“Secure the—sir? Do you know what’s going on?”
Matthias fixed the young man with a grim stare. “I have a notion that it’s no good. The civil war, lad, that’s what this is about. Pigeons are coming home to roost and promises made thirty years ago are about to be delivered on.” He snorted. “Idiots,” he muttered bitterly. “Wait here. I have to go and get the special dispatches out of the duke’s office. Then I’ll go over what you have to do to deliver them.”
Matthias rose and let himself through the door into the duke’s inner study. Everything was as it had been when Angbard departed, a week ago. Matthias closed the door, then leaned his head against the wall and cursed silently. So close, so damned close! But he couldn’t just sit here. Not with that bitch about to spill her guts at the meeting. Esau’s confession—that the eldest had authorized repeated attempts on Helge’s life—had shaken him. He’d had Helge, Miriam, in his sights: She was a natural fellow traveler for his plans. He’d been getting positioned to bring her into his orbit until the idiot fanatics started trying to kill her, making her suspicious of everyone and everything. With no friends but that weakling Roland, she’d been easy meat before. But now—
He read through his illicit decrypt one more time. The original message wasn’t addressed to him, but that had never stopped Matthias in the past; as Angbard’s secretary he was used to reading the duke’s mail—and also mail for other people on station that passed through the mail room. People such as Sir Huw Thoms, lieutenant of the guard, who right now was over on the other side, making a delivery run. And he had access to the code books, too.
ACTION THIS DAY STOP ARREST MATTHIAS VAN HJORTH ANY MEANS NECESSARY STOP CHARGES OF TREASON TO FOLLOW STOP
Shit. Matthias crumpled the letter in his fist, his face a tight mask of anger. Bitch, he thought. Either his hold on Roland wasn’t as strong as he’d believed, or she was more ruthless than he’d thought. But the old man has made a mistake. Poul, the callow messenger, was in the next room. That gave him an edge, if he could only work out how to use it.
He went back out to his own office, and opened another desk drawer. He smiled to himself at the thought of Angbard’s reaction should he discover what Matthias kept in it, the use to which Matthias had put his access to the duke’s personal files. But right now there wasn’t much time for self-indulgent daydreams. What Matthias needed was a smokescreen to cover his own disappearance, and smokescreens didn’t come any thicker than this one.
First, Matthias removed the most recent addition from the safe: an anonymous CD, the enigmatic phrase “deep throat” scrawled on it in a feminine hand. Obtaining it had taken him a lot of detective work; only the hints turned up by the duke’s background checks on Miriam had kept him searching until it came to light, buried in her music collection. Next, he removed three small stamped, addressed envelopes, each containing a covering letter and a floppy disk. When he left his office a minute later, the drawer was locked and empty of incriminating evidence. And the letters were on the first stage of their journey to Cambridge, Massachusetts, by Clan courier.
Letters addressed to local FBI and DEA offices.
The huge ballroom at the back of the Clan’s palace could, when the situation demanded it, be converted into a field hospital—or a boardroom large enough to hold all the voting members of an ancient and prolific business partnership. It was only when she saw it filled that Miriam began to grasp the sheer scale of the power the Clan wielded in the Gruinmarkt.
The room was dominated by a table at one end, behind which sat a row of eight chairs: three for administrative officers of the committee, and one for each head of one of the families. Rows of green leather-topped benches had been installed facing the table, the ones farther back raised to give their occupants a view of the front. The huge glass doors that in summer would open onto the garden were closed, barricaded outside by heavy oak shutters.
The main entrance to the room was guarded by soldiers in black helmets and body armor, armed with automatic rifles. They stood impassively by as Miriam entered, Kara trailing her. “Ooh, look! It’s your uncle!” Kara whispered.
“Tell me something new. Like, where do I sit?” Angbard occupied one of the three raised chairs at the middle of the table, a black robe drawn over his suit. His expression was as grim as a hanging judge’s. The room was already beginning to fill, men and women in business attire seeking out their benches and quietly conversing. The only anomalous touch was their attendants, decked out in archaic finery.
“Excuse me, where should milady sit?” Kara simpered at a uniformed functionary who, now that Miriam was getting her bearings, seemed to be one of many who were unobtrusively directing delegates and partners to one side or another.
“Thorold-Hjorth—that would be there. Left bench, second row if she is to be called.”
Miriam drifted toward the indicated position. Like a company’s annual general meeting, she noted. It was oddly familiar, but in no way comforting. She looked up at the front table and saw that three of the high seats had already been filled—one of them by Oliver Hjorth, who caught her watching and glared at her. The other two held dusty nonentities, elderly men who looked half-asleep already as they leaned heads together to talk. I wish Roland were here, she thought uneasily. Or—no, I just wish I wasn’t facing this alone. Roland would be supportive, but he wouldn’t be much use. Would he?
“May I join you?” Someone asked. Miriam glanced up.
“Olga? Yeah, sure! Did you have a good night?”
Olga sat down next to her. “No intruders,” she said smugly. “A pity. I was rather hoping.”
“Hoping?”
“To test my new M4-Super 90. Ah well. Oh, look, it’s Baron Gruinard.” She indicated one of the dried sticks at the board table.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends if he’s sitting for the Royal Assizes and you’re brought up in front of him. At most other times he’s rather harmless, but one hears the most frightful things when his court is in session.”
“Um.” Miriam noticed another familiar figure, an elderly dowager in a blue twin-set and pearls. Her stomach twisted. “I spy a grandmother.”
“Don’t make a habit of it.” Olga beamed in the direction of the elderly duchess, who spotted Miriam and frowned, horribly. “Isn’t she impressive?”
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
The duchess cast Olga a hideous glare and then diverted her attention elsewhere, to a balding middle-aged man in a suit who fawned and led her toward the far side of the room.
“Where’s—”
“Hush,” said Olga. Angbard had produced a gavel from somewhere. He rapped it on the edge of the table peremptorily.
“We are gathered today for an extraordinary meeting,” Angbard announced conversationally. He frowned and tapped the elderly looking microphone. “We are gathered…state of emergency.” The sound system cut in properly and Miriam found that she no longer had to make an effort to hear him. “Thirty-two years ago, Patricia Thorold-Hjorth and Alfredo Wu were attacked on their way to this court. The bodies of Alfredo and his guards were found, but that of Patricia remained lost. Until very recently it was believed that she and her infant daughter had perished.”
A quiet ripple of conversation swept the hall. Angbard continued after a brief pause. “Four months ago an unknown woman appeared in the wilds of Nether Paarland. She was apprehended, and a variety of evidence—backed up by genetic fingerprinting, which my advisors tell me is infallible for this purpose—indicated that she was the long-lost infant, Helge Thorold-Hjorth, grown to majority in the United States.”
The conversational ripple became a cascade. Angbard brought his gavel down again and again. “Silence, I say silence! I will have silence.”
Finally the room was quiet enough for him to continue. “A decision was taken to bring Helge into the Clan. I personally took responsibility for this. Her, ah, induction, was not an immediate success. Upon her arrival here a numbe
r of unexpected events transpired. In particular, it appears that someone wanted her dead—someone who couldn’t tell the difference between a thirty-two-year-old countess and a twenty-three-year-old chatelaine, traveling together. In the interests of clarity I must add that nobody in this room is presently under suspicion.”
Miriam’s scalp prickled. Glancing aside she realized that half the eyes in the room were pointed at her. She sat up and looked back at Angbard.
“I believe we now have evidence enough to confirm the identity of the parties behind the attacks on Patricia and Alfredo, and on Patricia’s daughter, Helge. These same parties are accused of fomenting the civil war that split this Clan into opposing factions fifty-seven years ago—” Uproar. Angbard sat back and waited for almost a minute, then brought his gavel down again—“Silence, please! I intend to present the witnesses that Clan Security has uncovered before you in due course. The floor will then be opened for motions bearing on the matter at hand.” He turned to his neighbor, an elderly gentleman who until this point appeared to have been half asleep on his throne. “Julius, if you please?…”
“Aha!” The old scarecrow bolted upright, raised a wobbling hand, and declaimed: “calling the first witness—” He peered at a paper that Angbard slid before him, and muttered—“can’t call her, she’s dead, dammit!”
“No, she isn’t,” retorted Angbard.
“Oh, alright then. Think I’m senile, do you?” Julius stood up. “Calling Patricia Thorold-Hjorth.”
Half the room were on their feet shouting as the side door behind the table opened. Miriam had to stand, too, to see over heads to where Brilliana was entering the room, pushing a wheelchair containing her mother. Who looked bemused and rather nervous at being the focus of such uproarious attention.
“Did they take her motorized chair away to stop her running?” Miriam asked Olga.
“Oh, no—”
“Order! Order or I shall have the guards—order I say!”
Slowly order was restored. “That’s odd,” quavered Julius, “I was sure she was dead.” A ripple of laughter spread.
“So was I,” Iris—Patricia—called from her chair. Brill steered her over to one side of the table.
“Why did you run away?” asked Oliver Hjorth, leaning sideways so he could see her, an unpleasant expression of impatience on his face.
“What, uns gefen mine mudder en geleg’hat Gelegenheit, mish’su ’em annudern frau-clapper weg tu heiraten?” Iris asked dryly. There was a shocked titter from somewhere in the audience: “obviously not. And if you have to ask that question I also doubt very much that you’ve ever had a gang of assassins trying to murder you. A pity, that. You could benefit from the experience.”
“What’s she saying?” Miriam nudged Olga. I really must try to learn the language, she thought despairingly.
“Your mother is convincingly rude,” Olga replied, sotto voce.
“This is an imposter!” someone called from the floor. Miriam craned her neck; it might be the dowager duchess, but she couldn’t be certain. “I demand to see—”
“Order!” Angbard whacked his hammer down again. “You will be polite, madam, or I will have you escorted out of this room.”
“I apologize to the chair,” Iris responded. “However, I assure you I’m no imposter. Mother dearest, by way of proof of my identity, would you like me to repeat what I overheard you telling Erich Wu in the maze at the summer palace gardens at Kvaern when I was six?”
“You—you!” The old dowager stumbled to her feet, shaking with rage.
“I believe I can prove my case adequately, with or without blood tests,” Iris said dryly, addressing the gallery. “As any of you who have consulted the register of proxies must be aware, my mother has a strong motive for refusing to acknowledge me. Unfortunately, as in so many other circumstances, I must disobey her wishes.”
“Nonsense!” blurted the duchess, an expression of profound horror settling on her face. She sat down quickly.
“I can attest that she is no imposter,” said Angbard. “If anyone requests independent verification, this can be arranged. Does any party to this meeting so desire?” He glanced around the room, but no hands went up. “Very well.” He rapped on the table again with his gavel. “I intend to bring up the issue of Lady Thorold-Hjorth’s absence again, but not at this session. Suffice to say, I am convinced of her authenticity. As you have just seen, her mother appears to be convinced, too.” Spluttering from the vicinity of the dowager failed to break his poise. “Now, we have more urgent matters to consider. My reason for reintroducing Lady Patricia to this body was to, ah, make it clear where the next matter is coming from.”
“Clear as mud,” the elderly Julius remarked to nobody in particular.
“I’d like to call the next witness before the committee,” Angbard continued, unperturbed. “Lady Olga Thorold has been the subject of outrageous attempts upon her person, and has had her lady-in-waiting murdered, very recently—while traveling in the company of Lady Helge. All of this has occurred in the past six months. Please approach the table.”
Olga rose and walked to the front of the table. The room was silent.
“In your own words, would you please tell us about the series of attacks on your person, when and where they began, and why they were unsuccessful?”
Olga cleared her throat. “Last December I was summoned to spend time with Duke Lofstrom at his castle. I had for a year before then been petitioning him for an active role, in the hope that he could find a use for me in the trade. He asked me to escort Helge Thorold-Hjorth, newly arrived and ignorant of our ways, both to educate her and to ensure that no harm came to her. I do not believe he anticipated subsequent events when we arrived at this house—” She continued to enumerate intrusion after intrusion, outrage by outrage, pausing only when interrupted from the floor by a burst of voices demanding further explanation.
Miriam watched in near-astonishment. “Is everyone here something to do with Clan Security?” she asked Kara quietly.
“Not me, milady!” Kara’s eyes were wide.
Olga finished by recounting how Miriam had brought her to a new world, and how they had been assaulted there, too, by strangers. A voice from the floor called out. “Wait! How do you know it was another world? Can’t it possibly have been another region of ’Merica?”
“No, it can’t,” Olga said dismissively. “I’ve seen America, and I’ve seen this other place, and the differences are glaringly obvious. They both sprang from the same roots, but clearly they have diverged—in America, the monarchy is not hereditary, is it?” She frowned for a moment. “Did I say something wrong?”
Uproar. “What’s all this nonsense about?” demanded Earl Hjorth, red-faced. “It’s clear as day that this can’t be true! If it was, there might be a whole new world out there!”
“I believe there is,” Olga replied calmly.
The gavel rose and fell on the resulting babble. “Silence! I now call Helge Thorold-Hjorth, alias Miriam Beckstein. Please approach the table.”
Miriam swallowed as she stood up and walked over.
“Please describe for the Clan how you come to be here. From the day you first learned of your heritage.”
“We’ll be here all day—”
“Nevertheless, if you please.”
“Certainly.” Miriam took a deep breath. “It started the day I lost my job with a business magazine in Cambridge. I went to visit my mother—” a nod to Iris “—who asked me to fetch down a box from her attic. The box was full of old papers…”
She kept going until she reached her patent filing in New Britain, the enterprise she was setting up, and Olga’s shooting. Her throat was dry and the room was silent. She shook her head. “Can I have a glass of water, please?” she asked. A tumbler appeared next to her.
“Thank you. By this time I had some ideas. The people who kept trying to murder Iris—sorry, Patricia—and who kept going after me, or getting at Olga by mistake—they had to be
relatives. But apart from one attempt, there was never any sign of them on the other side, in America that is. I remembered being told about a long-lost brother who headed west in the earliest days of the Clan. You know—we learned—that they, too, use a pattern to let them world-walk, however they can travel only from here to New Britain, to the place I’ve just been telling you about.
“What I’ve pieced together is something like this. A very long time ago one of the brothers headed west. He fell on hard times and lost his amulet. In fact, he ended up as an indentured slave and took nearly ten years to save the cash to buy his freedom. Once free, he had to reconstruct the knot design from memory. Either that, or his was deliberately sabotaged by a sibling. Whichever, the knot he painted was different. I can’t emphasize that strongly enough; where you go when you world-walk depends on the design you use as a key. We now know of two keys, but there’s another fact—the other one, this lost brother’s knot, doesn’t work in America. Our America. The one we go to.
“Anyway. he crossed over repeatedly, because it had been arranged that at regular intervals he should check for his brothers. They evidently intended to send a trade caravan to meet him, somewhere in Northern California perhaps. But he never found his business partners waiting for him, because they were elsewhere, traveling to another world where, presumably, they interpreted his absence as a sign that he’d died. He was cut off completely, and put it down to betrayal.”
“Preposterous!” Someone in the front row snorted, prompting Angbard to bring down the gavel again. Miriam took the opportunity to help herself to a glass of water.
“This brother, Lee, had a family. His family was less numerous, less able to provide for themselves, than the Clan. Just as the ability was lost to your ancestors for a generation or two, so it was with his descendants—and it took longer before some first cousins or cousins married and had an infant with renewed ability. They prospered much as you have, but more slowly. The New British don’t have a lot of time for Chinese merchants, and as a smaller family they had far fewer active world-walkers to rely on.
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