The Hidden Family

Interrogations

The city of Irongate nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, soot-stained and smoky by day, capped at night by a sky that reflected the red glow of the blast furnaces down by the shpping canal. From the center of town, the Great North-East Railway spur led off toward the coastline and the branches for Boston and New London. West of the yards and north of the banked ramparts of the Vauban pattern fortress sloped a gentle rise populated by the houses of the gentry, while at the foot of the slope clustered tight rows of worker’s estates.

Irongate had started as a transport nexus at the crossing of the canal and the railways, but it had grown into a sprawling industrial city. The canal and its attendant lock system brought cargos from as far as the Great Lakes—and, in another time, another world, it was the site of a trading post with the great Iroquis Nation, who dominated the untamed continental interior between the Gruinmarkt and the empire of the West.

There was a neighborhood down in the valley, rubbing shoulders with the slums of the poor and the business districts, that was uncomfortable with its own identity. Some people had money but no standing in polite society, no title or prospects for social advancement. They congregated here, Chinese merchants and Jewish brokers and wealthy owners of bawdy houses alike, and they took pains to be discreet, for while New Britain’s laws applied equally to all men, the enforcers of those laws were only too human.

Esau walked slowly along Hanover Street, his cane tapping the cobblestones with every other stride. It was early evening and bitterly cold with it, but the street sweepers had been at work and the electric street lamps cast a warm glow across the pavement. Esau walked slowly, forgoing the easy convenience of a cab, because he wanted time to think. It was vital to prepare himself for the meeting that lay ahead, both emotionally and intellectually.

The street was almost empty, the few pedestrians hurrying with hands thrust deep in coat pockets and hats pulled down. Esau passed a pub, a blare of brassy noise and a stench of tobacco smoke squirting from the doorway as it opened to emit a couple of staggering drunks. “Heya, slant-eye!” one of them bellowed after him. Esau kept on walking steadily, but his pulse raced and he carefully grasped the butt of the small pistol in his pocket. Don’t react, he told himself. You can kill him if he attacks you. Not before. Not that Esau looked particularly Oriental, but to the Orange louts of Irongate anyone who didn’t look like themselves was an alien. And reports of a white man killed by a Chinee would inflame the popular mood—building on the back of a cold winter and word of defeats in the Kingdom of Siam. The last thing Esau’s superiors needed right now was a pogrom on the doorstep of their East Coast headquarters.

The betting shops were closed and the pawnbrokers shut, but between two such shops Esau paused. The tenement door was utterly plain, but well painted and solidly fitted. A row of bellpulls ran beside a set of brass plaques bearing the names of families who hadn’t lived here in decades. Esau pulled the bottom-most bellpull, then the second from the top, the next one down, and the first from the bottom, in practiced series. There was a click from the door frame and he pushed through, into the darkened vestibule within. He shut the door carefully behind him, then looked up at the ceiling.

“Esh’sh icht,” he said.

“Come on in,” a man’s voice replied in accented English. The inner door opened on light and finery—a stairwell furnished with rich hand-woven carpets, banisters of mahogany, illuminated by gilt-edged lamps in the shape of naked maidens. A ceramic lucky cat sat at one side of the staircase, opposite a guard. The guard bowed stiffly as soon as he saw Esau’s face.

“You are expected, lord,” he said.

Esau ignored him and ascended the staircase. The tenement block above the two shops had been cunningly gutted and rebuilt as a palace. The rooms behind the front windows—visible from the street as ordinary bedrooms or kitchens—were Ames rooms barely three feet deep, their floors and walls and furniture slanted to preserve the semblance of depth when seen from outside. The family had learned the need for discretion long ago. Fabulous wealth was no social antidote for epicanthic folds and dark skins in New Britain and if there was one thing the mob disliked more than Chineemen, it was rich and secretive criminal families of Chinee-men. Vermin, Esau thought of the two drunks who had harangued him outside the pub. Never mind. At the top of the staircase he bowed once to the left, to the lacquered cabinet containing the household shrine. Then he removed his topcoat, hat, and shoes, and placed them in front of the servant’s door to the right of the stairs. Finally he approached the door before the staircase, and knocked once with the head of his cane.

The door swung open. “Who calls?” asked the majordomo.

“It is I.” Esau marched forward as the majordomo bowed low, holding the door aside for him. Like the guard below, the majordomo was armed, a pistol at his hip. If the mob ever came, it was their job to buy the family time to escape with their lives. “Where can I find the elder of days?”

“He takes tea in the Yellow Room, lord,” said the majordomo, still facing the floor.

“Rise. Announce me.”

Esau followed the majordomo along a wood-floored passage, the walls hung with ancient paintings. Some of them legacies of home, but others, in the European renaissance style, bore half-remembered names. The majordomo paused at a door just beyond a Caravaggio, then knocked. After a whispered conversation two guards emerged—guards in family uniform this time, not New British street clothes. In addition to their robes and twin swords (in the style this shadow-world called “Japanese,” after a nation that had never existed in Esau’s family home) they bore boxy black self-feeding carbines.

“His lordship,” said the majordomo. Both soldiers came to attention.

“Follow me.”

The majordomo and guards proceeded before Esau, gathering momentum and a hand’s count of additional followers as befitted his rank: a scribe with his scrolls and ink, a master of ceremonies whose assistant clucked over Esau’s suit, following him with an armful of robes, and a gaggle of messengers. By the time they arrived outside the Yellow Room, Esau’s quiet entry had turned into a procession. At the door, they paused. Esau held out his arms for the servants to hang a robe over his suit while the majordomo rapped on the door with his ceremonial rod of office. “Behold! His lordship James Lee, second of the line, comes to pay attendance before the elder of days!”

“Enter,” called a high, reedy voice from inside the room.

Esau entered the Yellow Room, and bowed deeply. Behind him, the servants went to their knees and prostrated themselves.

“Rise, great-nephew,” said the elder. “Approach me.”

Esau—James Lee—approached his great-uncle. The elder sat cross-legged upon a cushioned platform, his wispy beard brushing his chest. He had none of the extravagant fingernails or long queue that popular mythology in this land imagined the mandarin class to have. Apart from his beard, his silk robes, and a certain angle to his cheekbones, he could pass for any beef-eating New Englishman. The family resemblance was pronounced. This is how I will look in fifty years, James Lee thought whenever he saw the elder. If our enemies let me live that long.

He paused in front of the dais and bowed deeply again, then once to the left and once to the right, where his great-uncle’s companions sat in silence.

“See, a fine young man,” his great-uncle remarked to his left. “A strong right hand for the family.”

“What use a strong right hand, if the blade of the sword it holds is brittle?” snapped his neighbor. James held his breath, shocked at the impudence of the old man—his great-uncle’s younger brother, Huan, controller of the eastern reaches for these past three decades. Such criticism might be acceptable in private, but in public it could only mean two things—outright questioning of the Eldest’s authority, or the first warning that things had gone so badly awry that honor called for a scapegoat.

“You are alarming our young servant,” the Eldest said mildly. “James, be seated, please. You may leave,” he added, past Esau’s shoulder.

The servants bowed and backed out of the noble presence. James lowered himself carefully to sit on the floor in front of the elders. They sat impassively until the doors thumped shut behind his back. “What are we to make of these accounts?” asked the Eldest, watching him carefully.

“The accounts?…” Esau puzzled for a moment. This was all going far too fast for comfort. “Do you refer to the reports from our agent of influence, or to the—”

“The agent.” The Eldest shuffled on his cushion. “A cup of tea for my nephew,” he remarked over his shoulder. A servant Esau hadn’t noticed before stepped forward and placed a small tray before him.

“The situation is confused,” Esau admitted. “When he first notified me of the re-emergence of the western alliance’s line I consulted with uncle Stork, as you charged me. My uncle sent word that the orders of your illustrious father were not discharged satisfactorily and must therefore be carried out. Unfortunately, the woman’s existence was known far and wide among the usurpers by this time, and her elder tricked us, mingling her party with other women of his line so that the servants I sent mistook the one for the other. Now she has gone missing, and our agent says he doesn’t know where.”

“Ah,” said the ancient woman at the Eldest’s right hand. The Eldest glanced at her, but she fell silent.

“Our agent believes that the elder Angbard is playing a game within the usurper clan,” Esau added. “Our agent intended to manipulate her into a position of influence, but controlled by himself—his goal was to replace Angbard. This goal is no longer achievable, so he has consented to pursue our preferences.”

“Indeed,” echoed Great-Uncle Huan, “that seems the wisest course of action to me.”

“Stupid!” Esau jerked as the Eldest’s fist landed on a priceless lacquered tray. “Our father’s zeal has bound us to expose ourselves to their attack, lost a valued younger son to their guards, and placed our fate in the hands of a mercenary—”

“Ah,” sighed the ancient woman. The Eldest subsided abruptly.

“Then what is to be done?” asked Huan, almost plaintively.

“Another question,” said Esau’s great-uncle, leaning forward. “When you sent brothers Kim and Wu after the woman they both failed to return. What of their talismans?”

James Lee hung his head. “I have no news, Eldest.” He closed his eyes, afraid to face the wrath he could feel boiling on the dais before him. “The word I received from our agent Jacob is that no locket was found on either person. That the woman Miriam disappeared at the same time seems to suggest—” his voice broke. “Could she be of our line, as well?” he asked.

“It has never happened before,” quavered the ancient woman next to the Eldest.

He turned and stared at her. “That is not the question, aunt,” he said, almost gently. “Could this long-lost daughter of the western alliance have come here?” he asked Esau. “None of them have ever done so before. Not since the abandonment.”

James Lee took a deep breath. “I thought it was impossible,” he said. “The family is divided by the abandonment. We come here, and they go…wherever it is that the source of their power is. They abandoned us, and that was the end of it, wasn’t it? None of them ever came here.”

“Do we know if it’s possible?” asked Huan, squinting at Esau. “Our skill runs in the ever-thinning blood of the family. So does theirs. I see no way—”

“You are making unfounded assumptions,” the Eldest interrupted. He turned his eyes on Esau. “The talisman is gone, and so is the woman. I find that highly suggestive. And worrying.” He ran his fingers through his beard, distractedly. “Nephew, you must continue to seek the woman’s demise. Seek it not because of my father’s order, but because she may know our secrets. Seek her in the barbarian castles of Niejwein; also seek her here, in the coastal cities of the north-east. You are looking for a mysterious woman of means, suddenly sprung from thin air, making a place for herself. You know what to do. You must also—” he paused and took a sip of tea—“obtain a talisman from the usurper clan. When you have obtained one, by whatever means, compare it to your own. If they differ then I charge you to attempt to use it, both here and in the world of our ancestors. See where it takes you, if anywhere! If it is to familiar territory, then we may rest easy. But if the talent lies in the pattern instead of the bearer, we are all in terrible danger.”

He glanced at the inner shrine, in its sealed cabinet on the left of the Yellow Room. “Our ancestor, revered though he be, may have made a terrible error about the cause of the abandonment. Unthinkable though that is, we must question everything until we discern the truth. And then we must find a way to achieve victory.”

“Hello, Roland’s voice mail. If it’s still secure, meet me at the Marriott suite you rented, tonight at six p.m. Bye.” She stabbed the “off” button on her phone viciously then remarked to the air, “Be there or be dead meat.”

Paulette was bent over the screen of her laptop, messing around with some fine arts web sites, a browser window pointing to a large online bookstore: “Are you sure you mean that?” she murmured.

“I don’t know.” Miriam frowned darkly, arms crossed defensively.

“Give me the car keys, I’m going for a drive. Back late.”

Being behind the wheel of a car cleared Miriam’s head marvelously. The simple routine of driving, merging with traffic and keeping the wheels on the icy road, distracted her from the ulcer of worry gnawing away at her guts. At Home Depot she shoved a cart around with brutal energy, slowing only when a couple of five-gallon cans of kerosene turned it into a lumbering behemoth. Afterwards she left quickly and headed for the interstate.

She was almost a hundred and thirty miles south of Boston, driving fast, haunted by evil thoughts, when her phone rang. She held it to her ear as she drove.

“Yes?”

“Miriam?” Her throat caught.

“Roland? Where are you?”

“I’m in the hotel suite right now. Listen, I’m so sorry.”

You will be, if I find you’re responsible, she thought. “I’ll be over in about an hour, hour and twenty,” she said. “You’re alone?”

“Yes. I haven’t told anyone else about this room.”

“Good, neither have I.” They’d rented the room in New York for privacy, for a safe house where they could discuss their mutual plans and fears—and for other purposes. Now all she could think of was the man in her mother’s Dumpster, eyes frozen and staring. “Do you know if Angbard got my message?”

“What message?” He sounded puzzled. “The courier—”

“The message about my mother.”

“I think so,” he said uncertainly. “You sure you can’t be here any faster?”

She chuckled humorlessly. “I’m on the interstate.”

“Uh, okay. I can’t stay too long—got to go back over. But if you can be here in an hour we’ll have an hour together.”

“Maybe,” she said guardedly. “I’ll see you.”

She killed the phone and sped up.

It took her only an hour and ten minutes to make the last sixty miles, cross town, and find somewhere to park near the hotel. As she got out of the car she paused, first to pat her jacket pocket and then to do a double take. This is crazy, she thought, I’m going everywhere with a gun! And no license, much less a concealed-carry permit. Better not get stopped, then. Having to cross over in a hurry would be painful, not to say potentially dangerous; the temporary tattoos on her wrists seemed to itch as she pushed through the doors and into the lobby of the hotel.

The elevator took forever to crawl up to the twenty-second floor, then she was standing in the thickly carpeted silence of the hallway outside the room. She knocked, twice. The door opened to reveal Roland, wearing an immaculate business suit, looking worried. He looked great, better than great. She wanted to tear his clothes off and lick him all over—not an urge she had any intention of giving in to.

His face lit up when he saw her. “Miriam! You’re looking well.” He waved her into the room.

“I’m not looking good,” she said automatically, shoulders hunched.

“I’m a mess.” She glanced around. The room was anonymous as usual, untouched except for the big aluminium briefcase on the dressing table. She walked over to the row of big sealed windows overlooking the city. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for days on end. Why did you call me yesterday?” She steeled herself for the inevitable, ensuring that his next words came as a surprise.

“It’s—” He looked drawn. “It’s about Olga. She’s been shot. She’s stable, but—”

“Was it a shotgun?” Miriam interrupted, startled out of her scripted confrontation.

“A shotgun?” He frowned. “No, it was a pistol, at close range. After you disappeared, ran or whatever, she started acting very strangely. Refused to let anyone anywhere near her chambers then moved into your apartment at House Hjorth, deeply disconcerting Baron Oliver—she did it deliberately to snub him, I think.” He shook his head. “Then someone shot her. The servants were in the antechamber to her room, heard a scuffle and shots—she defended herself. When they went in, there was blood, but no assassin to be seen.”

Miriam leaned against the wall wearily, overcome by a sense that events were spinning out of control. “After I ran. Anything about a corpse in the orangery? Or a couple more in Olga’s rooms? We sure left enough bullet holes in the walls—”

“What?” Roland stood up, agitated. “I didn’t hear anything about this! I got the message about you running, but not—”

“There were two assassination attempts.” Miriam tugged at the curtains, pulling them shut. You can never be sure, she thought, chilled: even though a high building was implicitly doppelgängered, inaccessible from the other worlds, a Clan sniper in a neighboring office block could shoot and then make a clean escape as soon as they reached ground level. “The first guy wanted me in the garden. Unfortunately for their plans, Olga’s chaperone Margit turned up instead. I went back to tell Olga and ran into two guys with machine pistols.”

“But.” Roland shut his mouth, visibly biting his tongue, as Miriam stared at him.

“I don’t think they were working together,” Miriam added after a brief pause. “That’s why I…left.”

“I ought to get you to a safe house right now,” said Roland. “It’s what Angbard will expect. We can’t have random strangers trying to murder Clan heiresses. That they should have shot Olga is bad enough, but this goes far beyond anything I’d known about.” He glanced at her sharply. “It’s as if I’m being kept out of the loop deliberately.”

“Tell me about Olga?” Miriam asked. Well, we know just how reliable Angbard thinks you are. “How is she being looked after? What sort of treatment is she receiving?”

“Whoa! Slowly. Baron Oliver couldn’t afford to look as if he was ignoring an attack under his own roof—he personally got her across to an emergency room in New York, and notified the Duke while they stabilized her. Angbard had her moved to Boston Medical Center by helicopter once she was ready: She’s in a private room, under guard.” Roland looked mildly satisfied at her expression of surprise. “She’s got round-the-clock bodyguards and hot and cold running nurses. Angbard isn’t taking any chances with her safety. We could provide bodyguards for you, too, if you want—”

“Not an issue. But I want to visit Olga.” Miriam put her shoulder bag down on the bed. “Tonight.”

“You can’t. She’s stable, but that doesn’t mean she’s taking visitors. She’s on a drip and pain killers with a hole in one arm and a head injury. Shock and blood loss—it took us nearly two hours to get her to the emergency room. Maybe in a couple of days, when she’s feeling better, you can see her.”

“You said she had a head injury?”

“Yeah. The bad guy used a small-caliber popgun, that’s why she’s still alive.” He looked at her. “You carry—”

Miriam pulled out her pistol. “Like this?” she asked dryly. “Fuck it, Roland, if I was going to kill Olga, I wouldn’t mess around. You know damn well they were hoping to nail me instead.”

“I know, I know.” He looked irritated and gloomy. “It wasn’t you. Nobody with half a wit says it was you, and the fools that do don’t have any pull at court. But your departure set more tongues flapping than anything else that’s happened in years; a real scandal, say the idiots. Eloping with a lady-in-waiting, according to the more lurid imaginations. It doesn’t look good to them, the shooting coming so soon after.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit whether I look good or bad to the Clan.” Miriam stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What about my mother?” she asked.

“Your mother? Isn’t she alright?” He looked surprised. “Is she—”

“I went over there this morning. She phoned last night while I was away. Something about going on a long journey. Today there is a new back door in her kitchen, and a dead man’s body in the Dumpster behind her house, and not a sign of her to be found. I told Angbard that if anything happened to her, heads would roll, and I meant it.”

Roland sat down heavily in the room’s armchair. “Your mother?” His face was pale. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Miriam pursed her lips. “Would Angbard tell you if he was going to order her abducted?”

“Abducted—” Roland began to look worried. “Someone was shot on her doorstep?”

“You’re catching on. Someone was shot with a sawed-off shotgun. And she sure as hell didn’t stuff him into a Dumpster and repair the kitchen door before leaving, or mop up the blood stains. In case you didn’t know, she’s got multiple sclerosis. She’s in a wheelchair right now, and even when the disease is in remission she walks with crutches.”

Miriam watched him go through the stages of surprise, denial, anger, and alarm with gloomy satisfaction. “That doesn’t make sense!” he insisted. “Angbard put her under a protective watch! If someone had gotten through to her I would know about it!”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself.”

“But it can’t be!” He was vehement.

“Listen, I know a shotgun wound when I see one, Roland. I stuck my finger in it and waggled it about. You know something? It was sawed-off, either that or he was shot from at least fifty feet away, and I figure that would have attracted some attention. It makes a hell of a mess. Which ward is Olga in? I have got to go and see her. What the hell is Angbard playing at?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “He’s not exactly been confiding in me lately.” Roland’s frown deepened.

Miriam took a deep breath. “I went over to my house,” she said quietly.

“Oh?” Roland looked slightly stunned, but it wasn’t the expression of a would-be murderer confronted by a surprisingly animated victim: He looked much the way she felt.

“Someone searched it efficiently. They left an, uh, surprise. Behind the front door. I’m not sure what kind except that it’s probably explosive and it’s wired to the handle. Only reason I’m here is I forgot my keys and had to use the back way in.”

“Oh shit—” He stood up, his hand going to his pocket instinctively.

“You’re alright?”

“Not for want of somebody trying,” she said dryly. “Seems to me that we have a pattern. First, someone tries to kill me or mess with Olga. They then try harder to kill me and succeed in killing Olga’s chaperone. I shoot one killer and leave, taking Brill with me. Olga moves into my room at the palace and someone shoots her. Meanwhile, people who should know where I’ve gone don’t, and my mother vanishes, and everywhere I’m likely to go on this side starts sprouting bombs. Can you tell me what kind of fucking pattern I am seeing here, Roland? Can you?”

“Someone is out to get you,” he said through gritted teeth. “More than one conspiracy, by the sound of it. And they’re getting Olga by mistake. Repeatedly. For some reason. And they’re lying to me, too. And Angbard is treating me as a potential security leak, keeping me in the dark and feeding me shit.”

“Right.” She nodded jerkily. “So what are we going to do about it?” She watched him like a hawk.

“I think—” He came to some decision, because he took a step toward her. “I think you’d better come with me. I’m going to take you to Angbard in person and we’ll sort out this out in person—he’s over here now, taking personal control. We can accommodate you at Fort Lofstrom, a fully doppelgängered apartment, round-the-clock guards—”

She pushed his hand away. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so?” He looked surprised.

“I can look after myself, thank you,” she said coolly. “I’m making arrangements. I’ll get this sorted out by Beltaigne. One last question. Do you have any idea who might be trying to kill me?”

“Lots of suspects with motives, but no evidence.” Puzzlement and worry mingled in his expression. For a moment he looked as if he was about to say something more, then he shook his head.

“Well then, that means I win because I do know roughly who’s trying to kill me,” she said, gloomily triumphant. “And I’m going to flush them from cover. Your clue is this: They’re not part of the Clan, and a doppelgängered house on the other side is no defense—but they can’t get at me while I’m here.”

“Miriam,” he rolled his eyes. “You’re being paranoid. I’ll get your mother’s house checked out immediately, but you’ll be a lot safer if we put a dozen armed bodyguards around you—”

“Safer from what? Safe from some blood feud that was ancient before I was born? Or safe from the idiots who think they’re going to inherit my mother’s estate if I can be declared incompetent next May, in front of a Clan council? Get real, Roland, the Clan is nearly as big a threat to my freedom as the world-walking assholes who shot Olga and booby-trapped the warehouse!”

“Booby-trapped—” his eyes widened.

“Yeah, a claymore mine on a tripwire in the doorway. And nobody cleared up the night watchman’s body. Do you begin to get it?” She began to back away toward the door. “Someone set up the bomb, someone inside Angbard’s security operation! And,” she continued in a low voice, “you were in the right places at the right times.”

Roland looked angry. “Miriam, you can’t mean that!” He paced across the room restlessly. “Come on, look, let me sort everything out and it’ll be okay, won’t it? I’ll vet your guards—”

“Roland.” She shook her head, angry with him, angry with herself for wanting to give in and take him up on an offer that meant far more and went far further than words could express: “I’m gone. If you know where I’m going, the bad guys will find out—if you aren’t one of them.” She kept her hand in her pocket, just in case, but the idea of shooting him filled her with a numinous sense of horror.

He looked appalled. “Can’t we just…?”

“Just what?” she cried. “Kiss and make up? Jesus, Roland, don’t be naive!”

“Shit.” He stared at her. “You really mean it.”

“I am going to walk out the door in a minute,” she said tensely, hating herself for her own determination, “and we are not going to see each other again until next May, probably. At least, not in the next few days or weeks. We both need time out. I need to get my head together and see if I can flush the bastards who’re trying to kill me. You need to think about who you are and who I am and where we’re going before we take this any further—and you need to find whoever’s wormed their way into Angbard’s confidence and whoever shot Olga.”

“I don’t care about Olga! I care about you!” he snapped.

“That is part of the problem I’ve got with you right now,” she said coldly, and headed for the door.

A thought occurred to her as she pulled the door open. “Roland?”

“Yes?” He sounded coldly angry.

“Tomorrow I’m going to get lost again, probably until Beltaigne. Keep checking your voice mail—there’s no need to hold this room any longer.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said quietly. She shut the door behind her and departed, her heart infinitely heavier than it had been when she arrived.

Ring ring. There was a breeze blowing, and the park was bitterly cold: Miriam sat hunched at one end of a bench.

“Hello? Lofstrom Associates, how may I help you?”

“This is Miriam. I want to talk to Angbard.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lofstrom is unavailable right now—”

“I said I’m Miriam. If you don’t know the name, check with someone who does. You have five minutes to get Angbard on the line before the shit hits the fan.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Please hold—”

beep beep beep

“Hello?” A different voice, not Angbard’s, came on the line.

“To whom am I speaking?” Miriam asked calmly.

“Matthias. And you are?”

“Miriam Beckstein. I want to talk to Angbard. Right now. This call has been logged by the front desk.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting. If—”

“If I don’t get him on the line right now I’ll make sure the Boston Globe receives a package that will blow your East Coast courier line wide open. You have sixty seconds.” Her fingers tensed on the handset.

“One moment.”

Click.

“Angbard here. What’s this?”

“It’s me,” said Miriam. “Sorry I had to strong-arm my way past your mandarins, but it’s urgent.”

“Urgent?” She could almost hear the eyebrows rising. “I’ve never seen Matthias so disturbed since—well. Unpleasant events. What did you tell him?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Miriam leaned back, felt the cold bench bite through her coat, sat up straight again. “Listen. I told you something about my mother. That if anything happened to her I would be really pissed off.”

“Yes?” Polite interest colored Angbard’s voice.

“I’m really pissed off. Really, really pissed off.”

“What happened?” he demanded.

“She’s gone. There’s a dead man in the Dumpster behind her house, killed with a shotgun. She had time to phone me to say she was going on a journey—I don’t know if anyone was holding a gun to her head. Roland didn’t know this. Apparently it happened at the same time that Olga was shot. And my house has been burgled and stuff taken, and somebody booby-trapped the front door.”

“Come here immediately. Or if you tell me where you are I’ll send a carload of guards—”

“No, Angbard, that won’t work.” She swallowed. “Listen. I am about to vanish more deeply than last time. Don’t worry about Brilliana, she’s safe. What I want you to do…look for my mother. By all means. Raise heaven and earth. I am going to visit Olga tomorrow and I do not expect to be stopped. If I don’t leave that meeting and reach a certain point, unhindered, later tomorrow, unpleasant letters will go in the mail. I am serious about this, I am pissed off, and I am establishing my own power base because I believe that civil war you told me about is not over and the faction who started it is trying to fire it up again, through me.”

“But Helge, that faction—” he sounded coldly angry—“they’re your father’s side of your family!”

“That’s not the faction I’m thinking of,” she said dryly. “The people I have in mind never signed on to the cease-fire. Listen, I will be in touch ahead of the Beltaigne conference. I’m going to have some really big surprises for you all, including…well, anyone who tries to declare me incompetent is going to get a really nasty shock. I’m going to keep in touch through Roland, but he won’t know where I’m hiding. So, if you find my mother tell Roland. More to the point, don’t trust your staff. Someone is not telling you everything that happens in the field. I think you’ve got a mole.”

“Explain.” The terser he became the better Miriam felt.

She thought for a moment. Tell him about Roland? No, but…“Ask Roland about the warehouse warning I phoned him. Find out why instead of cleaners calling, someone turned up and booby-trapped the place. Looks like the same style as whoever planted the bomb behind the front door of my house. You didn’t know about that? Ask Matthias about the courier I intercepted on the train. Ask Olga about the previous assassination attempts. By the way, if I think her life is in danger, I reserve the right to move Olga somewhere safer. Once she’s out of immediate danger.”

“You’re asking for a blank check,” he said. “I’ve noticed the withdrawals. They’re big.”

“I’m setting up an import/export business.” Miriam took a deep breath.

“I’ll announce it to the Clan at Beltaigne. By then, I should have a return on investment that will, um, justify your confidence in me.” Another deep breath. “I’d like another million dollars, though. That would make things run smoother.”

“Are you sure?” asked Angbard. He sounded almost amused, now.

“A million here, a million there, pretty soon you’re talking serious money. Yes, I’m sure. It’s a new investment opportunity in the family tradition. Like I said, I’m not setting up in competition—think of it as proof of concept for a whole new business area the Clan can move into. And a way of making Baron Oliver Hjorth and his backers look really stupid, if that interests you.”

“Well. If you insist, I’ll take your word for it.” He was using the indulgent paterfamilias voice again. “It’ll be in your account by the day after tomorrow. From central funds this time, not my own purse.” In a considerably icier tone: “Please don’t disappoint me in your investments. The Council has a very short way of dealing with embezzlement and not even your position would protect you.”

“Understood. One other thing, uncle.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the other branch of the Clan? The one that accidentally got mislaid a couple of hundred years ago and is now blundering around in the dark trying to kill people?”

“The—” He paused. “Who told you about them?”

“Sleep well,” she told him, and hit the “off” button on her phone with a considerable sense of satisfaction. She looked at the sky, saw night was pulling in already. It was time to go pick up Brill and visit the hospital. She hoped Olga would be able to talk to visitors. All she needed was confirmation of one little point and she could be on her way back to the far side, and the business empire she planned to establish.

Boston Medical Center was much like any other big general hospital, a maze of corridors and departments signposted in blue. Uniformed porters, clerical officers, maintenance staff, and lots of bewildered relatives buzzed about like a nest of bees. As they entered, Miriam murmured to Brill: “usual drill, do what I do. Okay?”

“Okay.” They walked up to reception and Miriam smiled. “Hi there, I’m wondering if it’s possible to visit a patient? An Olga, uh, Hjorth—”

The receptionist, bored, shoved hair up past her ear bug. “I’ll just check. Uh, what did you say your name was?”

“Miriam Beckstein. And a friend.”

“Yeah, they’re expecting you, go right up. You’ll find her on ward fourteen. Have a nice day!”

“This place smells strange,” Brill muttered as Miriam hunted for the elevators.

“It’s a hospital. Full of sick people, they use disinfectant to keep diseases down.”

“An infirmary?” Brill looked skeptical. “It doesn’t look like one to me!”

Miriam tried to imagine what an infirmary might look like in the Gruinmarkt, and failed. When were hospitals invented, anyway? she wondered irrelevantly as the elevator doors slid open, and a bunch of people came out. “Come on,” she said.

Ward fourteen was on the third floor, a long walk away. Brill kept glancing from side to side as they passed open doors, a hematology lab here, the vestibule of another ward there. Finally they found the front desk. “Hello?” said Miriam.

“Hello yourself.” The nurse at the desk glanced up. “Visiting hours run until eight,” she commented, “you’ve got an hour. Who are you looking for?”

“Olga Hjorth. We’re expected.”

“Hmm.” The nurse frowned and glanced down, then her frown cleared.

“Oh, yeah, you’re on the list. I’m sorry,” she looked apologetic. “She’s only taking a few visitors; we’ve got orders to keep strangers out. And she’s on nil by mouth right now, so if you’ve brought any food or drink you’ll have to leave it right here at the desk.”

“No, that’s okay,” said Miriam. “Uh, can you ask if she’s willing to see my friend here? Brill?”

“That’s me,” said Brill, miscueing off Miriam’s request.

“Oh, well—you’re on the clear list.” The nurse shrugged. “It’s just that somebody shot her.” She frowned. “She’s under guard. Spooks, if you follow my drift.”

Miriam gave her a sympathetic smile. “I follow. They know us both.”

“That way.” The nurse pointed. “Second door on the right. Knock before you open it.”

Miriam knocked. The door opened immediately. A very big guy in dark clothes and dark glasses filled it. “Yes?” he demanded, in a vaguely central-European accent.

“Miriam Beckstein and Brill van Ost to see Olga. We’re expected.”

“One moment.” The door closed, then opened again, this time unobstructed. “She says to come in.”

It was a small anteroom and there were not one but three heavies in suspiciously bulky jackets and serious expressions hanging around. One of them was sitting down reading a copy of Guns and Ammo, but the other two were on their feet and they studied Miriam carefully before they opened the inner door. “Olga!” cried Brill, rushing in. “What have they done to you?”

“Careful,” warned Miriam, following her.

“Hello,” said Olga. She smiled slightly and shifted in the bed.

“Excuse me,” the young nurse said waspishly. “I’ll just be finishing here before you disturb her, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh,” said Brill.

“I don’t mind,” said Miriam, staring at Olga. “How are you?” she asked anxiously.

“Bad.” Olga’s smile warmed slightly. “Tired’n’bruised. But alive.” Her eyes tracked toward the nurse, who was fiddling with the drip mounted on the side of the bed, and Miriam nodded minutely. The back of her bed was raised and there was a huge dressing over her right shoulder. Alarming-looking drain tubes emerged from it, and a bunch of wires from under the neck of her hospital gown fed into some kind of mobile monitor on a trolley. It chirped occasionally. “Damn.” Half of her hair was missing, and there was another big dressing covering one side of her head, but no drain tubes—which, Miriam supposed, was a good sign. “This feels most strange.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Miriam said with some feeling. Wow, she thought, thinking about Brill’s first reaction to New York, she’s handling it well. “Did they find whoever did it?”

“I’m told not.” Olga glanced at the nurse again, who glanced back sternly and straightened up.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” she announced brightly. “Remember, no food or drink! And don’t tire her out. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes; if you need me before then, use the buzzer.”

Miriam, Brill, and Olga watched her departure with relief. “Strange fashions here,” Olga murmured. “Strange buildings. Strange everything.”

“Yeah, well.” Miriam glanced at the drip, the monitoring gear, everything else. Cable TV, a private bathroom, and a vase with flowers in it. Compared to the care Olga would receive in the drafty palace on the other side, this was the very lap of luxury. “What happened?”

“Ack.” Olga coughed. “I was in your, your room. Asleep. He appeared out of nowhere and shot…well.” She shifted slightly. “Why doesn’t it hurt more?” she asked, sounding puzzled. “He shot at me, but I am a light sleeper. I was already sitting up. And I sleep with my pistol under my pillow.” Her smile widened.

Miriam shook her head. “Did he get away?” she asked. “If not, did you get his locket?”

“I wondered when you would ask.” Olga closed her eyes. “Managed to grab it before they found me. It’s in the drawer there.”

She didn’t point at the small chest of drawers, but Miriam figured it out. Before she could blink, Brill had the top drawer open and lifted out a chain with a disk hanging from it. “Give me,” said Miriam.

“Yeah?” Brill raised an eyebrow, but passed it to her all the same.

“Hmm.” Miriam glanced at it, felt a familiar warning dizziness, and glanced away. Then she pulled back a cuff and looked at the inside of her right wrist. The same. “Same as the bastard who killed Margit. Exactly the same. While the other bunch of heavies who tried to roll us over at the same time didn’t have any lockets. At all.”

“Thought so,” murmured Olga.

“Listen, they’re after us both,” said Miriam. “Olga?”

“I’m listening,” she said sleepily. “Don’t worry.”

“They’re after us both,” Miriam insisted. “Olga, this is very important. You’re probably going to be stuck here for two or three days, minimum, and it’ll take weeks before you’re well—but as soon as you’re well enough to move, Angbard will want to take you back to his fortress on the other side. It is really important that you don’t go there. I mean, it’s vital. The killers can reach you on the other side, in Fort Lofstrom, even in a doppelgängered room. But they can’t reach you here. Listen, I’ve got a friend here working for me. And Brill’s here, too. You can stay with us, if you like. Or talk to Roland, get Roland to help. I’m pretty sure he’s reliable—for you, at least. If you stay in Angbard’s doppelgängered rooms on this side, the ones he uses to stop family members getting at him in the fort, you’ll be safe from the lost family in world three, and from the other conspirators, but not from the mole. And if you go back to Niejwein, the conspirators will try to kill you.”

“Wait!” Olga struggled visibly to absorb everything. “Lost family? World three? What’s—”

“The assassin who killed Margit.” Miriam tensed. “It’s a long story. I think they’re after you, now, because of me.”

Olga shook her head. “But why? I mean, what purpose could that serve?”

“Because it’ll discredit me, or it’ll restart the civil war, and I’m fairly certain that’s what the bunch from world three, the long-lost relatives, want to achieve. If I die and it can be blamed on one half of the Clan, that starts it up again. If you die and it looks like I’ve schemed with Roland to get you out of the way so I can marry him, it starts up for a different reason. Do you see?”

“Vaguely.” Olga opened her eyes and looked at Miriam. “You’ll have to explain it again later. Do you think they’ll let me stay here?”

“Hmm.” Miriam thought for a moment. “You can stay here to recover. I don’t think even Angbard is stupid enough to move you while you’re ill. You can lean on him to let you stay a bit longer to see what it’s like, too. That might work. If he’s got any sense he’ll work it out from what I told him. But he isn’t safe, Olga.”

Brill turned around. “They abducted—or killed—Miriam’s foster-mother, milady. Yesterday, at the same time they shot you.”

“Oh!” Olga looked pensive. “So. What would you suggest?”

“I think you should stay here for now. When you’re better, I want to—” Miriam caught Brill’s eye—“introduce you to a friend of mine called Paulette. And then we’ll see.” She licked her lips. “I’ve got a business proposition in mind. One that will flush out the bastards who want us both dead, and make everybody involved wealthy beyond belief.” She grinned at Olga. “Interested?”