deep breath, visibly struggling for
control.
"I take it that's a no."
He put his glass down on the low table beside the sofa. As he straightened up,
Miriam laid one hand on his arm. "What you told me the other day—he wants you
nailed to a perch, just an obedient little branch on the family tree," she said
urgently. "Angbard wants you to make an appropriate marriage and breed lots of
little Thorold- Lofstroms to look after him in his old age. With Olga."
"Yes." Roland shook his head. He didn't seem to notice her hand on his arm. "I
thought he was at least still interested in—¦ shit. Olga's loyal. It means he's
been stringing me along with his warnings to shut up and play the political
game—all along, all the time." He stood up and paced across the room agitatedly.
"He's been keeping me here on ice to stop me getting my point across." He
reached the fireplace and paused, thumping the heel of his right hand into his
left palm. "Bastard."
"So Uncle Angbard has been messing you around?"
" 'Uncle'—" he shook his head. "He's much more your uncle than mine. You know
how the family braids work? There are several deaths and remarriages in the
tree."
Miriam stood up. Don't let him get distracted now. This is the point of no
return, she realized. Do I want to go through with this? Well, the answer that
came to mind wasn't "no." She screwed up her courage and walked over to him.
"Olga would lock you in and throw away the key."
"She'd—no, not deliberately. But the effect would be the same." He didn't seem
to notice her standing a few inches in front of him, close enough to feel her
breath on his cheek. Is he completely blind—or just too distracted to notice
what his eyeballs are seeing? Miriam wondered, half-turning to face him and
pushing her chest up as far as she could without being blatant about it—which
was difficult, given what she was wearing. "He wants to tie me in with children,
a family. I'd have to protect them."
On second thoughts... he was looking her in the eyes,
now, and he'd noticed her, all right. "That's not the only option," she
murmured. "You don't have to surrender to Angbard."
"I don't—" He trailed off.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. "What you said
earlier," she tried to explain. "You offered to help." She looked up at him,
still maintaining eye contact. "How serious are you?" she asked, her voice a
whisper.
He blinked slowly, his expression thoughtful, then she saw him focusing on her
properly, and it did something odd to her. She felt suddenly embarrassed, as if
she'd made some horrible faux pas in public. "It wouldn't be sensible," he said
slowly. Then he embraced her, hugging her tightly. "Are you sure it's what you
want?"
And now she really felt something, and it wasn't what she'd expected when the
idea of compromising Angbard's plans for Olga stole into her mind. "The door's
locked. Who's going to know? A serving girl goes in, a serving girl goes out,
I'm in my bedroom working, it's all deniable." She pressed her chin into his
shoulder. "I want you to pick me up, carry me into your bedroom, and take my
clothes off— slowly," she whispered into his ear.
"Okay," he said.
She turned her head and laid her lips alongside his. He'd shaved. After a moment
she felt his jaws loosen, exploration begin. Her whole weight fell against him
and he lifted her, then put her down on her feet.
"Over here," he said, arm dropping to her waist, half-leading her.
The bedroom furnishings were different. A big oak four-poster with a red- and
gold-tapestried canopy dominated the room, and the secondary items were
different. She pulled him toward the bed, then paused in front of it. "Kiss me,"
she said.
He leaned over her and she sank into him, reaching down to his trousers with one
hand to fumble at unfamiliar catches. He groaned softly as she caressed him.
Then his
jacket was on the floor, his bow tie dangling, his trousers loose. A shocking
sense of urgency filled her.
Hours passed. They were both naked now: She lay with her back to Roland, his
arms curled protectively around her. This is unexpected, she thought dizzily. A
little tremor surged through her. Wow. Well, her plan had worked: pull him into
bed and annoy the hell out of Angbard by being a loose cannon. Except that
wasn't how it had turned out. She liked Roland a lot, and that wasn't in the
script.
"This is so wrong," he mumbled into her hair.
She tensed. "What is?" she asked.
"Your uncle. He'll kill me if he suspects."
"He'll—" Her blood ran cold for a moment. "You're sure?"
"You're immune," he said in a tone of forced calm. "You've got huge leverage,
and he doesn't have specific plans for you. I'm meant to marry Olga, though, and
that's an end of it. Open defiance is bad. He's probably been planning the
marriage for years."
"Surely I'm an, uh, acceptable substitute?" she asked, surprising herself. It
hadn't been in the plan when she came upstairs, unless her subconscious had been
working overtime on strategies for spiking Angbard's plans.
"That's not the point. It's not just about producing offspring with the ability,
you know? You're about the most unsuitable replacement for Olga it's possible to
imagine. Making me marry Olga would buy Angbard influence with her father's
braid and tie me down with a family. But an alliance with you wouldn't do that—
in fact, he'd risk losing influence over both of us, to no gain for himself." He
paused for breath. "Aside from marrying out, one of the council's worst fears is
fragmentation—world-walkers leaving and setting up as rivals. We're both classic
fragmentation risks, disaffected rebellious adults with independent backgrounds.
My plans ... reform has to come from within or it's seen as a threat. That's why
I was hoping he might still be listening
to me. There's nothing personal about Clan alliances, Miriam. Even if Angbard
the kindly uncle wanted to let you and me stay together, Angbard the duke would
be seen as weak by the council, which would open him up to challenge ... he
can't take that risk, he'd have to split us up."
"I didn't know about the competition angle," she murmured. "What a mess." /
don't want to think about it.
"This is a—it isn't a ... a one-night stand?" he asked.
"I hope not." She nuzzled back deeper into his arms. "What about you? What do
you want?"
"What I want seldom has anything to do with what I get," he said, a trifle
bitterly. "Although—" he stroked her flank silently.
"We have a problem," Miriam whispered. "Tomorrow they're going to put me in a
stagecoach with Olga and send us both to the royal court. Herself to pay
respects to the king, me to be exhibited like some kind of prize cow. You're
going to be staying here, under his eye. That right?"
She felt his nod: It sent a shiver through her spine. "It's a test," he
murmured. "He's testing you to see what you're made of—also to see if your
presence lures certain disaffected elements into the open."
"We can try for a different outcome. Olga can be taken out of the picture by,
well, anything."
He tensed. "Do you mean what I think—"
"No." She felt him relax. "I'm not going to start murdering women in order to
steal their husbands." She stifled a laugh—if it came out, it would have been
more than slightly hysterical. "But we've got a couple of months, the whole of
winter if I understand it, before anything happens. She doesn't need to know
anything. I bought a prepaid phone, right under your nose. I'll leave you the
number and try to arrange to talk to you when we're both on the other side.
Hell, the horse might even learn to sing."
"Huh?"
"There might be a plague of smallpox. Or the crown prince might fall truly,
madly, deeply in love with a shallow
eighteen-year-old ditz whose one redeeming feature is that she plays the violin,
getting you off the hook."
"Right." He sounded more certain. "I need that number."
"Or my uncle might fall down a staircase," she added.
"Right." He paused.
"A thought?" she asked.
"Only this." She felt lips touch the top of her spine. "You'd better be sneaking
back to your apartment soon, because it's three in the morning and we can't
afford to be compromised—either of us. But I want you to know one thing.
Something I kept meaning to tell Janice, but never got a chance to—and now it's
too late."
"What's that?" she asked sleepily.
"I know this is crazy and dangerous, but I think I'm falling in love with you."
Somehow Miriam made it back to her rooms without attracting any notice—possibly
the sight of dishevelled and half-drunk maids stumbling out of an earl's rooms
and through the corridors at night was not one to arouse undue interest. She
undressed and folded her clothing carelessly, stuffing cheap theatrical maid's
costume and designer gown alike into her suitcase. She freshened up in the
bathroom, as much as she could without making the plumbing gurgle. Then,
completely naked, she sat down in front of her laptop. Better check it before
bed, she thought muzzily. Clicking on the photo utility, she spooled back
through the day's footage, back to her own exit—neatly packaged in a gray suit—
en route to her appointment with the duke.
The camera was set to grab one frame per second. She fast-forwarded through it
at thirty FPS, two seconds to the minute, two minutes to the hour. After ninety
seconds, she saw the door open. Pausing, she backed up then single-stepped
through the footage. Someone, an indistinct blur, moved from the main door to
her bedroom. Then a gray blur in front of the laptop itself, then nothing. She
had a vague
impression of a dark suit, a man's build. But it wasn't Roland, and she felt a
moment of fear at the realization.
But she'd gone into the bedroom safely. Nobody had tampered with her aluminium
suitcase, and her chests of clothing were already stashed in the main room. So
before daring to go to bed, Miriam spent a fruitless half-hour searching her
bedroom from top to bottom, peering under the bed and lifting mattresses,
checking behind the curtains.
Nothing. Which left a couple of disturbing possibilities in mind. Don't try
world-walking in your bedroom, she sternly warned herself, and check the
computer for back doors in the morning. She packed the computer and its extras—
and the gun—in her suitcase. Then she lay down and drifted into sleep disturbed
by surprisingly explicit, erotic phantoms that left her aching and sore for
something she couldn't have.
She was awakened in the dim predawn light by a clattering of serving maids.
"What's going on?" she mumbled, lifting her head and wincing at her hangover. "I
thought I said—"
"Duke's orders, ma'am," Meg apologized. "We've to dress you for travel."
"Oh hell." Miriam groaned. "He said that?"
He had. So Miriam did her waking up that morning with three other women fussing
over her, haphazardly cramming her into a business suit—about the most
inappropriate travel garb she could think of—and then from somewhere they
produced a voluminous greatcoat that threatened her with heat stroke while she
already felt like death warmed over.
"This," she said through gritted teeth, "is excessive."
"It's cold outside, ma'am," Meg said firmly. "You'll need it before the day is
out." She held out a hat to Miriam. Miriam looked at it in disbelief, then tried
to balance it on her head. "It goes like this," said Meg, and seconds later it
did. With a scarf to hold it in place, Miriam felt cut off from the world almost
completely. Are they trying to hide me? she wondered, anxious about what that
could mean.
They led her downstairs, with a trail of grunting porters
hefting her trunks—and incongruous metal suitcase—and then out through a pair of
high double doors. Meg was right. Her breath hung steaming in the air before her
face. In the past week, autumn had turned wintry with the first breath of air
rushing down from the Arctic. A huge black wooden coach balanced on wheels
taller than Miriam stood waiting, eight horses harnessed before it. A mounting
block led up to the open door, and she was startled to see the duke standing
beside it, wearing a quite incongruous Burberry overcoat.
"My dear!" he greeted her. "A final word, if I may, before you depart."
She nodded, then glanced up as the porters hoisted her trunks onto the roof and
a small platform at the back of the carriage.
"You may think my sending you to court is premature," he said quietly, "but my
agents have intercepted messages about an attempt on your life. You need to
leave here, and I think it best that you be among your peers. You'll be staying
at the Thorold Palace, which is maintained as a common residence in the capital
by the heads of the families; it's doppelgangered and quite safe, I assure you.
It will be possible for you to return later."
"Well, that's a relief," she said sarcastically.
"Indeed." He looked at her oddly. "Well, I must say you look fine. I do commend
Olga to you; she is not as stupid as she appears and you will need to learn the
high speech sooner rather than later—English is only spoken among the
aristocracy."
"Well, uh, okay." She shuffled nervously. "I'll try not to trip over any
assassins, and I may even meet an appropriate husband." She glanced at the coach
as one of the horses snorted and shook its harness. She felt even more peculiar
when she realized that she was not entirely lying. If marrying Roland—even
having another child with him—would get him into her bed on a regular basis, she
was willing to at least contemplate the possibility. She needed an ally—and
friend—here, and he had the potential to be more than that.
"Indeed." He nodded at her, and for the first time she noticed that there was a
certain translucency to his skin, as if he wasn't entirely well. "Good hunting."
And then he turned and strode away, leaving her to climb into the carriage and
wait for departure.

COURT APPEARANCE

 The First unpleasant surprise—after finding that the Tylenol was all packed in
her trunks and inaccessible—was that the carriage was unheated and the leather
seats hard. Her second, as she shivered and tried to huddle into one corner
under a thick blanket, came as Olga swept up the steps and into the seat
opposite her. Olga's blonde hair was gathered up under a scarf and hat, and she
wore a wool coat over a suit that made her look like a brokerage house yuppie.
"Isn't this wonderful?" she cooed as plump Lady Margit, in twinset and pearls by
day, huffed and puffed up and into the seat next to Miriam, expanding to flow
over two-thirds of it.
"It's wonderful." Miriam smiled weakly as the coachman cracked his whip overhead
and released the hand brake. The noise and vibration of wooden wheels turning on
cobblestones shuddered through her hangover as the coach creaked and swayed
forward.
Olga leaned toward her. "Oh dear, you look unwell!" she
insisted, peering into Miriam's eyes at close range. "What could it be?"
"Something I drank, I think," Miriam mumbled, turning away. Her stomach was
distinctly rough, her head pounded, and she felt too hot. "How long will we be
on the road?"
"Oh, not long!" Olga clapped her hands briskly and rubbed them together against
the cold. "We can use the duke's holdings to change teams regularly. If we make
good time today and keep driving until dusk, we could be at Ode-mark tomorrow
evening and Niejwein the next afternoon! All of two hundred miles in three
days!" She glanced at Miriam slyly. "I hear over on the other side you have
magical carriages that can travel such a distance much faster?"
"Oh, Olga," muttered Margit, a trifle peevishly.
"Um." Miriam nodded, pained. Two hundred miles in three days, she thought. Even
Amtrak can do better than that! "Yes, but I don't think they'd work too well
over here" she whuffed out, as a particularly bad rut in the road threw her
against the padded side of the carriage.
"What a shame," Olga replied brightly. "That means we'll just have to take a
little longer." She pointed out of the carriage door's open window. "Oh, look! A
squirrel! On that elm!"
It was at this point that Miriam realized, with a sickly sinking feeling, that
taking a carriage to the capital in this world might be how the aristocracy
travelled, but in comfort terms it was the equivalent of an economy-class
airline ticket to New Zealand—in an ancient turboprop with malfunctioning air-
conditioning. And she'd set off with a hangover and a chatterbox for a fellow
traveller, without remembering to pack the usual hand luggage. "Oh god," she
moaned faintly to herself.
"Oh, that reminds me!" Olga sat upright. "I nearly forgot!" From some hidden
pocket she pulled out a small, neatly wrapped paper parcel. She opened it and
removed a pinch of some powdery substance, then cast it from the window. "Im
nama des'Hummelvat sen da' Blishkin un' da
Geshes des'reeshes, dis expedition an' all, the mifim reesh'n," she murmured.
Then Olga noticed Miriam looking at her blankly. "Don't you pray?" she asked.
"Pray?" Miriam shook her head. "I don't understand—"
"Prayers! Oh, yes, I forgot. Didn't dear Roland say that on the other side
everybody is pagan? You all worship some dead god on a stick, impaled or
something disgusting, and pray in English" she said with relish.
"Olga," Margit said warningly. "You've never been there. Roland's probably
telling fibs to confuse you."
"It's all right," Miriam replied. What, Margit isn't a world-walker? she
wondered. Well, that would explain why she's stuck chaperoning Olga around. "We
don't speak, urn, what is the language called again?"
"Hoh'sprashe?" said Olga.
"Yes, that's it. And the other side is similar to this side geographically, but
the people and how they dress and act and talk are different," she said, trying
to think of something it would be safe to talk about.
"I'd heard that," said Olga. She leaned back against her bench, thoughtfully.
"You mean they don't know about the Sky Father?"
"Urn." Miriam's evident perplexity must have told its own story, because Olga
beamed brightly at her.
"Oh, I see! I'll have to tell you all about the Sky Father and the Church!" Olga
leaned forward. "You don't believe, do you?" she said very quietly.
Miriam sat up. Wha-a-at? she thought, suddenly surprised. "What do you mean?"
she asked.
"Sky Father." Olga glanced sideways at Margit, who appeared to be dozing. "/
don't believe in him," she said, quietly defiant. "I figured that much out when
I was twelve. But you mustn't ever—ever—act as if you don't. At least, in
public."
"Hmm." Miriam tried to think straight, but her headache was militating against
coherency. "What's the problem? Where I come from, I was raised by unobservant
Jews—
Jews are, like, a minority religion—but I wasn't Jewish, either, I wasn't their
child and it passes down by birth." Let's leave what I actually believe out of
this or we 'II be here all day. "Is there ... what's the Church like? I haven't
seen any sign of it at the duke's palace."
"You didn't see the chapel because he told us you weren't ready," Olga said
quietly, pitching her voice just above the level of the road noise. "But he told
me you'd need to know before court. So you don't give your enemies anything to
use against you."
"Oh." Miriam looked at Olga with something approaching respect. The ditz is a
self-made atheist? And the families are religious? "Yes, I think he was right,"
she said evenly. "Just how influential is the Church?" She asked, steeling
herself for bad news.
"Very!" Olga began with forced enthusiasm. "Mass is held every day, to bring the
blessing of Sky Father and Lightning Child down upon us. They both have their
priests, as does Crone Wife, and the monastic orders, all organized under the
Church of Rome by the Emperor-in-God, who rules the Church in the name of Sky
Father and interprets Sky Father's wishes. Not that we hear much from Rome—it
has been under the reign of the Great Khan these past decades, and the ocean
crossing is perilous and difficult. Next month is Julfmass, when we celebrate
Lightning Child driving out the ice wolf of the north who eats the sun; there'll
be big feasts and public entertainments, that's when betrothals and further
knots in the braids are formally announced! It's so exciting. They're cemented
at Beltaigne, as spring turns toward summer, right after the Clan meets—"
"Tell me about Julfmass," Miriam suggested. "What happens? What's it supposed to
be about, and what do I need to know?"
Ten miles down the road they were joined by a mounted escort. Rough-looking men
on big horses, they wore metal armour over leather. Most of them carried swords
and lances,
but two—Miriam peeped out at the leaders—had discreetly holstered M-16s,
identifying them beyond a shadow of a doubt as family troopers.
"Halle sum faggon," the sergeant called out, and the coachman replied, "Fallen
she in'an seien Sie welcom, mif 'nsh."
Miriam shook her head. Riders ahead and riders behind. "They're friendly?" she
asked Olga over Margit's open-mouthed snores.
"Oh yes!" Olga simpered her patented dumb-schoolgirl simper, and Miriam waited
for her to get over it. She's been raised wholly apart from men, unless I am
very much mistaken, she reasoned. No wonder she goes strange whenever anything
that needs to shave passes through the area. "Your uncle's border guards," she
added. "Aren't they handsome?"
"Mmmph." Miriam blinked slowly. Handsome. She had a sudden hot flashover to the
night before, Roland's hands gently teasing her legs apart during a long-drawn-
out game that ended with them both spent, damp, and woozy—then she took in
Olga's innocent, happy face and felt abruptly downhearted, as if she'd stolen a
child's toy. This wasn't part of the plan, she thought dispiritedly. "They're
guards," she said tiredly. "Seen one set of guards, seen 'em all. I just wish I
could get at my suitcase." She'd stashed her pistol in it last night, along with
her notebook computer and the rest of her escape kit.
"Why is that?" asked Olga.
"Well." Miriam paused. How to put it diplomatically? "What if they wanted to
take advantage of us?" she asked, fumbling for an alternative to suggesting that
Angbard's guards might not be effective.
"Oh, that's all right," Olga said brightly. She fumbled with something under her
blanket, then showed it to Miriam, who blinked again, several times.
"Be careful where you wave that," she suggested.
"Oh, I'll be all right! I've been training with guns since I was this high," she
said, lowering the machine pistol. "Don't you do it over there?"
"Ah." Miriam looked at her faintly. "No, but I suppose conditions are different
there."
"Oh." Olga looked slightly puzzled. "Aren't you allowed to defend yourselves?"
"We've got this thing called a government," Miriam said dryly. "It does the
defending for us. At least in theory."
"Hah. There was nobody to do that for our grandmothers when the civil war began.
Many of them died before... well, even Daddy said I needed to learn to shoot,
and he's a terrible backwoodsman! There aren't enough of us with the talent, you
know, we all have to muck in like commoners these days. I may even have to join
the family trade after I marry, can you believe it?"
"The, ah, thought hadn't occurred to me." Miriam tried to sound noncommittal;
the idea of Olga running around Cambridge with a machine pistol, a platinum
credit card, and a suitcase full of cocaine would have been funny if it hadn't
been so frightening.
"I really hope it happens," Olga said, slightly more thoughtfully. "I'd like to
see ... over there." She sat up. "But you asked about bandits! We are unlikely
to meet any unless we travel in the spring thaw. They know too well what will
happen if they try the Clan's post, but after a harsh winter some of them may no
longer care."
"I see." Miriam tried not to show any outward sign of being disturbed, but for a
moment she felt a chill of absolute fear at this naive, enthusiastic, emotional—
but not stupid— child. She shuffled her legs together, trying to pinch out the
draft. It would be a long day, without any distractions. "Tell me about the
Church again ..."
Two extremely uncomfortable days passed in chilly boredom. They stopped at a
coaching house the first night and Miriam insisted on unloading a suitcase and
trunk. The next day she scandalized Margit by wearing jeans, fleece, and hiking
boots, and Olga by spending the afternoon engrossed
in a book. "You'd best not wear that tomorrow," Margit said disapprovingly when
they stopped that evening at another post house. "It is for us to make a smart
entrance, to pay our respects at court as soon as we arrive, do you see? Did you
bring anything suitable?"
"Oh hell," replied Miriam, confusing her somewhat (for Hel was a province
administered by Olga's father). "If you could help me find something?"
Expensive western formal costume—Armani suits, Givenchy dresses, and their
equivalents—appeared to be de rigueur among the Clan in private. But in public
in the Gruinmarkt, they wore the finery of high nobility. Their peculiarities
were kept behind closed doors.
The duke's resident seamstress had packed one of Miriam's trunks with gowns
fitted to her measurements, and at dawn on the third day Margit shoehorned her
into one deemed suitable for a court debut. It was even more elaborate than the
gown they'd fitted her for dinner with the duke; it had hooped underskirts,
profusions of lace exploding at wrist and throat, and slashed sleeves layered
over skin-tight inner layers. Miriam hated everything it said about the status
of women in this society. But Olga wore something similar, even more excessively
wasp-waisted, with an exaggerated pink bustle behind that suggested to Miriam
nothing so much as a female baboon in heat. Margit declared Miriam's
presentation satisfactory. "That's most fittingly elegant!" she pronounced. "Let
no time be lost, now, lest we be undone by our lateness."
"Mmph," said Miriam, holding her skirts out of the courtyard dampness and trying
to avoid tripping over them on her way over to the coach. Really, she thought.
This is crazy! I should have just crossed over and caught the train. But Angbard
had insisted—and she could second-guess his reasoning. "Avoid transport
bottlenecks where somebody might intercept her—also, see if she breaks.' After
three days on the road she was feeling ripe, long overdue for a shower. The last
thing she needed was a new dress, let alone one as intricately excessive as
this. Only a grim determination not to play her hand too early made her put up
with it. She settled into her accustomed corner in a rustling heap of bottle-
green velvet and tried to get comfortable, but her back was stiff, the dress
vast and uncontrollable, and parts of her were sweating while other bits froze.
Plus, Olga was looking at her triumphantly.
"You look marvellous," Olga assured her, leaning forward and resting a hand in
the vicinity of Miriam's knee. "I'm sure you'll make a great entry at court!
You'll be surrounded by suitors before you've been there a moment—despite your
age!"
"I'm sure," Miriam said weakly. Give me patience, she prayed to the goddess of
suffering in the name of beauty and/or social conformity. Otherwise I swear I'll
strangle someone...
Before they moved off, Margit insisted on dropping the blinds. It reduced the
draft, but in the closeness of the carriage Miriam began to feel claustrophobic.
Olga insisted on painting Miriam's cheeks and eyebrows and lips, redoing the
procedure while the carriage swayed and bumped along an increasingly well-
maintained stone-cobbled street. Other carriages and traffic rattled past, and
presently they heard people calling greetings and warnings. "The gates," Olga
said, breathlessly. "The gates!"
Miriam sneaked a peek through the blinds before Margit noticed and scolded her.
The gate house was made of stone, perhaps four stories high. She'd seen similar
on a vacation in England many years ago. The walls themselves were of stone, but
banked with masses of rammed earth in front and huge mounds of mud beyond the
ditch. Isn't that something to do with artillery? she thought, puzzled by
memories of an old History Channel documentary.
"Put that down at once, I say!" Margit insisted. "Do you want everyone to see
you?"
Miriam dropped the window blind. "Shouldn't they?" she asked.
"Absolutely not!" Margit looked scandalized. "Why, it would be the talk of
society for months!"
"Ah," Miriam said neutrally. Olga winked at her. So this is how it works, she
realized. Enforcement through peer pressure. If they get the idea that I'm not
going to conform, I 'm never going to hear the end of it, she realized. Olga,
far from being her biggest problem, was beginning to look like a potential ally.
Their first call was at the Thorold Palace, a huge rambling stone pile at the
end of the Avenue of Rome, a broad stone street fronted by mansions. The
carriage drew right up to the front entrance, their escort of guards strung out
behind it as servants emerged with a mounting box, which they shoved into place
before holding the door open. Margit was the first to leave, followed by Olga,
who squeezed through the door with a shake of her behind; Miriam emerged last,
blinking in the daylight like a prisoner released from some oubliette.
A butler in some sort of intricate house uniform—a tunic over knee breeches and
floppy boots—read from a letter in a loud voice to the assembled gaggle of
onlookers. "His Excellency the high Duke Angbard of house Lofstrom is pleased to
consign to your care the Lady Margit, Chatelaine of Praha, her Excellency the
Baroness Olga Thorold, and her Excellency the Countess Helga Thorold Hjorth,
daughter of Patricia of that braid." He bowed deeply, then gave way to a man
standing behind him. "Your Excellency."
"I bid you welcome to the house in my custody, and urge you to accept my
hospitality," said the man.
"Earl Oliver Hjorth," Olga stage-whispered at Miriam. Miriam managed a fixed,
glassy-eyed smile then followed Olga's lead by picking up her skirts and
dipping. "I thank you, my lord," Olga replied loudly and clearly, "and accept
your protection."
Miriam echoed him. English, it seemed, was still the general language of
nobility here. Her hoh'sprashe was still restricted to a couple of polite
nothings.
"Delighted, my beaux," said the earl, not cracking a smile. He was tall and
thin, almost cadaverous, his most striking feature a pair of striking black-
rimmed spectacles that he wore balanced on the tip of his bony nose; dusty black
trousers and a flared red coat worn over a lace-throated shirt completed his
outfit. There was something threadbare about him, and Miriam noticed that he
didn't wear a sword. "If you will allow Bortis to show you to your rooms, I
believe you are expected at court in two hours."
He turned and stalked away grimly, without further comment.
"Why, the effrontery!" Olga gripped Miriam's hand tightly.
"Huh?"
"He's snubbing you," Olga hissed angrily, "and me, to get at you! How peculiarly
rude! Oh, come on, let the servant show us to our rooms—and yours. We still need
to finish you for the royal court."
An hour later Miriam had two ladies-in-waiting, an acute attack of dizziness,
growing concerns about the amenities of this ghastly stone pile—which appeared
to lack such essentials as running water and electricity—and a stiff neck from
all the necklaces they'd hung on her. The ladies-in-waiting were, like Margit,
family members who lacked the fully expressed trait that allowed them to world-
walk. The Misses Brilliana of Ost and Kara of Praha—one blonde, the other
brunette—looked like meek young things waiting their turn for the marriage
market, but after spending a couple of days with Olga, Miriam took that with a
pinch of salt. "Were you really raised on the other side?" Kara asked, wide-
eyed.
"I was." Miriam nodded. "But I've never been presented at court before."
"We'll see to that," the other one, Brilliana, said confidently. "You look
splendid! I'm sure it will all go perfectly."
"When do we need to leave?" asked Miriam.
"Oh, any time, I suppose," Brilliana said carelessly.
The coach was even more claustrophobic with six overdressed women jammed into
it. It jarred and bumped through the streets and Brilliana and Kara made excited
small talk with Olga's companions, Sfetlana and Aris. Olga, sandwiched between
the two, caught Miriam's eye and winked. Miriam would have shrugged, but she was
hemmed in so tightly that she could barely breathe, let alone move. It's a good
thing I'm not claustrophobic, she thought, mordantly trying to find something
good about the situation.
After what felt like an hour of juddering progress, the carriage turned into a
long drive. As it drew to a halt, Miriam heard a tinkle of glassware, laughter,
strains of string music from outside. Olga twitched. "Hear, violins!" she said.
"Sounds like it to me." The door opened and steps appeared, as did two footmen,
their gold-encrusted livery as pompous and excessive as the women's dresses.
They hovered anxiously as the occupants descended.
"Thank you," Miriam commented, surprising the footman who'd offered her his
hand. She looked around. They stood before the wide-flung doors of a gigantic
palace, a flood of light spilling out through the glass windows onto the lawn.
Within, men in coats cut away over ballooning knee breeches mingled with women
in elaborate gowns: The room was so huge that the orchestra played from a
balcony, above the heads of the court.
Miriam went into a state of acute culture shock almost immediately, allowing the
Misses Kara and Brilliana to steer her like a galleon under full sail. Someone
bellowed out her name—or the parcel of strange titles by which she was known
here. She shook herself for a moment when she saw heads turn to stare at her—
some inquisitive, some surprised, others supercilious, and some hostile—the
names meant nothing to her. All she could think of was trying not to trip over
her aching toes and keeping the glassy-eyed shit-eating grin steady on her
rouged and strained face. This isn't me, she thought vaguely, being presented to
a whirl of titled pompous idiots and simpering women swathed in silk and furs.
This is a bad dream, she repeated to herself. She shied
away from the idea that these people were her family, that she might had to
spend the rest of her life attending this sort of event.
Miriam had done formal dinners and award ceremonies before, dinner parties and
cocktail evenings, but nothing that came close to this. Even though—from Olga's
vague but enthusiastic description of the territories—Niejwein was a small
kingdom, not much larger than Massachusetts and so dirt-poor that most of the
population lived on subsistence farming, its ruling royalty lived in a casual
splendour far beyond any ceremonial that the head of a democratic nation would
expect. It was an imperial reception, the prototype that the high school prom or
its upmarket cousin, the coming-out ball, aped. Someone clapped a glass into her
gloved hand—it turned out to be a disgustingly sweet fruit wine—and she politely
but firmly turned down so many invitations to dance that she began to lose
track. Please, make it all go away, she whimpered to herself, as Kara-Brilliana
steered her into a queue running along a suspiciously red carpet toward a short
guy swathed in a white fur cloak that looked preposterously hot.
"Her Excellency Helge Thorold Hjorth, daughter and heir of Patricia of Thorold,
returned from exile to pay tribute at the court of his high majesty, Alexis
Nicholau III, ruler in the name of the Sky Father, blessed and awful be he, of
all of the Gruinmarkt and territories!"
Miriam managed a deep curtsy without falling off her heels, biting her lip to
keep from saying anything inappropriate or incriminating.
"Charmed, charmed, I say!" said Alexis Nicholau III, ruler and et cetera of the
Gruinmarkt (by willing concession of the Clan). "My dear, reports of your beauty
do not do you justice at all! Such elegant deportment! A new face at court, I
say, how charming. Remind me to introduce you to my sons later." He swayed
slightly on his raised platform, and Miriam spotted the empty glass in his hand.
He was a slightly built man with a straggly red beard fringing his chin and hair
going prematurely bald on top. He wore no crown,
but a chain of office so intimidatingly golden that it looked as if his spine
would buckle at any moment. She felt a stab of sympathy for him as she
recognized the symptoms of a fellow sufferer.
"I'm delighted to meet you," she told the discreetly drunken monarch with
surprising sincerity. Then she felt an equally discreet tug as Kara-Brilliana
steered her aside with minute curtseys and simpering expressions of delight at
the royal presence.
Miriam took a mouthful from her glass, forced herself to swallow it, then took
another. Perhaps the king had the right idea, she thought. Kara-Brilliana
drifted to a halt not far from the dais. "Isn't he cute?" Kara squealed quietly.
"Who?" Miriam asked distractedly.
"Egon, of course!"
"Egon—" Miriam fumbled for a diplomatic phrasing.
"Oh, that's right. You weren't raised here," said Brilliana, practicality
personified. Quietly, in Miriam's ear, she continued, "See the two youngsters
behind his majesty? The taller is Egon. He's the first prince, the likely
successor should the council of electors renew the dynasty whenever his majesty,
long may he live, goes to join his ancestors. The short one with the squint is
Creon, the second son. Both are unmarried, and Creon will probably stay that
way. If not, pity the maiden."
"Why pity her, if it's not rude to ask?"
"He's addled," Brilliana said matter-of-factly. 'Too stupid to—" she noticed
Miriam's empty glass and turned to fetch a replacement.
"Something a bit less sweet, please," Miriam implored. The heat was getting to
her. "How long must we stay here?" she asked.
"Oh, as long as you want!" Kara said happily. "The revelry continues from dusk
till dawn." Brilliana pressed a glass into Miriam's hand. "Isn't it wonderful?"
Kara added.
"I think my lady looks a little tired," Brilliana said diplomatically. "She's
spent three days on the road, Kara."
Miriam wobbled. Her back was beginning to seize up
again, her kidneys were aching, and in addition her toes felt pinched and she
was becoming breathless. "M'exhausted," she whispered. "Need to get some sleep.
'F you take me home, you can come back to enjoy yourselves. Promise. Just don't
expect me to stay upright much longer."
"Hmm." Brilliana looked at her speculatively. "Kara, if it pleases you, be so
good as to ask someone to summon our coach. I'll help our lady here to make a
dignified exit. My lady, there are a few names you must be presented to before
taking your leave—to fail would be to give offence — but there'll be another
reception the day after tomorrow; there is no need to converse at length with
your peers tonight if you are tired. I'm sure we can spend the time between now
and then getting to know our new mistress better." She smiled at Miriam. "A last
glass of wine, my lady?"
Miriam blinked and twitched into vague wakefulness from a dream of painful
desire and frustrated eroticism. Someone sighed and moved against her back, and
she jerked away, suddenly remembering where she was with a fit of panic: Wearing
a nightdress? In a huge cold bed? What is going on?
She rolled over and came up against heavy drapes. Turning around, she saw Kara
asleep in the huge four-poster bed behind her, face a composed picture of
tranquillity. Miriam cringed, racking her brain. What did I get up to last
night? she wondered, aghast. Then she looked past Kara and saw another sleeping
body—and an empty bottle of wine. Opening the curtain and looking on the floor,
she saw three glasses and a second bottle, lying on its side, empty. She vaguely
remembered talking in the cavernous stone aircraft hangar that passed for a
countess's bedroom. It had been freezing cold in the drafty stone pile, and Kara
had suggested they continue talking in the four-poster bed, which filled the
room like a small pavilion. Miriam looked closer and saw that Kara was still
wearing her full under dress. And Brilliana hadn't even removed her stays.
A slumber party, she figured. She hadn't been in one of those since college.
Poor kids. I took them away from their disco and they just couldn't call it a
night. Kara was only seventeen—and Brilliana an old maid of twenty-two. She felt
relieved—and a bit sorry for them.
This would never do. She slipped out of the bed and shivered in the freezing
cold air. I'm adrift, she thought. Turning, she looked back. The bed was as big
as her entire room, back home. / need to get my perspective back.
Acutely aware of her bare feet on the heat-sucking stone flags, she tiptoed
across to the curtain that concealed the door to the toilet. There were no
modern conveniences here, just a pot full of dry leaves, and a latrine with a
ten-foot drop over the curtain wall. What you saw was what you got— without
servants to help. Living conditions in the big city, even for nobility, were
distinctly primitive.
After freezing her ass for the minute it took to get rid of last night's wine,
Miriam re-entered her main chamber and began hunting through the chests that had
been deposited there the afternoon before. One of them—Ah, yes, she decided.
This 'II do.
She dressed quickly and in silence, pulling on jeans and a sweater and fleece
suited to the other side. There was no thought of waking the two ladies-in-
waiting, for she couldn't begin to guess how they'd react and she wanted to move
fast. Her shoulder bag was packed in the suitcase. It her took a moment to
locate it, along with the Sony notebook, the phone, and the GPS compass. She
spent a minute scanning the room with the notebook's built-in camera, then she
pulled out a paper reporter's pad and wrote a quick note in ballpoint:
My dear K & B,
Gone over to the other side. Back before nightfall. Please see to storing my
articles and arrange a dinner for the three of us when I get back, two hours
after dark. Best, Miriam
She left it on the pillow next to Kara's head, pulled out her locket, and
crossed over into the doppelganger building on the other side.
Miriam's eyes blurred and her headache redoubled as she looked around. The space
corresponding to her room in the palace or castle or whatever in Neijwein wasn't
a palace in her own world. Two hundred miles southwest of Boston— New York! she
thought with a jolt of excitement. It was dim in here, very dim, really nothing
but emergency lights. There was a strong smell of sawdust, and it was bitingly
cold. She stood on top of metal scaffolding, with yellow painted lines on the
floor. That'll be the layout of the castle back in the other world, she
realized. I'd better get out of here before someone notices me.
She switched on the GPS compass, waited for it to come up, then told it to
memorize her location. Then she went down the metal stairs two at a time. She
was on the ground floor of an elderly warehouse. Wooden crates stood between
yellow alleyways—evidently blocking out the walls of the castle. She headed
toward the grand staircase and the main entrance hall, found it open and a
trailer sitting on some concrete blocks installed as a site office. The yellow
light was coming from the trailer windows.
Hmm. Miriam put her hand in her jacket pocket and took a grip on her pistol. Her
head was pounding, as cold air hit hangover-inflamed sinuses. / need to dry out
for a couple of days, she thought abstractedly. Then she knocked on the door
with her left hand.
"Who's there?"
The door swung open and an old man grimaced at her.
"I'm Miriam. From the Cambridge office," she said. "I'll be going in and out of
here over the next few days. Inspecting things."
"Marian something?" He blinked, looking annoyed.
"No, Miriam," she said patiently. "Do you have a list of people who're allowed
in and out here?"
"Oh, yeah," he said vacantly. He shuffled inside and surfaced with a dirty
clipboard. The cabin smelled of stale smoke and boiled cabbage. "Miriam
Beckstein," she said patiently and spelled her name. "From Cambridge, Mass."
"Your name isn't down here." He looked puzzled.
"I work for Angbard Lofstrom," she said curtly.
Evidently this was the right thing to say because he jolted upright. "Yes,
ma'am! That's fine, everything's fine. How do you spell your name?"
Miriam told him. "Where are we on the street map, and what's the protocol for
getting in and out of here?" she asked.
"'Protocol'?" He looked puzzled. "Just come in and knock. This is just a lockup.
Nothing important here. Nothing worth stealing, leastways."
"Okay." She nodded, turned, and walked toward the front door and freedom. As she
did so, her phone beeped three times, acquiring coverage and notifying her that
she had messages.
Once outside, she found herself in a dingy alleyway hemmed in by fire escapes.
She walked to the end, then looked around. It was most peculiar, she thought.
Security on the warehouse wasn't what she'd have expected, not at all. It was
too easy to get in or out. Was she stuck in some kind of low-security zone? She
came to a main road, with light traffic and shops on either side. Making a note
of the street name, she waved down the first yellow cab to come past.
"Where to?" asked the driver, in an almost-comprehensible accent.
"Penn Station," she said, hoping that he'd been on the job
long enough to -have a clue where he was. He seemed to be okay: He nodded a
couple of times, then swung his car through a circle and hit the gas.
Miriam lay back and watched the real world go by in a happy daze only slightly
tempered by her throbbing head. Wow, I'm really here! she thought, feeling the
gentle sway of pneumatic tires on asphalt and the warm breeze from the heater on
her feet. Isn't it great? She wanted the cab ride to last forever, she realized,
with a warm glow of nostalgia. Lights and familiar advertisements and people who
didn't look like extras from an historical movie flowed past to either side of
her heated cocoon. This was her world, a homely urban reality where real people
wore comfortable clothes, made thoughtless use of conveniences like electricity
and tap water, and didn't weave lethal dynastic games around the future lives of
children she didn't want to have.
Wait till I tell Ma, she thought. Then Paulie. Followed moments later by: Damn,
first I have to figure out what I can tell them. Then: Hey, at least I can talk
to Roland...
She looked at her phone, you have voice mail, it said, so she dialled her
mailbox.
"Miriam?" His voice was distant and scratchy and her heart skipped a beat. "I
hope you get this message. Listen, I come across on a courier run every two
days, between ten and four. I think your uncle may suspect something, he's put
Matthias on me as an escort. Last night he sent news that you'd arrived at the
capital. How are you enjoying life there? Oh, by the way, don't trust anyone
called Hjorth; they've got a lot to lose. And watch out for Prince Egon: He's
been known to not take no for an answer. Call me when you get a chance."
Her vision had misted at the sound of his voice. Damn, I didn't plan this. The
taxi drifted in stop-and-go traffic, the driver thumping the steering column in
tune with the radio.
At the station Miriam's first act was to hunt down an ATM and try her card. It
worked. She pulled out five hundred dollars in crisp green notes and stuffed
them in her pocket. That shouldn't tell them much beyond where I was, she
decided.
Then she hit the ticket desk for a return ticket to Boston on the next Accela
service. It took a wad, but once she found the train and settled into the seat,
she was pleased with herself for spending it. It would take only three hours,
meaning she'd have maybe four hours in Boston before she'd have to go back
again.
Miriam settled back in her seat, notebook computer opened in front of her and
phone beside it. Do I have to go back there? she asked herself morosely. She'd
just spent a week on the other side—and that week had been enough to last her a
lifetime. She felt the stiff edges of the platinum credit card digging into her
conscience. It was blood money, and their damn blood-is-thicker-than-water creed
would drag her back—every time. It didn't drag my birth-mother back, she
thought. It killed her instead. Which was even worse, and likelier than not what
would happen to her if she ran now—because if she ran, they'd know she was
untrustworthy. She wouldn't get another chance. Darker possibilities occurred to
her. Even if they didn't want to kill her and reduce their precious gene pool,
they could immobilize her permanently by blinding her. She doubted it was a
common tactic—even given the Clan's ruthlessness, it would rapidly provoke fear
and loathing, a catalyst for conflict—but they might use it as a special measure
if they suspected treason, and the possibility filled her with horror.
On the other hand, the thought of voluntarily going back to the drafty castle
and the insane family politics was depressing. So she picked up the phone and
dialled Roland's number instead.
"Hello?" He answered on the first ring and she cheered up instantly.
"It's me," she said quietly. "Can you talk?"
"Yes." A pause. "He's not around right now, but he's never far away."
"Are they still watching my house?" she asked.
"Yeah, I think so. Where are you?"
"On a train halfway between New York and Boston."
"Don't tell me you're running—"
"No," she said too hastily, "but I've got unfinished business. Not just you—
other stuff too. I want to see my mother, and I want to see some other people.
Okay? Better not ask too many questions. I'm not going to do anything rash, but
I have a feeling I don't want to draw any attention to people I know. But look,
are you able to get away for a day? Say, to New York?"
"They've got you in that stone pile?" he asked.
"Yeah. Do you know what it's like?"
"You survived three days with Olga?" His tone was one of hopeful disbelief.
"The facilities are, uh, open plan, and I get to sit cheek by jowl with two of
Olga's less enlightened co-workers," she said, eyes swivelling to track down the
nearest passengers. She was clear—nobody within two seats of her. Quietly she
added, "The ladies-in-waiting are like jail guards, only prettier, if you follow
me. They stick like glue. I woke up and they were in my goddamn bed with me.
You'd think Angbard had set them on me as minders. Honestly, I'm at my wit's
end. I'm going to go back this evening, but if you don't come and rescue me
soon, I swear I'll kill someone. And I still haven't filed copy on that dot-com
busted flush feature I'm supposed to be writing for Andy."
"My poor sweetheart." He laughed, a little sadly. "You're not having a good
time. Maybe we should form a club?"
"Culture-shocked and brain-damaged?"
"That's right." A pause. "Going back after eight years away, that was the
hardest thing. Miriam. You will go back to them?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "If I don't, I'll never see you again, will I?"
"Not today. I'll be over again the day after tomorrow," he said. "New York, is
it?"
"Yes." She thought for a moment. "Rent a double room at the Marriott Marquis in
Times Square. It's anonymous and bland, but I think you've got more travel time
than I have. Leave voice mail with the room number and the name you're using and
I'll show up as early as possible." She shivered at the thought, shuffling
uncomfortably in her seat.
"I'll be there. Promise."
"Bring a couple of new prepaid phones, bought for cash, as anonymous as you can.
We'll need them. I miss you," she added very quietly and hung up.
Forty-eight hours to go. It had already been four days since she'd last seen
him.
The conductor came around, and she glanced around again to confirm how much
space she had. The carriage was half-empty, she'd missed the rush hour crush.
Now she dialled another number, one she'd committed to memory because she was
afraid to program it into the phone.
"Hi, you've reached the answering machine of Paulette Milan. I'm sorry I can't
come to the phone right now, but—"
"Paulie, cut the crap and pick up the phone right now."
The line clicked. "Miriam! What the fuck are you playing at, sweetie?"
" 'Playing at'? What do you mean?"
"Skipping out like that! Jesus, I've been so worried!"
"You think you've been worried? You haven't phoned my house, have you?" Miriam
interrupted hastily.
"Oh yeah, but when you didn't answer I left a message about the bridge club.
Something I made up on the spur of the moment. I've been so worried—"
"Paulie, you didn't mention the other stuff, did you? Or go around in person?"
"I'm not stupid," Paulette said quietly, all ebullience gone.
"Good—uh, I'm sorry. Let me try again." Miriam closed her eyes. "Hi, I'm Miriam
Beckstein, and I have just discovered the hard way that my long-lost family have
got very long memories and longer arms, and they invited me to spend some time
with them. It turns out that they're in the import/export trade, and they're so
big that the story we were working on probably covers some of their turf.
Hopefully they don't think you're anything other than a ditzy broad who plays
bridge with me, because if they did you might not enjoy their company. Capisce?"
"Oh, oh shit! Miriam, I am so sorry! Listen, are you all right?"
"Yeah. Not only am I all right, I'm on a train that gets into Back Bay Station
in—" she checked her watch— "about an hour and a half. I don't have long, this
is a day trip, and I have to be on the four o'clock return train. But if you can
meet me at the station I'll drag you out to lunch and fill you in on everything,
and I mean everything. Okay?" "Okay." Paulette sounded a little less upset.
"Miriam?" "Yes?"
"What are they like? What are they doing to you?" Miriam closed her eyes. "Did
you ever see the movie Married to the Mob."
"No way! What about your locket? You mean they're—" "Lets just say, it would be
a bad idea for you to phone my house, visit it in person, talk to or visit my
mother, or do anything that is in any way out of character for a dumb out-of-
work research geek who vaguely knows me from work. At least, where they can see
you. Which is why I'm phoning on a number you've never seen and probably won't
ever see again. Meet me at noon inside the station, near the south entrance?"
"Okay, I'll be there. Better have a good story!" Paulette hung up, and Miriam
settled back to watch the countryside roll by.
When she hit the station, Miriam immediately left it. There was an ATM in the
mall across the street, and she pulled another two thousand in cash out of it.
There seemed to be no end to the amount she could draw, as long as she didn't
mind leaving an audit trail. This time she wanted to. Putting a time stamp on
Boston would tell Duke Angbard where she'd been. She planned on telling him
first. Let him think she was being open and truthful about everything.
She headed back into the station in the same state she'd been in in the taxi.
This was home, a place she'd been before, intimately familiar at the same time
that it was anonymous and impersonal. She was shaken by how relieved she was to
be back. Suddenly being jobless in a recession with her former employer
threatening to blacken her name didn't
seem so bad, all things considered. She almost walked right past Paulette, as
unnoticed as any other commuter in a raincoat, but she swerved at the last
moment, blinking the daze away.
"Paulie!"
"Miriam!" Paulette grabbed her in a hug, then held her at arm's length,
inspecting her face anxiously. "You look thinner. Was it bad, babe?"
"Was it bad" Miriam shook her head, unsure where to begin. "Jesus, it was weird,
and bits of it were very bad and bits of it were, um, less bad. Not bad at all.
But it's not over. Listen, let's go find something to eat—I haven't had any
breakfast—and I'll tell you all about it."
They found a booth in a not unbearable pizza joint in the mall, where the
background noise loaned them a veneer of privacy, and Miriam wolfed down a weird
Californian pizza with a topping of chicken tikka on a honeyed sourdough base.
Between bites, she gave Paulette a brief run-down. "They kidnapped me right out
of my house after you left, a whole damn SWAT team. But then they put me up in
this stately house, a palace really, and introduced me to a real honest-to-god
duke. You know the medieval shit I came back with? It's real. What I didn't
figure on was that my family, my real family, I mean, are, like, the aristocracy
who run it."
"They rule it." Paulette's fork paused halfway to her mouth. "You're not
shitting me. I mean, they're kings and stuff?"
"No, they're just an extended trading Clan that happens to be an umbrella for
about a third of the nobility that runs the eastern seaboard—the nouveau riche
crowd, not long established and deeply paranoid. They're like the Medicis. There
are several countries over there, squabbling feudal kingdoms. The one hereabouts
is called the Gruinmarkt, and they don't speak English—or rather, the ruling
class do, the way the nobles in England spoke French during the middle ages. But
anyway. The high king rules the Gruinmarkt, but the Clan— the Clan of the
families who can walk between worlds—they
own everything. I mean, the king wants to marry one of his sons into the Clan to
tighten his grip on power."
Miriam paused to finish her pizza, aware that Paulette was staring at her
thoughtfully.
"Where do you fit in all this?" she asked.
"Oh." Miriam put her fork down. "I'm the long-lost daughter of a noblewoman
whose coach was ambushed by bandits. Or assassins—there was a war on at the
time, between branches of the Clan. She escaped, ran away to our world, but died
before she could get help." Miriam looked Paulette in the eye. "When you were a
kid, did you ever fantasize about maybe you were switched with another baby in
the hospital, and your real parents were rich and powerful, or something?"
"Why?" Paulette asked brightly. "Isn't that every little girl's daydream? Didn't
Mattel build a whole multinational on top of it?"
"Well, when you're thirty-two and divorced and have a life, and long-lost
relatives from your newly discovered family show up and tell you that actually
you're a countess, it might put a bit of a different spin on tilings, huh?"
Paulette looked slightly puzzled. "How do you mean—"
"Like, they insist that you marry someone suitable, because they can't have
independent women running around. You've got a choice between living in a drafty
castle with no electricity and running water, oh, and having lots of children by
the husband they've chosen for you, a choice between that and, well, there is no
choice marked 'B.' Resistance is futile; you will be assimilated. Got it,
already?"
"Oh sweet Jesus. No wonder you look fried!" Paulette shook her head slowly.
"Yeah, well, I was afraid I was going to go crazy if I didn't get away after the
last week. What makes it really bad is that, well..." Miriam chewed her lower
lip for a while before continuing. "Your guesses about where they could make
money were right on the nail. I don't know if they're into Proteome Dynamics and
Biphase Technologies, but they're
sure into everything else under the sun. They gave me a debit card and said,
'Here's a two-million-dollar credit limit, try not to overload it.' There is no
way in hell that they will let me walk away from them. And the thing that
frightens me most is that I'm not, like, one hundred percent sure I entirely
want to."
Paulie was studying her intently. "Is there something else?" she asked.
"Oh yes, oh yes." Miriam fell silent. "But I don't want to talk about him just
now."
"Is he bad? Did he—"
"I said I didn't want to talk about it!" she snapped. A moment later, she added,
"I'm sorry. No, he isn't bad. You know, it's just you've never been able to
resist ragging me about men, and I don't need that right now. It's messy, very
messy, and things are bad enough without adding that kind of complication."
"Lovely." Paulette pulled a face. "Okay, so I won't ask you about your mystery
boyfriend. Let me see if I've got this straight? It turns out your family think
you're a little lost heiress. They want to treat you like one, which is to say,
not a hell of a lot like the way it works out in the fairy tales. You'd maybe
tell them to screw off, but first they won't, and second they've got lots of
money. Third, you've met a man who didn't want to strangle you after five
minutes—"
"—sorry, and he's mixed up in all of it. Is that a fair summary?"
"Pretty much." Miriam waved for the check. "Which is why I had to get away from
it all for the day. I'm not a, a prisoner. I'm just considered valuable. Or
something." She frowned. "It's absolutely crazy. Even their business operations!
It's like something out of the middle ages. They're about three centuries
overdue for modernization, and I'm not just talking about the cultural crap.
Pure zero-sum mercantilism, red in tooth and nail, in an environment where they
have barely invented banking, never mind the limited liability company. Deeply
fucking primitive, not to say wasteful of resources, but
they're set in their ways. I've seen companies like that before; sooner or later
someone else comes along and eats their lunch. There ought to be something
smarter they could be doing, if only I could think of it..."
"O-k-a-y. You do that, Miriam."
The bill arrived and Miriam stuck down a fifty before Paulette could protest.
"Come on." She stood up; Paulette hurried after.
"Did I just see that? Did I? Miriam Beckstein putting down a thirty percent tip?
What the hell is happening to my eyes?"
"I want out of this restaurant," Miriam said flatly. Continuing on the hoof:
"Money doesn't mean anything any more, Paulie, didn't you catch that bit? I'm so
rich I could buy The Weatherman if I wanted to—only it won't do me a blind bit
of good because my problems aren't money-related. There are factions among the
families. One of them wants me dead. They had a nice little number going with my
mother's shareholding in the Clan; now that I've shown up, I've disrupt a load
of plans. Another faction wants me married off. The king, his number-two prince
is a retard, Paulie, and you know what? I think my old goat of an uncle is going
to try to marry me off to him."
"Oh, you poor baby. Don't they have an equal rights amendment?"
"Oh, poor-baby me, these guys don't even have a constitution," Miriam said with
feeling. "It's a whole other world, and women like me get the ... get the—hell,
think about the Arabs. The Saudi royal family. They come over here in expensive
suits and limousines and buy big properties and lots of toys, but they don't
think like us, and when they go back home they go straight back to the middle
ages. How would you feel if you woke up one morning and discovered you were a
Saudi princess?"
"Not very likely," Paulette pointed out, "seeing as how I am half-Italian and
half-Armenian and one hundred percent peasant stock, and damn happy to live here
in the U.S. of A., where even peasants are middle class and get to be paralegals
and managers. But yeah, I think I see where you're coming from." Paulette looked
at her grimly. "You got problems," she said. "I'd worry about the bunch who want
you out of the way before worrying about the risk of being married off to Prince
Charming, though. At least they've got money." She pulled a face. "If / found I
had a long-lost family, knowing my luck, the first thing they'd do is ask to
borrow a hundred bucks until payday. Then they'd start with the death threats."
"Well, you might want to think back to what you said about smuggling," Miriam
pointed out. "I don't want to be involved in that shit. And I'm worried as hell
about the string we were pulling on the other week. Have you had any other
incidents?"
'"Incidents'?" Paulie looked angry. "I don't know if you'd call it that.
Somebody burgled my apartment the day before yesterday."
"Oh shit." Miriam stopped dead. "I'm so sorry. Was it bad?"
"It could have been," Paulette said tightly. "I was out at the time. The
sergeant said it looked very professional. They cut the phone line and drilled
the lock out on the landing, then went in and turned the whole place over. Took
my computer and every disk they could find. Ransacked the bookcases, went
through my underwear—and left my spare credit card and emergency bankroll alone.
They weren't after money, Miriam. What do you think?"
"What do / think?" Miriam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Paulette waited
for her. "Well, you're still alive," she said slowly.
"Alive—" Paulette stared at her.
"Paulie, these guys play hardball. They leave booby traps. You go into a place
they've black-bagged and you open the door and it blows up in your face—or
there's a guy waiting for you with a gun and he can leave the scene just by
looking at a wrist tattoo. I figure either I'm wrong and the shit Joe Dixon's
involved in isn't to do with the Clan or they don't rate you as a threat—just
sent some hired muscle to frighten you, rather than the real thing."
"I am so relieved. Not."
"Do be. I mean that seriously. If you're still alive, it means they don't think
you're a threat. They didn't find the disk, so that's probably an end of it. If
you want to get the hell out of this now, just say. I'll find the CD and burn it
and you're out of the frame."
Paulette began walking again. "Don't tempt me," she said tightly. Then she
stopped and turned to face Miriam. "What are you going to do?" she asked
bluntly.
"I was hoping you could help me." Miriam paused for a moment, then continued:
"Did you get the job?"
"As a paralegal?" Paulette shrugged. "I didn't get that one, but I've got
another interview this afternoon," she added self-consciously.
"Well." Miriam paused. "How would you like another job? Starting today?"
"Doing what?" Paulette asked cautiously.
"As my self-propelled totally legal insurance policy," said Miriam. "I need an
agent, someone who can work for me on this side when I'm locked up being
Princess Buttercup in a palace with toilets consisting of a drafty hole in the
wall. You're clean, they didn't pin anything on you, and now that we know who
the hell we're up against, we can make sure that you stay that way. What I've
got in mind for the job will mostly involve handling nonstolen, nonillegal goods
that I want to sell, keeping records, paying taxes, and making like a legitimate
import/export business. But it'll also involve planting some records, very
explicit records, in places where the families can't get their hands on them—
without getting caught." Miriam stopped again, thinking. "I can pay," she added.
"I'm supposed to be very rich now."
Paulette grinned. "This wouldn't have something to do with you bearing a grudge
against the asshole who fired us both, would it?"
"Could be." Miriam thrust her hands deep in her pockets and tried to look
innocent.
"When does it start and what does it pay?"
"It starts fifteen minutes ago, and if you want to discuss
pay and conditions, let's go find a Starbucks and talk about it over a coffee
..."
Miriam became increasingly depressed on the train back to New York. It was late
in the year, and darkness was already falling as the train raced through the
bleak New England countryside. Soon the snow would be falling thick and deep,
burying the bare branches beneath a layer of deadening numbness. She popped out
one of the Atenolol tablets that Roland had given her and a couple of Tylenol,
swallowing them with the aid of a Coke from the bar. She felt like autumn, too:
The train was carrying her south toward a bleak world where she'd be enveloped
in the snow of—well, maybe it was stretching the metaphor past breaking point.
Only forty-four hours, and I'll be seeing Roland again, she thought. Forty-four
hours? She brightened for a moment, then lapsed into even deeper gloom. Forty-
four hours, forty of which would be spent in the company of... of ...
She hailed a taxi from the station concourse, feeling slightly light-headed and
numb, as if she hadn't eaten. It took her to the block near Chinatown where
she'd found the door. It looked a whole hell of a lot less welcoming after dark
and closing time, and she hunched her shoulders as she stalked down the street,
homing in on the alleyway by means of the green-lit display of her GPS compass.
When she reached the alley, she balked—it was black and threatening, like a
Central Station for muggers and rapists. But then, remembering who and what she
was, she reached into her pocket and wrapped her right hand around the snub-
nosed pistol she'd carried all day. They can arrest you, but they can't hold
you, she reminded herself with a flicker of reckless glee. What must it be like
to grow up with the talent on the other side, then to come over to this world
and realize that you could do absolutely anything at all and melt away into the
night, undetected? She shivered.
As it happened the alleyway was empty, a faint glow leaking from under the
warehouse doorway. She opened it and
walked past the cabin. Nobody hailed her. She followed the GPS compass until its
coordinates went to zero and she saw the metal emergency staircase.
At the top of the steps she took a moment to look around. There was no sign of
any burglar alarms, nothing to stop anyone coming in off the street. Hmm. I
don't like the look of this, she thought. Thirty feet farther on there was a
sturdy brick wall. / can't be sure, but it looks like most of the palace would
be on the other side of that. Right? It was weird, but she didn't have time to
examine it right now. Putting her GPS compass away, she hauled out the locket
from the chair around her neck that she wore under her sweater. She focused on
the image and felt—
"Mistress! Oh my—" she stumbled, black shadows pulling at the edges of her
vision, and felt hands on her day pack, her shoulders, pulling her toward a
richly cushioned ottoman— "you startled us! What is that you're wearing? Oh,
you're so cold!"
The black shadows began to fade, and she had a feeling like a headache starting
a long way away. The huge fireplace in one side of the main room—a fireplace big
enough to park her car in—was blazing with flames and light, pumping out heat.
Kara helped her stand upright, a hand under one shoulder. "You gave us such a
fright!" she scolded.
"I'm back now." Miriam smiled tiredly. "Is there anything to drink? Without
alcohol in it?"
"I'll get it," said Brilliana, the more practical of the two. "Would my lady
care for a pot of tea?"
"That would be fine." Miriam felt herself closer to fainting than throwing up.
Yes, the beta-blockers seem to work, she thought. "Drop the 'my lady'—just call
me Miriam. You didn't tell anybody to search for me, did you?"
"No, my-Miriam." This from Kara. "I wanted to, but—"
"It's all right." Miriam closed her eyes, then opened them again, to be
confronted by a teenager with braided brown hair and a worried expression
wearing a brown Dior suit and a blouse the colour of old amber. "Nothing to
worry about," she said, trying to exude confidence. "I'll be fine when I've
had some tea. This always happens. Did anything unusual happen while I was
gone?"
"We've been busy making the servants unpack your wardrobe and travelling
possessions!" Kara said enthusiastically. "And Lady Olga sent you an invitation
to walk with her in the orangery, tomorrow morning! Nobody is entertaining
tonight, but there's another public reception in Prince Creon's name tomorrow
and you have been invited!" Miriam nodded wearily, wishing she wouldn't end
every sentence with an exclamation. She half-expected Kara to break out in
squeals of excitement. "And Sfetlana has been so excited!"
"About what?" Miriam asked unenthusiastically.
"She's had a proposal of marriage! Delivered by proxy, of course! Lady Olga bore
it! Isn't that exciting?"
"What is that you're wearing?" asked Brilliana, returning from the fireplace
with a silver teapot held carefully in her hands; for the first time Miriam
noticed the spindly table beside the ottoman, the chairs positioned around it,
the cups and saucers of expensive china. It appeared that ladies-in-waiting led
a higher-maintenance lifestyle than servants.
"Something suited to the weather," Miriam muttered. Brilliana was wearing a
black dress that would have passed unnoticed at any cocktail party from the
1960s through the 1990s. In the setting of a cold, sparsely furnished castle,
there was something unbelievably surreal about it. "Listen, that's a fire and a
half." Her skin crawled. "Is there any chance of using it to heat a lot of
water? Like, enough for a bath? I want to get clean, then find something to
eat." She thought for a moment. "Afterward you can choose something for me to
wear tomorrow when I go to talk with Lady Olga. And for the reception in the
evening as well, I suppose. But right now, I'd kill for a chance to wash my
hair."

fine wall

It turned out that there was a bathtub in her suite. The huge claw-footed cast-
iron behemoth lived in a room she hadn't seen before, on the far side of the
huge fireplace. There were even servants to fill it: three maids and a grumpy
squint-eyed lad who seemed to have only half his wits about him. His job seemed
to be to lurk in corners whenever anybody forgot to send him packing for another
load of Pennsylvania coal.
Readying the bath involved a lot of running around and boiling coppers on the
fireplace. While everybody else was occupied, Miriam pulled on her overcoat and
went exploring, picking up Brilliana as a combination of tour guide and
chaperone. She'd been half-asleep from exhaustion when she first arrived—and
even more dead to the world after the reception at the palace. Only now was she
able to take in her surroundings fully. She didn't much like what she was
seeing. "This palace," she said, "tell me about it." "This wing? This is the New
Tower." Brilliana followed a
pace behind her. "It's only two hundred and eighty years old."
Miriam looked up at the roof of the reception room they'd walked into. The
plasterwork formed a dizzyingly intricate layering of scalloped borders and
sculpted bouquets of fruit and flowers, leaping over hidden beams and twisting
playfully around the huge hook from which a giant chandelier hung. The doors and
window casements were not built to a human scale, and the benches positioned
against each wall looked lost and lonely.
"Who does it belong to?" asked Miriam.
"Why, the Clan." Brilliana looked at her oddly. "Oh, that's right." She nodded.
"The families and the braids. You understand them?"
"Not entirely," Miriam admitted.
"Hmm, I had thought as much." Brilliana paced toward the far door, then paused.
"Have you seen the morning room yet?"
"No." Miriam followed her.
"Our ancestor Angbard the Sly walked the worlds and accrued a huge fortune. His
children lacked the ability, and there were five sons, sons who married and had
families, and another six daughters. In that generation some kin married their
cousins directly, as was done in those days to forestall dower loss, and the
talent was rediscovered. Which was a good thing, because they had fallen upon
hard times and were reduced to common merchants. Since then we have kept the
bloodline alive by marrying first cousins across alternate generations: Three
families are tied together in a braid, two in each generation, to ensure the
alliances are kept close. The kin with the talent are shareholders in the Clan,
to which all belong. Those who lack the talent but whose children or
grandchildren might have it are also members, but without the shares." She
waited at the door for Miriam, then lifted the heavy bolt with two hands and
pulled it open.
"That's amazing," Miriam said, peering into the vast gloomy recess.
"It is, isn't it?" replied Brilliana, squeezing through the
half-open doorway as Miriam held it open for her. Miriam followed. "These murals
were painted by The Eye himself, it is said." Miriam blinked at dusty splendour,
a red wool carpet and walls forming scenes disturbingly similar to—and yet
different from—the traditional devotional paintings of the great houses of
Europe. (Here a one-eyed god hung from a tree, his hands outstretched to give
the benefit of his wisdom to the kneeling child-kings of Rome. There a prophet
posed before a cave mouth within which lurked something unspeakable.) "The
palace is held by the Clan in common trust. It is used by those family members
who do not have houses in the capital. Each family owns one fifth of it—one
tower— and Baron Oliver Hjorth occupies the High Tower, presiding over all,
responsible for maintenance. I think he's angry because the High Tower was
burned to a shell eight years ago, and the cost of rebuilding it has proven
ruinous," she added thoughtfully.
"Very interesting," murmured Miriam. Thinking: Yes, it's about fifty feet long.
This part of the palace was clearly doppelgangered, if the wall she'd seen in
the warehouse was where she thought it was. Which meant that her own corner was
far less secure than Angbard had implied. "Why was I accommodated here?"
"Why, because Baron Oliver refused you as a guest!" Brilliana said, a tight
little smile on her face. Miriam puzzled for a moment, then recognized it as the
nearest thing to anger she'd seen from the girl. "It is unconscionable of him,
vindictive!"
"I'm getting used to it," Miriam said dryly. She looked around the huge, dusty
audience chamber then shivered from the chill leaching through its stones. The
shutters were closed and oil lamps burned dimly in the chandelier, but despite
all that it was as cold as a refrigerator. "What does he have against me,
again?"
"Your braid. Your mother married his elder brother. You should inherit the
Thorold Hjorth shares. You should, in fact, inherit the tower he has spent so
long restoring. Duke Angbard has made it a personal project to bring Oliver to
his
knees for many years, and perhaps he thinks to use you to provoke the baron into
an unforgivable display of disloyalty."
"Oh shi—" Miriam turned to face the younger woman. "And you?" she demanded.
"Me?" Brilliana raised a slim hand to cover her mouth, as if concealing a laugh.
"I'm in disgrace, most recently for calling Padrig, Baron Oliver's youngest, a
pimple-faced toad!" She shrugged uncomfortably. "My mother sent me away, first
to the duke, then to the baron's table, thinking his would be a good household
for a young maid to grow up in." For a moment, a flicker of nearly revealed
anger lit up her face like lightning. "Hoping he'd take a horsewhip to me, more
like."
"Aha." Miriam nodded. "And so, when I arrived ..."
"You're a countess" Brilliana insisted. "Travelling without companions! It's a
joke, a position of contempt! Ser Hjorth sent me to dwell with you in this
drafty decaying pile with a leaking roof—as a punishment to me and an insult to
you. He thinks himself a most funny man, to lay the glove against a cheek that
does not even understand the intent behind the insult."
"Let's carry on." Miriam surprised herself by reaching out and taking
Brilliana's arm, but the younger woman merely smiled and walked by her side as
she headed toward a small undecorated side door. "What did you do to offend the
Baron?"
"I wanted to go across to the other side," Brilliana said matter-of-factly.
"I've seen the education and polish and the source of everything bright in the
world. I know I have not the talent myself, but surely someone can take me
there? Is that too much to ask? I've a mother who saw miracles in her youth:
carriages that fly and ships that sail against the wind, roads as wide as the
Royal Mile and as long as a country, cabinets that show you events from afar.
Why should I not have this, but for an accident of birth?" The anger was running
close to the surface, and Miriam could feel it through her arm.
She paused next to the small door and looked Brilliana in
the eye. "Believe me, if I could gift you with my talent I would, and thank you
for taking it from me," she said.
"Oh! But that's not what I meant—" Brilliana's cheeks coloured.
Miriam smiled crookedly. "Did your mother by any chance send you away because
you pestered her to take you over to the other side one time too often? And did
Oliver banish you here for the same reason?"
"Yes," Brilliana nodded reluctantly. "A lady is someone who never knowingly
causes pain to others," she said quietly. "But what about causing pain to one's
self?"
"I think—" Miriam looked at her, as if for the first time: twenty-two years old,
skin like milk and blonde hair, blue eyes, a puzzled, slightly angry expression,
a couple of small craterlike scars marring the line of her otherwise perfect
jaw. Wearing a slim black dress and a scarf around her hair, a silver necklace
set with pearls around her neck, she looked too—tense was the word Miriam was
looking for—to fit in here. But give her a jacket and briefcase and nobody would
look twice at her in a busy downtown rush hour. "I think you have too low an
opinion of yourself, Brill," she said slowly. "What's through this door, do you
know?"
"It'll be the way up to the roof." She frowned, puzzled. "Locked, of course."
"Of course." This door had a more modern keyhole and lock. But when Miriam
twisted the handle and tugged, it opened, admitting a frigid blast of damp air.
"I think you're right about it leading to the roof," Miriam added, "but I'd like
to know just where the unlocked doors lead, do you follow me?"
"Bit." Brilliana shivered. She really wasn't dressed for this, Miriam noted.
"Wait here," Miriam instructed. Without pause she entered the doorway. Stone
steps spiralled tightly up into blackness. She ascended, guided by touch as much
as by vision. This must be higher than the doppelganger warehouse's roof, she
guessed. Cold wind smacked her in the face at the top. She turned and looked out
across the steeply pitched
roof, past machicolations, across gardens spread far below. And then the town,
narrow streets and pitched roofs utterly unlike anything she'd see back home
stretching away on all sides, dimly lit by lamplight. What do they burn"? she
wondered. Above the entire scene, riding high atop a tattered carpet of fast-
moving white clouds, hung the gibbous moon. Someone has been up here recently,
she thought and shivered. It was freezing cold, wet, and dark. Clambering about
on the roof held no appeal, so she turned and carefully descended back into the
relative warmth of the moth-eaten outer reception room.
Brilliana jumped as she emerged. "Oh! By my soul, you gave me a fright, my lady.
I was so worried for you!"
"I think I gave me a fright too," Miriam commented shakily. She shut the door.
"We're going back to the heated quarters now," she said. "And we're going to
bolt the door—on the inside. Come on. I wonder if that bath will be ready."
The bath was indeed ready, although Miriam had to ransack her luggage for
toiletries and chase two ladies-in-waiting and three servants out of the room
before she could strip off and get in the tub. In any event, it grew cold too
fast for her to soak in it for long. Baths hereabouts were a major chore, it
seemed, and if she didn't get across to the other side regularly, she'd have to
get used to making it a weekly event. At least she didn't have to put up with
the local substitute for soap, which was ghastly beyond belief.
Drying herself with her feet up against the back side of the fireplace—which for
a miracle had warmed right through the stonework—she reflected on the progress
she'd made. Brilliana is going to be okay, she mused. Maybe I could give her to
Paulie as a gofer? If she survived the culture shock. It's no joke, she chided
herself. She'd grown up with museums and films about the past—how much harder
would she have it if she'd found herself catapulted into the equivalent of the
twenty-sixth century, without any means of
going home? She'd be helpless. Had Brilliana ever seen a light switch? Or a
telephone? Perhaps—and then again, perhaps not. / keep forgetting that clothes
don't make the man— or woman, she prodded herself. You could go really badly
wrong if you make that mistake here.
She pulled on her jeans and sweater again, frowning— Should have asked Kara to
get something out for me—then went back into the main room. The servants had
pulled out a small dining table from somewhere, and it was set with silverware
and a huge candelabra. "Wonderful!" she said. Kara and Brill were standing
beside it, and Kara grinned uncontrollably. "Okay, sit down. Did anyone order
any wine?"
Brill had, and the food, which she'd ordered up from the cavernous kitchens far
below, was still edible. By the time they'd drained two bottles of a most
passable red, Miriam was feeling distinctly tired and even Kara had lost her
tendency to squeal, bounce, and end every sentence on an exclamation point.
"Bedtime, I think," she said, pointedly dismissing everyone from her chamber
before pulling back the curtain on her bed, pulling out the warming pan, and
burrowing inside.
The next morning Miriam awakened rapidly and—for a miracle—without any trace of
a hangover. I feel fine, she realized, surprised. Pulling back the curtain, she
sat up to find a maid sitting with down turned face beside her bed. Oh. I did
feel fine, she amended. "You can send them in," she said, trying to keep the
tone of resignation out of her voice. "I'm ready to dress now."
Kara bounded in. "It's your walk with Lady Olga today!" she enthused. "Look what
I found for you?"
Miriam looked—and stifled a groan. Kara had zeroed in on one of her work suits,
along with a silvery top. "No," she said, levering herself off the bed. "Bring
me what I was wearing yesterday. I think it's clean enough to do. Then pass me
my underwear and get out."
"But! But—"
"I am thirty-two years old, and I have been putting on my own clothes for
twenty-eight of those years," Miriam explained, one gentle hand on Kara's back,
propelling her gently toward the door. "When I need help, I'll let you know."
Alone, she leaned against the cold wall for a moment and closed her eyes. Youth
and enthusiasm! She made a curse of the phrase.
Miriam dressed quickly and efficiently, then exited her bedroom to find Kara and
a couple of servants waiting by the dining table, on which was laid a single
breakfast setting. She was about to protest when she took one look at Kara and
bit her tongue. Instead, she sat down. "Coffee or tea, whatever's available,"
she said to the maid. "Kara. Come here. Sit down with me. Cough it up."
"I'm meant to dress you," she said miserably. "It's my job."
"Fine, fine." Miriam rolled her eyes. "You do know I come from the other side?"
Kara nodded. "If it makes you feel better, tell yourself I'm a crazy old bat
who'll be sorry she ignored you later." She grinned at Kara's expression of
surprise. "Listen, there's something you need to know about me: I don't play
head games."
"Games? With heads?"
Ye gods! "If I think someone has made a mistake, I tell them. It doesn't mean I
secretly hate them or that I've decided to make their life unpleasant. I don't
do that because I've got other things to worry about, and screwing around like
that—" she saw Kara's eyes widen—Don't tell me swearing isn't allowed?— "is a
waste of time. Do you understand?"
Kara shook her head, mutely.
"Don't worry about it, then. I'm not angry with you. Drink your tea." Miriam
patted her hand. "It's going to be all right. You said there's a reception this
evening. You said we were invited. You want to go?"
Kara nodded, slowly, watching Miriam.
"Fine. You're coming, then. If you didn't want to go, I wouldn't make you. Do
you understand? As long as you do your job properly when you're needed, as far
as I'm concerned you're free to do whatever you like with the rest of your time.
I am not your mother. Do you understand?"
Kara nodded again, but her entire posture was one of mute denial and her eyes
were wide. Shit, I'm not getting through to her, Miriam thought to herself. She
sighed. "Okay. Breakfast first." The toast was getting cold. "Is Brill going to
the party?"
"Yes, mistress." Kara seemed to have found her tongue again, but she sounded a
bit shaky. She's about seventeen, Miriam reminded herself. A teenager. Whatever
happened to teenage rebellion here? Do they beat it out of them or something?
"Good. Listen, when you've finished, go find her. I need someone to walk with me
to Lady Olga's apartment. When Brill gets back, the two of you are to sort out
whatever I'm wearing tonight. When / get back I'll need you both to dress me and
tell me who everybody is, where the bodies are buried, and what topics of
conversation to avoid. Plus a quick course in court etiquette to make sure I
know how to greet someone without insulting them. Think you can manage that?"
Kara nodded, a quick flick of the chin. "Yes, I can do that." She was about to
say something else, but she swallowed it. "By your leave." She stood.
"Sure. Be off with you."
Kara turned and scurried out of the room, back stiff. "I don't think I
understand that girl," Miriam muttered to herself. Brill I think I've got a
handle on, but Kara— She shook her head, acutely aware of how much she didn't
know and, by implication, of how much potential for damage this touchy teenager
contained within her mood swings.
Brilliana turned up as Miriam finished her coffee, dressed for an outdoor hike.
Hey, have I started a fashion for trousers? Miriam rose. "Good morning!" She
grinned. "Sleep well after last night?"
"Oh." Brilliana rubbed her forehead. "You plied us with wine like a swain with
his—well, I think it's still there." She waited for Miriam to stand up. "Would
you like to go straight to Lady Olga? Her Aris says she would receive you in the
orangery, then take tea with you in her rooms."
"I think, hmm." Miriam raised an eyebrow, then nodded when she saw Brilliana's
expression. No newspapers, no telephones, no electricity. Visiting each other is
probably the nearest thing to entertainment they get around here when none of
the big nobs are throwing parties. "Whatever you think is the right thing to
do," she said. "Where's my coat..."
Brilliana led her through the vast empty reception chamber of the night before,
now illuminated with the clear white light of a snow-blanketed day. They turned
down a broad stone-flagged corridor. It was empty save for darkened oil
paintings of former inhabitants, and an elderly servant slowly polishing a suit
of armour that looked strangely wrong to Miriam's untrained eye: The plates and
joints not quite angled like anything she'd seen in a museum back home.
"Lady Aris said that her Excellency is in a foul mood this morning," Brilliana
said quietly. "She doesn't know why."
"Hmmph." Miriam had some thoughts on the subject. "I spent a long time talking
to Olga on the way here. She's ... let's just say that being one of the inner
Clan and fully possessed of the talent doesn't solve all problems."
"Really?" Brilliana looked slightly disappointed. She pointed Miriam down a wide
staircase, carpeted in blue. Two footmen in crimson livery stood guard at the
bottom, backs straight, never blinking at the two women as they passed. Their
brightly polished swords looked less out of place to Miriam's eye than the
submachine guns slung discreetly behind their shoulders. Any mob who tried to
storm the Clan's holding would get more than they bargained for.
They walked along another corridor. A small crocodile of maids and dubious-
looking servants, cleaning staff, shuffled out of their way as they passed. This
time Miriam felt eyes tracking them. "Olga has issues," she said quietly. "Do
you know Duke Lofstrom?"
"I've never been presented to him." Brilliana's eyes widened. "Isn't he your
uncle?"
"He's trying to marry Olga off," Miriam murmured.
"Funny thing is, now I think about it, not once during three days in a carriage
with her did I hear Olga say anything positive about her husband-to-be."
"My lady?"
They came to another staircase, this time leading down into a different wing of
this preposterously huge mansion. They passed more guards, this time in the same
colours as Oliver Hjorth's butler. Miriam didn't let herself blink, but she was
aware of their stares, hostile and unwelcoming, drilling into her back.
"Is it my imagination or... ?" Miriam muttered as they turned down a final
corridor.
"They may have been shown miniatures of you," Brilliana said. She shivered,
glanced askance at Miriam. "I wouldn't come this way without a companion, my
lady. If I was mistrustful."
"Why? How bad could it be?"
Brilliana looked unhappy. "People with enemies have been known to find the
staircases very slippery. Not recently, but it has happened. In turbulent
times."
Miriam shuddered. "Well, I take your point, then. Thank you for that charming
thought."
A huge pair of oak doors gaped ahead of them, a curtain blocking the vestibule.
Chilly air sent fingers past it. Brilliana held it aside for Miriam, who found
herself in a shielded cloister, walled on four sides. The middle was a sea of
white snow as far as the frozen fountain. All sound was damped by winter's
natural muffler. Miriam suddenly wished she'd brought her gloves.
"Whew! It's cold!" Brill was behind her. Miriam turned to catch her eye. "Which
way?" she asked.
"There."
Miriam trudged across the snow, noting the tracks through it that were already
beginning to fill in. Occasional huge flakes drifted out of a sky the colour of
cotton wool.
"Is that the orangery?" she asked, pausing at the door in the far wall.
"Yes." Brilliana opened the door, held it for her. "It's this way," she offered,
leading Miriam toward an indistinct gray wall looming from the snow.
There was a door at the foot of the hump. Brilliana opened it, and hot air
steamed out. "It's heated," she said.
"Heated?" Miriam ducked in. "Oh!"
On the other side of the wall, she found herself in a hothouse that must have
been one of the miracles of the Gruinmarkt. Slender cast-iron pillars climbed
toward a ceiling twenty feet overhead. It was roofed with a fortune in plate-
glass sheets held between iron frames, very slightly greened by algae. It
smelled of citrus, unsurprisingly, for on every side were planters from which
sprouted trees of not inconsiderable dimensions. Brilliana ducked in out of the
cold behind her and pulled the door to. "This is amazing!" said Miriam.
"It is, isn't it?" said Brilliana. "Baron Hjorth's grandfather built it. Every
plate of glass had to be carried between the worlds—nobody has yet learned how
to make it here in such large sheets."
"Oh, yes, I can see that." Miriam nodded. The effect was overpowering. At the
far end of this aisle there was a drop of three feet or so to a lower corridor,
and she saw a bench there. "Where do you think Lady Olga will be?"
"She just said she'd be here," said Brilliana, a frown wrinkling her brow. "I
wonder if she's near the boiler room? That's where things are warmest. Someone
told me that the artisans have built a sauna hut there, but I wouldn't know
about such things. I've never been here on my own before," she added a little
wistfully.
"Well." Miriam walked toward the benches. "If you want to wait here, or look
around? I'll call you when we're ready to leave."
When she reached the cast-iron bench, Miriam turned and stared back along the
avenue of orange trees. Brill hadn't answered because she'd evidently found
something to busy herself with. Well, that makes things easier, she thought
lightly. Whitewashed brick steps led down through an open
doorway to a lower level, past water tanks the size of crypts. The ceiling
dipped, then continued—another green-lined aisle smelling of oranges and lemons,
flakes of rust gently dripping from the pillars to the stone-flagged floor. Here
and there Miriam caught a glimpse of the fat steam pipes, running along the
inside of the walls. The trees almost closed branches overhead, forming a dark
green tunnel.
At the end, there was another bench. Someone was seated there, contemplating
something on the ground. Miriam walked forward lightly. "Olga?" she called.
Olga sat up when she was about twenty feet away. She was wearing a black all-
enveloping cloak. Her hair was untidy, her eyes reddened.
"Olga! What's wrong?" Miriam asked, alarmed.
Olga stood up. "Don't come any closer," she said. She sounded strained.
"What's the matter?" Miriam asked uncertainly.
Olga brought her hands out from beneath the cloak. Very deliberately, she
pointed the boxy machine pistol at Miriam's face. "You are," she said, her voice
shaking with emotion. "If you have any last lies to whisper before I kill you,
say them now and be done with it, whore."

PART 4

The interview room was painted pale green except for the floor, which was
unvarnished wood. The single window, set high up in one wall, admitted a trickle
of wan winter daylight that barely helped the glimmering of the electrical bulb
dangling overhead. The single table had two chairs on either side of it. All
three pieces of furniture were bolted to the floor, and the door was
soundproofed and locked from the outside.
"Would you care for some more tea, Mr. Burgeson?" asked the plainclothes
inspector, holding his cup delicately between finger and thumb. He loomed across
the table, overshadowing Burgeson's frail form: they were alone in the room, the
inspector evidently not feeling the need for a stout sergeant to assist him as
warm-up man.
"Don't mind if I do," said Burgeson. He coughed damply into a wadded
handkerchief. " 'Scuse me ..."
"No need for excuses," the inspector said, as warmly as an
artist inspecting his handiwork. He smiled like a mantrap. "Terrible winters up
there in Nova Scotia, aren't they?"
"Character-building," Burgeson managed, before breaking out in another wracking
cough. Finally he managed to stop and sat up in his chair, leaning against the
back with his face pointed at the window.
"That was how the minister of penal affairs described it in parliament, wasn't
it?" The inspector nodded sympathetically. "It would be a terrible shame to
subject you to that kind of character-building experience again at your age,
wouldn't it, Mr. Burgeson?"
Burgeson cocked his head on one side. So far the inspector had been polite. He
hadn't used so much as a fist in the face, much less a knee in the bollocks,
relying instead on tea and sympathy and veiled threats to win Burgeson to his
side. It was remarkably liberal for an HSB man, and Burgeson had been waiting
for the other shoe to drop—or to kick him between the legs—for the past ten
minutes. "What can I do for you, Inspector?" he asked, clutching at any faint
hope of fending off the inevitable.
"I shall get to the point presently." The inspector picked up the teapot and
turned it around slowly between his huge callused hands. He didn't seem to feel
the heat as he poured a stream of brown liquid into Burgeson's cup, then put the
pot down and dribbled in a carefully measured quantity of milk. "You're an old
man, Mr. Burgeson, you've seen lots of water flow under the bridge. You know
what 'appens in rooms like this, and you don't want it to 'appen to you again.
You're not a young hothead who's going to get his self into trouble with the law
any more, are you? And you're not in the pay of the Frogs, either, else we'd
have scragged you long ago. You're a careful man. I like that. Careful men you
can do business with." He cradled the round teapot between his hands gently.
"And I much prefer doing business to breaking skulls." He put the teapot down.
It wobbled on its base like a decapitated head.
Burgeson swallowed. "I haven't done anything to warrant the attention of the
Homeland Security Bureau," he pointed
out, a faint whine in his voice. "I've been keeping my nose clean. I'll help you
any way I can, but I'm not sure how I can be of use—"
"Drink your tea," said the inspector.
Burgeson did as he was told.
" 'Bout six months ago a Joe called Lester Brown sold you his dear old mother's
dressing table, didn't he?" said the inspector.
Burgeson nodded cautiously. "It was a bit battered—"
"And four weeks after that, a woman called Helen Blue came and bought it off
you, din't she?"
"Uh." Burgeson's mouth went dry. "Yes? Why ask me all this? It's in my books,
you know. I keep records, as the law requires."
The inspector smiled, as if Burgeson had just said something extremely funny. "A
Mr. Brown sells a dressing table to a Mrs. Blue by way of a pawnbroker who Mr.
Green says is known as Dr. Red. In't that colourful, Mr. Burgeson? If we
collected the other four, why, we could give the hangman a rainbow!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Burgeson said tensely. "What's all
this nonsense about? Who are these Greens and Reds you're bringing up?"
"Seven years in one of His Majesty's penal colonies for sedition back in
seventy-eight and you still don't have a fucking clue." The inspector shook his
head slowly. "Levellers, Mr. Burgeson." He leaned forward until his face was
inches away from Burgeson's. "That dressing table happened to have a hollow
compartment above the top drawer and there were some most interesting papers
folded up inside it. You wouldn't have been dealing in proscribed books again,
would ye?"
"Huh?" The last question caught Burgeson off-guard, but he was saved by another
coughing spasm that wrinkled his face up into a painful knot before it could
betray him.
The inspector waited for it to subside. "I'll put it to you like this," he said.
"You've got bad friends, Erasmus. They're no good for yer old age. A bit o'
paper I can't put me finger
on is one thing. But if I was to catch 'em, this Mrs. Blue or Mr. Brown, they'd
sing for their supper sooner than put their necks in a noose, wouldn't they? And
you'd be right back off to Camp Frederick before your feet touch the ground, on
a one-way stretch. Which in your case would be approximately two weeks before
the consumption carried you away for good an' all and Old Nick gets to toast you
by the fires of hell.
"All that Godwinite shit and old-time Egalitarianism will get you is a stretched
neck or a cold grave. And you are too old for the revolution. They could hold it
tomorrow and it wouldn't do you any good. What's that slogan— 'Don't trust
anyone who's over thirty or owns a slave'? Do you really think your young
friends are going to help you?"
Burgeson met the inspector's gaze head-on. "I have no Leveller friends," he said
evenly. "I am not a republican revolutionary. I admit that in the past I made
certain mistakes, but as you yourself agree, I was punished for them. My tariff
is spent. I cooperate fully with your office. I don't see what else I can do to
prevent people who I don't know and have never heard of from using my shop as a
laundry. Do we need to continue this conversation?"
"Probably not." The inspector nodded thoughtfully. "But if I was you, I'd stay
in touch." A business card appeared between his fingers. "Take it."
Burgeson reached out and reluctantly took the card.
"I've got my eye on you," said the inspector. "You don't need to know how. If
you see anything that might interest me passing through your shop, I'll trust
you to let me know. Maybe it'll be news to me—and then again, I'll know about it
before you do. If you turn a blind eye, well—" he looked sad—"you obviously
won't be able to see all the titles of the books in your shop. And it'd be a
crying shame to send a blind man back to the camps for owning seditious tracts,
wouldn't it?"
Two women stood ten feet apart, one shaking with rage, the other frightened into
immobility. Around them, orange trees
cloistered in an unseasonable climate perfumed the warm air.
"I don't understand." Miriam's face was blank as she stared down the barrel of
Olga's gun. Her heart pounded. Buy time! "What are you talking about?" she
asked, faint with the certainty that her assignation with Roland had been
overseen and someone had told Olga.
"You know very well what I'm talking about!" Olga snarled. "I'm talking about my
honour!" The gun muzzle didn't deviate from Miriam's face. "It's not enough for
you to poison Baron Hjorth against me or to mock me behind my back. I can ignore
those slights—but the infamy! To do what you did! It's unforgivable."
Miriam shook her head very slowly. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I didn't know at
the time it started between us, I mean. About your planned marriage."
A faint look of uncertainty flickered across Olga's face. "My betrothal has no
bearing on the matter!" She snapped.
"Huh? You mean this isn't about Roland?" Miriam asked, feeling stupid and
frightened.
"Roland—" Olga stared at her. Suddenly the look of uncertainty was back. "Roland
can have nothing to do with this," she claimed haughtily.
"Then I haven't got a clue what the it you're talking about is," Miriam said
heavily. Fear would only stretch so far, and as she stared at Olga's eyes all
she felt was a deep wellspring of resignation, at the sheer total stupidity of
all the events that had brought her to this point.
"But you—" Olga began to look puzzled, but still angry. "What about Roland? What
have you been up to?"
"Fucking," Miriam said bluntly. "We only had the one night together but, well, I
really care about him. I'm fairly sure he feels the same way about me, too. And
before you pull that trigger, I'd like you ask yourself what will happen and who
will be harmed if you shoot me." She closed her eyes, terrified and amazed at
what she'd just heard herself say. After a few seconds, she thought, Funny, I'm
still alive.
"I don't believe it," said Olga. Miriam opened her eyes.
The other woman looked stunned. However, her gun was no longer pointing directly
at Miriam's face.
"I just told you, dammit!" Miriam insisted. "Look, are you going to point that
thing somewhere safe or—"
"You and Roland?" Olga asked incredulously.
A moment's pause. Miriam nodded. "Yes," she said, her mouth dry.
"You went to bed with that dried-up prematurely middle-aged sack of mannered
stupidity? You care about him? I don't believe it!"
"Why are you pointing that gun at me, then?"
For a moment, they stood staring at each other; then Olga lowered the machine
pistol and slid her finger out of the trigger guard.
"You don't know?" she asked plaintively.
"Know what?" Miriam staggered slightly, dizzy from the adrenaline rush of facing
Olga's rage. "What on earth are you talking about, woman? Jesus fucking Christ,
I've just admitted I'm having an affair with the man you're supposed to be
marrying and that isn't why you're threatening to kill me over some matter of
honour?"
"Oh, this is insupportable!" Olga stared at her. She looked very uncertain all
of a sudden. "But you sent your man last night."
"What man?"
Their eyes met in mutual incomprehension.
"You mean you don't know? Really?"
"Know what?"
"A man broke into my bedroom last night," Olga said calmly. "He had a knife and
he threatened me and ordered me to disrobe. So I shot him dead. He wasn't
expecting that."
"You. Shot. A, a rapist. Is that it?"
"Well, that and he had a letter of instruction bearing the seal of your braid."
"I don't understand." Miriam shook her head. "What seal? What kind of
instructions?"
"My maidenhead," Olga said calmly. 'The instructions
were very explicit. What is the law where you come from? About noble marriage?"
"About—what? Huh. You meet someone, one of you proposes, usually the man, and
you arrange a wedding. End of story. Are things that different here?"
"But the ownership of title! The forfeiture. What of it?"
"What 'forfeiture'?" Miriam must have looked puzzled because Olga frowned.
"If a man, unwed, lies with a maid, also unwed, then it is for him to marry her
if he can afford to pay the maiden-price to her guardian. And all her property
and titles escheat to him as her head. She has no say in the matter should he
reach agreement with her guardian, who while I am in his care here would for me
be Baron Hjorth. In my event, as a full-blood of the Clan, my Clan shares would
be his. This commoner—" she pronounced the word with venomous diction—"invaded
my chamber with rape in mind and a purse full of coin sufficient to pay his way
out of the baron's noose."
"And a letter," Miriam said in tones of deep foreboding. "A letter sealed with
... what? Ink? Wax? Something like that, some kind of seal ring?"
"No, sealed with the stamps of Thorold and Hjorth. It is a disgusting trick."
"I'll say." Miriam whistled tunelessly. "Would you believe me if I said that I
don't have—and have never seen—any such stamp? I don't even know who my braid
are, and I really ought to, because they're not going to be happy if I—" she
stopped. "Oh, of course."
" 'Of course,' what?"
"Listen, was there an open door to the roof in your apartment last night? After
you killed him? I mean, a door he came in through?"
Olga's eyes narrowed. "What if there was?"
"Yesterday I world-walked from my room to the other side," said Miriam. "This
house is supposed to be doppelgangered, but there is no security on the other
side of my quarters. Anyone who can world-walk could come in. Later,
Brilliana and I found an open door leading to the roof."
"Ah." Olga glanced around, taking in whatever was behind Miriam. "Let's walk,"
she said. "Perhaps I should apologize to you. You have further thoughts on die
matter?"
"Yes." Miriam followed Olga, still apprehensive, knees weak with relief. "My
question is: Who profits? I don't have a braid seal, I didn't even know such a
thing existed until you told me, but it seems clear that others in my braid
would benefit if you killed me. Or if that failed, if I was deprived of a friend
in circumstances bound to create a scandal of monstrous proportions around me,
it certainly wouldn't harm them. If you can think of someone who would also
benefit if you were split apart from your impending alliance—" She bit her
tongue, but it was too late.
"About Roland," Olga said quietly.
"Uh. Yes."
"Do you really love him?" she asked.
"Um." Tongue-tied, Miriam tried to muster her shredded integrity. "I think so."
"Well, then!" Olga smiled brightly. "If the two of you would please conspire to
convince your uncle to amend his plans for me, it would simplify my life
considerably." She shook her head. "I'd rather marry a rock. Is he good in bed?"
Miriam coughed violently into her fist. "What would you know about—"
"Do you think I'm completely stupid?" Olga shook her head. "I know you are a
dowager, you have no guardian, and you are competent in law. You have nothing to
lose by such intrigues. It would be naive to expect you to abstain. But the
situation is different for me. I have not my majority until marriage, and upon
marriage I lose my independence. Isn't that an unpleasant paradox?"
"I don't understand you people," Miriam muttered, "but I figure your inheritance
and marriage law is seriously screwed. Rape as a tool of financial intrigue—it's
disgusting!"
"So we agree on one thing." Olga nodded. "What do you think could be behind
this?"
"Well. Someone who doesn't like me—obviously." She
began ticking off points on her fingers. "Someone who holds you in contempt,
too, or who actively wants you out of the way. By the way, what would have
happened to you if you had shot me?"
"What?" Olga shrugged carelessly. "Oh, they'd have hanged me, I suppose," she
said. "Why?"
"Let's see. We have Item Two: someone who has it in for you as well as me. We
all centre around—" something nagged at her for attention— "No, it's not there
yet. Well, Item Three is my unsecured apartment. That we can blame on Baron
Oliver, huh? Someone took advantage of it to get their cat's-paw into place by
way of the roof, I think that's clear enough. I got Brilliana to lock and bolt
the inner apartment—which is doppelgangered—last night, when I realized the roof
door was open onto areas that aren't secured on the other side. Maybe their
first objective was to shoot me in my sleep, and they turned to you as a second
target when that failed. By attacking you they could either convince you that I
was to blame—you shoot me, they win—or they could deprive me of an ally— you—and
perhaps turn others against me. Do you think they believe Roland would think I'd
do such a thing to you?"
Olga clutched her arm. "That's it," she said calmly. "If they didn't know about
you and Roland, they would believe him to be set on me as his prize. It would be
a most normal reaction to be enraged at anyone who ordered his bride-to-be raped
away by night. Out of such actions blood feuds are born." Her fingers dug into
Miriam's arm. "You would swear to me you had no hand in it?"
"Olga. Do you really believe I'd pay some man to rape my worst enemy? As opposed
to simply shooting her and having done with the matter?"
Olga slowly relaxed. "If you were not raised over there, I might think so. But
your ways are so charmingly informal that I find it hard to believe you would be
so cruel. Or devious."
"I don't know. The longer I spend here, the more paranoid I become." Miriam
shuddered. "Is there any risk of some asshole trying to rape me for my presumed
riches?"
"Not if you're a guest of someone who cares what hap-
pens on their estate, such as the duke. Even at other times, you are only at
risk if your guards fail you, and your guardian is willing to accept
maidenprice," said Olga. "As you are of age and able to act as your own
guardian, I don't think that situation is likely to arise—an adventurer who took
you against your will could expect to go to the gallows. But you do have guards,
don't you, just in case?" She looked anxious. "They're very discreet, wherever
they're hiding!" A frown crossed her face. "Assuming the Baron hasn't managed to
make sure the orders assigning a detachment to your household haven't been
lost..."
"No shit," Miriam said shakily as they climbed the steps toward the entrance,
looking around at the same time for signs of Brilliana. "I must congratulate
them on their scarcity. When I find out who they are and where they live."
The snow was falling thick and fast outside, from a sky the colour of leaden
tiles. The temperature was dropping, a blizzard in the making. "You must come up
to my receiving room for tea," Olga insisted, and Miriam found herself unable to
decline. Brilliana hurried alongside them as they re-entered the barely heated
corridors of the palace, ascending through a bewildering maze of passages and
stairs to reach Olga's private rooms.
Olga had left her guards behind. She wanted no witnesses to our little
contretemps, Miriam thought with a cold chill. Now she berated them as she
entered her outer reception room, four strapping tall men in household livery
worn with cuirasses, swords, and automatic weapons. "Come in, be welcome, sit
you down," Olga insisted, gesturing toward a circle of sofas being moved hastily
into place by a bevy of servants. Miriam accepted gratefully, placing Brilliana
at her left, and presently Olga's own ladies-in-waiting shepherded in a small
company of servants bearing side tables, a silver samovar, and sweetmeats on
trays. With the blazing fireplace, it was almost possible to forget the
gathering storm outside.
Now that Olga's fury at Miriam had been diverted toward a different target, she
overcompensated, attempting to prove herself a charming hostess by heaping every
consideration upon Miriam in a way that Miriam found more than a bit creepy
after her earlier rage. Maybe it was just a guilt reaction, Miriam speculated,
but it left her feeling very relieved that Olga didn't share her interest in
Roland. They were well into a second pot of tea, with Miriam eavesdropping on
the Lady Aris's snide comments about the members of this or that social set at
court, when there was a polite announcement at the door. "Courier for Madame
Thorold," announced Olga's steward, poking his head in. "Shall I admit him?"
"By all means." Olga sat up straight as the messenger— dripping wet and looking
chilled to the bone—entered. "My good man! What do you have for me?"
"Milady, I have been charged to deliver this into you hands," he said, dropping
to one knee and presenting a sealed envelope from a shoulder bag. Olga accepted
it, slit the wrapping, and read. She frowned. "Very well. You may tell your
master I received word and passed it on to all present here. Feel free to leave
immediately."
The messenger backed out, bowing. Olga returned to her chaise, looking
distracted. "How unfortunate," she said.
" 'Unfortunate'?" Miriam raised an eyebrow.
"Tonight's reception is postponed," Olga read, "by virtue of the unusually foul
weather. It shall in any event be held tomorrow, once arrangements have been
made for additional shelter from the elements." She glanced at the shuttered
window. "Well, I can't say I am surprised. This may be the season for storms,
but this one appears to be setting in hard." Wind howled around the shutters
outside.
"Is this normal?" Miriam asked. "To postpone events?"
"By your leave, it's not normal, my lady, but it's not unheralded." Brilliana
looked unhappy. "They may need time to move the lifeguard cavalry to other
stables, to accommodate the coaches of the visitors. Or a roof may have caved in
unexpectedly. This being the first real storm of winter, they may be hoping it
will blow itself out overnight."
"Hmm." Miriam drained her teacup. "So it'll be tomorrow night instead?"-
"Almost certainly," Olga said confidently. "It's a shame to postpone once, twice
is an embarrassment. Especially when the occasion is the return to court of his
majesty's winter sessions. And his opening of the sessions and levy of taxes
follows the next day, to be followed by a hanging-holiday."
"Well, then." Miriam nodded to herself. "Is anything at all of consequence due
to happen then?"
"Oh, a lot of drinking, and not a little eating and making merry," Olga assured
her. "It's not a greatly important event for the likes of us. Our great sessions
fall in six months, near upon Beltaigne, when alliances are discussed and braids
rededicated, and the court of families-in-Clan hear grievances and settle
treaties."
"Hmm. Well, I suppose I'd better make sure I'm around for that, too," said
Miriam, waiting for a servant to refill her cup.
Olga winked at her. "I expect you will be—if we find you some reliable
bodyguards."
Late in the afternoon, Miriam returned to her apartment— briefly.
Dismissing the servants, she called Brilliana and Kara into her bedroom. "I'm in
trouble," she said tersely.
" 'Trouble,' my lady?" asked Kara, eyes glinting.
"Someone tried to force themselves upon Lady Olga last night. Someone with gold
in their pocket and a commission bearing the seal of my braid. Which I have
never seen, so I have to take Olga's word for it." She sat down on a chest and
waited for Kara's declarations of shock to die down. Brilliana just nodded
thoughtfully.
"This room—and other parts of this suite—are not doppelgangered properly," she
continued. "On the other side, security is virtually nonexistent—until you go
fifty feet that way." She gestured at the wall. "I don't think that's an
accident. Nor was that open door last night," she added to Brilliana's
questioning look.
"What are we going to do?" asked Kara, looking frightened and younger than ever.
"What you are going to do—both of you—is tell the servants we're going to have a
quiet supper: cold cuts or a pie or something plain and simple. Then we're going
to dismiss the servants and go to bed early so we are well rested for the
morrow. After they bring our meal up and stoke the fireplace, they can leave."
She stood up and paced. "What's really going to happen, once the servants have
left is that two of Lady Olga's guards—the guards Baron Hjorth hasn't assigned
to me—are going to enter the near audience chamber through the side door."
She grinned at Brilliana's surprise. "You will put on your cloaks and go where
they lead you, which will be straight to Lady Olga's rooms, where you will be
able to sleep safe and warm until it's time to come back here, in the morning."
"And you, my lady?" asked Kara, searching her face. "You can't spend the night
alone here!"
"She doesn't intend to," Brill said tersely. "Do you?"
"Correct." Miriam waited.
"You're going to go over there," Brilliana added. "How I'd like to follow you!"
"You can't, yet," Miriam said bluntly. "Someone is conspiring against me. I am
going to have to move fast and be inconspicuous. On the other side, there is a
teeming city with many people and strange customs. I can't risk you attracting
attention while I'm on the run." She raised a finger to anticipate Brilliana's
objection. "I'll take you along later, I promise. But not this time. Do you
understand?"
"Yes." Brill muttered something under her breath. Miriam pretended not to
notice.
"That's it, then. If someone comes calling in the night, all they'll find are
beds stuffed with pillows: You'll be elsewhere. On the other side, the fewer
people who know where I'm going, the safer I'll be. I'll meet you back here
tomorrow afternoon, and we'll decide what to do then, depending on whether the
opening of the court of winter sessions is going ahead or not. Any last
questions?"
It was snowing in New York, too, but nothing like the blizzard that had dumped
two feet of snow on Neijwein in a day. Miriam met nobody in the warehouse. At
the top of the stairs she paused. What was that trick? She wondered, racking her
brains. A flashback to the training course, years ago: It had been a giggle at
the time, spy tradecraft stuff for journalists who were afraid of having their
hotel rooms burgled in Krygistan or wherever. But now it came back to her.
Kneeling, she tied a piece of black cotton sewing thread from the wall to the
handrail, secured with a needle. It was invisible in the twilight. If it was
gone when she returned, that would tell her something.
On this trip, she wore her hiking gear and towed her suitcase. With street map
in hand, she wanted to give the impression of being a tourist from out of state
who'd wandered into the wrong part of town. Maybe that was why a taxi pulled up
almost as soon as she emerged from the back street, while her phone was still
chirping its voice mail alert.
"The Marriott Marquis, Times Square," she told the driver. Head pounding, she
hit the "mail" button and clamped the phone to her ear.
"Marriott Marquis, room 2412, continuously booked for the whole week in the name
of Mr. and Mrs. Roland Dorchester. Just ask at the front desk and they'll give
you a key."
Thank you, she thought, pocketing the phone and blinking back tears of relief.
The taxi took her straight to the main entrance and a bellboy was on hand to
help her with her suitcase. She headed straight to the front desk.
"Mrs. Dorchester? Yes, ma'am, I have your card-key here, [f you'd like to sign
..."
Miriam did a little double-take, then scrawled something that she hoped she'd be
able to replicate on demand. Then she took the keys and headed for the elevator
bank.
She was inside the glass-walled express elevator, and it was surging up from the
third floor in a long glide toward the
top, when a horrible thought occurred to her. What if they've got to Roland? she
wondered. After he booked the hotel. They could be waiting for me.
It was a frightening thought, and Miriam instinctively reached toward her
pocket. How the hell do you do this? Suddenly it occurred to her that the little
revolver was as much of a threat as an asset in this kind of situation. If she
went through the door and some bad guy was just inside, he could grab her before
she had a chance to use it. Or grab the gun. And she was more than twenty
stories up, high enough that— she looked out and down through the glass wall of
the lift and took a deep breath of relief. "Oh, that's okay," she muttered, as
the obvious explanation occurred to her just before the lift bell dinged for
attention: Skyscrapers didn't need doppelgangering against attack from another
world where concrete and structural steel were barely known.
Miriam stepped out into the thickly carpeted hallway and stopped. Pulling out
her mobile phone, she dialled Roland's number. It rang three times.
"Hello?"
"Roland, what happens if you're on the twenty-fourth floor of a tall building,
say a hotel, and—" quick glance in either direction—"you try to world-walk?"
"You don't do that." He chucked dryly. "That's why I chose it. I wasn't
expecting you so soon. Come right on up?"
"Sure," she said and rang off, abruptly dizzy with relief and anticipation.
/ hope this works out, she thought, dry-swallowing as she walked down the
corridor, hunting for room 2412. Hell, we hardly know each other—
She reached the door. All her other options had run out. She put the card in the
slot and turned the handle.
Three hours later they came up for air. The bedding was a tangled mess, half the
fluffy white towels were on the bathroom floor and the carpet was a wasteland of
discarded clothing—but it had worked out.
"I have missed you so much," she murmured in his ear, then leaned close to
nibble at his lobe.
"That makes two of us." He heaved up a little, bracing against the bed head,
turning to look at her. "You're beautiful."
"I bet you say that to every naked woman you wake up in bed with," she replied,
laughing.
"No," he said, in all seriousness, before he realized what he'd done. Then he
turned bright red. "I mean—"
He was too late. Miriam pounced. "Got you," she giggled, holding him down. Then
she subsided on top of him. "Like that?" she asked. "Or this?"
"Oh." He rolled his eyes. "Please. A few minutes?"
"Frail male reed!"
"Guilty, I'm afraid." He wrapped an arm around her. "What's with the early
appearance? I thought there was supposed to be a reception this evening?"
"There was, past tense." Miriam explained about the cancellation.
"So you came over early, just in case I was here?"
"No." She felt very sober, all of a sudden, even though they hadn't been
drinking—and felt the need to remedy the condition, too.
"Why, then? I thought you were sticking with the program?"
"Not when people try to kill me twice in one day."
"What?" His arms tensed and he began to sit up.
"No, no—lie down. Relax. They can't come through here and I took steps to throw
off the trail." She kissed him, again, tasted the sweat of their lovemaking.
"Wow. What did I do to deserve someone like you?"
"You were really, really wicked in a previous life?"
"Nonsense!"
"The killers." She'd broken the magic, she realized with a sense of desolation.
"They won't follow us here, but there's a lot to tell," she said. "How about we
dig a bottle out of the minibar and have a bath or something while I tell you?"
"I think we can do better than that," he said with a glint in his eye. He
reached for the bedside phone. "Room service,
please. Yes? It's room 2412. Can you send up the item I ordered earlier? Leave
it outside."
"Huh?" She raised her eyebrows.
"My surprise." He looked smug.
"I thought / was your surprise." He'd been surprised enough when she came
through the door—but he'd kissed her, and one thing led to another, and they
hadn't even made it as far as the bed the first time. Now she sat up on the
rumpled sheets, brushing one hand up and down his thigh and watching his face.
"About your uncle's plans. What do you think Olga makes of them?"
Roland looked pained. "She doesn't get a say in it. She's a naive little dutiful
contessa who'll do as Angbard tells her parents to tell her."
"If that's what you and Angbard think, you may be in for a nasty surprise."
Miriam watched him carefully. "You don't know her very well, do you?"
"I've met her a time or two," he said, slightly puzzled.
"Well, I have just spent several days in her company and that little minx may be
young and naive, but she isn't dumb. In fact, it's lucky for me she's smart and
doesn't want to marry you any more than you want her—otherwise I wouldn't be
here now."
"What—"
"She nearly shot me."
"Holy Crone Wife! What happened!!"
"Let go! You're hurting—"
"Sorry." He sat up and gently put an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry. You
caught me by surprise. Tell me all about it. Everything. Don't leave anything
out. My gods—I am so glad you're here and safe now." He hugged her. "Tell me
everything. In your own time."
'Time is the one thing I don't think we've got." She leaned against him.
"Someone sent Olga an unwelcome gift—a rape-o-gram. Luckily for me, but
unluckily for the thug concerned, Olga's childlike enthusiasms include
embroidery, violins, haute couture, and semiautomatic weapons. She found a
commission in his back pocket, with my seal on it and a purse of
coin sufficient to pay the kind of maidenprice Oliver might ask for someone he
really didn't like much. Roland, I didn't even know I had a seal."
" 'A seal.'" He looked away just as someone knocked on the door. Miriam jumped.
"I'll get it—"
"No! Wait!" Miriam scrabbled for her jacket, fumbled in its pockets. "Okay, now
you can open the door. When I'm out of sight."
Roland glanced at her as he tied his bathrobe. "It's only room service, isn't
it?"
"I'm not taking any chances." She crouched against the wall around the corner
from the door, pistol cradled in both hands.
"Will you give that up? If it's the DEA, we have very expensive lawyers who'll
have us both out on bail in about thirty microseconds."
"It's not the DEA I'm worried about," she said through gritted teeth. "It's my
long-lost family."
"Well, if you put it that way ..." Roland opened the door. Miriam tensed. "Thank
you," she heard him tell someone. "That's great, if you could leave it just
here." A moment later, she heard the door close, then a squeaking of wheels.
Roland appeared, pushing a trolley upon which sat an ice bucket with a bottle of
something poking out of it.
"This is your surprise?" she asked, lowering the gun.
He nodded. "You are on edge," he observed. "Listen, do you want me to chain the
door and hang out a 'Do Not Disturb' sign?"
"I think that would be a good start." She was shivering. Worse, she had no idea
where it had come from. "I'm not used to people trying to shoot me, love. It's
not the kind of thing that normally happens to a journalist, unless you're a war
correspondent."
She put the gun down on the bedside table.
"Listen, Chateau Rothschild '98. Sound all right to you?" He brandished the
bottle.
"Sounds perfect. Open it now, dammit, I need a drink!"
He peered at her. "You do, at that," he said. "One moment..." He popped the
cork carefully, then slowly filled two fluted glasses, taking care not to spray
the champagne everywhere. He passed her a glass, then raised his own. 'To your
very good health."
'To us—and the future." She took a sip. "Whatever the hell that means."
"You were telling me about Olga."
"Olga and I had a little conversation at cross-purposes. She was raised to never
unintentionally cause offence, so she gave me time to confess before she shot
me. Luckily, I confessed to the wrong crime. Did you know that you're an, uh,
'dried-up prematurely middle-aged sack of mannered stupidity'? She doesn't want
to marry you—trust me on this."
"Well, it's mutual." Roland sat in the chair opposite the end of the bed,
looking disturbed. "Have you any idea how the man got into her apartments?"
"Yup. Through my own, by way of the roof. Turns out that the rooms Baron Oliver
assigned me aren't doppelgangered— or rather they are, but the location on this
side is unprotected. And aren't I supposed to have bodyguards or something?
Anyway, that's why I came here. I figured it was safer than spending the night
in an apartment that has a neon sign on the door saying assassins this way, with
cousins next door who seem to have opened a betting pool on my life expectancy."
"Someone tried to rape Olga?" Roland shook his head. "That doesn't make sense to
me."
"It does if I was their first target and they meant to kill me, but couldn't get
at me directly: it was a contingency plan, to set up a blood feud between us."
Briefly, she told him about the open staircase, and her instructions to lock and
bolt all the doors on the inside. "I don't feel safe there, I really don't."
"Hmm." He took a mouthful of wine. "I don't know." He looked thoughtful rather
than shocked. "I can eliminate some suspects, but not everybody." He glanced up
at her, worry writ large across his face. "First, it's not official. It's
family, not Clan business. If it was the Clan, they'd have sent soldiers. You've
seen what we've got over here." She nodded. "Our enforcement teams—you don't
bother resisting.
They're better armed, better trained, and better paid than the FBI's own
specialist counterterrorism units."
"Well, I guessed that much," she said.
"Yes. Anyway, for seconds it's too damned blatant—and that's worrying. Whoever
did it is out of control. Oliver Hjorth might dislike you and feel threatened,
but he wouldn't try to kill you in his own house. Not offering you a guard of
honour is another matter, but to be implicated—no." He shook his head. "As for
Olga, that's very disturbing. It sounds as if someone set her up to kill you or
cause a scandal that would isolate you—one or the other. And you are probably
right about being the intruder's first target. That means it's an insider—and
that's the frightening part. Someone who knows that you don't know the families
well, that you can be cut apart from the pack and isolated, that you are
unguarded. Someone like that, who is acting like they're out of control. A
rogue, in other words."
"Well, no shit, Sherlock." She drained her glass and refilled it. "Y'know
something? One of these days we may eventually make an investigative journalist
out of you."
"In your dreams—I'm a development economist." He frowned at the floor in front
of her feet, as if it concealed an answer. "Let's start from where we are.
You've told Olga about us. That means if we're lucky she doesn't tell Angbard.
If she does, if Olga tells him about us, he could—do you have any idea what he
could do?"
"What?" She shook her head. "Listen, Roland, I didn't grow up under the Clan's
thumb. Thinking this way is alien to me. I don't really give a flying fuck what
Angbard thinks. If I behave the way they seem to expect me to, I will be dead
before the week is out. And if I survive, things won't be much better for me.
The Clan is way out of date and overdue for a dose of compulsory modernization,
both at the business level and the personal. If the masked maniac doesn't
succeed in murdering me, the Clan will expect me to go live like a medieval
noble lady—fuck that! I'm not going to do it. I'll live with the consequences
later."
"You're—" he swallowed. "Miriam." He held out his arms
to her. "You're strong, but you don't know what you're talking about. I've been
trying to resist the pressure for years. It doesn't work. The Clan will get you
to do what they want you to do in the end. I spent years trying to get them to
do something—land reform on their estates, educating the peasants, laying the
groundwork for industrialization. All I got was shit. There are deeply
entrenched political groupings within the Clan who don't want to see any
modernization, because it threatens their own source of power—access to imported
goods. And outside the Clan, there are the traditional nobility, not to mention
the Crown, who are just waiting for the Clan nobility to make a misstep.
Jealousy is a strong motivating force, especially among the recently rich. If
Angbard hadn't stood up for me, I'd have had my estate forfeited. I might even
have been declared outlaw—don't you see?" There was anguish in his eyes.
"Frankly, no. What I see is a lot of frightened people, none of whom
particularly like the way things work, but all of whom think they'll lose out if
anyone else disrupts it. And you know something? They're wrong and I don't want
to be part of that. You've been telling me that I can't escape the Clan, and I'm
afraid you're right—you've convinced me— but that only means I've got to change
things. To carve out a niche I can live with." She stood up and walked toward
him. "I don't like the way the families live like royalty in a squalid mess that
doesn't even have indoor plumbing. I don't like the way their law values people
by how they can breed and treats women like chattels. I don't like the way the
outer family feel the need to defend the status quo in order to keep from being
kicked in the teeth by the inner families. The whole country is ripe for
modernization on a massive scale, and the Clan actually has the muscle to do
that, if they'd just realize it. I don't like the dehumanizing poverty the
ordinary people have to live with, and I don't like the way the crazy fucked-up
feudal inheritance laws turn an accident of birth into an excuse for rape and
murder. But most of all, I don't like what they've done to you."
She leaned down and pulled him up by the shoulders,
forcing him to stand in front of her. "Look at me," she insisted. "What do you
see?"
Roland looked up at her sceptically. "Do you really think you can take them all
on?"
"On my own?" She snorted. "I know I can," she said fiercely. "All it takes is a
handful of people who believe that things can change to start the ball rolling.
And that handful has to start somewhere! Now are you with me or against me?"
He hugged her right back, and she felt another response: He was stiffening
against her, through his robe. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in
years. If ever. I don't want to lose you."^
"Me too, love."
"But how do you think you're going to make it work?" he asked. "And stop
whoever's trying to kill you."
"Oh, that." She leaned into his arms, letting him pull her back in the direction
of the bed. "That's going to be easy. When you strip away the breeding program,
the Clan is a business, right? Family-owned partnership, private shareholdings.
Policy is set at annual meetings twice a year, next one at Beltaigne, that sort
of thing."
"So?" He looked distracted, so she stopped fumbling at his belt for a moment.
"Well." She leaned her chin against the hollow of his neck, licked his pulse
spot slowly. "It may have escaped your attention, but I am an expert in one
particular field— I've spent years studying it, and I think I probably know more
about it than anyone else in the family. The Clan is an old-fashioned unlimited-
liability partnership, with a dose of family politics thrown in. The business
structure itself is a classic variation on import/export trade, but it's cash-
rich enough to support a transition to some other model. All I need is a lever
and an appropriate fulcrum and then a direction to make them move in. Business
restructuring, baby, that's where it's at. A whole new business model. The lever
we need is one that will convince them that they have more to lose by not
changing than by sticking with the status quo.
Once we're in the driver's seat, nobody is going to tell us we can't shack up on
this side and live the way we want to."
He lifted her off her feet and lay down beside her. "What leverage do you need?"
he asked alertly. "I spent years looking and didn't find anything that
powerful..."
"It's going to be something convincing." She smiled hungrily up at him. "And
they'll never know what hit them. We need to establish a power base by
Beltaigne. A pilot project that demonstrates massive potential for making money
in some way that relies on the Clan talent without falling into the classic
mercantilist traps. It'll make me worth much more to them alive than dead, and
it'll give us the beginning of a platform to recruit like-minded people and
start building." She looked pensive. "A skunk works within an established
corporation, designed to introduce new ways of thinking and pioneer new business
opportunities. I've written up enough stories about them—I just never thought
I'd be setting one up myself."
She stopped talking. There'd be time to work out the details later.
Miriam dozed fitfully, unable to relax her grip on consciousness. She kept
turning events over in her mind, wondering what she could have done
differently. If there was anything in the past two weeks that she could have
changed, what might have come of it? She might not have accepted the pink and
green shoebox. She wouldn't be in this mess at all.
But she wouldn't have met Brill, or Roland, or Angbard, or Olga, or the rest of
the menagerie of Clan connections who were so insistently cluttering up her
hitherto-straightforward family life with politics and feuds and grudges and
everything else that went with the Clan. Her life would be simpler, emptier,
more predictable, and safer, she thought sleepily. With nobody trying to exploit
me because of who I am.
Who I am? She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Is it me
they're after or someone else? She wondered. If only I could ask my mother. Not
the mother who'd loved her and raised her, not Iris—the other one, the faceless
woman who'd died before she'd had a chance to remember her. The woman who'd
borne her and been murdered, her only legacy a mess of—
She glanced sideways. Roland was asleep next to her, his face smooth and
relaxed, free of worry. I've gone from being completely independent to this in
just two weeks. Never mind Brill and Kara back in the palace, the weight of
Angbard's expectations, the Clan's politics ... Miriam wasn't used to having to
think about other people when planning her moves, not since the divorce from
Ben.
She glanced at the alarm clock. It was coming up to seven o'clock—too late to go
back to sleep. She leaned over toward Roland's ear. "Wake up, sleepyhead," she
whispered.
Roland mumbled something into the pillow. His eyelids twitched.
"Time to be getting up," she repeated.
He opened his eyes, then yawned. "I hate morning people," he said, looking at
her slyly.
"I'm not a morning person, I just do my best worrying when I should be asleep."
She took a deep breath. I'm going to have to go find that lever to move the
Clan," she told him. "The one we were talking about last night. While that's
going on, unless we can find out who's really got it in for me, we may not be
able to meet up very often."
"We can't talk about this publicly," he said. "Even if Olga keeps her mouth
shut—"
"No." She kissed him. "Damn, I feel like they're all watching us from behind the
bed!"
"What are you going to do today?" he asked diplomatically.
"Well." She rolled up against him. "First, we're going to order breakfast from
room service. Then you're going to go and do whatever it is that Angbard expects
of you this morning. If you come back here, I'll probably be gone, because I've
got some research to do and some stuff to buy. There's someone I've hired—" he
raised an eyebrow— "Yes, I've established a pattern of drawing out cash against
that card, for as long as it'll hold out. I'm paying a friend who I trust,
implicitly, to keep an eye out for me. I'm not going to tell you
any more about it because the fewer people who know, the better. But when you
come back to this room, even if I'm not here, you'll find a prepaid new mobile
phone. From time to time, I want you to check for voice mail. Only three people
will know the number—you, me, and my employee. It's for emergencies only.
There'll be a single number programmed into it, and that's for me—again, I'll
only check for voice mail occasionally. I figure if I can't even hide a mobile
phone, there won't be anything you can do to help."
"So you're going away," he said. "But are you going back to court or are you
going underground?"
"I'm going back to face the music," she replied. "At least for this evening, I
need to be seen. But I'm going to hole up on this side at night, at least until
I can find a safely doppelgangered room or figure out who's after me. And then—"
she shrugged. "Well, I'll have to play it by ear. For now, I'm thinking about
setting up a new startup venture, in the import/export field."
"That's not safe—they'll kill you if they find out! Clan business ventures are
really tightly controlled. If you splinter off, they'll assume you're setting up
as a rival."
"Not if I do it right," she said confidently. "It's a matter of finding a new
business model that hasn't occurred to any of them. Then get it going and deal
the Clan shareholders in before they know what's happening. If I can finesse it,
they'll have a vested interest in seeing me succeed."
"But that's—" Roland was at a loss for words. "A new business? There is no scope
for anything new! Nobody's come up with a new trade since the 1940s, when the
drug thing began taking over from gold and hot goods. I was thinking you were
going to try and do something like bootstrap reforms on your own estate, not—"
"That's because you're thinking about it all wrong." She reached out and touched
his nose. "So are they. You did the postgraduate research thing," she said.
"Economic history, right?"
"Right. What's that got to do with it?"
"Well. The family business structure is kind of primitive,
isn't it? So you went looking for a way to modernize it, didn't you? Using
historical models."
"Yes. But I still don't see—"
"Historical models are the wrong kind. Look at me. They tried to train you up to
improve things, but there's not a lot you can do when the management tree is
defined by birth, is there?"
"Correct." He looked frustrated. "I did some work on this side, cutting
overheads and reorganizing, but there's stuff I couldn't touch—I just wasn't
allowed anywhere near it, in fact. There's no easy way to apply the European
model in the Gruinmarkt. No investment banking infrastructure, no limited
liability, all property rights ultimately devolve to the king—it's straight out
of the late-feudal period. Lots of really competent, smart people who are never
going anywhere because they can't world-walk and lots of time-wasting prima
donnas who are basically content to serve as couriers on a million-dollar
salary." He caught her eye and flushed.
"Whether I approve or not doesn't matter, does it?" she said tartly. "The
families are dependent on drug money and weaning them off it will be a huge job.
But I'd like you to think on this. You said that their company structure is
basically fifteenth- or sixteenth-century. They're still stuck in a mercantilist
mode of thinking— 'What can I take from these other guys and sell at a profit?',
rather than ways of generating added value directly. I am absolutely certain
that there is a better way of running things—and one that doesn't run the risk
of bringing the FBI and DEA and CIA down on everybody's heads—some way that lets
us generate value directly by world-walking. It's just a matter of spotting it."
"The legality of the Clan's current business isn't a problem, at least not from
the commercial point of view; I think we spend a couple of hundred million a
year on security because of it." He shrugged. "But what can we do? We're limited
to high-value commodities because there's a limit to how much we can ship. Look,
there are roughly three hundred active inner family members who can shuttle
between
the worlds, five days on and five days off. Each of us can carry an average of a
hundred pounds each way. That means we can shift three-quarters of a ton each
way, each day. But maybe half of that is taken up by luxury items or stuff we
need just to keep sane. There's the formal personal allowance. So we really only
have a little over a third of a ton per day—to fund an entire ruling class! The
fixtures and fittings in Fort Lofstrom alone amount to a year's gross product
for the family. That'd be, in U.S. dollar terms, several billion. Wouldn't it?"
"So what? Isn't it a bit of a challenge to try and figure out a better way of
using this scarce resource—our ability to ship stuff back and forth?"
"But two and a half tons a week—"
"Suppose you were shipping that into orbit, instead of to a world where the
roads are dirt tracks and the plumbing doesn't flush. It doesn't sound very
impressive, but that's about the payload to orbit capacity of Arianespace, or
NPO-Energiya, or Boeing-Sealaunch." Miriam crossed her arms. "All of whom make
billions a year on top of it. There are high-value, low-weight commodities other
than drugs. Take saffron, for example, a spice that's worth three times its
weight in gold. Or gold, for that matter. You said they used to smuggle gold,
back when bullion was a government monopoly. If you can barter your aristocratic
credentials for military power, you can use modern geophysics-based prospecting
techniques to locate and conquer gold-mining areas. A single courier can carry
maybe a million dollars' worth of gold from the other side over here in a day,
right?"
Roland shook his head. "First, we have transport problems. The nearest really
big gold fields are in California, the Outer Kingdom. Which is a couple of
months away, as the mule train plods, and assuming the Comanche or the Apache
don't murder you along the way. Remember, M-16s give our guards a quality edge,
but quantity has a quality all of its own and ten guards—or even a hundred—
aren't much use against an army. Other than that, there're the deposits in South
Africa, the white man's graveyard. Do I need to say
any more about that? It'd take us years to get that kind of pipeline running,
before we had any kind of return on investment to show the families. It's very
expensive. Plus, it'd be deflationary over here. As soon as we start pumping
cheap gold onto the market, the price of bullion will fall. Or have you spotted
something all of the rest of us have been missing for fifty years? When I was
younger, I thought I might be able to change things. But it's not that simple."
She shrugged. "Sure it's hard, and in the long term it'd be deflationary, but in
the long run we're all dead anyway. What I'm thinking is: We need to break the
deadlock in the Clan's thinking wide open. Come up with a new business model,
not one the existing Clan grandees have seen before. Doesn't matter if it isn't
very lucrative at first, as long as it can fund textbooks—going the other way—
and wheelbarrows. While we wean the families off their drug dependency problem,
we need to develop the Gruinmarkt. Right now, the Clan could implode like that—"
she snapped her fingers— "if Congress cancelled the war on drugs, for example.
The price would fall by a factor of a hundred—overnight—and you'd be competing
against pharmaceutical companies instead of bandits. And it's going to happen
sooner or later. Look at the Europeans: Half of them have decriminalized
marijuana already and some of them are even talking about legalizing heroin.
Basing your business on a mercantilist approach to transhipping a single
commodity is risky as hell."
"That would be bad, I agree." He looked grave. "In fact—" his eyes unfocused, he
stared into the middle distance— "Sky Father, it could trigger a revolution! If
the Clan suddenly lost its supply of luxury items—or antibiotics—we'd be
screwed. It's amazing how much leverage you can buy by ensuring the heir to a
duchy somewhere doesn't die of pneumonia or that some countess doesn't succumb
to childbed fever."
"Yeah." Miriam began collecting her scattered clothes. "But it doesn't have to
go that way. I figure with their social standing the Clan could push
industrialization and development policies that would drag the whole Gruinmarkt
into the
nineteenth century within a couple of generations, and a little later it would
be able to export stuff that people over here would actually want to buy. Land
reform and tools to boost agricultural efficiency, set up schools, build steel
mills, and start using the local oil reserves in Pennsylvania—it could work. The
Gruinmarkt could bootstrap into the kind of maritime power the British Empire
was, back in the Victorian period. As the only people able to travel back and
forth freely, we'd be in an amazing position—-a natural monopoly! The question
is: How do we get there from here?"
Roland watched her pull her pants on. "That's a lot to think about," he said
doubtfully. "Not that I'm saying it can't be done, but it's ... it's big."
"Are you kidding?" She flashed him a smile. "It's not just big, it's enormous!
It's the biggest goddamned management problem anyone has ever seen. Drag an
entire planet out of the middle ages in a single generation, get the families
out of the drugs trade by giving them something productive and profitable to do
instead, give ourselves so much leverage we can dictate terms to them from on
high and make the likes of Angbard jump when we say 'hop'—isn't that something
you could really get your teeth into?"
"Yeah." He stood up and pulled open the wardrobe where he'd hung his suit the
evening before. "What you're talking about will take far more leverage than I
ever thought..." Then he grinned boyishly. "Let's do it."
Miriam went on a shopping spree, strictly cash. She bought three prepaid mobile
phones and programmed some numbers in. One of them she kept with Roland's and
Paulette's numbers in it. Another she loaded with her number and Roland's and
mailed to Paulie. The third—she thought long and hard on it, then loaded her own
number in, but not Paulette's. Blood might be thicker than water, but she was
responsible for Paulette's safety. A tiny worm of suspicion still ate at her;
she was pretty certain that Roland was telling
the truth, straight down the line, but if not, it wouldn't be the first time a
man had lied to her, and—
What the hell is this? This is the guy you 're thinking about spending the rest
of your life with—and you 're holding out on him because you don't trust him
completely? She confronted herself and answered: Yeah. If Angbard told him my
life depended on him giving Paulie away, how would I feel then?
Next she collected essential supplies. She started by pulling more cash from an
ATM. She stuffed three thousand dollars into an envelope, wrapped a handwritten
note around it, and FedExed it to Paulette's home address. It was an eccentric
way to pay an employee, but what the hell—it wasn't as if she'd set up a safe
bank account yet, was it? After posting the cash, Miriam hit on a couple of
department stores, one for spare socks (There are no washing machines in
history-land, she reminded herself) and another for some vital information. A
CD-ROM containing the details of every patent filed before 1920 went in her
pocket: She had difficulty suppressing a wild grin as she paid ten bucks for it.
With the right lever, I will move worlds, she promised herself.
She left the suitcase at the Marriott, but her new spoils went in a small
backpack. It was late afternoon before she squeezed into a cab and gave
directions back to the warehouse. / hope I'm doing the right thing, she thought,
wistfully considering the possibility of spending another night with Roland. But
he'd gone back to Cambridge, and she couldn't stay until he returned to New
York.
Yet again there was nobody to challenge her in the warehouse office. It seemed
even more deserted than usual, and a strange musty smell hung over the dusty
crates. She went upstairs, then knelt and checked for the thread she'd left
across the top step.
It was gone. "Hmm." Miriam glanced around. Nobody here now, she decided. She
walked over to the spot that was doppelgangered with her bedroom chamber, took a
deep
breath, pulled out the locket, and stared at it. The knotwork, intricate and
strange, seemed to ripple before her eyes, distorting and shimmering, forming a
pattern that she could only half-remember when she didn't have it in front of
her. Odd, it was a very simple knot—
The world twisted around Miriam and spat out a four-poster bed. Her head began
to throb at the same time. She closed the locket and looked around.
"Mistress?" It was Kara, eyes wide open. She'd been bent over Miriam's bed,
doing something.
"Yes, it's me." Miriam put her backpack down. "How did the assassination attempt
go last night?"
" 'Assassination'?" Kara looked as if she might explode. "It was horrible!
Horrible, mistress! I was so scared—"
"Tell me about it," Miriam invited. She unzipped her jacket. "Where's Brill?"
"Next door," Kara fussed. "The reception tonight! We don't have long! You'll
have to listen—"
"Whoa!" Miriam raised her hands. "Stop. We have what, three hours? I thought you
were going to brief me on who else will be there."
"Yes, my lady! But if we have to dress you as well—"
"Surely you can talk at the same time?" asked Miriam. "I'm going to find
Brilliana. I need to discuss things with her. While I'm doing that, you can get
yourself ready."
She found Brilliana in the reception room, directing a small platoon of maids
and manservants around the place. She'd already changed into a court gown. "Over
there!" she called. "No, I say, build it in front of the door, not beside it!"
She glanced at Miriam as she came in. "Oh, hello there, my lady. It's hopeless,
absolutely hopeless."
"What is?" asked Miriam.
"The instructions," said Brilliana. She sidestepped a pool of sawdust as she
approached. Miriam glanced around as she added, "They're no good at following
them. Even when I tell them exactly what I want."
"What have you been up to?" Miriam leaned against a tapestry-hung wall and
watched the artisans at work.
"You were right about the door," said Brilliana. "So I summoned a locksmith to
change the levers, and I am having this small vestibule added." She smiled,
baring teeth. "A little trap."
"I—" Miriam snapped her fingers. "Damn. I should have thought of that."
"Yes." Brilliana looked happy with herself. "You approve?"
"Yes. Tell them to continue. I want a word with you in my room." She retreated
into the relative peace and quiet of her bedroom, followed by the lady-in-
waiting. With the door shut, the noise of sawing outside was almost inaudible.
"What's the damage?"
"There were holes in your blankets—and scorch marks around them—when I checked
this morning." Despite her matter-of-fact tone, Brilliana looked slightly
shaken. "I had to send Kara away, the poor thing was so shocked."
"Well, I had a good night's sleep." Miriam glanced around the room bleakly. "But
I was right about the lack of a doppelgangered space on the other side. It's a
huge security risk. This is serious. Did anyone tell Baron Hjorth?"
"No!" Brilliana looked uncertain. "You said—"
"Good." Miriam relaxed infinitesimally. "All right. About tonight. In a while
Kara's going to come back and sort me out for the reception. In the meantime, I
need to know what I'm up against. I think I'm going to need to sleep in Lady
Olga's apartment tonight. I want to vary my pattern a bit until we find
whoever... whoever's behind this." She sat down on the end of the bed. 'Talk to
me."
"About tonight?" Brilliana caught her eye and continued. 'Tonight is the formal
ball to mark the opening of the winter session of his majesty's court tomorrow
morning. There will be members of every noble family in the capital present.
This is the session in which his majesty must assemble tribute to the emperor
beyond the ocean, so it tends to be a little subdued—nobody wants to look too
opulent—but at the same time, it's essential to be seen. To be present in
Niejwein at the beginning of winter used to mean one was snowed in, wintering
here. Noble hostages at his majesty's
pleasure. We don't do that these days, but still, it's a mark of good faith to
be seen to offer obedience and at least one older family member. Your uncle sent
word by way of his secretary that you be asked to bend the knee and pledge his
obedience, by the way."
"He did, did he?" muttered Miriam.
"Well!" Brill paced across the room in front of her. "What this means is that it
will be an assembly of some sixty families of note and their representatives and
champions." She spotted Miriam's surprised expression. "Did you think we and
ours were the sum and the end of the nobility? This is a small fraction of the
whole, but thanes and earls from distant towns and estates cannot appear at
court, and so many of them make supplication by proxy. We, the Clan families,
are merely a small fraction—but the cream."
"So there are going to be, what, several hundred people present?"
Brilliana nodded, looking very serious. "At least that," she said. "But I'll be
right behind you to remind you of anyone important."
"Whew! Lucky me." Miriam raised an eyebrow. "How long does it go on for?"
"Hmm." Brill tilted her head over to one side. "It would be rude to leave before
midnight. Are you going to be ... ?"
"This time, I don't have a three-day coach journey behind me." Miriam stood up.
And this time I'm going to do business, she added mentally. "So. What do I need
to say when greeting people, by order of rank, so as not to offend them? And
what have you and Kara decided I'm going to wear?"
This time it only took Kara and Brill an hour to dress Miriam in a midnight-blue
gown. But then they insisted on taking another hour to paint her face, put up
her hair, and hang a few kilograms of gold, silver, and precious stones off her.
At the end of the process, Miriam walked in front of the mirror (a full two feet
in diameter, clearly imported from the
other side) and took a comic double-take. "Is that me?" she asked.
"Should it not be?" Brilliana replied. Miriam glanced at her. Brilliana's outfit
looked to Miriam to be both plainer and more elegant than her own, not to
mention easier to move in. "It is a work of art," Brilliana explained, "fit for
a countess."
"Hah. 'A work of art!' And here I was, thinking I was a plain old journalist."
Miriam nodded to herself. All face, she thought. All the wealth goes on the
outside to show how rich you are. That's how they think. If you don't display
it, you ain't got it. Remember that. This outfit seemed marginally less
overblown than the last: Maybe she was getting used to local styles. "Is there,"
she asked doubtfully, "anywhere that I can put a few small items?"
"I can assign a maid to carry them, if it pleases you—" Brilliana caught her
expression. "Oh that kind of item,"
"Yes." Miriam nodded, afraid that smiling would crack her makeup.
"She could use a muff, for her hands?" suggested Kara.
"A 'muff'?" asked Miriam.
"This." Kara produced a cylindrical fur hand-warmer from somewhere. "Will it
do?"
"I think so." Miriam tried stuffing her hands in it. It had room to spare—and a
small pocket. She smiled in spite of herself. "Yes, this will do," she said. She
walked over to her day sack and fished around in it. "Dammit, this is
ridiculous—got it!" She stood up triumphantly clutching the bag and pulled out a
number of small items that she proceeded to stuff into the muffler.
"Milady?" Kara looked puzzled.
"Never go out without a spare tampon," Miriam told her. "You know, tampons?" She
blinked in surprise. "Well, maybe you don't. And a few other things." Like a
strip of beta-blocker tablets, a small bottle of painkillers, a tarnished silver
locket, a credit card wallet, and a mobile phone. That should cover most
eventualities, she told herself.
"Milady—" Kara looked even more puzzled.
"Yes, yes," Miriam said briskly. "We can go now—or as soon as you're ready,
right? Only," she held up a finger, "it occurs to me that it would be a good
idea to keep our carriage ready to return at a moment's notice. Do you
understand? Against the possibility that my mystery admirer turns up again."
"I'll see to it," said Brilliana. She looked slightly worried.
"Do so." Miriam took a deep breath. "Shall we leave now?"
Travelling by carriage seemed to involve as much preparation as a flight in a
light plane and was even less comfortable. A twenty-minute slog in a freezing
cold carriage, sandwiched between Kara and Brilliana, didn't do anything good to
Miriam's sense of tolerance and goodwill. The subsequent hour of walking across
the king's brilliantly polished parquet supporting a fixed, gracious grin and a
straight back wouldn't normally have done anything to help, either—but Miriam
had done trade shows before, and she found that if she treated this whole junket
as a fancy-dress industry event, she actually felt at home in it. Normally she'd
use a dictaphone to record her notes—a lady-in-waiting in a red gown would have
been rather obtrusive at a trade show—but the principle was the same, she
decided, getting into the spirit of things. "Is that so?" she cooed, listening
attentively to Lord Ragnr and Styl hold forth on the subject of the lobster
fishermen under his aegis. "And do they have many boats?" she asked. "What kind
do they prefer, and how many men crew them?"
"Many!" Lord Ragnr and Styl puffed up his chest until it almost overshadowed his
belly, which was proud and taut beneath a layer of sashes and diadems. "At last
census, there were two hundred fishing crofts in my isles! And all of them but
the most miserable with boats of their own."
"Yes, but what type are they?" Miriam persisted, forcing a smile.
"I'm sure they're perfectly adequate fishing boats; I
shouldn't worry on their behalf, my lady. You should come and visit one summer.
I am sure you would find the fresh sea air much to your favour after the summer
vapours of the city, and besides—" he huffed— "didn't I hear you say you were
interested in the whales?"
"Indeed." Miriam dipped her head, chalking up another dead loss—yet another
feudal drone who didn't know or wouldn't talk about the source of his own
wealth, being more interested in breeding war horses and feuding with the king's
neighbours. "May I have the pleasure of your conversation later?" she asked.
"For I see an old friend passing, and it would be rude not to say hello—"
She ducked away from Ragnr and Styl, and headed toward the next nobleman and his
son—she was beginning to learn how to spot such things—and wife. "Ambergris,
Brill, may be available from Ragnr and Styl. Make a note of that, please, I want
to follow it up later. Who's this fellow, then?"
"This is Eorl Euan of Castlerock. His wife is Susan and the son is, um, I forget
his name. Rural aristocracy, they farm and, uh, they're clients of the Lords
Arran. How do you spell Ambergris?"
Miriam advanced on Eorl Euan with a gracious smile. "My lord!" She said. "I am
sorry, but I have not been gifted with the privilege of your acquaintance
before. May I intrude upon your patience for a few minutes?"
It was, she had discovered, a surprisingly effective tactic. The manners were
different, the glitz distracting, and the products and press releases took a
radically dissimilar form—but the structure was the same. At a trade show she
was used to stalking up to a stand where some bored men and women were waiting
to fall upon such as she and tell her their business plans and their life
stories. She'd had no idea what happened at a royal court event, but evidently a
lot of provincial nobility turned up in hope of impressing all and sundry and
carving out a niche as providers of this or that— and they were as much in
search of an audience with a bright smile and a notepad as any marketing
executive, did they but know it.
"What are you doing, mistress?" Brilliana asked during one gap in the
proceedings.
"I'm learning, Brill. Observe and take notes!"
She was nodding periodically and looking seriously, as Lord Something of This
told her about Earl Other of That's infringement upon his historically
recognized deer forest in pursuit of coal in the Netherwold Mountains down the
coast, when she became aware of a growing silence around her. As Lord Something
ran down, she turned her head—and saw a posse advancing on her, led by a dowager
of fearsomely haughty aspect, perhaps eighty years old but as dry as a mummy,
with curiously drooping eyelids, two noble ladies to either side, and a train
borne by no less than three pages astern. "Ah," said the dowager. "And this is
the Countess Thorold Hjorth I have heard so much about?" she asked the younger
of her two companions, who nodded, avoiding Miriam's eyes.
Miriam turned and smiled pleasantly. "Whom do I have the honour of addressing?"
she asked. Where's Brill? She wondered. Dammit, why did she have to wander off
right now? The dowager was exuding the kind of chill Miriam associated with
cryogenic refrigerants. Or maybe her venom glands were acting up. Miriam smiled
wider, trying to look innocent and friendly.
"This is the grand dowager Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth, first of the
Thorold line, last of the Thorold Hjorth braid," announced the one who'd spoken
to the dowager.
Oh. Miriam dipped as she'd been taught: "I'm honoured to meet you," she said.
"So you should be." Miriam nearly let her smile slip at that, the first words
the duchess had spoken to her. "Without my approval, you wouldn't be here."
"Oh, really?" Her smile was becoming painful. "Well, then I am duly grateful to
you." Brilliana! Why now? Who is this dragon?
"Of course." The dowager's expression finally relaxed, from an expression of
intense disapproval into full-on contempt. "I felt the need to inspect the
pretender for myself."
'Pretender'? "Explain yourself," Miriam demanded, tensing. There must have been
something frightening about her expression: One of the ladies-in-waiting took a
step backward and the other raised a hand to her mouth. "Pretender to what?"
"Why, to the title you assume with so little preparation and polish, and manners
utterly unfitted to the role. A mere commoner from the mummer's stand, jumped up
and gussied up by Cousin Lofstrom to stake his claim." The dowager's look of
fierce indignation reminded Miriam of a captive eagle she'd once seen in a zoo.
"A pauper, dependent on the goodwill and support of others. If you were who you
claim to be, you would be of substance." Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth made
a little flicking motion, consigning her to the vacuum of social obscurity.
"Come, my—"
"Now you wait right here!" Miriam took a step forward, right into the dowager's
path. "I am not an impostor," she said, her voice pitched low and even. "I am
who I am, and if I am not here happily and of my own free will, I will not be
spoken to with contempt."
"Then how will you be spoken to?" asked the duchess, treating her to a little
acid smile that showed how highly she rated Miriam in this company.
"With the respect due my station," Miriam threw at her, "or not at all."
The dowager raised one hooded eyebrow. "Your station is a matter of debate,
child, but not for you—and it is a debate that will be settled at Beltaigne,
when I shall take great pleasure in ensuring that it is brought before the Clan
council and given the consideration it deserves. And you might wish to give some
thought to the matter of your competence, even if your identity is upheld." The
little smile was back, dripping venom: "If you joust with the elite, do not be
surprised when you are unhorsed." She turned and walked away, leaving Miriam
gaping and angry.
She was just beginning to realize she'd been outmaneuvered when Brilliana
appeared at her elbow. "Why didn't you warn me?" she hissed. "Who is that
poisonous bitch?"
Brilliana looked astonished. "But I thought you knew! That was your
grandmother."
"Oh. Oh." Miriam clapped a hand to her mouth. "I have a grandmother?"
"Yes and a—" Brilliana stopped. "You didn't know," she said slowly.
"No," Miriam said, looking at her sharply.
"Everyone says you've got the family temper," Brill let slip, then looked
shocked.
"You mean, like - that." Miriam looked at her, aghast.
"Hmm." Brill clammed up, her face as straight as a gambler with an inside flush.
"Oh look," she said, glancing behind Miriam. "Isn't that—"
Miriam glanced around, then turned, startled. "I wasn't expecting to see you
here," she said, trying to pull herself together in the aftermath of the
duchess's attack.
The duke's keeper of secrets nodded. "Neither was I, until yesterday," he said
stone-faced. He looked her up and down. "You appear to be settling in here."
"I am." Miriam paused, unsure how to continue. Matthias looked just as
intimidating in Niejwein court finery as he had in a business suit. It was like
having a tank take a pointed interest in her. "Yourself? Are you doing all
right?"
"Well enough." Matthias noticed Brilliana. "You. Please leave us, we have
important matters to discuss."
"Humph."
Brill turned and was about to leave. "Do we?" Miriam asked, pointedly. "I rather
think we can talk in front of my lady-in-waiting."
"No we can't." Matthias smiled thinly. "Go away, I said." He gestured toward the
wall, where secluded window bays, curtain-lined against the cold, provided less
risk of being overhead. "Please come with me."
Miriam followed him reluctantly. If they ever make a movie about the Clan,
they'll have to hire Schwarzenegger to play this guy, she decided. But Arnie has
a sense of humour. "What is there to talk about?" she asked quietly.
"Your uncle charged me to deliver this to you." Matthias held out a small wooden
tube, like a miniature poster holder.
"For the king, a sworn affidavit testifying to your identity." His expression
was unreadable. "I am to introduce you to his majesty on behalf of my master."
"I, uh, see." Miriam took the tube. "Any other messages?"
"Security." Matthias shook his head. "It's not so good here. I gather that Baron
Hjorth assigned you no guards? That's bad. I'll deal with it myself in the
morning." He leaned over her like a statue.
"Um." Miriam looked up at him. "Is that all?"
"No." His cheek twitched. "I have some questions for you."
"Well. Ask away." Miriam glanced around, increasingly uncomfortable with the way
Matthias had corralled her away from the crowd. "What about?"
"Your upbringing. This is important because it may help me identify who is
trying to kill you. You were adopted, I believe?"
"Yes." Miriam shrugged. "My parents—I was in care, the woman I was found with
was dead, stabbed, a Jane Doe. So when Morris and Iris went looking for a child
to adopt, I was around."
"I see." Matthias's tone was neutral. "Was your home ever burgled when you were
a child? Did anyone ever attack your parents?"
"My—no, no burglaries." Miriam shook her head. "No attacks. My father's death,
that was a hit-and-run driver. But they caught him; he was just a drunk. Random
chance."
" 'Random chance.'" Matthias sniffed. "Do not underestimate random chance."
"I don't," she said tersely. "Listen, why the third degree?"
"Because." He stared at her unblinkingly: "I take a personal interest in all
threats to Clan security."
"Bullshit. You're secretary to the duke. And a member of the outer families, I
believe?" She looked up at him. 'That puts a glass ceiling right over your head,
doesn't it? You sit in Fort Lofstrom like a spider, pulling strings, and you run
things in Boston when the duke is elsewhere, but only by proxy. Don't you? So
what's in it for you?"
"You are mistaken." Matthias's eyes glinted by candlelight. "To get here, I left
the duke's side this morning."
"Oh, I get it. Someone gave you a lift across and you caught the train."
"Yes." Matthias nodded. "And here is something else you should understand, your
ladyship. I am not of high birth. Or rather, but for an accident of heredity ...
but like many of my relatives I have reached an accommodation with the Clan." He
took her arm. "I know a little about your history. Not everyone who lives here
is entirely happy with the status quo, the way the Clan council is run. You have
a history of digging—"
"Let go of my wrist," Miriam said quietly.
"Certainly." Matthias dropped his grip. "Please accept my apologies. I did not
intend to give offence."
Miriam paused for a moment. "Accepted."
"Very well." Matthias glanced away. "Would you care to hear some advice, my
lady?"
"It depends," she said, trying to sound noncommittal, trying to stay in control.
First a hostile grandmother, now what... ? She felt slightly dizzy, punch-drunk
from too much information, much of it unwelcome. "In what spirit is the advice
offered?"
Matthias's face was as stiff and controlled as a mask. "In a spirit of friendly
solicitude and perfect altruism," he murmured.
She shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, then, I suppose I should take it in the
manner in which it is intended."
Matthias lowered his voice. "The Clan has many secrets, as you have probably
realized, and there are things here that you should avoid showing a conspicuous
interest in. In particular, the alignment of inner members, those who vote
within the council, is vulnerable to disturbance if certain proxies were
realigned. You should be careful of embarrassments; the private is public, and
you never know what seeming accidents may be taken by your enemies as proof of
your incompetence. I say this as a friend: You would do well to
find a protector—or a faction to embrace—before you become a target for the
fears of every conspirator."
"Do you know who's threatening me? Are you threatening me?" she asked.
"No and no. I am simply attempting to educate you. There are more factions here
than anyone will admit to." He shook his head. "I will visit you tomorrow and
see to your guards— if that meets with your approval. I can provide you with a
degree of protection if you choose to accept it. Do you?"
"Hah. We'll see." Miriam backed away from him, trying to cover her confusion.
She retreated back into the flood of light shed by the enormous chandeliers
overhead, back toward the torrent of faces babbling in their endless arrogant
status games and power plays, just as Brilliana came hurrying up to her. "You
have a summons!" Brill said hastily. "His royal highness would like you to
present before him."
"Present what, exactly? My hitherto-undiscovered family tree, a miracle of
fratricidal squabbles and—"
"No, your credentials." Brilliana frowned. "He gave them to you?"
Miriam held up the small scroll and examined the seal. It was similar to the one
Olga had shown her, but different in detail.
"Yes," she said, finally.
"Was that all he wanted?" Brilliana asked.
"No." Miriam shook her head. "Time for that later. You'd better take me to his
majesty."
The royal party held their space in another window bay backed by curtains and
shutters. All the cloth didn't completely block the chill that exuded from the
stonework. Miriam approached the long as she'd been shown, Brilliana—and a Kara
she'd found somewhere—in tow, and made the deepest curtsy she could manage.
"Rise," said his high majesty, Alexis Nicholau III. "I believe we have met? The
night before last?"
He smelled of stale wine and old sweat. "Yes, your majesty." She offered her
scroll to him. "This is for you."
He cracked the seal with a shaky hand, unrolled it, then nodded to himself and
handed it to a page. "Well, if you're good enough for Angbard, you're good
enough for me."
"Um. Your majesty?"
He waved vaguely at the curtains. "Angbard says you'll do, and what he says has
a habit of sticking." One of the two princes sidled up behind him, trailing a
couple of attendants. "So I've got m'self a new countess."
"It would appear so, your majesty."
"You're his heir',' said the king, relishing the last word.
Miriam's jaw dropped. "M-majesty?"
"Well, he says so," said King Alexis. "Says so right there." He stabbed a finger
at the page who held the parchment. " 'N, who d'you think really runs this
place?"
"Pardon me, please. He hadn't told me."
"Well, I'm telling you," said the king. The prince—was it Creon or Egon? She
couldn't tell them apart yet—leaned over his majesty's shoulder and stared at
her frankly. "Doesn't matter much." The king sniffed. "You won't fill that man's
shoes, girl. The man you marry might, though. If you both live long enough."
"I see," she said. The prince was clearly in his twenties, had long dark hair,
an embroidered gold blouse, and a knife at his belt that looked to be a solid
mass of gemstones. He regarded her with an expression of slack-jawed vacancy.
What is this? Miriam wondered with growing fear. Shit, I knew it! They 're
trying to set me up!
"There's one way of seeing to that," the king added. "I believe you've not been
introduced to my son Creon?"
"Delighted, absolutely delighted!" Miriam tried to smile at him. Creon nodded
back at her happily.
"Creon is long past an age to marry," the king said thoughtfully. "Of course,
whoever he took to wife would be a royal princess, you realize?" He looked down
his nose at her. "Of course anyone who would be pledged to a royal household
would need a very special dowry—" his glance was dark and full of veiled
significance—"but I believe Angbard's relatives might find the price affordable.
And the
prince would benefit from the intelligent self-interest of an understanding
wife."
"Uh-huh." She looked past the king, at Prince Creon. The prince beamed at her, a
delighted, friendly expression that was nevertheless undermined by the way he
simultaneously drooled on his collar. "I'd be delighted to meet with the prince
later, under more appropriate circumstances," she gushed. "Delighted! Of
course!" She beamed, desperately racking her brain for platitudes recovered from
a thousand and one annual shareholders' meetings gone bad. "I'd love to hear
from you, really I would, but I am still being introduced to so many fascinating
people and I owe you my full attention, it would be awful to devote less than my
full energies and attention to your son! I quite appreciate your—"
"Yes, yes, that's enough." The king beamed at her. "There's no need for
sycophancy. / have heard so much I am far beyond its reach, and he—" he nodded—
"will never be within it."
Gulp. "I see, your majesty."
"Yes, he's an idiot," King Alexis said genially. "And you're too old." Some
instinct for self-preservation made Miriam swallow an automatic protest. "But
he's my idiot, and were he to marry his child would be third in line to the
throne, at least until Egon's wife bears issue. I urge you to think on this,
young lady: Should you meet anyone suitable, I would be most interested to hear
of them. Now begone with you, to these vastly important strangers who fascinate
you so conspicuously. I won't hold it against you."
"Uh—thank you! Thank you most kindly!" Miriam fled in disarray, outmanoeuvred
for the third time this evening. Just what is it with these people? She
wondered. The king's overture was undoubtedly well-meant; just alarming and
demoralizing, for it highlighted the depths of her own inadequacy in trying to
play power politics with these sharks. The king wants to marry his son into the
Clan, and he thinks I'm a useful person to talk to? It was desperately
confusing. And why had Angbard named her his heir? That was the real question.
Without an answer, nothing else seemed to make
sense. What was he trying to achieve? Didn't it make her some kind of target?
Target.
She stopped, halfway from pillared bay to dancing floor, as if struck in the
head by a two-by-four.
"Milady Miriam? What is it?" Brilliana was tugging at her sleeve.
"Shush. I'm thinking."
Target. Thirty-two years ago someone had pursued and murdered her mother, while
she was en route to this very court to pay attendance to the king—probably
Alexis's father. During the civil war between the families, before the Clan
peace was installed. Her mother's marriage had been the peace settlement that
cemented one corner of the arrangement.
Since she'd come here, someone had tried to kill her at least twice.
Miriam thought furiously. These people hold long grudges. Are the incidents
connected? If so, it could be more than Baron Hjorth's financial machinations.
Or Matthias's mysterious factions. Or even the dowager grandmother, Duchess
Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth.
Someone ignorant of her past. Of course! If they'd known about her before, or on
the other side, she'd have been pushed under a subway train or run over by a car
or shot in a random drive-by incident long before she'd discovered the way back.
How common is it to conceal an heir? She wondered.
"Mistress, you've got to come."
"What is it?" Something about Brilliana's insistent nudging attracted Miriam's
attention. It's not me, it's something to do with who I am, she realized
vaguely, groping for the light. I'm so important to these people that they can't
conceive of me not joining in their game. It would be like the vice president
refusing to talk to the Senate. Even if I don't do anything, tell them I want to
be left alone, that would be seen as some kind of deep political game. "What's
happening?" She asked distractedly.
"It's Kara," Brill insisted. "We've got a problem."
"I'm here," she said, shaking her head, dazed by her insight. I've got to be a
politician, whether I like it or not... "What is it now?"
As it happened, Kara was somewhat the worse for wear, not to say steaming drunk.
A young Sir Nobody-in-Particular had been plying her with wine, evidently
fortified by freezing— her speech was slurred and incoherent and her hair
mussed— quite possibly with intent to climb into her clothing with her. He
hadn't got far, perhaps because Kara was more enthusiastic than discreet, but it
wasn't for want of trying. Though Kara protested her innocence, Miriam detected
more than a minor note of concern on Brill's part. "Look, I think there's a good
reason for going home," Miriam told the two of them. "Can you get into the
carriage?" she questioned Kara.
"Course I can," Kara slurred. "N'body does 't better!"
"Right." Miriam glanced at Brilliana. "Let's get her home."
"Do you want to stay, mistress?" Brilliana looked at her doubtfully.
"I want—" Miriam stopped. "What I want doesn't seem likely to make any
difference here," she said bleakly, feeling the weight of the world descend on
her shoulders. Angbard named me his heir because he wanted me to attract
whatever faction tried to kill my mother, she thought. Hildegarde takes against
me because I can't bring back, or be, her daughter, and now I've got these two
ingénues to look out for. Not to mention Roland. Roland, who might be—
"Got a message," announced Kara as they were halfway to the door.
"A message? How nice," Miriam said dryly.
"For th' mistress," Kara added. Then she focused on Miriam. "Oh!"
From between her breasts, she produced a thin scrap of paper. Miriam stuffed it
in her hand-warmer and took Kara by the arm. "Come on home, you," she insisted.
The carriage was literally freezing. Icicles dangled from the steps as they
climbed in, and the leather seats crackled as
they sat down. "Home," Brilliana told the driver. With a shake of the reins, he
set the horses to walking, their breath steaming in the frigid air. "That was
exciting!" she said. "Shame you spoiled it," she chided Kara. "What were you
arguing about with those gentles?" she asked Miriam timidly. "I've never seen
anything like it!"
"I was being put in my place by my grandmother, I think," Miriam muttered. Hands
in her warmer, she fumbled for the blister-pack of beta-blocker tablets. She
briefly brought a hand out and dry-swallowed one, along with an ibuprofen. She
had a feeling she'd be needing them soon. "What do you know about the history of
my family, Brill?" she asked.
"What, about your parents? Or your father? Families or braids?"
Miriam shut her eyes. "The civil war," she murmured. "Who started it?"
"Why—" Brilliana frowned. "The civil war? 'Tis clear enough: Wu and Hjorth
formed a compact of trade, east coast to west, at the expense of the Clan;
Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen, and Hjalmar returned the compliment, sending Andru
Arnesen west to represent them in Chang-Shi, and he was murdered on his arrival
there by a man who vanished into thin air. Clearly it was an attempt to prevent
the Clan of four from competing, so they took equivalent measures against the
gang of two. What made it worse was that some hidden members of each braid
seemed to want to keep the feud burning. Every time it looked as if the elders
were going to settle things up, a new outrage would take place—Duchess Lofstrom
abused and murdered, Count Thorold-Arnesen's steading raided and set alight."
"That's—" Miriam's eyes narrowed. "You're a Hjahnar, right?"
"Yes?" Brilliana nodded. "Why? What does it mean?"
"Just thinking," Miriam said. Left-over grudges, a faction that didn't want the
war to stop, to stop eating the Clan's guts out. She hit a brick wall. It's as
if someone from outside had stepped in, intervened to set cousins against each
other... She sat up.
"Weren't there originally seven sons of Angmar the Sly?"
"Urn, yes?" Brill looked puzzled.
"But one was lost, in the early days?"
Brill nodded. "That was Markus, or something. The first to head west to make his
fortune."
"Aha." Miriam nodded.
"Why?"
"Just thinking." Hypothesis: There is another family, outside the Clan. The Clan
don't know about them. They're not numerous, and they 're in the same
import/export trade. Won't they see the Clan as a threat? But why? Why couldn't
they simply marry back into the braids? She shook her head. / should have tried
those experiments with the photograph of the locket.
The carriage drew up at the door of the Thorold Palace, and Miriam and Brilliana
managed to get Kara out without any untoward incidents. Then Kara responded to
the cold air by stumbling to the side of the ornate portico, bending over as far
as she could, and vomiting in an ornamental planter.
"Ugh," said Brilliana. She glanced sidelong at Miriam. "This should not have
happened."
"At least the plants were dead first," Miriam reassured her. "Come on. Let's get
her inside."
"No, that's not what I meant." Brill took a deep breath. "Euen of Arnesen plied
her with fortified wine while she was out with my sight. I should have seen it,
but was myself besieged when not following your lead." She frowned. "This was
deliberate."
"You expect me to be surprised?" Miriam shook her head. "Come on. Let's get her
up to our rooms and see she doesn't— " a flashback to Matthias's warning—
"embarrass us further."
Brill helped steer Kara upstairs, and Miriam ensured that she was sat upright on
a chaise lounge, awake and complaining with a cup of tea, before she retreated
to her bedroom. She started to remove her cloak then remembered the hand-warmer,
and the message Kara had passed her. She unrolled it and read.
I have urgent news concerning the assassin who has been stalking you. Meet me in
the orangery at midnight.
Your obedient servant, Earl Roland Lofstrom
"Shit," she mumbled under her breath. "Brill!"
"Yes, Miriam?"
"Help me undress, will you?"
"What, right now? Are you going to bed?"
"Not immediately," Miriam said grimly. "Our assassin seems to have gotten tired
of trying to sneak up on me and is trying to reel me in like a fish. Only he's
made a big mistake." She turned to present her back. "Unlace me. I've got places
to go, and it'd be a shame to get blood on this gown."
Black jeans, combat boots, turtleneck, and leather jacket: a gun in her pocket
and a locket in her left hand. Miriam breathed deeply, feeling naked despite
everything. She felt as if the only thing she was wearing was a target between
her shoulder blades.
Across the room Brilliana looked worried. "Are you sure this is the right thing
to do?" she asked again. "Do you want me to come? I am trained using a pistol—"
"I'll be fine. But I may have to world-walk in a hurry." / won't be fine, Miriam
corrected herself silently: But if I don't deal with this trouble sooner or
later, they'll kill me. Won't they? And the one thing an assassin wouldn't be
expecting would be for her—not one of the Clan-raised hotheads born with her
hands on a pistol, but a reasonable, civilized journalist from a world where
that sort of thing just didn't happen—to turn on them. She hoped.
Miriam hitched her day sack into place and checked her right pocket again, the
one with the gun and a handful of spare cartridges. She didn't feel fine: There
were butterflies in her stomach. "If there's a problem, I'll stay the night on
the other side, safely out of the way. But I need to know. I
want you to wait half an hour, then take Kara around to Olga and sit things out
with her there. With your gun, and Olga, and her own guards, in a properly
doppelgangered area, you should be safe. But I don't want her tripping and
falling downstairs before we learn who gave her that note. D'you understand?
Matthias promised to sort me out some guards tomorrow, but I don't trust him. If
he's in on this—or just being watched—there'll be an attempt on my life tonight.
Except this time I think they got sloppy, expecting me to turn up for it like
it's an appointment. So I'm going to avoid it entirely."
"I understand." Brill stood up. "Good luck," she said.
"Luck has nothing to do with it." Miriam took two steps toward the door, then
pulled out her locket.
Dizziness, mild nausea, a headache that clamped around her head like a vice. She
looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed in the warehouse attic, other than
the dim light getting dimmer and the bad smell from somewhere nearby. It was
getting worse, and it reminded her of something. "Hmm."
Miriam ducked behind a wall of wooden crates, her head pounding. She pulled the
pistol out, slightly nervous at first. It was a self-cocking revolver, reliable
and infinitely reassuring in the gloom. Stay away from guns, the training course
had emphasized. But that was then, back where she was a journalist and the world
made sense to rational people. But if they're trying to kill you, you have to
kill them first, was another, older lesson from the firearms instructor her
father had sent her to. And here and now, it seemed to make more sense.
Carefully, very slowly, she inched forward over the edge of the mezzanine floor
and looked down. The ground floor of the warehouse was a maze of wooden cases
and boxes. The mobile home that constituted the site office was blocked up in
the middle of it. There was no sign of anybody about, none of the comforting
noises of habitation.
Miriam rose to a crouch and scurried down the stairs as quietly as she could.
She ducked below the stairs, then from shadow to shadow toward the door.
There was a final open stretch between the site office and the exit. Instead of
crossing it, Miriam tiptoed around the wall of the parked trailer, wrinkling her
nose at a faint, foul smell.
The site office door was open and the light inside was on. Holding her gun
behind her, she stood up rapidly and climbed the three steps to the door of the
trailer. Then she looked inside.
"Fuck!"
The stench was far worse in here, and the watchman seemed to be smiling at her.
Smiling? She turned away blindly, sticking her head out of the door, and took
deep breaths, desperately trying to get her stomach back under control.
Cultivate your professional detachment, she told herself, echoing a half-
forgotten professor's admonition from med school. Reflexes left over from
anatomy classes kicked in. She turned back to the thing that had surprised her
and began to make observations, rattled to her core but still able to function.
She'd seen worse in emergency rooms, after all.
It was the old guy she'd met with the clipboard, and he was past any
resuscitation attempt. Someone had used an extremely sharp knife to sever his
carotid artery and trachea, and continued to slice halfway through his spine
from behind. There was dried blood everywhere, huge black puddles of it splashed
over walls and floor and the paper-strewn desk, curdling in great thick viscous
lumps—the source of only some of the smell, for he'd voided his bowels at the
same time. He was still lying on top of his tumbled chair, his skin waxy and—she
reached out to touch—cold. At least twelve hours, she thought, gingerly trying
to lift an arm still locked in rigor mortis, but probably no longer. Would the
intense cold retard the processes of decay? Yes, a little bit. That would put it
before my last trip over here, but after I saw Paulette.
"Goodfellas," she whispered under her breath: It came out as an angry curse.
During her night with Roland, someone had entered the warehouse, casually
murdered the old man, climbed the stairs—breaking the hair—and then, what?
Brought the attacker who'd gone up on the roof and tried to attack Olga? Then he
came back later, crossed over to the other side, and emptied a pistol into the
dummy made of pillows lying in her bed? Gone away? Correlation does not imply
causality, she reminded herself and giggled, shocked at herself and increasingly
angry.
"What to do?" Well, the obvious thing was to use her most dangerous weapon. So
she pulled out her phone and speed-dialled Roland.
"Yeah?" He picked up at the fourth ring.
"Roland, there's a problem." She realized that she was panting, breathing way
too fast. "Let me catch my breath." She slowed down. "I'm in the warehouse on
the doppelganger side of my rooms. The night watchman's had his throat cut. He's
been dead for between twelve and thirty-six hours. And someone—did you send me a
note by way of the reception on the other side, saying to meet you in the
orangery at Palace Thorold?"
"No!" He sounded shocked. "Where are you?" She gave him the address. "Right,
I'll tell someone to get a team of cleaners around immediately. Listen, we're
wrestling alligators over here tonight. It looks like the Department of Homeland
Security has been running some traffic analysis on frequent fliers looking for
terrorists and uncovered one of our—"
"I get the message," she interrupted. "Look, my headache is that I planted a
hair across the top step when I came through last night, and it was broken when
I went back over this morning. I'm fairly sure someone from the Clan came here,
killed the watchman, headed up to the mezzanine that's on the other side of my
suite—breaking the hair—and crossed over. There was another attempt to kill me
in my suite last night, Roland. They want me dead, and there's something going
down in the palace."
"Wait there. I'll be around in person as soon as I can get unstuck from this
mess."
Miriam stared at the phone that had gone dead in her hand,   paranoid
fantasies   playing   through   her   head.
"Angbard set me up," she muttered to herself. "What if Roland's in on it?" It
was bizarre. The only way to be sure would be to go to the rendezvous, surprise
the assassin. Who had come over from this side. Yes, but if they could get into
her apartment, why bother with the silly lure?
"What if there are two groups sending assassins?" she asked the night watchman.
He grinned at her twice over. "The obvious one who is clearly a Clan member,
and, and the subtle one—"
She racked her brains for the precise number of paces from the stairs up to her
room to the back door opening into the grounds of the palace. Then she
remembered the crates laid out below. The entrance will be next door, she
realized. She jumped out of the trailer with its reek of icy death and dashed
across to the far wall of the warehouse—the one corresponding to the main
entrance vestibule of the palace. It was solid brick, with no doors. "Damn!" She
slipped around to the front door and out into the alley, then paced out the
fifty feet it would take. Then she carefully examined the next frontage.
It was a bonded warehouse. Iron bars fronted all the dust-smeared windows, and
metal shutters hid everything within from view. The front door was padlocked
heavily and looked as if nobody had opened it in years. 'This has got to be it,"
she muttered, looking up at the forbidding facade. What better way to block off
the entrance to a palace on the other side? Probably most of the rooms behind
the windows were bricked off or even filled with concrete, corresponding to the
positions of the secure spaces on the other side. But there had to be some kind
of access to the public reception area, didn't there?
Miriam moved her locket to her left hand and pulled out her pistol. "How the
hell do they do this in the movies?" she asked herself as she probed around the
chain. "Oh well." She carefully aimed the gun away from her, at the hasp of the
padlock. Then she pulled the trigger.
The crack of the gun was deafeningly loud in the night time quiet, but the lock
parted satisfyingly easily. Miriam
yanked it away, opened the bolt, and pushed the door in.
An alarm began to jangle somewhere inside the building. She jumped, but there
wasn't anything to be done about it She was standing at one end of a dusty
linoleum-floored corridor. A flick of a switch and the dim lights came on,
lighting a path into the gloom past metal gates like jail cell doors that
blocked access to rooms piled ceiling-high with large barrels. Miriam closed the
door behind her and strode down the corridor as fast as she dared, hoping
desperately that she was right about where it led. There was a reception room at
the end: cheap desks and chairs covered in dust sheets and a locked and bolted
back door. It was about the right distance, she decided. Taking a deep breath,
she raised her locket and focused on the symbol engraved inside it—
—And she was cold, and the lights were out, and her skull felt as if she'd run
headfirst into a brick wall. Snowflakes fell on her as she doubled over, trying
to prevent the intense nausea from turning into vomiting. / did that too fast,
she thought vaguely between waves of pain. Even with the beta-blockers. The
process of world-walking seemed to do horrible things to her blood pressure.
Good thing I'm not on antidepressants, she thought grimly. She forced herself to
stand up and saw that she was just in the garden behind the palace—outdoors.
Anyone trying to invade the palace by way of the doppelganger warehouse on the
other side would find themselves under the guns of the tower above—if the
defences were manned. But it was snowing tonight, and someone obviously wanted
as few witnesses around as possible ...
An iron gate in the wall behind her was the mirror image of the door to the
warehouse office. "Orangery," she muttered through gritted teeth. She slid along
the wall like a shadow, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the night. The
orangery was a familiar hump in the snow, but something was wrong. The door was
ajar, letting the precious heat (and how many servants did it take to keep that
boiler fed?) escape into the winter air.
"Well, isn't that just too cute," she whispered, tightening her grip on her
pistol.' Welcome to my parlor said the spider to the
fly, she thought. The style is all wrong. Assassin #1 breaks into my mom and
shoots up the bedding. Twice. Assassin #2 tries to bounce Olga into shooting me
for him, then sends an RSVP on an engraved card. Assassin #3 shows me an open
door. Which of these things is not like the other? She shivered—and not from the
cold: the hot rage she'd been holding back ever since she'd first been abducted
was taking hold.
The wall at this end of the orangery was of brick, and the glassy arch of the
ceiling was low, beginning only about ten feet up. Miriam gritted her teeth and
fumbled for finger and toe holds. Then she realized there was a cast-iron drain
pipe, half-buried under the snow where the wall of the orangery met the corner
of the inner garden wall. Aha. She put the pistol in her pocket and began to
climb, this time with more confidence.
On top of the wall she could look out across a corrugated sheet of whiteness—the
snow was settling on the orangery faster than the heat from below could melt it.
Leaning forward, she used her sleeve to rub a clear swathe in the glass.
Paraffin lamps shed a thin glow through the orangery, helping with the warmth
and providing enough light to see by. To Miriam's night-adapted vision it was
like a glimpse into a dim subterranean hell. She hunted around and saw, just
behind the door, a hunched shadow. And after a minute of watching—during which
time her hands began to grow numb—she saw the shadow move, shifting in position
just like a man shuffling his feet in the cold draft from outside.
"Right," she whispered tensely, feeling an intense, burning sense of hatred for
the figure on the other side, just as the door opened further and someone else
came in.
What happened then happened almost too fast to see— Miriam froze atop the
window, unable to breathe in the cold air, her head throbbing until she wondered
if she was coming down with a full-blown migraine. The shadow flowed forward
behind the person who'd entered the orangery. There was a flurry of activity,
then a body collapsed on the floor in a spreading pool of... of— Holy shit,
thought Miriam, he's killed him!
Shocked out of her angry reverie, she slid back down the drainpipe, scraping
hands and cheek on the rough stonework, and landed in a snowdrift hard enough
that it nearly knocked the breath out of her. Quick! Fumbling for her pistol,
she skidded toward the door and yanked it open. She brought the gun up in time
to see a man turning toward her. He was dressed all in black, his face covered
by a ski mask or something similar: The long knife in his hand was red with
blood as he straightened up from the body at his feet. "Stop—" Miriam called. He
didn't stop, and time telescoped in on her. Two shots in the torso, two more—
then the dry click of a hammer on a spent cartridge. The killer collapsed toward
her and Miriam shook her head and took a step back, wishing she hadn't heard the
sound of bullets striking flesh.
Time caught up with her again. "Shit!" She called out, heart lurching between
her ribs like a frightened animal. A sense of gathering wrongness overcame her,
as if what had just happened was impossible. Another old reflex caught up, and
she stepped forward. "Gurney—" she bit her tongue. There were no gurneys here,
no haemostats, no competent nurses to get the bleeding staunched and no
defibrillators— and especially no packets of plasma and operating theatres in
which to struggle for the victim's life.
She found herself an indefinite time later—probably only seconds had passed,
although it felt like hours—staring down at a spreading pool of blood around her
feet. Blood, and the body of a man, dressed from head to foot in black. A long
curve-bladed knife lay beside him. Behind him—"Mar-git!" It was Lady Margit,
Olga's chaperone. The fat lady had sung her last: There was nothing to be done.
She still twitched, and maybe a modern ER room could have done something for
her—but not here, not with a massive exsanguinating chest wound that had already
stopped pumping. Probably the dorsal aorta or a ventricle, she realized. Oh
hell. What was she doing here! For a moment, Miriam wished she believed in
something—someone—who'd look after Margit. But there wasn't time for that now.
She turned back to the assassin. He was alive—but no, that was just residual
twitching, too. She'd actually nailed him through the heart with her first two
shots, the second double-tap turning his chest into a bloody mess. There was
already a stench of excrement in the air as his bowels relaxed. She pulled back
his hood. The assassin was shaven-headed and flat-faced: He looks Chinese, she
realized with a mixture of astonishment and regret. She'd just killed a man,
but—there was a chain around his neck.
"What the fuck?" she asked through the haze of her headache and anxiety, then
she pulled out a round sealed locket, utterly unadorned and plain. "Clan." She
put it in her pocket and glanced at Margit's cooling body. "What on earth
possessed you to come down here at midnight?" she asked aloud. "Was it a message
for—" she trailed off.
They're after Olga, too, she realized, and with that realization came both a
sick fear. I have to warn Olgal
Miriam left the orangery and headed toward the palace, half-empty for the
evening with its noble residents enjoying the king's hospitality. She wouldn't
be able to world-walk from her own rooms any more, but if Brilliana was in,
they'd have a little chat. She knows more than she's saying, Miriam realized.
Slowing. What a mess. The implication was just beginning to sink in. "Wheels
within wheels," she muttered. Her hands were shaking violently and the small of
her back was icy cold with sweat from the adrenaline surge when she'd shot the
assassin. She paused, leaning against the cold outside wall of the orangery
while she tried to gather her composure. "He was here to kill me." The chill
from the wall was beginning to penetrate her jacket. She dug around in her
pocket for spare cartridges, fumbling as she reloaded the revolver. Got to find
Olga. And Brill.
And then she'd have to go undercover.
One way of looking at it was that there was a story to dig up, a story about her
long-dead mother, blood feuds, and civil war, a tale of assassins who came in
the night and drug-dealing aristocrats who would brook no rival. Just like any
other undercover investigative exposé—not that Miriam was
used to undercover jobs, but she'd be damned if she'd surrender to the editorial
whims of family politics before she broke that story all over them—at the Clan
gathering on Beltaigne night.
"Get moving, girl," she told herself as she pushed off the wall and headed back
toward the palace. "There's no time to lose..."
PART 5
RUNAWAY
The snow was falling thickly when Miriam reached the wall of the orangery, and
she was shivering despite her leather jacket. It was dark, too, in a way that no
modern city ever was—No streetlights to reflect off the clouds, she realized,
fumbling with her pocket torch. The gate was shut, and she had to tug hard to
open it. Beyond the gate, the vast width of the palace loomed out of the snow,
row upon row of shuttered windows at ground level.
"Shit," Miriam muttered in the wind. No guards, she realized. Wasn't this the
east wing, under the Thorold tower, where Olga was living? She glanced up at the
towering mass of stonework. The entrances were all round the front, but she'd
attract unwelcome attention going in. Instead she trudged over to the nearest
window casement. "Hey—"
It wasn't a shuttered window: It was a doorway, designed to blend in with the
building's rear aspect. There was a handle and a discreet bell-pull beside it.
Cursing the architectural pretensions of whoever had designed this pile, Miriam
tugged the rope. Something clanged distantly, behind the door. She stepped
sideways and steeled herself, raising her pistol with a sick sense of
anticipation in her stomach.
Rattling and creaking. A slot in the door, near eye level, squeaked as it moved
aside. "Wehr ish—" quavered a hoarse voice.
"Unlock the door and step back now," Miriam said, aiming through the slot.
"Sisch!"
"Now." A click. Two terrified eyes stared at her for a moment, then dropped
from view. Miriam kicked the door hard, feeling the impact jar through her foot.
For a miracle, the elderly caretaker had dropped the latch rather than shooting
the bolt before he ran: Instead of falling flat on her ass with a sore ankle,
Miriam found herself standing in a dark hallway facing a door opposite. Did he
understand me? She wondered. No time for that now. She darted forward, pulling
the door closed behind her as she headed for the other end of the short hall.
Then she paused. There was a narrow staircase beside her, heading up into the
recesses of the servants' side of the wing, but the old guy who'd let her in—
gardener or caretaker?—had vanished through the door into the reception room off
to one side. Right. Miriam took the stairs two at a time, rushed past the shut
doors on the first landing as lightly as she could and only paused on the second
landing.
"Where is everybody?" she whispered aloud. There should be guards, bells
ringing, whatever—she'd just barged in and instead of security all she'd
encountered was a frightened groundskeeper. The butterflies in her stomach
hadn't gone away, if anything they were stronger. Either her imagination was
working overtime or something was very wrong.
There were doors up here, doors onto cramped rooms used by the servants, but
also a side door onto the main staircase that crawled around the walls of the
tower's core, linking the suites of the noble residents. It was chilly, and the
oil lamp mounted in a wall bracket hardly lightened the shadows, but it was
enough to show Miriam which way to go. She pushed the side door open and stepped
out onto the
staircase to get her bearings. It was no brighter in the main hall: The great
chandelier was unlit and the oil lamps on each landing had been turned right
down. Still, she was just one flight of stairs below the door to Olga's
chambers. She was halfway to the landing before she noticed something wrong with
the shadows outside the entrance. The door was open. Which meant, if Brill had
gotten through in time—
Miriam crept forward. The door was ajar, and something bulky lay motionless in
the shadows behind it. The reception room it opened onto was completely dark,
but something told her it wasn't empty. She paused beside the entrance, her
heart hammering as she waited for her eyes to adjust. If it's another hit, that
would explain the lack of guards, she thought. Memories of a stupid corporate
junket—a "team building" paintball tournament in a deserted office building that
someone in HR thought sounded like fun—welled up, threatening her with a sense
of deja vu. Very slowly, she looked round the edge of the door frame.
Something or someone clad in light-absorbing clothes was kneeling in front of
the door at the far end of the room. Another figure stood to one side, the
unmistakable outline of some kind of submachine gun raised to cover the door.
They had their backs to her. Sloppy, very sloppy, she thought tensely. Unless
they knew there was nobody else in this wing because they'd all been sent away.
The inner door creaked and the kneeling figure stood up and flowed to one side.
Now there was another gun. This is so not good, Miriam realized sickly. She was
going to have to do something. Visions of the assassin in the orangery raising
his knife and moving toward her—the two before her were completely focused on
the door, preparing to make their move.
Then one of them looked around.
Afterward, Miriam wasn't completely sure what had happened. Certainly she
remembered squeezing the trigger repeatedly. The evil sewing-machine chatter of
automatic fire wasn't hers, as it stitched a neat line of holes across the
ceiling. She'd flinched, dazzled and deafened by the sudden
noise, and there'd been more hammering and she'd fallen over, rolling aside as
fast as she could, then what sounded like a different gun. And silence, once she
discounted the ringing in her ears.
"Miriam?" called Olga, "is that you?"
I'm still alive, she realized, wondering. Taking stock: If she was still alive,
that meant the intruders weren't. "Yes," she called faintly. "I'm out here.
Where are you?"
"Get in here. Quickly."
She took no second warning. Brill crouched beside the splintered wreckage of the
door, a brilliant electric lamp held in one hand, while Olga stood to the other
side. Her face cast sharp shadows that flickered across the walls as she scanned
the room, gun raised. "I am going to have harsh words with the Baron," she said
calmly as Miriam scuttled toward them. "The guards he assigned me appear to have
taken their leave for the evening. Perhaps if I a flog a few until the ivory
shows, it will convince him of my displeasure."
"They're not to blame," Miriam said hoarsely, feeling her stomach rise. The
smell of burned cordite and blood hung in the air. "Brill?"
"I bought Kara hither, my lady. I did as you told me."
"She did." Olga nodded. "To be truthful, we did not need your help with such as
these." She jerked a thumb at the darkened corner of the room. "There's an alarm
that Oliver does not know of, the duke insisted I bring it." The red eye of an
infrared motion sensor winked at Miriam. "But I am grateful for the warning,"
she added graciously.
"I—" Miriam shuddered. "In the orangery. An assassin."
"What?" Olga looked at her sharply. "Who—"
"They killed Margit. Sent a note to lure me there, but I was expecting trouble."
"That's terrible!" Brill looked appalled: The light swayed. "What are we going
to—"
"Inside," Olga commanded. Brill retreated, and after a moment Miriam followed
her. "Close the door, damn you!" Olga called, and after a moment a timid serving
maid scurried forward and began to yank on it. "When it's shut, bar it
Then get that chest braced across it," Olga added, pointing to a wardrobe that
looked to Miriam's eyes to be built from most of an oak tree. She stopped and
turned to Miriam. "This was aimed at you, not me," she said calmly, lowering her
machine pistol to point at the floor. "They're getting overconfident. Margit—"
she shook her head—"Brilliana told me of the note, you are lucky to have
escaped."
"What am I going to do?" Miriam asked. She felt dizzy and sick, the room
spinning around her head. There was a stool near the fireplace: She stumbled
toward it tiredly and sat down. "Who sent them?"
"I don't know," Olga said thoughtfully.
A door in the opposite wall opened and Kara rushed in. "My lady! You're hurt?"
"Not yet," Miriam said, waving her away tiredly. "The killer in the orangery was
of the Clan, he had a locket," she said.
"That could tell us which braid he came from," Olga said. "Have you got it?"
"I think—yes." Miriam pulled it out and opened it. "Shit."
"What is it?" asked Olga, leaning close. "Oh my."
Miriam stared at the locket. Inside it was a design like the knotwork pattern
she was learning to loathe—but this one was subtly wrong. Different. A couplet
with a different rhyme. One that she knew, instinctively, at a gut level, would
take her somewhere else if she stared at it too long and hard. Not to mention
making her blood pressure spike so high it would give her an aneurism—if she
tried it in the next few hours.
She snapped it shut again and looked up at Olga. "Do you know what this means?"
she asked.
Olga nodded very seriously. "It means you and Brilliana will have to disappear,"
she said. "These two—" a sniff and a nod at the barricaded doorway—"are of no
account, but this—" a glance at the locket—"might be the gravest threat to the
Clan in living memory." She frowned uncertainly. "I had not imagined that such a
thing might exist. But if it does—"
"—They must stop at nothing to kill anyone who knows they exist," said Brill,
completing the thought for her. She looked at Miriam with bright eyes. "Will you
take me with you wherever you go, mistress? You'll need someone to guard your
back ..."
Two hours later.
Painkillers and beta-blockers are wonderful things, Miriam reflected as she
glanced over her shoulder at Brill. She'd managed to relax slightly as Olga
organized a cleanup, marshalling a barricade inside the doorway and chivvying
Kara and the servants into making themselves useful. Then Olga had pointed out
in words of one syllable what this meant: that two factions, at least one of
them hitherto unknown, were after her and it would be a good idea to make
herself scarce. Finally, still feeling fragile but now accommodating herself to
the idea, Miriam had crossed over. With her passenger. Who wore a smart business
suit and an expression of mild bemusement. "Where are we?" asked Brill.
"The doppelganger warehouse." Miriam frowned as she transferred her locket to
her left hip pocket "Other side from my own chambers. Someone should have
cleaned up by now."
Fidgeting in her pocket, she pulled out some cartridges. She shuffled quietly
closer to the edge of the mezzanine and looked over the side as she reloaded her
pistol.
"This wasn't what I expected," the younger woman said in hushed tones, staring
up at the dim warehouse lights.
"Stay quiet until I've checked it out." She let a sharp note creep into her
voice. "We may not be alone here."
"Oh."
Miriam crept to the edge of the platform and looked down. There was no sign of
movement below, and the front door of the warehouse—past the dismounted trailer
that served as a site office—was shut. "Wait here. I'll call you down when it's
safe," she said.
"Yes, Miriam."
She took a deep breath, then darted down the stairs lightly, her gun raised.
Nobody shot at her from concealment. She reached the bottom step and paused for
a couple of seconds before stepping off the metal staircase onto dusty wooden
floorboards, then duck-walked over to the side of the site office, out of sight
from its windows and the door. Creeping again, she sidled around the wall of the
trailer and crouched next to the short flight of steps leading in to it. She
spent about a minute staring at the threshold, then stood up slowly, lowered her
gun, and carefully returned it to her jacket pocket. She rubbed her forehead,
then turned. "You can come down now, as long as you come right over here. Don't
touch anything with your hands!"
Brilliana stood up and dusted herself off, lips wrinkling in distaste as she
tried to shake the warehouse cobwebs from die sleeve of her Chanel suit. Then
she walked down the stairs slowly, not touching the guard rail. Her back was
straight, as if she was making a grand entrance rather than a low-life
departure.
Miriam pointed at the steps to the trailer. "Don't, whatever you do, even think
about going in there," she warned. Her expression was drawn. Brill sniffed,
conspicuously, then pulled a face in disgust.
"What happened there?"
"Someone was killed," Miriam said quietly. Then she bent down and pointed to
something in the threshold. "Look. See that wire? It's hair-thin. Don't touch
it!"
"What wire—oh."
A fine wire was stretched across the threshold, twelve inches above the floor.
"That wasn't here when I came this way three hours ago," Miriam said tonelessly.
"And nobody's been to clear up what's inside. Going from what Roland was telling
me, that means that first, this is a trap, and second, it's not the kind where
someone's going to jump out and start shooting at us, and third, if you touch
that wire, we probably both die. Wait here and don't move or touch anything. I'm
going to see if they're belt-and-suspenders people."
Miriam shuffled gingerly over toward the big wooden doors of the warehouse—there
was a smaller access door set in the side of one of them—with her eyes focused
on the ground in front of her, every step of the way. Brill stayed where she was
obediently, but when Miriam glanced at her, she was staring up at the lights, an
odd expression on her face. "I'm over here," she said. "I'm really on the other
side!"
Miriam reached the inner door, bent low, looked up, and made a hissing noise
through her teeth. "Shit!"
"What is it?" called Brill, shaking herself.
"Another one," Miriam replied. Her face was ghost-white. "You can come over here
and look. This is the way out."
"Oh." Brill walked over to the door, stopping short at Miriam's warning hand
gesture. She followed Miriam's pointing finger, up at something in the shadows
above the door. "What's that?" she asked.
"At a guess, it's a bomb," said Miriam. "Probably a... what do you call it? A
Claymore mine." The green package was securely fastened to two nails driven into
the huge main warehouse door directly above the access door cut in it. Miriam's
compact flashlight cut through the twilight, tracing a fine wire as it looped
around three or four nails. It came back to anchor to the access door at foot
level, in such a way that any attempt to open the door would tug on it. Miriam
whistled tunelessly. "Careless, very careless."
Brill stared at the booby trap in horror. "Are you just going to leave it?" she
asked.
Miriam glanced at her. "What do you expect me to do?" she asked. "I'm not a bomb
disposal expert, I'm a journalist! I just learned a bit about this stuff doing a
feature on Northern Ireland a couple of years ago." For a moment, an expression
of helpless anger flashed across her face. "We've got to get out of here," she
said. "I know somewhere safe, but 'safe' is relative. We need to hole up where
nobody is going to ask questions you can't answer, assassins can't find us, and
I can do some thinking." She glanced at the Claymore
mine. "Once I figure out a way to open this door without killing us both."
"That was another, in the office?" asked Brill.
"Yes." Miriam shrugged. "I figure the idea was to kill anyone who comes
sniffing. But the only people who know what's in there are me and whoever ...
whoever murdered the night watchman."
"What about Roland?"
"Oh, yes. I told Roland. And he could have told—" for a moment Miriam looked
wistful. "Damn, this means I can't trust anyone who works for Angbard, can I?"
She glanced obliquely at Brill.
"I don't work for Angbard," Brill said slowly. "I work for you."
"Well, that's nice to know." Miriam gave her a lopsided grin. "I hope it doesn't
get you into trouble. Worse trouble," she corrected.
"What are we going to do?" asked Brill, frowning as only a twenty-something
confronted by fate can frown.
"Hmm. Well, I'm going to open this door." Miriam gestured. "Somehow or other.
Then ... there's a lot you don't know, isn't there? The door opens on an alley
in a place called New York. It's a big city and it's after dark. I'm going to
call a car service, and you're going to do what I do—get in after me, ride with
me to where we're going, wait while I pay the driver, and go inside. I'll do all
the talking. You should concentrate on taking in whatever you can without
looking like a yokel. Once we're in private, you can talk all you want. All
right? Think you can do that?"
Brill nodded seriously. "It'll be for me like when you first arrived? On the
other side?" she asked.
"Good analogy." Miriam nodded. "No, it'll be worse, much worse." She grinned
again. "I had an introduction; the whole world didn't all get thrown at me all
at once. Just try not to get yourself killed crossing the road, okay?" Then she
glanced around. "Look, over there below the mezzanine, see those crates? I want
you to go and sit down on the other side
of them. Shield your head with your arms, yes, like they're about to fall on
you. And keep your mouth open. I'm going to try and get this door open without
blowing us to pieces. I figure it should be possible because they were expecting
people to come in from outside, not to materialize right inside the warehouse."
"We're already supposed to be dead, aren't we?"
Miriam nodded. "Go," she said.
Brill headed off toward the stack of tea chests. Miriam bent down and followed
the near-invisible wire off to one side. / really don't like the look of this,
she thought, her heart hammering at her ribs. She glanced up at the green
casing, ominous as a hornet's nest suspended overhead. "Let's see," she mumbled.
"The door opens inward, pulls on the wire ... or the warehouse door opens
inward, also pulls on the wire. But if it's spring-loaded, releasing it could
also set the fucking thing off. Hmm."
She examined the wire as it ran around a rusting nail pounded into the wall
beside the door. "Right." She stood up and walked back across to the trailer
with its own booby trap and its cargo of death. Climbing the steps, she paused
for a moment, took a deep breath, and stepped over the wire.
Nothing happened. I'm still here, she told herself. She took another deep
breath, this time to avoid having to breathe in too close to the thing sprawled
across the fallen office chair at the far side of the office. She'd called
Roland, told him to send cleaners—instead, these booby traps had materialized.
When the Clan wants you dead, you die, she realized bleakly. If indeed it is the
Clan...
There, on a rusting tool chest propped against the other wall, was exactly what
she was looking for. She picked up the heavy-duty staple gun and checked that it
was loaded. "Yup." She hefted it one-handed, then mustered up a smile and picked
up a pair of rusty pliers and stepped back out of the trailer.
Two minutes later, she had the door open. The wire, firmly stapled to the door
frame, was severed: The mine was still armed, but the trigger wire led nowhere.
"Come on," she
called to Brilliana. "It's safe now! We can leave!" Brill hurried over. As she
did so, Miriam glanced up and shuddered once more. What if they'd heard of
infrared motion detectors? Well, that was the Clan all over.
It was snowing lightly, and Miriam phoned for a taxi when they reached the main
road. Brill kept quiet, but her eyes grew wide when she saw Miriam talking into
a small gray box—and wider still as she took in the cars that rumbled past in
the gloom. She glanced from side to side like a caged cat in a strange,
threatening environment. "I didn't know it would be like this!" she whispered to
Miriam. Then she shivered. "It's really cold."
"It's winter, kid. Get used to it." Miriam grinned, slightly manic from her
success with the bomb.
"It's colder on the other side, isn't it?"
A cab pulled alongside, its light turned off. Miriam walked over. "Cab for
Beckstein?" she asked. The driver nodded. She held open the rear door. "Get in
and slide across," she told Brill. Then she gave directions and got inside,
shutting the door.
The cab moved off. Brill looked around in fascination, then reached down toward
her ankles. "It's heated" she said quietly.
"Of course it's heated," said the driver in a Pakistani accent. "You think I let
my passengers freeze to death before they pay me?"
"Excuse my friend," Miriam told him, casting a warning glance at Brill. "She's
from Russia. Just arrived."
"Oh," said the driver, as if that explained everything. "Yes, very good, that."
Brill kept her eyes wide but her mouth closed the rest of the way to the
Marriott Marquis, but watched carefully as Miriam paid off the cabbie using
pieces of green paper she pulled from a billfold. "Come on, follow me," said
Miriam.
Miriam felt Brill tense as the glass doors opened automatically ahead of them,
but she kept up with her as she headed
for the express elevator. "One moment," Miriam muttered to her, pushing the
button. "This is an elevator. It's a room, suspended on wires, in a vertical
shaft. We use it instead of the stairs."
"Why?" Brill looked puzzled.
"Have you ever tried to climb forty flights of stairs?" Miriam shut up as
another elevator arrived, disgorging a couple of septuagenarians. Then the
express doors opened, and she waved Brill inside. "This is easier," she said,
hitting the second from top button. The younger woman lurched against the wall
as the elevator began to rise. "We'll be there in no time."
The glass-walled elevator car began to track up the outer wall of the tower.
"That's—oh my!" Brill leaned back against the far wall from the window. "I'd
rather walk, I think," she said shakily.
A thought struck Miriam at the top. "We'd better be careful going in," she
commented before the doors opened. "I want you to wait behind me."
"Why?" Brill followed her out of the lift into an empty landing. She looked
slightly green, and Miriam realized she hadn't said anything on the way up.
"Because," Miriam frowned, "we're safe from the other side, here. But Roland
knows which room I'm using." He won't have told anybody, she reasoned. Even if
he has, they can't have booby-trapped it from the inside, like the warehouse.
Not on the twenty-second floor. I hope.
"All right." Brill swallowed. "Which way?" she asked, looking bewildered.
"Follow me." Miriam pushed through the fire doors, strolled along a hotel
corridor, trying to imagine what it might look like to someone who'd never seen
a hotel—or an elevator—before. "Wait here."
She swiped her card-key through the lock, then stood aside, right hand thrust in
her jacket pocket as she pushed the door open to reveal an empty suite, freshly
prepared beds, an open bathroom door. "Quick." She waved Brill inside then
followed her, shut and locked the door, and sagged against it in relief.
"Oh shit, oh shit..." Her hands felt cold and shook until she clasped them
together. Delayed shock, the analytical observer in her brain commented. Tonight
you killed an assassin in self-defence, defused a bomb, discovered a murder and
a conspiracy, and rescued Brill and Olga. Isn't it about time you collapsed in a
gibbering heap?
"Where is—" Brilliana was looking around, eyes narrowed. "It's so small\ But
it's hot. The fireplace—"
"You don't have fireplaces in tall buildings," Miriam said automatically. "We're
twenty-two floors up. We've got air-conditioning—that box, under the curtains,
it warms the air, keeps it at a comfortable temperature all year around." She
rubbed her forehead: The pounding headache was threatening to make a comeback.
"Have a seat."
Brill picked a chair in front of the television set. "What now?" she asked,
yawning.
Miriam glanced at the bedside clock: It was about one o'clock in the morning.
"It's late," said Miriam. "Tonight we sleep. In the morning I'm going to take
you on a journey to another city, to meet someone I trust. A friend. Then—" she
instinctively fingered the pocket with the two lockets in it, her own and the
one she'd taken from the assassin— "we'll work out what to do next."
They spent a nervous night in the anonymous hotel room, high above any threat
from world-walking pursuers. In the morning Miriam pointed Brill at the shower—
she had to explain the controls—while she called room service, then went to
check the wardrobe.
A big anonymous-looking suitcase nearly filled the luggage niche, right where
she'd left it. While breakfast was on its way up, Miriam opened it and pulled
out some fresh clothing. Have to take time to buy some more, she thought,
looking at what was left. Most of the suitcase was occupied by items that
wouldn't exactly render her inconspicuous on this side. Later, she resolved. Her
wallet itched, reproaching her. Inside it was the platinum card Duke Angbard had
sent
her. Two million dollars of other people's blood money. Either it was her "Get
Out of Jail Free" card, or a death trap, depending on whether whoever had sent
the first bunch of assassins—her enemy within the Clan, rather than without—was
able to follow its transactions. Probably they wouldn't be able to, at least not
fast enough to catch up with her if she kept moving. If they were, Miriam wasn't
the only family member who was at risk. It's probably safe as long as it keeps
working and I keep moving, she reasoned. If somebody puts a stop on it, I'm in
trouble. And better not go buying any air tickets. Not that she was planning on
doing that—the idea of introducing airline passenger etiquette to Brill left her
shaking her head.
There was a discreet knock at the door. Miriam picked up her pistol and, hiding
it in her pocket, approached. The peephole showed her a bored bellhop pushing a
trolley. She opened the door. "Thanks," she said, passing him a tip. "We'll keep
the trolley."
Back inside the suite, Brill emerged from the bathroom looking pink and freshly
scrubbed—and somewhat confused. "Where does all the water come from?" she asked,
almost complaining. "It never stopped!"
"Welcome to New York, baby," Miriam drawled, lifting the cover off a plate laden
with a full-cooked breakfast. "Land of plenty, home of—sorry," she finished
lamely and waved Brill toward a chair. "Come on, there's enough food for both of
us." Damn, she thought. / don't want to go rubbing her nose in it. Not like
that.
"Thank you," Brill said, primly picking up a knife and fork and going to work.
"Hmm. It tastes slightly ... odd."
"Yeah." Miriam chewed thoughtfully, then poured a couple of cups of coffee from
the thermal jug. "The eggs aren't as good. Are they?"
"It's all a little different." Brill frowned, inspecting her plate minutely.
"They're all the same, aren't they? Like identical twins?"
"It's how we make things here." Miriam shrugged. "You'll
see lots of things that are identical. But not people." She began working on her
toast before she noticed Brill surreptitiously following her example with the
small wrapped parcels of butter. "First, I'm going to call my friend. If she's
all right, we're going to go on a journey to another city and I'm going to leave
you with her for a few days. The way we tell it is: You're a relative from out
of state who's coming to stay. Your parents are weird backwoods types, which is
why there's a lot of stuff you haven't seen. My friend will know the truth.
Also, she's got a contact number for Roland. If I—" she cleared her throat—
"she'll get you back in touch, so you can go home. To the other side, I mean,
when you need to."
" 'When I need to'," Brill echoed doubtfully. She glanced around the room.
"What's that?"
"That?" Miriam blinked. "It's a television set."
"Oh. Like Ser Villem's after-dinner entertainments. I remember that! The cat and
the mouse, and the talking rabbit, Bugs." Brill smiled. "They are everywhere,
here?"
"That's one way of putting it." Kid, I prescribe a week as a dedicated couch
potato before we let you go outdoors on your own, she resolved. "I've got a call
to make," she said, reaching for her mobile.
The first thing Miriam did was switch her phone off, open the back, and replace
the SIM chip with one she took from her billfold. Then she reassembled it. The
phone beeped as it came up with a new identity, but there was no voice mail
waiting for her. Steeling herself, she dialled a number—one belonging to another
mobile phone she'd sent via FedEx a couple of days before.
"Hello?" The voice at the end of the line sounded positively chirpy.
"Paulie! Are you okay?"
"Miriam! How's it going, babe?"
"It's going messy," she admitted. "Look, remember the other day? Are you still
home?"
"Yes. What's come up?"
"I'm going to come pay you a visit," said Miriam. "First,
I've got a lot of things to discuss, stuff to get in order—and a down payment.
Second, I've got a lodger. How's your spare room?"
"Oh, you know it's been empty since I kicked that bum Walter out? What's up, you
wanting him to stay with me?"
Miriam glanced at Brill. "It's a she, and I think you'll probably like her," she
said guardedly. "It's part of that deal I've made. I need you to put her up for
a few weeks, on the company—I mean, I'm paying. Trouble is, she's from, uh, out
of state, if you follow me. She doesn't know her way around at all."
"Does she, like, speak English?" Paulette sounded interested rather than
perturbed, for which Miriam was immensely grateful. Brilliana was toying with
her coffee and pretending not to realize Miriam was discussing her, on an
intimate basis, with a talking box.
"Yeah, that's not a problem. But this morning was the first time she'd ever met
an electric shower, and that is a problem or me, because I've got a lot of
travelling to do in the next few weeks and I need to put her where someone can
keep an ;ye on her as she gets used to the way things are done over here. Can
you do that?"
"Probably," Paulette said briskly. "Depends if she hates my guts on first sight—
or vice versa. I can't promise more than that, can I?"
"Well—" Miriam took a deep breath. "Okay, we're coming up today on the train.
You going to be home in the afternoon?"
"For you, any day! You've got a lot to tell me about?"
"Everything," Miriam said fervently. "It's been crazy."
"Bye, then."
Miriam put the phone down and rubbed her eyes. Brill was watching her oddly.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Who—oh, on the phone?" Miriam glanced at it. So Brill lad figured out that
much? Bright girl. "A friend of mine. My, uh, business agent. On this side." She
grinned. "For the past few days, anyway. We're going to see her this afternoon."
" 'Her'?" Brill raised an eyebrow. "All the hot water you want, no need to feed
the fire, and women running businesses? No wonder my mother didn't want me
coming here—she was afraid I'd never come back!"
"That seems to go with the territory," Miriam agreed dryly.
After breakfast she chivvied Brill into getting dressed again. Her tailored suit
and blouse would blend into the background just fine: another business traveller
in the heart of New York. Miriam thought for a moment, then picked another
jacket—this time a dressy one rather than one built for bad weather. She'd have
to keep her pistol in her handbag, but she'd look more in keeping with Brill,
and hopefully it would distract any killers hunting for a lone woman in her
early thirties with thus-and-such features.
Miriam took the large suitcase when they left the room and headed downstairs.
Brill's eyes kept swivelling at everything from telephones to cigarette ads, but
she kept her questions to herself as Miriam shepherded her into a nearby bank
for ten minutes, then flagged down a taxi. "What was that about?" Brill murmured
after Miriam told the driver where to go.
"Needed to take care of some money business," Miriam replied. "Angbard gave me a
line on some credit, but—" she stopped, shrugged. I'm talking Martian again, she
realized.
"You'll have to tell me how this credit thing works some time," Brill commented.
"I don't think I've actually seen a coin since I came here. Do people use them?"
"Not much. Which makes some things easier—it's harder to steal larger amounts—
and other things more difficult— like transferring large quantities of money to
someone else without it being noticed."
"Huh." Brill stared out of the window at the passing traffic, the pedestrians in
their dark winter colours, and the bright advertisements. "It's so noisy! How do
you get any thinking done?"
"Sometimes it's hard," Miriam admitted.
She bought two tickets to Boston and shepherded Brill onto the express train
without incident. They found a table a long way from anyone else without
difficulty, which turned
out to be a good thing, because Brill was unable to control her surprise when
the train began to move. "It's so different!" she squeaked, taken aback.
"It's called a train." Miriam pointed out of the window. "Like that one, only
faster and newer and built for carrying passengers. Where we're going is within
a day's walk of Angbard's palace, but it'll only take us three hours to get
there."
Brilliana stared at the passing freight train. "I've seen movies," she said
quietly. "You don't need to assume I'm stupid, ignorant. But it's not the same
as being here."
"I'm sorry." Miriam shook her head, embarrassed. She looked at Brill
thoughtfully. She was doing a good job of bluffing, even though the surprises
the world kept throwing at her must sometimes have been overwhelming. A bright
kid, well-educated for her place in time, but out of her depth here—How would I
cope if someone gave me a ticket to the thirtieth century? Miriam wondered. At a
guess, there'd be an outburst of anger soon, triggered by something trivial— the
realization that this wasn't fairyland but a real place, and she'd grown up
among people who lived here and withheld everything in it from her. / wonder
which way she'll jump?
Opposite her, Brilliana's face froze. "What is it?" Miriam asked quietly.
"The... the second row of thrones behind you—that's interesting. I've seen that
man before. Black hair, dark suit."
"Where?" Miriam whispered, tensing. Feeling for her shoulder bag, the small
pistol buried at the bottom of it. No, not on a train...
"At court. He is a corporal of honour in service to Angbard. Called Edger
something. I've seen him a couple of times in escort to one or another of the
duke's generals. I don't think he's recognized me. He is reading one of those
intelligence papers the tinkers were selling at the palace of trains."
"Hmm." Miriam frowned. "Did you see any luggage when he got onboard? Anything he
carried? Describe him."
"There is a trunk with a handle, like yours, only it looks
like metal. He has it beside him and places one hand on it every short while."
"Ah." Miriam relaxed infinitesimally. "Okay, I think I've got a handle on it. Is
the case about the same size as mine?"
Brill nodded slowly, her eyes focused past Miriam's left shoulder.
"That means he's probably a courier," Miriam said quietly. "At a guess, Angbard
has him carry documents daily between his palace and Manhattan. That explains
why he spends so little time at court himself—he can keep his finger on the
pulse far faster than the non-Clan courtiers realize. If I'm right, he'll be
carrying a report about last night, among other things." She raised a finger to
her lips. "Trouble is, if I'm right, he's armed and certainly dangerous to
approach. And if I'm wrong, he's not a courier. He's going to wait for the train
to stop, then try to kill us." Miriam closed her hand around the barrel of her
pistol, then stopped. No, that's the wrong way to solve this, she thought.
Instead she pulled out her wallet and a piece of paper and began writing.
Brilliana leaned forward. "He's doing it again," she murmured. "I think there's
something in his jacket. Under his arm. He looks uncomfortable."
"Right." Miriam nodded, then shoved the piece of paper across the table at
Brill. There was a pair of fifty-dollar bills and a train ticket concealed under
it. "Here is what we're going to do. In a minute, you're going to stand up while
he isn't looking and walk to the other end of this carriage—behind you, over
there, where the doors are. If—" she swallowed— "if things go wrong, don't try
anything heroic. Just get off the train as soon as it stops, hide in the crowd,
make damn sure he doesn't see you. There'll be another train through in an hour.
Your ticket is valid for travel on it, and you want to get off in Cambridge. Go
out of the station, tell a cab driver you want to go to this address, and pay
with one of these notes, the way you saw me do it. He'll give you change. It's a
small house; the number is on the front of the door. Go up to it and tell the
woman who lives there that I sent you and
I'm in trouble. Then give her this." Miriam pushed another piece of paper across
the table at her. "After a day, tell Paulette to use the special number I gave
her. That's all. Think you can do that?"
Brill nodded mutely. "What are you going to do now?" she asked quietly.
Miriam took a deep breath. "I'm going to do what we in the trade refer to as a
hostile interview," she said. "What was his name, again?"
"Hello, Edsger. Don't move. This would not be a good place to get help for a
sucking chest wound."
He tensed and she smiled, bright and feral, like a mongoose confronting a sleepy
cobra.
"What—"
"Don't move, I said. That includes your mouth. Not very good, is it, letting
your mark turn on you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"I think you do. And I think it's slack of you, nodding off just because you're
on the iron road and no world-walkers can sneak up from behind." She smiled
wider, seeing his unnerved expression. "First, some ground rules. We are going
to have a little conversation, then we will go our separate ways, and nobody
will get hurt. But first, to make that possible, you will start by slowly
bending forward and sliding that pistol of yours out into this shopping bag."
The courier leaned forward. Miriam leaned with him, keeping her pistol jammed up
against his ribs through her jacket. "Slowly," she hissed.
"I'm slow." He opened his jacket and slid a big Browning automatic out of the
holster under his left armpit—two-fingered. Miriam tensed, but he followed
through by dropping it into the open bag.
"And your mobile phone," she said. "Now, kick it under the table. Gently." He
gave it a half-hearted shove with one foot.
"Put your hands between your knees and lean back slowly," she ordered.
"Who are you?" he asked, complying.
"First, you're going to tell me who you're delivering that case to at the other
end," she said. "Ordinary postal service—or Angbard himself?"
"I can't—"
She shoved the gun up against him, hard. "You fucking can" she snarled quietly.
"Because if you don't tell me, you are going to read about the contents of that
case on the front page of The New York Times, are you hearing me?"
"It goes to Matthias."
"Angbard's secretary, right." She felt him tense again. "That was the correct
answer," she said quietly. "Now, I want you to do something else for me. I've
got a message for Angbard, for his ears only, do you understand? It's not for
Matthias, it's not for Roland, it's not for any of the other lord-lieutenants
he's got hanging around. Remember, I've got your number. If anyone other than
Angbard gets this message, I will find out and I will tell him and he will kill
you. Got that? Good. What's going to happen next is: The train's stopping in a
couple of minutes. You will stand up, take your case—not the bag with your
phone—and get off the train, because I will be following you. You will then
stand beside the train door where I can see you until it's ready to move off,
and you will stay there while it moves off because if you don't stand that way I
will shoot you. If you want to know why I'm so trigger-happy, you can ask
Angbard yourself—after you've delivered his dispatches."
"You must be—" his eyes widened.
"Don't say my name."
He nodded.
"You're going to be an hour late into Boston—an hour later than you would have
been, anyway. Don't bother trying to organize a search for me because I won't be
there. Instead, go to the Fort Lofstrom doppelganger house, make your delivery
to Matthias as usual, say you missed the train
or something, then ask to see the old man and tell him about meeting me here."
"What?" He looked puzzled. "I thought you had a message."
"You are the message." She grinned humourlessly. "And you've got to be alive to
deliver it. We're slowing up: Do as I tell you and it'll all be over soon."
He shook his head very slowly. "They were right about you," he said. But when
she asked him who he meant, he just stared at her.
There was an old building on Central Avenue, with windows soundproofed against
the roar of turbo-fans. Whenever the wind was from the southwest and inbound
flights were diverted across the city, the airliners would rattle the panes. But
perhaps there were other reasons for the soundproofing.
Two men sat in a second-floor office, Matthias leaning back behind a desk and
Roland perched uncomfortably close to the edge of a sofa in front of it.
"Consignment F-12 is on schedule," said Matthias. "It says so right here on the
manifest. Isn't that right?"
He fixed Roland with a cold stare.
"I inspected it myself," said Roland. Despite his stiff posture and the
superficial appearance of unease, he sounded self-confident. "Contractor Wolfe
has the right attitude: businesslike attention to detail. They vet their workers
thoroughly."
"Well." Matthias leaned across his desk. "It's a pity the
cargo is laid over in Svarlberg while a storm blows itself out, isn't it?"
"Damn." Roland looked annoyed. "That's recent, I take it?"
'Two days ago. I did a spot inspection myself. Impressed Vincenze to carry me
across for the past week. I think you'd better warn Wolfe that F-12 is going to
be at least four days late, possibly as much as seven."
"Damn." A nod. "Okay, I'll do that. Usual disclaimers?"
"It's in the warranty small-print." Neither of them cracked a smile. The Clan
provided its own underwriting service— one that more than made up for the
usurious transport charges it levied. The customer code-named Wolfe would damn
well swallow the four- to seven-day delay and smile, because the cargo would
arrive, one way or another, which was more than could be said for most of the
Clan's competitors. If it didn't, the Clan would pay up in full, at face value,
no question. "We have a reputation to guard."
"I'll get onto it." Roland pulled out a small notebook and scribbled a cryptic
entry in it. He caught Matthias staring. "No names, no pack drill." He tucked
the notebook away carefully.
"It's good to know you can keep a secret."
"Huh?"
'There's something else I wanted to talk to you about." He didn't smile. "Look
at this." Reaching into a desk drawer, Matthias pulled out a slim file binder
and slid it across the desk. Roland rose and collected it, sat down, opened it,
and tensed, frowning.
"Page one. Our prodigal dresses for dinner. Nice ass, by the way."
A glare from the sofa. If looks could kill, Matthias would be ashes blowing on
the wind.
"Turn over. That's her, leaving her room, shot from behind. Someone ought to
tell her she oughtn't to leave security camera footage lying around like that,
someone might steal it. Turn over." Reluctantly, he turned over. "That's her, in
the passageway to a room in—" Matthias coughed discreetly into his fist. "And
over, and oh dear, there seems to
be a camera behind the bathroom mirror, doesn't there? I wonder how that got
there. And now if you turn over, you'll see that—"
Roland slammed the folder shut with an inarticulate growl, then slapped it down
on the desk. "What's your point?" he demanded, shaking with anger. "What the
fuck do you want! Spying on me—"
"Sit down," snapped Matthias.
Roland sat, shoulders hunched.
"You've put me on the spot, did you know that? I could show this to Angbard, you
realize. In fact, I should show it to him. I've got a duty to show it to him.
But I haven't—yet. I could show it to Lady Olga, too, but I think neither you
nor she would care about that unless I embarrassed her publicly. Which would
raise too many questions. What in Lightning Child's name were you thinking of,
Roland?"
"Don't." Roland hunched forward, eyes narrowed in pain.
"If Angbard sees this, he will rip you a new asshole. To be fair, he might rip
her a new asshole too, but she's better positioned to survive the experience.
You—" he shook his head. "I see a long future for you as Clan ambassador to the
Iroquois. Or maybe the Apache nation. For as long as any Clan ambassador lasts
in one of those posts."
"You haven't told him, though." Roland stared at the floor in front of the desk,
trying to hide his suspicions. Surely Matthias wouldn't be telling him this if
he was just going to go straight to the duke?
"Well, no." His interrogator fell silent for a while. "I'm not a robot, you
know. Loyal servant, yes—but I have my own ambitions."
" 'Ambitions' ?" Roland looked up, his expression strained.
"The Clan doesn't offer an ideal career track for such as I." He shrugged. "I
expect you to understand that better than most of them."
Roland licked his lips. "What do you want?" he asked quietly. "What are you
after?"
"I'm after the status quo ante." He picked up the file and slid it into a desk
drawer. "Your little ... servant... made
waves where she shouldn't have. I want her out of the picture: I hasten to add,
this doesn't mean dead, it just means invisible."
"You want her to disappear." For an instant, an expression of hope flickered
across Roland's face.
"Possibly." He nodded. "I think you'd like that—if you went with her. Wouldn't
you?"
"Damn you, three years was all I had ... !"
"If you do as I say, then the folder and its contents—and all the other copies—
will vanish. And the Clan won't be able to touch you ever again. Either of you.
What do you say?"
Roland licked his lips. "I thought this was blackmail."
"What makes you think it isn't?"