Paulette closed her mouth with a visible effort. “Did you take photographs?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” Miriam grinned and held up her wrist. “You’ll have them just as soon as I get my Casio secret agent watch plugged into the computer. I knew those Inspector Gadget toys would come in handy sooner or later.”
“Toys.” Paulette rolled her eyes.
“Well, now we’ve got a whole new world to not understand,” said Miriam. “Any constructive suggestions?”
“Yep.” Paulette put her mug down. “Before you go over again, girl, we work out what you’re going to do. You need a lawyer or business manager over there, right? And you need money, and somewhere to live, and we need to find a place on the far side that’s away from human habitation in Brill’s world and we can rent on our own side. Right? And we need to understand what you’re messing with before you get yourself arrested. So spill it!”
Miriam reached into her bag and pulled out two books then dumped them on the table with a bump. “History lesson time. Watch out for the one with the brown paper cover,” she warned. “It bites.”
Paulette opened mat one first, looked at the flyleaf, and sucked in her breath. “Communist?” she asked.
“Nope, it’s much weirder than that.” Miriam picked up the other book. “I’ll start with this one, you start with that one, then we’ll swap.”
Paulette glanced at the window. “It’s nearly eleven, for Pete’s sake! You want I should pull an overnighter?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Miriam put her book down and looked at her. “I’ve been meaning to raise this for a while. I’ve been staying here, and I didn’t mean to. I really appreciate you putting Brill up, but two guests is two too many and—”
“Shut up,” Paulette said fiercely. “You’re going to stay here till you’ve told me what you’ve seen and gotten your act together to move out properly! And hit the deadline,” she muttered under her breath.
“Deadline?” Miriam raised an eyebrow.
“The Clan summit,” Brill explained tonelessly. She yawned. “I told Paulie about it.”
“You can’t let them do it!” Paulette insisted.
“Do what?” Miriam blinked.
“Move to declare you incompetent and make you a permanent ward of whoever the Clan deems appropriate,” Brill explained. She looked puzzled. “Didn’t you know? That’s what Olga said Baron Oliver was muttering about.”
Iris raised the cup of coffee to her lips with both hands. She looked a little shaky today, but Miriam knew better than to make a fuss. “So what did you do next?” she asked.
“I went to bed.” Miriam leaned back, then glanced around. The level of background noise in the museum food court was high and all their neighbors seemed to be otherwise preoccupied. “What else could I do? Beltaigne is nearly five months away, and I’m not going to let the bastards stampede me.”
“But the other place, this new one—” Iris sounded distracted—”doesn’t it take you a whole day to go each way, even if you have somewhere to stay at the other end?”
“There’s no point going off half-cocked, Ma.” Miriam idly opened a tube of sugar crystals and stirred them into her latte. “Look, if Baron Hjorth wants to declare me incompetent, he’s going to have to come up with some evidence. He might shove it through if I’m not there to defend myself, but I figure the strongest defense I can get is proof that there’s a conspiracy out there—a conspiracy that murdered my birth-mother and is trying to murder me, too, not just the petty shit he and my—grandmother—are shoveling at me. A second-strongest defense is evidence that I may be erratic, but I’ve come up with something valuable. Now, the assassin’s locket takes me to this other world—call it world three—and I’ve got to wonder. Does this mean they’re not part of the Clan or families? They’re working on the other side and in world three, while the Clan works on the other side and here, call here world two and Niejwein is part of world one. I’m, I guess, the first member of the Clan to actually become aware of world three and be able to get over there. That means that I can see about finding whoever’s sending the killers—see defense one, above—or see about opening up a whole new trade opportunity—see defense two, above. I’m going to tie the whole story up with a bow and hand it to them. And mess up Baron Hjorth’s game into the bargain.” She rolled up the empty sugar tube into a tight little wad and threw it at the back of the booth.
“That sounds like my daughter,” Iris said thoughtfully. She grinned. “Don’t let the bastards realize you’ve got the drop on them until it’s too late for them to dodge.” She put the smile aside. “Morris would be proud of you.”
“Um.” Miriam nodded, unable to trust her tongue. “How have you been? How did you get away from them tonight?”
“Well, you know, I haven’t had much trouble with being under surveillance lately.” Iris sipped her coffee. “Funny how they don’t seem to be able to tell one old woman in a motorized blue wheelchair from another, isn’t it?”
“Ma, you shouldn’t have!”
“What, give some of my friends an opportunity for a little adventure?” Iris snorted and pushed her bifocals up her nose. Slyly: “Just because my daughter thinks she can go haring off to other worlds, running away from her problems—”
“It’s the source of my goddamn problems, not the solution,” Miriam interrupted.
“Well good, just as long as you understand that.” Iris met her eyes with a coolly unreadable expression that slowly moderated into one of affection. “You’re grown up now and there’s not a lot I can teach you. Just as well really, one day I won’t be around to do the teaching and it’d be kind of embarrassing if—”
“—Mother!”
“Don’t you ‘mother’ me! Listen, I raised you to face facts and deal with the world as it really is, not to pretend that if you stick your head in the sand problems will go away. I’m in late middle age and I’m damned if I’m not going to inflict my hard-earned wisdom on my only daughter.” She looked mildly disgusted. “Come to think of it, I wish someone had beaten it into me when I was a child. Pah. But anyway. You’re playing with fire, and I would really hate it if you got burned. You’re going to try and track down these assassins from another universe, aren’t you? What do you think they are?”
“I think—” Miriam paused. “They’re like the Clan and the families,” she said finally. “Only they travel between world one and world three, while the Clan travel between world one and world two, our world. I figure they decided the Clan were a threat a long time ago and that’s probably something to do with, with why they tried to nail my mother. All those years ago. And they’re smaller and weaker than the Clan, that much seems obvious, so I can maybe set up in world three, their stronghold, before they notice me. I think.”
“Ambitious.” Iris didn’t crack a smile. “What did I tell you when you were young, about not jumping to conclusions?”
“Um. You know better? Is there something you haven’t been telling me?”
Iris nodded sharply. “Can you permit your mother to keep one or two things to herself?”
“Guess so.” Miriam shrugged uncomfortably. “Can you give your daughter any hints?”
“Only this.” Iris met her gaze unflinchingly. “Firstly, do you really think you’d have been hidden from the families for all these years without someone over there covering your trail?”
“Ma—”
“I can’t tell you for sure,” she added, “but I think someone may have been watching over you. Someone who didn’t want you dragged into all this—at least not until you were good and ready to look out for yourself.”
Miriam shook her head. “Is that all? You think I’ve got a fairy godmother?”
“Not exactly.” Iris finished her coffee. “But here’s a ‘secondly’ for you to think about. Shortly after you surfaced, the strangers, these assassins, started hunting for you. To say nothing of the second bunch who tried to wipe out this Olga person. Doesn’t that sugges
t something? What about that civil war among the families that you told me about?”
“Are you trying to suggest it’s part of some sixty-year-old feud?” Miriam demanded. “Or that it isn’t over?”
“Not exactly. I’m wondering if the sixty-year-old feud wasn’t part of this business, if you follow my drift. Like, started by outsiders meddling for their own purposes.”
“That’s—” Miriam paused for thought—“Paranoid! I mean, why—”
“What better way to weaken a powerful enemy than to get it fighting itself?” Iris asked.
“Oh.” Miriam was silent for a while. “You’re saying that because of who I am—nothing more, just because of who my parents were—I’m the focus of a civil war?”
“Possibly. And you may just have reignited it by crawling out of the woodwork.” Iris looked thoughtful. “Do you have any better suggestions? Are you involved in anyming else that might explain what’s going on?”
“Roland—” Miriam stopped. Iris stared at her. “You said not to trust any of them,” Miriam continued slowly, “but I think I can trust him. Up to a point.”
Iris met her eyes. “People do the strangest things for money and love,” she said, a curious expression on her face. “I should know.” She chuckled humorlessly. “Watch your back, dear. And... call me if you need me. I don’t promise I’ll be there to help—with my health that would be rash—but I’ll do my best.”
The next morning Paulette arrived back at the house around noon, whistling jauntily. “I did it!” she declared, startling Miriam out of the history book she was working up a headache over. “We move in tomorrow!”
“We do?” Miriam shook her head as Brill came in behind Paulie and closed the door, carefully wiping the snow off her boots on the mat just inside.
“We do!” Paulette threw something at her; reaching out instinctively, Miriam grabbed a bunch of keys.
“Whereto?”
“The office of your dreams, madam chief high corporate executive!”
“You found somewhere?” Miriam stood up.
“Not only have I found somewhere, I’ve rented it for six months up front.” Paulette threw down a bundle of papers on the living room table. “Look. A thousand square feet of not-entirely-brilliant office space not far from Cambridgeport. The main thing in its favor is a downstairs entrance and a backyard with a high wall around it, and access. On-street parking, which is a minus. But it was cheap—about as cheap as you can get anything near the waterfront for these days, anyway.” Paulie pulled a face. “Used to belong to a small and not very successful architect’s practice, then they moved out or retired or something and I grabbed a three-year lease.”
“Okay.” Miriam sighed. “What’s the damage?”
“Ten thousand bucks deposit up front, another ten thousand in rent. About eight hundred to get gas and power hooked up, and we’re going to get a lovely bill from We the Peepul in a couple of months, bleeding us hard enough to give Dracula anemia. Anyway, we can move in tomorrow. It could really use a new carpet and a coat of paint inside, but it’s open plan and there’s a small kitchen area.”
“The backyard looked useful,” Brill said hesitantly.
“Paulie took you to see it?”
“Yeah.” Brill nodded. Where’d she pick that up from? Miriam wondered: Maybe she was beginning to adjust, after all.
“What did you think of it?” Miriam asked as Paulette hung her coat up and headed upstairs on some errand.
“That it’s where ordinary people work! There’s nowhere for livestock, not enough light for needlework or spinning or tapestry, not enough ventilation for dyeing or tanning, not enough water for brewing—” She shrugged. “But it looks very nice. I’ve slept in worse palaces.”
“Livestock, tanning, and fabric all take special types of building here,” Miriam said. “This will be an office. Open-plan. For people to work with papers. Hmm. The yard downstairs. What did you think of that?”
“Well. First we went in through a door and up a staircase like that one there, narrow—the royal estate agent, is that right? took us up there. There’s a room at the top with a window overlooking the stairs, and that is an office for a secretary. I thought it rather sparse, and there was nowhere for the secretary’s guards to stand duty, but Paulie said it was good. Then there is a short passage past a tiny kitchen, to a big office at the back. The windows overlooking the yard have no shutters, but peculiar plastic slats hung inside. And it was dim. Although there were lights in the ceiling, like in the kitchen here.”
“Long lighting tubes.” Miriam nodded. “And the back?”
“A back door opens off the corridor onto a metal fire escape. It goes down into the yard. We went there and the walls are nearly ten feet high. There is a big gate onto the back road, but it was locked. A door under the fire escape opens into a storage shed. I could not see into any other windows from inside the yard. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Miriam nodded. “I think Paulie’s done good. Probably.” Hope there’s something appropriate on the far side, in “world three,” she thought. “Okay, I’m going to start on a shopping list of things we need to move in there. If it works out, I’ll start ferrying stuff over to the other side—then make a trip through to the far side, to see if we’re in the right place.” She grinned. “If this works, I will be very happy.” And I won’t have to fork out a second deposit for somewhere more useful, she noted mentally.
“How was your reading?” Paulie asked, coming downstairs again.
“Confusing.” Miriam rubbed her forehead. “This history book—” she tapped the cover of the “legal” one—”is driving me nuts.”
“Nuts? What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything!” Miriam raised her hands in disgust. “Okay, look. I don’t know much about English history, but it’s got this civil war in the sixteen-forties, goes on and on about some dude called the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell. I looked him up in Encarta and yes, he’s there, too. I didn’t know the English had a civil war, and it gets better: They had a revolution in 1688, too! Did you know that? I sure didn’t, and it’s not in Encarta—but I didn’t trust it, so I checked Britannica and it’s kosher. Okay, so England has a lot of history, and it’s all in the wrong order.”
She sat down on the sofa. “Then I got to the seventeen-forties and everything went haywire.”
“Haywire. Like, someone discovered a time machine, went back, and killed their grandfather?”
“Might as well have.” Miriam rolled her eyes. “The Young Pretender—look, I’m not making these names up—sails over from France in 1745 and invades Scotland. And in this book, he got to crown himself king in Edinburgh.”
“Young pretender—what did he pretend to be?”
“King. Listen, in our world, he did the same—then he marched on London and got himself spanked, hard, by King George. That’s George the first, not the King George the thingummy who lost the war of Independence.”
“I think I need an aspirin,” said Paulette.
“What this means is mat in the far side, England actually lost Scotland in 1745. They fought a war with the Scots in 1746, but the French joined in and whacked their fleet in the channel. So they whacked the French back in the Caribbean, and the Dutch joined in and whacked the Spanish—settling old scores—and then the Brits, while their back was turned. It’s all a crazy mess. And somewhere in the middle of this mess things went wrong, wrong, wrong. According to Bri-tannica, Great Britain got sucked into something called the Seven Years’ War with France, and signed a peace treaty in 1763. The Brits got to keep Canada but gave back Guadaloupe and pissed off the Germans, uh, Prussians. Whatever the difference is. But according to this looking-glass history, every time the English—not the Brits, there’s no such country—started getting somewhere, the king of Scotland tried to invade—there were three battles in as many years at some place called New Castle. And then somewhere in the middle of this, King George, the second King George, gets hims
elf killed on a battlefield in Germany, and is succeeded by King Frederick, and I am totally confused because there is no King Frederick in Britannica.”
Miriam stopped. Paulette was looking bright, fascinated—and a million miles away. “That was when the French invaded,” she said.
“Huh?” Paulie shook her head. “The French? Invaded where?”
“England. See, Frederick was the crown prince, right? He got sent over here, to the colonies as a royal governor or something—‘Prince of the Americas’—because his stepmother the queen really hated him. So when his father died he was over here in North America—and the French and Scottish simultaneously invaded England. Whose army, and previous king, had just been whacked. And they succeeded.”
“Um, does this mean anything?” Paulette looked puzzled.
“Don’t you see?” demanded Miriam. “Over on the far side, in world three, there is no United States of America: Instead there’s this thing called New Britain, with a king-emperor! And they’re at war with the French Empire—or cold war, or whatever. The French invaded and conquered the British Isles something like two hundred and fifty years ago, and have held it ever since, while the British royal family moved to North America. I’m still putting it all together.
“Like, where we had a constitutional congress and declared independence and fought a revolutionary war, they had something called the New Settlement and set up a continental parliament, with a king and a house of lords in charge.” She frowned. “And that’s as much as I understand.”
“Huh.” Paulette reached out and took the book away from her. “I saw you look like that before, once,” she said. “It was when Bill Gates first began spouting about digital nervous systems and the net. Do you need to go lie down for a bit? Maybe it’ll make less sense in the morning.”
“No, no,” Miriam said absently. “Look, I’m trying to figure out what isn’t there. Like, they’ve had a couple of world wars—but fought with wooden sailing ships and airships. There’s a passage at the end of the book about the ‘miracle of corpuscular transsubstantiation’—I think they mean atomic power but I’m not sure. They’ve got the germ theory of disease and steam cars, but I didn’t see any evidence of heavier-than-air flight or antibiotics or gasoline engines. The whole industrial revolution has been delayed—they’re up to about the 1930s in electronics. And the social thing is weird. I saw an opium pipe in that pawnbroker’s, and I passed a bar selling alcohol, but they’re all wearing hats and keeping their legs covered. It’s not like our 1920s, at least not more than skin-deep. And I can’t get a handle on it,” she added frustratedly. “I’ll just have to go over there again and try not to get myself arrested.”
The Hidden Family Page 6