The Revolution Business

High Estate

There was a country estate, untouched by war, separated from the clinic in Springfield by about three blocks and two-and-a-half thousand years of divergent history. Brill had picked up a courier from somewhere nearby and driven Miriam round to a safe house on a quiet residential street; whereupon the courier had carried her across, back into the depths of someone else’s history.

It was, in many respects, like her time as an involuntary guest of Baron Henryk. There was no electricity in the great stone-walled house, and no central heating or water on tap, and she was surrounded by servants who spoke to her only in hochsprache. Brill had left her in the hands of the maidservants, and she’d felt an unpleasant tension as the chattering women dressed her in clothes from the landholder’s wife’s chests. Trapped again: She felt a quite unexpected sense of panicky claustrophobia rising as they fussed over her. It had been hard to stand still, giving no sign of her urge to bolt and run: She forced herself to recall Brill’s oath. She won’t leave me here, she told herself.

To distract herself she fought her unease by trying to puzzle out their story. The landholder, she eventually concluded, was away in the wars, a relative of the Clan families: He’d sent his dependents to safety for the duration, leaving the staff behind with instructions to look after whomever the council billeted on them. Which meant they were expecting to host one Lady Helge, house and braid and surname unspecified, not Miriam—a woman from another world. You let yourself get trapped again, a little corner of her worried. They laid out a trap and let you walk right into it.

But there were significant differences from Henryk’s idea of hospitality, despite the primitive amenities and unwanted expectations. Her bedroom door had a lock, but she had her own key. The afternoon after her arrival, trying to dispel the anxiety and claustrophobia of being Helge again, she’d ventured from her room to look around the grand hall and the main rooms of the estate. When she’d returned she found the battered suitcase she’d borrowed from Erasmus sitting beside the canopy bed. A quick inspection with shaking hands revealed her laptop and the revolver Burgeson had given her. And not only had they let her keep the locket James Lee had given her—Brill had winked, and given her a second, smaller locket on a gold bracelet. None of these things were of any immediate use, but collectively they conveyed a powerful message: The trap has a key, and you are not a prisoner.

She’d sat on the bed, holding the laptop and shaking, carefully stifling her sobs of relief lest the servants waiting outside take fright. When she’d calmed down sufficiently to function again, she checked over the small pistol, reloading it with ammunition from its case. She let the hammer down on an empty cylinder, and slid it into a pouch she’d found cunningly stitched inside the cuff of her left sleeve; I can make this work, she told herself. I’ve got to make this work. The one common drawback of both her own plan, and her mother’s, was that they depended on her living as the Countess Helge voh Thorold d’Hjorth. Not playacting in fancy dress, but actually being a lady of the Gruinmarkt—at least unless and until Iris’s hastily improvised junta secured its grip on power, or the US military figured out a way to claw a hole in the wall between the worlds. Which could happen tomorrow—or in ten years’ time.

The alternatives were all worse: a gamble on the questionable mercies of the DEA’s witness protection scheme, an even riskier gamble on Erasmus and his ruthless political allies. Between her mother’s Machiavellian proposal and the naïve optimism of the young progressive faction, there was at least some room for her to get a grip on events. “As long as Henryk doesn’t rise from the dead I’ll be alright,” she muttered under her breath. (Keep telling yourself that, mocked her inner skeptic. They’ll find some other way to screw you. . . .)

If Roland were still alive, and had actually been the knight in shining armor he’d looked like at first, she wouldn’t have to sort everything out for herself. But first he’d disappointed her, then he’d died trying to live up to her expectations, and now there was nothing to do but press on regardless. No more heroes, she resolved. I’m going to have to do this all on my own again, damn it. Which, semirandomly, reminded her of the old song. “What do I have to do to get a CD player in here?” she asked herself, and managed a croak of laughter.

A tentative voice piped up somewhere behind her, near the door: “Milady, are you alright?”

Miriam—Helge—turned her head. “I am—well,” she managed in her halting hochsprache. “What is it?”

The servant, a maid of the bedchamber—evidently of a higher status than a common or garden serving woman—studiously ignored her reddened eyes. “Milady? I beg you to receive a visitor downstairs?” The maid continued for another sentence, but Helge’s hochsprache was too patchy to catch more than a feminine prefix and an implication of status.

“In a, a minute.” Helge reached for one of the canopy posts and levered herself upright. “Speak, tell, her I will see them.” She took a step towards the heavy oak dresser with the water jug and bowl that stood in for a sink. The door closed behind her. “Ouch.” She’d kept the ankle boots she’d acquired in New London because they fit her feet better than any shoes in milady’s wardrobe, but she’d been wearing them all day and her feet were complaining. She examined her face ruefully in the precious aluminum-framed mirror. “I’m a mess,” she told it, and it winced, agreeing. “Better clean up.”

Five minutes later, Helge closed her door and marched onto the landing at the head of the grand staircase, a wide wooden platform that circled the inside wall of the central hall. She gripped the handrail tightly as she descended. It wouldn’t do to fall downstairs, I might lose the baby. She tried not to succumb to the fit of dark humor: She had a feeling that if she aired that particular joke she might scare people. Not, she was determined, that she was going to bond even remotely with the kid. That would be too much like collusion. I wonder who wants to see me?

The butler, or equerry or whatever, was waiting at the foot of the stairs with a gaggle of maidservants lined up behind him. “Milady.” He bowed, almost sweeping the floor. “Her ladyship awaits you in the green lounge.”

Miriam nodded acknowledgement. Who? Two unfamiliar servants waited outside the door he indicated, standing at ease with almost military precision. “Introduce me,” she said.

“Aye, milady.” The equerry walked towards the door, which opened before him. “This is Lady Thorold—”

“We’ve met,” said Helge. She swept past the startled equerry.

Olga met her halfway in a hug. “Helge! You look well. Have they been looking after you?”

“Well enough so far.” She hugged Olga back, then took a deep breath and stepped aside to look at her. With her hair up, wearing an embroidered riding habit, Olga almost looked like the blond ingenue Miriam had mistaken her for when they’d first met, almost a year ago. “You’re looking good yourself.” She took another deep breath, feeling the knot of anxiety begin to loosen. “But how have you been? Brill tried to bring me up to date on some of the details, but . . .”

“It has been difficult.” Olga looked slightly pained for a moment, then her brows wrinkled into a thunderous frown. “But leave that for later! I come to see you, and I find you in a yokel’s barn with peasants for attendants and no guards for your back—how long have you been left alone here?”

“Oh, I’ve only been here since this morning—”

“Only this morning? Well then, I probably need not execute anyone just yet—”

“Wait!” She held up a hand. “Brill was sorting things out for me. What are you going on about?”

“It was Lady d’Ost?” Olga’s anger faded. “She told me about your . . . arrangement. She left you here?”

“Yeah. But she was supposed to be back later in the day. Think she ran into trouble?”

“Possibly.” Olga walked over to the heavy oak sideboard that stood against one wall and opened a small valise to pull out a CB handset. “I’ll just check. One-two, one-two. Stefan, wer’ ist?” A burst of crackling hochsprache answered her. Miriam didn’t even try to follow the conversation, but after a minute’s back and forth Olga was content to shove the radio back in her bag. “My men will ask, when they finish walking the perimeter. It could be just one of those things. . . .” Olga shrugged, delicately. “But we cannot leave you here without a staff, especially once the servants work out who you are. At a minimum you need your own ladies-in-waiting—at least two of them, to supervise the servants and look to your needs. I am able to detach Lady Brilliana from other duties, so she can serve, again. . . . Then you need a lance of guards under a suitable officer, and a communications officer with a courier or two at his disposal. I’d be happier if we could add a doctor or at least a properly trained paramedic, a coachman and two grooms, and either a full kitchen staff or at least a poison-taster. The full household we can leave until later, this is an essential minimum—”

“Olga.” Miriam—shoving Helge out of her mind—took a deep breath. “Why?”

“Why?” Olga raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re carrying the heir, dear. We have a special word for a woman who does that. We call her the queen.”

“This glorious nation of ours was not built by the landed gentry or the bastard sons of George; it was built by the sweat and love of men like you. And its future is in your hands.”

Erasmus squinted at the faces behind the fulminating glare of the limelights as the scripted applause rolled on, trying to hold an impassive expression of determination on his face. “Thank you, citizens! And long live the commonwealth!”

The applause grew louder, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. Hungry men clinging to their best hope of a solid meal, a cynical corner of his mind observed as he bowed his head, then stepped back from the lectern and walked to the back of the stage to make way for the next speaker.

“I thought that was well enough received,” he told the fellow on the bench seat behind the backstage curtain. “What do you think?”

Ronald Smith, the Assistant Commissioner for Justice, nodded thoughtfully. “A good tub-thumping rant doesn’t go amiss,” he conceded. “Who’s on next?”

“Brian MacDougal.” Burgeson frowned as he sat beside Smith. “Which means he’ll harangue them for three hours on the price of flour while their stomachs are rumbling.”

“I ought to go back to the front bench.” Smith showed no sign of moving.

“I ought to go back to the office.” Burgeson’s frown deepened. “There’ll be new slanders and rumors from the Patriot Club to rebut before the congress is over, if I don’t mistake myself. . . .”

“No, you don’t.” Smith fumbled in his coat pocket for a while before pulling out a villainously stained clay pipe. “They’re getting ready for something big. I can feel it in my bones. We’ll have to break some heads before long, or they’ll be electing a king to ride us like nags. Francis or Sir Hubert, most likely.” Both of whom were popular with the elitist thugs of the Patriot Club and their opportunist redshirted street runners—the shirts were dyed to conceal the bloodstains of their victims, as Burgeson had announced in one of his more lurid editorials, and for once he was making none of it up.

“They’ll break the assembly if they do that.”

“The assembly’s doomed anyway, Erasmus. As long as Sir Adam sticks to his and our principles and the New Club continue to demand amnesty for John Frederick, there’s going to be no compromise, and the taller the debate grows, the more bitter its fruit will be.”

“You sound as if you want to compromise. Or am I misunderstanding you?”

Smith grunted as he fumbled with his lighter. “No, I believe there will be a compromise, eventually, whether we want it or no; the only question is, whose terms will it favor? The alternative is open strife, and as that would only benefit our enemies . . .”

He pulled the trigger. Sparks snapped and fell into the barrel of his pipe.

“I think you underestimate our resources and our prowess,” Erasmus murmured as Smith drew on his weed. “We have a majority of the navy behind us.” The rigid stratification and harsh discipline of the service, combined with a recent decline in the quality of rations and an influx of conscripts, had turned the navy into a tinderbox of pro-Leveler sentiment. “In fact, I think we’d have a majority of the people behind us, if the assembly would get round to holding the elections we were promised for our support.” Erasmus smiled thinly. “We know we hold the people’s mandate, that’s why they’re carrying on this rearguard action in the popular committees. And the sooner we stop gassing at each other and patting ourselves on the back”—his nod towards the front of the stage, where citizen MacDougal had commenced his peroration on the price of bread, took in the invisible audience of party delegates—“the better. This is what did for us the last time round, and if we don’t seize the day it’ll do for us—”

He paused. A messenger boy was tiptoeing towards them, eyes wide. “Citizen Burgeson?” he piped quietly.

“Yes, lad?”

“Electrogram from the Westminster Halls!” He held the message slip out, stiff-armed.

“Hmm.” Burgeson took the message and read it as fast as he could in the backstage twilight. Then he pocketed it and rose. “It has been good to talk to you, citizen Smith, but I’m needed elsewhere.” He smiled faintly. “Do keep me informed as to the substance of citizen MacDougal’s bakery, will you?” Then he turned to the messenger boy: “Go tell the postmaster to signal that I’m on my way.”

Burgeson emerged blinking from the basement of the commandeered theater where the party caucus was in full swing. Two militiamen in the gray and green uniform of the Freedom Riders challenged him. “Citizen Burgeson. Please tell Citizen Supervisor Philips that I am ready to leave on urgent business and require transport.”

“Sir!” One of the guards hurried off; the other stood by. Erasmus pointedly ignored the solecism: Ex-soldiers generally made the best militiamen, even when their political awareness wasn’t up to scratch, and with the opposition boasting of two redshirts for every Freedom Rider the Party could muster, only a fool would make an issue of a slip of the tongue.

Presently the guard returned with Supervisor Philips following behind him. Philips, tall, stoop-shouldered, and quavery of voice, wouldn’t normally have been Erasmus’s idea of a military commander: He reminded him of a praying mantis. (But these weren’t normal times, and Philips was, if nothing else, politically sound.) “Ah, citizen Burgeson. What can I do for you?”

Erasmus suppressed a twitch. Drawing himself up to his full height, he said: “I am summoned to the Westminster Halls by Sir Adam.”

“Interesting.” He could almost see the gears meshing in Philips’s mind. “We’ll have to avoid the Central Canal and Three Mile Lane, the redshirts are smashing up shop windows and working themselves up.” The gears spun to a conclusive stop: “Citizen, please follow me. Meng, go tell Stevens to send the armored car round to the front steps. He’s to follow with the motorcycle detachment. Gray, stand guard until I send someone to relieve you.” Erasmus fell in behind Philips. “I should like you to ride in the car for your own safety, citizen. Unless you feel the need to arrange a provocation?”

“No provocations today.” Erasmus smiled humorlessly, mentally reviewing the message that had dragged him away from the interminable speeches of the party faithful: COME AT ONCE TO DISCUSS PATRIOTS WITHDRAWL FROM ASS BREAK NEED TO RESPOND BREAK. “But there’ll be plenty of provocations tomorrow.”

Miriam was still vibrating from Olga’s arrival two hours later, when the Lady Brilliana d’Ost arrived with all the ceremony due to a lord’s daughter, and a small army of servants, stewards, armed guards, and other retainers besides. They can’t mean it, Miriam kept telling herself: I’m no queen! She’d met His Majesty King Alexis a number of times, and his mother the dowager queen, but there’d been an empty space in that family tree for some years before Egon pulled his hostile takeover bid. She’d acquired from King Alexis a vague sense of what it was to be a monarch: much like being the CEO of a sprawling, huge, corporation with an activist and frequently hostile board. And the angle that if you screwed up, being fired took on a whole new and alarming meaning.

Olga had dragged her on a tour of the house and its grounds—sucking two bodyguards along in her wake, and using her walkie-talkie to warn other outer guards of their progress—and had tried explaining a huge inchoate bundle of protocol to her, in between showing her round an orchard patrolled by peacocks and a huge selection of outbuildings that evidently made this site suitable for a temporary royal presence—but most of it went right past her head. Too much, too fast: Miriam was still trying to come to terms with her mother’s sudden reemergence at the center of a web of diplomacy, and the huge imposition of being pregnant, much less with the whole question of her status here, to grapple with anything else.

In the end, she’d just raised a hand. “Olga. Stop. This is too much for me, right now.”

“Too much.” Olga paused. “Helge. You need to know this. What is—”

“Back to the house. Please?”

Olga peered at her. “You’re not feeling too good?”

“I am way overloaded,” she admitted. “I’m not ready for this, for any of it. Mom’s plan. You’re part of it, right?”

“Back to the house,” Olga said firmly, taking her in hand. “Yes,” she confirmed as they walked, “I have the honor of conspiring with her, as do you. But we are relying on you for so much. If you are overloaded, let me help?”

Miriam sighed. “I’m not sure I can. Being pregnant? That wasn’t in my plans. Mom’s conspiracy? Ditto. Now you want me to be a queen, which is way outside my comfort zone: It’s the kind of job that drives people to an early grave. And then there’s the other stuff.”

“Other stuff?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Olga. Angbard didn’t pick you just because of your bright smile and fashion sense. You must have gotten my report through Brill. I did meet Mike Fleming in the palace! And he told me—”

“Yes, we know.” Olga paused while one of their silent escorts opened the orchard gate for her. “It is a very bad situation, Helge, and I would be lying if I said it was entirely under control. You have been told what happened to Egon’s men?”

“Yes.” Miriam followed Olga through the gate. “Which means it’s only a matter of time. It could all explode in our faces tomorrow, or next month.”

“Absolutely. Your uncle—while he lay sick, he told me we needed to put your business plan into action, that it was the only way. But my word carries little weight with the likes of Julius or your grandam. If your mother’s conspiracy works, we’ll see. But we are riding on a tumbrel with a broken wheel—time is scarce, so we must pursue all our options at once lest we find ourselves treading on air. You as the mother to the heir—that helps. If not with the old aristocracy, then with our own conservatives—they recognize the heir, it was their own scheme! And there are other materials that his grace told me to entrust to you, when I can recover them—they are another. We might be able to hold the Gruinmarkt yet, should the American scientists fail to unravel our talent. It could take them years, not months. And we will still need to defeat them in covert battle and recover our hostages from them.”

“But it’s going to end sooner or later, and probably sooner than we think—”

“Yes, but every month it buys us is a month longer to find a way out of the trap. And we have plans. If the worst should fail to arrive, there is your mother’s scheme. And if the worst does arrive, we have evacuation plans. We can flee by way of Canada, and then to other nations. We have sent spies to Europe. Your friend in New Britain might supply another option—better, if the Americans announce our existence at large. We’ve got many alternatives. Too many, in fact.” The shady garden path approached the courtyard at the rear of the house, the door leading back inside. “Your confusion is our confusion. Brilliana told me you were working on a new plan of business. Work hard; I think we may need it very soon.”

Which was all very well, and brought Miriam back to herself, lending her the strength for another try at being Helge. Just in time to open the door onto chaos.

“Move that upstairs! No, not that, the other case! You, yes, you, go find the kitchen! Honestly, where do I get these people? Oh, hi, Miriam!”

The main hallway was full of luggage, heavy trunks and crates, and their attendant grooms, guards, and porters. Brill—Lady Brilliana d’Ost in this time and place, elegant and poised—stood in the middle of it, directing the traffic with the confidence of a born chatelaine. “You’d better wait in the blue receiving room while I get this under control. Which reminds me.” She switched to hochsprache: “Sir Alasdair, your presence is required.” In English, sotto voce: “Alasdair is in charge of your bodyguards, Helge. Yes he’s Clan, a full world-walker, but the offspring of two outer families hence the lack of braid. He’s reliable, and unsworn.”

“He is?” Miriam murmured, smiling with clenched teeth as a medium-sized mountain of a man shambled across the busy floor, narrowly missing two pieces of itinerant furniture and their cursing porters.

“He is. He’s also my cousin.” Brill nudged. “Alasdair, I’d like you to meet Helge—”

“Your highness, I am overwhelmed!” The mountain bowed like a landslide, sweeping the floor before Miriam’s feet with his hat. “It is an honor to meet you! My lady has told me so much—”

“Oh good.” At least the man-mountain spoke English. Stand up, she thought at the top of his head in mild desperation.

“Sir Alasdair, you must be able to stand in your liege’s presence,” Olga interrupted, casting Miriam a sidelong look.

“Of course,” Miriam echoed. Okay, that’s two hints. I get the message. Swear your chief of security!

“Your highness is gracious.” Brill winked at her and Olga studiously looked away as Alasdair straightened, revealing himself to be a not-unpresentable but extremely large fellow in his mid-thirties, if not for the starstruck expression on his face.

“If you do not mind, I have to be elsewhere,” Olga told Miriam. She nodded at Brill. “You know what must be done?”

“I do.”

“Well then.” Olga ducked a brief curtsey in Miriam’s direction, then sidestepped around the doorway and back into the garden.

“What was that about?” asked Miriam.

“Lady Hjorth is most peculiarly busy right now,” Brilliana commented. “As I should be, too, if you do not mind.”

Alasdair cleared his throat. “If your highness would care to inspect her guard of honor?”

“I’m not anyone’s highness yet,” Miriam pointed out. “But if you insist . . .”

“Alasdair and his men will see to your security,” Brill repeated, as if she thought Miriam hadn’t already got the message. “Meanwhile, I must humbly beg you to excuse me. I’ve got to get all the servants bedded in and the caravan unloaded—”

“Olga said something about ladies-in-waiting,” Miriam interrupted. “Who did you pick?”

“Look no further.” Brill raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I would put you in the hands of amateurs? I will find suitable assistants as soon as time permits.”

“Oh, thank god.” Miriam mopped at her brow in barely feigned relief. “So, I can leave everything to you?”

“You are my highest priority,” Brill said drily. “You were, even before I swore to you. Now go and meet your guards.” She turned and swept back into the chaos in the entrance hall, leaving Miriam standing alone with Sir Alasdair.

“Your highness.” Alasdair rumbled quietly when he spoke. “Lady d’Ost has told me something of her time with you. I understand you were raised in America and have little experience of living in civilized manner here. In particular, she said you are unused to servants and bodyguards—is that correct?”

“Pretty much.” Miriam watched him sidelong as she took in the details of the room: dark, heavy furniture, tapestries on the walls, an unlit hearth, unpadded chairs built so ruggedly they might be intended to bear the weight of history. Sir Alasdair looked to be a part of these environs, save for the Glock holstered on the opposite side of his belt from his saber. “What, realistically, can your guards do for me? Other than get in my way?”

“What indeed?” Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Well, there are eight of them, so two are on duty at all times. And when your highness is traveling, all of them will be on duty to cover your path, before and after. We will cover your movements without getting in your way if you but tell us where you wish to go. And when the assassins come, we’ll be ready for them.”

Assassins? Miriam blinked as Sir Alasdair paused for breath. “Charming,” she muttered.

“My Lady d’Ost told me that you have killed a man who tried to kill you. Our job is to see that you never have to do that again.”

“Well, that’s nice to know. And if I do?”

“Then it will be over our dead bodies,” Alasdair said placidly. “If your highness would care to follow me?”

“If you think—” She froze as Alasdair opened the door back onto the semi-organized chaos in the hall. “Wait, that man. I know him.”

She was fumbling with the pouch in her sleeve as Alasdair followed her gaze, tensed, and stepped sideways to place his body in front of her and pull the door closed. He turned to face her. “What about him? That’s Sir Gunnar; he’s an experienced bodyguard, used to work for—”

Miriam’s heart was thundering as if she were trying to run a marathon. She moved her hands behind her back, then tried again to slide her right hand into her left wristband. This time her fingers closed around the butt of her pistol: The man whose true name she had just learned hadn’t seen her yet. Talking to another guard, he’d been distracted when Alasdair opened the door.

She swallowed, her mouth unaccountably dry. “Speaking hypothetically—if I ordered you to take that man outside and hang him from the nearest tree, would you do it?” The choking sense of panic was back with a vengeance. The Ferret, she’d called him. No-name. Gunnar.

“If he were a commoner, yes. But he’s one of us,” Alasdair rumbled. “A proven world-walker and thus a gentleman, even though he’s a by-blow of an outer family lass. You’d need to accuse him of something. Hold a trial.” There was an oddly apprehensive note in his voice. He’s afraid of me, she realized. It was like a bucket of cold water in her face: Sir Alasdair is afraid of me?

“Well, then I won’t ask you to do anything you can’t. But if I ordered you to send him a very long way away from me and make sure I never set eyes on him ever again, could you do that?”

“Of course.” The tension went out of his voice, replaced by something like mild amusement. “Do you want me to do that? May I ask why?”

“Yes. We have a history, him and me.” For a moment she’d been back in Henryk’s tower with the Ferret loitering outside her bedroom door, an unsleeping jailer—possibly an executioner-in-waiting, she had no doubt about his willingness to kill her if his master ordered it—cold-eyed and contemptuous. And her racing pulse and clammy skin told her that part of her, a part nobody else could see, would always be waiting in that cell for his key to turn and those pale eyes to flicker across her face without registering any emotion. She flexed her fingers and carefully drew her pistol, then lowered her arm to hide it in a fold of her skirts, careful to keep her eyes on Alasdair’s face as she did so. “Did you pick him? Is he a friend of yours?”

“He was on the list.” Alasdair’s nostrils flared. “One of the top three available bodyguards by ranking. I wouldn’t say I know him closely.” Miriam stared into his eyes. Wheels were turning there, slowly but surely. “You have relatives who dislike you, my lady, but do you really think they’d—”

“I think we should find out.” She took a deep breath. “In a moment you’re going to open the door and walk towards G-Gunnar. I’ll be behind you. Close and disarm him if he so much as blinks. If he draws, you may assume he’s an assassin—but if we can take him alive, I have questions I want answering.”

“Your highness.” Alasdair’s nod was cursory, but he looked worried. “Is this wise?”

“Very little I do is wise, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. If you’re going to be my bodyguard, you’d better get used to it: As you yourself noted, I’m a target. After you, my lord.”

Sir Alasdair turned back to face the door and pushed it ajar. Then he surprised her.

The front hall of the country house was roughly rectangular, perhaps forty feet long and twenty feet wide. The grand staircase started at one side, climbing the walls from landing to landing in turn, linking the two upper stories of the house. At the very moment the door opened, the floor held at least nine porters, servants, guards, cooks, maids, and other workers unpacking the small mountain of supplies that Lady d’Ost had rustled up seemingly out of nowhere to furnish the Countess Helge’s entourage. Gunnar was two-thirds of the way across the floor from the door to the blue room, deep in conversation with another fellow, both of them in the livery of guards of the royal household.

Miriam had expected Alasdair to approach his prey directly. Instead, he stood in the doorway for a couple of seconds, scanning the room: Then he broke into a run. But he didn’t run towards Gunnar—instead he ran at right-angles to the direct line. As he ran, he drew his sword, with a great shout of “Ho! Thief!” that echoed around the room.

Why did he—Miriam raised her pistol, bringing it to bear on the Ferret with both hands—oh, I see.

At the last moment, Alasdair spun on his heel before the porter he’d been threatening to skewer—the fellow was frozen in terror, his eyes the size of dinner plates—and rebounded towards the Ferret, who was only now beginning to react to the perceived threat, reaching for a side arm—

“Freeze!” Alasdair shouted. “She has the better of you! Don’t throw your life away!”

Miriam swallowed, carefully tightening her aim. He knew I’d drawn. And he deliberately cleared my line of fire! When am I going to stop underestimating these people?

The Ferret’s face, framed in her sights, was corpse-gray.

“Raise your hands!” she called.

The Ferret—Sir Gunnar, he’s got a name, she reminded herself—slowly raised his hands. Sir Alasdair stood perhaps six feet away from him, his raised saber lethally close. A healthy man could lunge across ten feet in a second, with arm’s reach and sword’s point to add another six—the Glock holstered at Gunnar’s belt might as well have been as far away as the moon. If you’ve got a gun and your assailant has a knife, don’t ever let them get within twelve feet of you, she distantly remembered a long-ago instructor telling her.

Miriam took a shuffling step forward, then another, feeling for solid footing with her toes. It got easier to ignore the sensation of her heart trying to climb out through her mouth with practice, she noted absently.

“Disarm him,” she heard Sir Alasdair tell the other guard, who glanced nervously over his shoulder at her—at her—then hastily pulled the gun and the sword from Gunnar’s belt.

Miriam risked lengthening her stride. Her breath was coming hard. Amusement and hysteria vied for control. She stopped when she was about fifteen feet from her target. “Who sent you here?” she demanded.

“I’m not going to plead for mercy.” The Ferret’s eyes, staring at her over the iron sights of her pistol, seemed to drill right through her. “You’re going to kill me anyway.” He sounded curiously resigned.

He’d beaten her, once, to make a point: Obey me or I will hurt you. That he’d been following orders rather than giving rein to his own sadistic urge made no difference to Miriam. But—hold a trial. And accuse him of what, exactly? Of being her jailer after Henryk had violated Clan law and process by not executing her for what she’d done? If she gave him a trial, stuff better swept under the rug would come out. Kill him out of hand, and her enemies—the ones who’d tried to have her raped, or killed, or maimed several times over the past year—would find a way to make use of it, but at least he wouldn’t be able to rat her out. Likely they’d use it as evidence of her instability or anger—anger was always a good one to pin on a threatening woman. But it was nothing like as damaging as what he could reveal.

She licked her lips. “Not necessarily.” Don’t tempt me struggled briefly with a moment of revulsion: Life is too damned cheap here as it is. “Restrain him.” The other guard was already loosening the Ferret’s belt. “Lower your arms. Slowly.”

The room was very quiet. Miriam blinked back from her focus through the sights of the gun and realized all the servants had scurried for cover. Smart of them. “I hold him covered,” Sir Alasdair said conversationally.

“Oh. Thanks.” She blinked again, then lowered the gun and carefully unhooked her finger from the trigger guard, which seemed to have somehow shrunk to the gauge of a wedding ring. The guard worked the Ferret’s arms behind his back and tied them together with his own belt. She glanced at Sir Alasdair. “Tell him what I told you to do with him. I don’t think he’ll believe it, coming from me.”

Alasdair kept his sword raised. “Her highness ordered me to send you a very long way away from her and make sure she never set eyes on you again. Her exact words.” His cheek twitched. “I don’t have to kill you.”

“Highness?” Gunnar’s face slumped, defiance draining out of it to leave wan misery behind. “So it’s true?”

“Is what true?” she asked.

“You’re carrying. The heir.”

She stared at Sir Gunnar. “You didn’t know?”

“My lord did not see fit to tell me.” He was pale, almost greenish. Miriam stared at the blue eyes set in a nondescript face, the balding head and wiry frame, trying to remember how scant seconds ago she’d looked at them and seen a monster. Who’s the real monster here? she asked herself.

“It’s true,” she told him. “And what Sir Alasdair told you is true. You don’t have to die; all you have to do is stay the hell away from me. And tell us how your name got on that list.”

“What list?” He looked away, at Sir Alasdair. “What the hell is she talking about?”

“Why are you here? Look at me!” Miriam shifted her grip on her pistol.

The Ferret turned his head, reluctantly. “What list?” he asked again.

“The master roster of available bodyguards for council members,” Sir Alasdair rumbled. “You were right at the top of it.”

“As if I shouldn’t be?” Gunnar snorted. “What do you take me for?”

“Wait,” said Miriam. “What did you do for Henryk? Officially?”

There was a pause. “I was his chief of security. Officially.”

Ah. “And unofficially?”

Gunnar made a small shrug. Now that he wasn’t staring down the barrel of a pistol held by an incandescently angry woman he seemed to be recovering his poise. “The same. I was his chief of security. Until the Pretender did for him.”

“Right.” She glanced at Sir Alasdair. “Maybe you’d like to tell him what I asked you first.”

“Highness, I think he can guess.” Alasdair’s smile was humorless, and it wiped the nascent defiance right off Gunnar’s face. “I am ordered, and empowered, to act with any necessary force in defense of your person. Do you consider this man a threat to your person?”

It was hard to look at the Ferret’s frightened face and still want to see him swinging from a tree. It had been tempting in the abstract, but ven Hjalmar was the real villain of the piece, and beyond her reach if he was indeed dead; in the clarity of the moment she found the Ferret pathetic rather than threatening, an accomplice rather than a ringleader. “Right now . . . no. But he knows things. And I don’t trust where he’s been, why he’s here. It stinks.” She glanced at Sir Alasdair. “Escort him from the premises and make sure he doesn’t come back, but don’t kill him. I need to talk to you later, but first I have other work to do.” Her cheek twitched as she looked back at the Ferret. “Payback can be a bitch, can’t it? Have a nice day.”

Gunnar’s control finally cracked. “High-born cunt! The doctor was right about you!” he shouted after her. But she had already turned her back on him, and he could not possibly see her shock. The sound of her guards beating him followed her up the staircase.

BEGIN RECORDING:

“WELLSPRING?”

“MYRIAD?”

“No, I’m the fucking tooth fairy—who do you think? You’ve missed three calls in a row. This had better be good.”

“Oh yes? Well, that stunt you pulled with the physics package could have killed me! What the hell were you

thinking?

”

“Hey,

I

didn’t pull the trigger on that one. We’re not a monolith; stovepipes melt and shit falls between the cracks. Did you just place this call so you could bitch at me or do you have something concrete?”

(Indignant snort.) “Certainly. Your message in a pipe bomb, up near Concord? It was received loud and clear.”

“Really? Good—”

“No,

bad

. You know there was a pocket-sized civil war going on over there? Well, your timing was

brilliant

. You wiped out an entire army. Only trouble is,

it was the wrong one

. You handed the tinkers victory on a plate—they’re busy mopping up right now, chasing down the last stragglers. They’ve even got some kind of half-cocked claim to the throne lined up, and you killed the only legitimate heir! Did you know that? You’ve just killed off all their enemies, and let them know into the bargain that it’s war to the knife.”

(Silence.)

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Jesus.”

“The phrase they use hereabouts is ‘God-on-a-stick’; but, yes, I echo the sentiment.”

“Can you just confirm all that, please?”

“Certainly. When you blew up the Hjalmar Palace the royalist army that was fighting the tinkers had just occupied it. They had evacuated it a couple of hours earlier. Among the casualties was the crown prince—”

“Hang on. You said the Clan had evacuated the structure. Are you certain of that?”

(Snort.) “If they hadn’t, then how come their soldiers are dispersed all around the capital? Oh, they’re not stupid—they got the message, you won’t catch them all concentrating in a strong-point again. Why?”

“But how? How did they withdraw?”

“The usual way—they world-walked. Or so I infer. They certainly didn’t fight their way through the pretender’s siege works: Individually they outgunned his army, but quantity’s got a quality all of its own, as they say.”

(Silence.)

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. Just thinking.”

“Well, think faster. I don’t have long here.”

(Slowly.) “If the nar—If the Clan forces exfiltrated by world-walking, how did they do it? We had the whole area blanketed.”

“You did? Well, they must have just gone through another world, then.”

“Another”—(pause)—“you’re shitting me.”

“Huh?”

“Other world, unquote.”

“Yes. So?”

“You mean there are more?”

“What?”

“How many worlds, MYRIAD?

How many fucking worlds?”

“Eh, don’t get sharp with me, asshole! I can always put the phone down!”

(Heavy breathing.) “I need to know.” (Pause.) “I’m sorry. This is—this upsets everything.”

“I thought you knew this shit. Do I have to baby you?”

“Knew—ah, shit. Look, this stuff is new to us. How many worlds are there?”

“How should I know? Last week, there was ours, there was yours, there was the other one the homicidal cousins come from—”

“Homicidal cousins?”

“Long story. Anyway, word just in says they’ve discovered a fourth, and there’s a team actively looking for more. For all I know there are factions or conspiracies who’ve already gotten there, who’ve got their own private bolt-holes well stocked for a long siege; but it used to be that everybody only knew about two. I’m guessing that cat’s out of the bag, and . . . nobody knows. Could be, four’s the total. But are you willing to bet on that?”

“Oh Jesus. WARBUCKS is going to shit a supertanker.”

“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Didn’t your other informants tell you?”

“No.” (Pause.) “How do they get to these other worlds?”

“Fuck knows. I think there’s something about using a different symbol, or maybe it’s just where they start out from. I really don’t—” (Pause.)

“Hello?”

“Someone’s coming, got to clear down now. I’ll call later.”

(Click.)

“Wait—”

(Dial tone.)

END RECORDING

An attorney’s office in Providence was an unlikely setting to look for a government-in-exile, but it suited Iris just fine. The boy’s smart, she decided. Smart and discreet were interchangeable in this context: Nobody would bat an eyelid at an attorney receiving numerous visitors, some of them shady, some at odd times of day. It was the next best thing to a crack house as an interchange for anonymous visitors, with the added advantage of being less likely to attract attention in its own right.

This would be harder than dealing with Dr. Darling.

“I’ll walk,” she told Mhara as her young companion opened the minivan door for her. Bad idea to look weak.

“Yes, milady . . .”

Something about her tone of voice caught Iris’s attention. “Yes?” she said sharply.

“By your pardon, milady, but will you be expecting me to . . . you know?”

Iris sighed. “Absolutely not,” she said, in a more gentle tone of voice. “I’m here to talk, not to clean up loose ends; you don’t need to worry about conflict of interests. You can leave your kit in the trunk if you want.”

“Thank you, milady.” Mhara sounded relieved; but, Iris noticed, she made no move to jettison her shoulder bag. “That won’t be necessary.”

Iris made her way slowly past the unmanned reception desk towards the elevator beyond. Looking up, she noticed the CCTV camera and paused, giving it time for a good look at her. Then she shuffled forward and pressed and held the call button.

“Iris Beckstein,” she said. “His lordship is expecting me.”

The lift doors opened. Iris gave Mhara an ironic little smile. “After you,” she said.

“Thank you milady.” Mhara held the lift open for her—redundantly—looking slightly puzzled. “Why is there no security?” she asked as the doors closed.

“You didn’t notice, did you?” Iris asked. Mhara shook her head. “This used to be a level two safe house, before they let it out for commercial rent ten years ago. They recommissioned it a few months ago, at a guess, after that bastard Matthias went over the wall. If we weren’t expected, the doors wouldn’t have opened. And if we’d tried to force the issue”—she raised her walking stick ironically—“the sprinkler system isn’t for putting out fires.”

“Ugh.” Mhara looked at the ceiling, her eyes widening as she noticed the black Perspex hemispheres in two corners.

Naïve, but give her time . . . Iris waited, trying to prepare herself for the coming confrontation.

The elevator car stopped and the doors slid open. “After you.”

Iris gestured towards the door opposite, then shuffled after Mhara. A moment later, the door opened. “Your ladyship?” The polite young man in a suit that didn’t quite conceal his shoulder holster held the door open. “They’re waiting for you in the boardroom.”

“Really?” Iris smiled tightly. “Mhara, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside.”

“Certainly, milady—”

“I can see to her comfort.”

“You will.” Cutting their chatter dead, Iris picked up her pace and hobbled past him, leaning heavily on her stick. It would be the second door on the left, if they’d followed the standard layout. . . .

The boardroom was small, dominated by a huge meeting table surrounded by chairs designed to keep their occupants from falling asleep prematurely. The door’s reinforced frame, and the shuttered box on one wall—a discreet cabinet that might equally hide a projection screen or an expensive plasma TV as anything more exotic—were the only obvious signs to distinguish it from a meeting room in any other law firm’s office. Iris opened the door with some difficulty and slipped through it with a sigh of relief as a very different polite young man held it open, scowling. “You’re late, aunt,” he said.

“Heavy traffic on the interstate.” She gestured at an empty chair. “If you don’t mind, Oliver?” Then she nodded at the room’s other occupants. “Ah, Captain. Or should that be Major? I gather congratulations are in order. Julius, was it your idea?”

“No idea what you’re talking about!” said the turkey-necked oldster at the head of the table. “But it’s good news all the same.”

“Yes, well.” Oliver, Earl Hjorth, pulled a chair out for her. She lowered herself into it gratefully. “I gather our number one problem has been removed from the map by our number two problem. Or is that a slight oversimplification?”

“Very probably.” The possibly newly promoted Earl Riordan put down the document he’d been studying and stared at her, his blue eyes cold as a mountain lake in winter. “If you don’t mind waiting, milady, we are expecting one more participant, in a nonexecutive capacity.”

“Oh?” Iris asked, as the door opened again.

“Hi, everybody! Am I late? Oh! Iris! How are you? . . .”

Olga seemed flustered, but happy to see her—as indeed she should be. Iris suppressed a smile. “No time for social niceties, child! We have a meeting to start.”

“Yes.” Riordan raised an eye at her. “And what delayed you, my dear?”

“A traffic accident.” Olga’s smile vanished. “Fatal. On Route 95.”

“Ah.” Iris glanced sideways as Oliver scribbled something on his notepad.

“Well, we’re all here now,” Iris commented. “Aside from the absentees. So if you’d care to start? I assume you have an agenda in mind?”

“Yes.” Riordan’s cheek twitched. “Let’s see: attending . . . everyone on the list, yes. Apologies, none. Absent due to death: Henryk Wu-Thorold, Peffer Hjorth, Mors Hjalmar, Erik Herzog, Lars Thorold. Scheisse . . . New attendees include Patricia Thorold-Hjorth, Oliver Hjorth replacing Mors Hjalmar, Olga Thorold replacing myself, myself deputizing for Angbard Lofstrom. We are quorate—just barely. The agenda—look under your notepad, it probably got covered up. If you don’t mind, as we’re starting late, I’d like to begin by calling Lady ven Thorold to report on the current medical prognosis of the principal security officer. Then we’ll proceed onto matters arising and work out where we go from there. Olga?”

“Oh. Right.” Olga looked almost comically blank for a moment, then reached into her handbag to remove a day planner bulging with notes. “To recap, the duke has been in the high dependency unit for six days now, and he isn’t dead. He’s even showing some signs of awareness and trying to communicate. That’s the good news. The bad news is, he isn’t getting any better. Let me just go over what Dr. Benford told me. . . .”

She rattled on for almost ten minutes. “He is much the same,” she concluded. “His recovery is slow, and he betrays holes in his memory. He has trouble with names, and his left arm is still very weak.”

She put her day planner down and leaned back in her chair, looking almost bored. Well, she’s had longer to adjust to this than the rest of us, Iris considered. Beneath the blond mop—and Olga could play the blond airhead role for all it was worth when she wanted to—there was a very sharp young mind. She doesn’t think he’s coming back. Iris suppressed a pang of horror. Oh my brother, why did you have to do this to us now, of all times?

“In short, his grace is unlikely to join Sky Father in his halls this month, but he will probably not be issuing orders in the short term. We may hope that he will recover sufficiently to conduct his private affairs, and possibly even to resume the leadership of Security—but this is likely to take months, or years.” She leaned back and crossed her arms, tired and defensive. “All yours, cuz.”

“If I may interrupt?” Julius sat up slightly. Oh, come on—Iris bit back on her response. Julius had always had a sharp mind behind that slightly vague façade; as one of the last of the elder generation of power brokers still standing, he called for a certain wary respect—but he also had a tendency towards unhurried meandering, which had grown worse in recent years.

“You have the floor.” Riordan nodded and made a note on his pad. The cassette recorder at his left hand was turning, red LED steady: Preparing the minutes would be a sensitive job.

“Thank you. As chair of the Council of Families, I would like to note on the record that in view of the current emergency, we cannot allow the seat of principal security officer to remain empty. I therefore propose that until the duke reclaims his throne, or until the council of families votes to replace him, Earl-Major Riordan should continue to execute security policy in his stead. As for the direction of that policy, I believe the best way of ensuring impartiality is to place it in the hands of a committee. Such as this one, assembled as it is to evaluate the situation—I believe all interests are adequately represented? Earl Hjorth?” He turned to Iris. “Your grace?”

Oliver was staring at her, too. Iris nodded slowly, gathering her thoughts. “It could fly. But you’ve missed someone out,” she said after a moment. “And I want to see some limits. . . . Six months, or the death of a member, and it goes to an emergency session of the full council, not just this security subcommittee.”

Oliver was nodding, but Riordan looked irritated. “An emergency session could be difficult to arrange—”

“Nonsense. This is a policy committee, not the executive. You have an emergency? You handle it. But for policy—we have differences.” Oliver stopped nodding. “I won’t lend my name to an office that can outlive my approval.”

“You’re talking coalition,” said Julius.

“Yes, exactly.” She winked at Oliver. “I don’t think any of us want to see a return to the old ways. Let’s not leave ourselves open to temptation.” In the old days, assassination was a not-unheard-of tool for manipulating the collective will.

Riordan cleared his throat. “You said you thought we were missing a member,” he said.

“Yes.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip. “There are two aspects to this job: How we pacify our homeland and how we deal with the American authorities. When it comes to the former, it would appear that my daughter is”—she swallowed again—“holding an extremely useful asset. And I gather the central committee”—she nodded at Julius—“have already considered her potential as a tool of state. But, speaking as one who knows her mind, I must warn you that if you think you can use her purely as a puppet you’re mistaken. She’s a sharp blade; if you don’t want to cut yourself, you’ll need to get her to wield herself. And the best way to do that is to co-opt her. Offer her a seat on this committee and listen to her input.”

“Ah.” Oliver picked up his pen, twirled it between his fingertips in thought. “Who do you propose should step down to vacate a seat for her?”

Iris saw Olga begin to open her mouth and pushed on. “I don’t. You”—she pointed at the earl—“are here to represent your circle. He”—Riordan—“is Clan Security. Julius is our council overseer; she”—she pointed at Olga, whose eyes widened—“happens to have new party sympathies”—as close to a lie as I’ve told all day—“and as for me, I’m here to make sure nobody poisons my half-brother.” Her cheek twitched. “Call me an insurance policy.” She crossed her arms and waited.

“I thought you were in favor of marrying her off? Integrating her as fast as possible,” Oliver accused.

“That was then, this is now.” Iris shrugged. And what you think has very little to do with the truth of the matter. . . . “You don’t still think I’m trying to undercut your inheritance?”

“Ach.” Oliver shook his head. “That’s of secondary importance, compared to the mess we’ve got to clean up! I am prepared to set the matter aside for a period of, say, a year and a day, then submit it to mutually agreed arbitration. In the interests of ensuring that there is a future in which I can peacefully enjoy my inheritance, you understand. If you think her claim can be made to stick—”

“We’ve got some extra help there.”

Riordan spoke up. “The betrothal was witnessed. Not just by our relatives, and it seems there were survivors. No less a notable than the Duke of Niejwein himself, although how he got away—and he kept what he knew to himself when Egon came calling—”

“Ah.” Julius looked relieved. “So we have a friendly witness.”

“Not exactly.” Riordan looked pained. “Lady Olga? . . .”

“We’ve got him in a lockup in this world. I had him brought over here as a security precaution—he’s less likely to escape.”

“Have him witness publicly before his execution,” Iris suggested. “Offer him amnesty for his family and estates if he cooperates.”

“I know Oskar ven Niejwein,” Oliver muttered darkly. His eldest living son, Iris realized. “Better hang ’em all afterwards. It’s the only way you’d be safe from him.”

“No!” Iris’s head whipped round as Riordan spoke. “What does royalty trade in?” he asked, meeting her surprised gaze.

“Royalty trades in power.”

“Huh.” His frown deepened. “I don’t think so. Oliver?”

“It trades in law,” Earl Hjorth said easily, “its ability to rule well.”

“No, that’s wrong, too.” Riordan glanced at Olga. “What do you think?”

“Consistency?” she offered, with a raised eyebrow.

“Close.” Riordan straightened in his chair. “Royalty trades on belief. A king is just one man, but if everybody in the kingdom believes in him, with the blessing of the gods, he reigns. We know this—we have been touched by this Anglischprache world—even if our benighted countrymen remain ignorant. Kings only reign if people believe they are kings. The belief follows the actions, often as not—the exercise of power, the issuing of laws—and is encouraged by consistency in leadership.

“We need Niejwein alive and believing we hold the throne by right of inheritance, not conquest, and reminding anyone who asks. If he’s dead, people will forget his words if it conveniences them to do so. So I second Patricia Thorold-Hjorth’s recommendation that Countess Helge be offered a seat on the security committee. And while we can and must make an example of some of the rebels, Niejwein must live.”

“So do we have a general agreement?” Iris asked. “An ad hoc policy committee to sit for six months until relieved by a full council session, ruling in the name of Helge’s unborn child, with Helge co-opted as a member of the committee and responsibility for Clan security resting with the major?”

Riordan glanced at the agenda in front of him. “There’s a lot more to it than that,” he pointed out.

“Yes. But the rest is small print—these are the big issues. I call for an informal show of hands: Is a solution along the lines I just outlined acceptable in principle to you all?”

She glanced around the table. Riordan nodded. “Votes, please. Non-binding, subject to further negotiation on the details,” he added, heavily. “So we know whether it is worth our while to continue with this meeting.”

Hands began to go up. Iris raised hers; a moment later, Oliver Hjorth grimaced and raised his.

“I see nobody objects.” Riordan nodded. “In that case, let us start on the, ah, small print. I believe you submitted a draft list of actions, my lord Julius? . . .”