Part 3
Capitalism for Beginners
Interrogations
The city of Irongate nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, soot-stained and smoky by day, capped at night by a sky that reflected the red glow of the blast furnaces down by the shpping canal. From the center of town, the Great North-East Railway spur led off toward the coastline and the branches for Boston and New London. West of the yards and north of the banked ramparts of the Vauban pattern fortress sloped a gentle rise populated by the houses of the gentry, while at the foot of the slope clustered tight rows of worker’s estates.
Irongate had started as a transport nexus at the crossing of the canal and the railways, but it had grown into a sprawling industrial city. The canal and its attendant lock system brought cargos from as far as the Great Lakes—and, in another time, another world, it was the site of a trading post with the great Iroquis Nation, who dominated the untamed continental interior between the Gruinmarkt and the empire of the West.
There was a neighborhood down in the valley, rubbing shoulders with the slums of the poor and the business districts, that was uncomfortable with its own identity. Some people had money but no standing in polite society, no title or prospects for social advancement. They congregated here, Chinese merchants and Jewish brokers and wealthy owners of bawdy houses alike, and they took pains to be discreet, for while New Britain’s laws applied equally to all men, the enforcers of those laws were only too human.
Esau walked slowly along Hanover Street, his cane tapping the cobblestones with every other stride. It was early evening and bitterly cold with it, but the street sweepers had been at work and the electric street lamps cast a warm glow across the pavement. Esau walked slowly, foregoing the easy convenience of a cab, because he wanted time to think. It was vital to prepare himself for the meeting that lay ahead, both emotionally and intellectually.
The street was almost empty, the few pedestrians hurrying with hands thrust deep in coat pockets and hats pulled down. Esau passed a pub, a blare of brassy noise and a stench of tobacco smoke squirting from the doorway as it opened to emit a couple of staggering drunks. “Heya, slant-eye!” one of them bellowed after him. Esau kept on walking steadily, but his pulse raced and he carefully grasped the butt of the small pistol in his pocket. Don’t react, he told himself. You can kill him if he attacks you. Not before. Not that Esau looked particularly Oriental, but to the Orange louts of Iron-gate anyone who didn’t look like themselves was an alien. And reports of a white man killed by a Chinee would inflame the popular mood—building on the back of a cold winter and word of defeats in the Kingdom of Siam. The last thing Esau’s superiors needed right now was a pogrom on the doorstep of their East Coast headquarters.
The betting shops were closed and the pawnbrokers shut, but between two such shops Esau paused. The tenement door was utterly plain, but well painted and solidly fitted. A row of bellpulls ran beside a set of brass plaques bearing the names of families who hadn’t lived here in decades. Esau pulled the bottom-most bellpull, then the second from the top, the next one down, and the first from the bottom, in practiced series. There was a click from the door frame and he pushed through, into the darkened vestibule within. He shut the door carefully behind him, then looked up at the ceiling.
“Esh’sh icht,” he said.
“Come on in,” a man’s voice replied in accented English. The inner door opened on light and finery—a stairwell furnished with rich hand-woven carpets, banisters of mahogany, illuminated by gilt-edged lamps in the shape of naked maidens. A ceramic lucky cat sat at one side of the staircase, opposite a guard. The guard bowed stiffly as soon as he saw Esau’s face. “You are expected, lord,” he said.
Esau ignored him and ascended the staircase. The tenement block above the two shops had been cunningly gutted and rebuilt as a palace. The rooms behind the front windows—visible from the street as ordinary bedrooms or kitchens—were Ames rooms barely three feet deep, their floors and walls and furniture slanted to preserve the semblance of depth when seen from outside. The family had learned the need for discretion long ago. Fabulous wealth was no social antidote for epicanthic folds and dark skins in New Britain and if there was one thing the mob disliked more than Chinee-men, it was rich and secretive criminal families of Chinee-men.
Vermin, Esau thought of the two drunks who had harangued him outside the pub. Never mind. At the top of the staircase he bowed once to the left, to the lacquered cabinet containing the household shrine. Then he removed his topcoat, hat, and shoes, and placed them in front of the servant’s door to the right of the stairs. Finally he approached the door before the staircase, and knocked once with the head of his cane.
The door swung open. “Who calls?” asked the majordomo.
“It is I.” Esau marched forward as the majordomo bowed low, holding the door aside for him. Like the guard below, the majordomo was armed, a pistol at his hip. If the mob ever came, it was their job to buy the family time to escape with their lives. “Where can I find the elder of days?”
“He takes tea in the Yellow Room, lord,” said the major-domo, still facing the floor.
“Rise. Announce me.”
Esau followed the majordomo along a wood-floored passage, the walls hung with ancient paintings. Some of them legacies of home, but others, in the European renaissance style, bore half-remembered names. The majordomo paused at a door just beyond a Caravaggio, then knocked. After a whispered conversation two guards emerged—guards in family uniform this time, not New British street clothes. In addition to their robes and twin swords (in the style this shadow-world called “Japanese,” after a nation that had never existed in Esau’s family home) they bore boxy black self-feeding carbines.
“His lordship,” said the majordomo. Both soldiers came to attention. “Follow me.”
The majordomo and guards proceeded before Esau, gathering momentum and a hand’s count of additional followers as befitted his rank: a scribe with his scrolls and ink, a master of ceremonies whose assistant clucked over Esau’s suit, following him with an armful of robes, and a gaggle of messengers. By the time they arrived outside the Yellow Room, Esau’s quiet entry had turned into a procession. At the door, they paused. Esau held out his arms for the servants to hang a robe over his suit while the majordomo rapped on the door with his ceremonial rod of office. “Behold! His lordship James Lee, second of the line, comes to pay attendance before the elder of days!”
“Enter,” called a high, reedy voice from inside the room.
Esau entered the Yellow Room, and bowed deeply. Behind him, the servants went to their knees and prostrated themselves.
“Rise, great-nephew,” said the elder. “Approach me.”
Esau—James Lee—approached his great-uncle. The elder sat cross-legged upon a cushioned platform, his wispy beard brushing his chest. He had none of the extravagant fingernails or long queue that popular mythology in this land imagined the mandarin class to have. Apart from his beard, his silk robes, and a certain angle to his cheekbones, he could pass for any beef-eating New Englishman. The family resemblance was pronounced. This is how I will look in fifty years, James Lee thought whenever he saw the elder. If our enemies let me live that long.
He paused in front of the dais and bowed deeply again, then once to the left and once to the right, where his great-uncle’s companions sat in silence.
“See, a fine young man,” his great-uncle remarked to his left. “A strong right hand for the family.”
“What use a strong right hand, if the blade of the sword it holds is brittle?” snapped his neighbor. James held his breath, shocked at the impudence of the old man—his great-uncle’s younger brother, Huan, controller of the eastern reaches for these past three decades. Such criticism might be acceptable in private, but in public it could only mean two things—outright questioning of the Eldest’s authority, or the first warning that things had gone so badly awry that honor called for a scapegoat.
“You are alarming ou
r young servant,” the Eldest said mildly. “James, be seated, please. You may leave,” he added, past Esau’s shoulder.
The servants bowed and backed out of the noble presence. James lowered himself carefully to sit on the floor in front of the elders. They sat impassively until the doors thumped shut behind his back. “What are we to make of these accounts?” asked the Eldest, watching him carefully.
“The accounts? ...” Esau puzzled for a moment. This was all going far too fast for comfort. “Do you refer to the reports from our agent of influence, or to the—”
“The agent.” The Eldest shuffled on his cushion. “A cup of tea for my nephew,” he remarked over his shoulder. A servant Esau hadn’t noticed before stepped forward and placed a small tray before him.
“The situation is confused,” Esau admitted. “When he first notified me of the re-emergence of the western alliance’s line I consulted with uncle Stork, as you charged me. My uncle sent word that the orders of your illustrious father were not discharged satisfactorily and must therefore be carried out. Unfortunately, the woman’s existence was known far and wide among the usurpers by this time, and her elder tricked us, mingling her party with other women of his line so that the servants I sent mistook the one for the other. Now she has gone missing, and our agent says he doesn’t know where.”
“Ah,” said the ancient woman at the Eldest’s right hand. The Eldest glanced at her, but she fell silent.
“Our agent believes that the elder Angbard is playing a game within the usurper clan,” Esau added. “Our agent intended to manipulate her into a position of influence, but controlled by himself—his goal was to replace Angbard. This goal is no longer achievable, so he has consented to pursue our preferences.”
“Indeed,” echoed Great-Uncle Huan, “that seems the wisest course of action to me.”
“Stupid!” Esau jerked as the Eldest’s fist landed on a priceless lacquered tray. “Our father’s zeal has bound us to expose ourselves to their attack, lost a valued younger son to their guards, and placed our fate in the hands of a mercenary—”
“Ah,” sighed the ancient woman. The Eldest subsided abruptly.
“Then what is to be done?” asked Huan, almost plaintively.
“Another question,” said Esau’s great-uncle, leaning forward. “When you sent brothers Kim and Wu after the woman they both failed to return. What of their talismans?”
James Lee hung his head. “I have no news, Eldest.” He closed his eyes, afraid to face the wrath he could feel boiling on the dais before him. “The word I received from our agent Jacob is that no locket was found on either person. That the woman Miriam disappeared at the same time seems to suggest—” his voice broke. “Could she be of our line, as well?” he asked.
“It has never happened before,” quavered the ancient woman next to the Eldest.
He turned and stared at her. “That is not the question, aunt,” he said, almost gently. “Could this long-lost daughter of the western alliance have come here?” he asked Esau. “None of them have ever done so before. Not since the abandonment.”
James Lee took a deep breath. “I thought it was impossible,” he said. “The family is divided by the abandonment. We come here, and they go ... wherever it is that the source of their power is. They abandoned us, and that was the end of it, wasn’t it? None of them ever came here!’
“Do we know if it’s possible?” asked Huan, squinting at Esau. “Our skill runs in the ever-thinning blood of the family. So does theirs. I see no way—”
“You are making unfounded assumptions,” the Eldest interrupted. He turned his eyes on Esau. “The talisman is gone, and so is the woman. I find that highly suggestive. And worrying.” He ran his fingers through his beard, distractedly. “Nephew, you must continue to seek the woman’s demise. Seek it not because of my father’s order, but because she may know our secrets. Seek her in the barbarian castles of Niejwein; also seek her here, in the coastal cities of the north-east. You are looking for a mysterious woman of means, suddenly sprung from thin air, making a place for herself. You know what to do. You must also—” he paused and took a sip of tea—“obtain a talisman from the usurper clan. When you have obtained one, by whatever means, compare it to your own. If they differ then I charge you to attempt to use it, both here and in the world of our ancestors. See where it takes you, if anywhere! If it is to familiar territory, then we may rest easy. But if the talent lies in the pattern instead of the bearer, we are all in terrible danger.”
He glanced at the inner shrine, in its sealed cabinet on the left of the Yellow Room. “Our ancestor, revered though he be, may have made a terrible error about the cause of the abandonment. Unthinkable though that is, we must question everything until we discern the truth. And then we must find a way to achieve victory.”
* * *
“Hello, Roland’s voice mail. If it’s still secure, meet me at the Marriott suite you rented, tonight at six p.m. Bye.” She stabbed the “off” button on her phone viciously then remarked to the air, “Be there or be dead meat.”
Paulette was bent over the screen of her laptop, messing around with some fine arts web sites, a browser window pointing to a large online bookstore: “Are you sure you mean that?” she murmured.
“I don’t know.” Miriam frowned darkly, arms crossed defensively. “Give me the car keys, I’m going for a drive. Back late.”
Being behind the wheel of a car cleared Miriam’s head marvelously. The simple routine of driving, merging with traffic and keeping the wheels on the icy road, distracted her from the ulcer of worry gnawing away at her guts. At Home Depot she shoved a cart around with brutal energy, slowing only when a couple of five-gallon cans of kerosene turned it into a lumbering behemoth. Afterwards she left quickly and headed for the interstate.
She was almost a hundred and thirty miles south of Boston, driving fast, haunted by evil thoughts, when her phone rang. She held it to her ear as she drove.
“Yes?”
“Miriam?” Her throat caught.
“Roland? Where are you?”
“I’m in the hotel suite right now. Listen, I’m so sorry.”
You will be, if I find you’re responsible, she thought. “I’ll be over in about an hour, hour and twenty,” she said. “You’re alone?”
“Yes. I haven’t told anyone else about this room.”
“Good, neither have I.” They’d rented the room in New York for privacy, for a safe house where they could discuss their mutual plans and fears—and for other purposes. Now all she could think of was the man in her mother’s Dumpster, eyes frozen and staring. “Do you know if Angbard got my message?”
“What message?” He sounded puzzled. “The courier—”
“The message about my mother.”
“I think so,” he said uncertainly. “You sure you can’t be here any faster?”
She chuckled humorlessly. “I’m on the interstate.”
“Uh, okay. I can’t stay too long—got to go back over. But if you can be here in an hour we’ll have an hour together.”
“Maybe,” she said guardedly. “I’ll see you.”
She killed the phone and sped up.
It took her only an hour and ten minutes to make the last sixty miles, cross town, and find somewhere to park near the hotel. As she got out of the car she paused, first to pat her jacket pocket and then to do a double take. This is crazy, she thought, I’m going everywhere with a gun! And no license, much less a concealed-carry permit. Better not get stopped, then. Having to cross over in a hurry would be painful, not to say potentially dangerous; the temporary tattoos on her wrists seemed to itch as she pushed through the doors and into the lobby of the hotel.
The elevator took forever to crawl up to the twenty-second floor, then she was standing in the thickly carpeted silence of the hallway outside the room. She knocked, twice. The door opened to reveal Roland, wearing an immaculate business suit, looking worried. He looked great, better than great. She wanted to tear his cl
othes off and lick him all over—not an urge she had any intention of giving in to.
His face lit up when he saw her. “Miriam! You’re looking well.” He waved her into the room.
“I’m not looking good,” she said automatically, shoulders hunched. “I’m a mess.” She glanced around. The room was anonymous as usual, untouched except for the big aluminium briefcase on the dressing table. She walked over to the row of big sealed windows overlooking the city. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for days on end. Why did you call me yesterday?” She steeled herself for the inevitable, ensuring that his next words came as a surprise.
“It’s—” He looked drawn. “It’s about Olga. She’s been shot. She’s stable, but—”
“Was it a shotgun?” Miriam interrupted, startled out of her scripted confrontation.
“A shotgun?” He frowned. “No, it was a pistol, at close range. After you disappeared, ran or whatever, she started acting very strangely. Refused to let anyone anywhere near her chambers then moved into your apartment at House Hjorth, deeply disconcerting Baron Oliver—she did it deliberately to snub him, I think.” He shook his head. “Then someone shot her. The servants were in the antechamber to her room, heard a scuffle and shots—she defended herself. When they went in, there was blood, but no assassin to be seen.”
Miriam leaned against the wall wearily, overcome by a sense that events were spinning out of control. “After I ran. Anything about a corpse in the orangery? Or a couple more in Olga’s rooms? We sure left enough bullet holes in the walls—”
“What?” Roland stood up, agitated. “I didn’t hear anything about this! I got the message about you running, but not—”
“There were two assassination attempts.” Miriam tugged at the curtains, pulling them shut. You can never be sure, she thought, chilled: even though a high building was implicitly doppelgangered, inaccessible from the other worlds, a Clan sniper in a neighboring office block could shoot and then make a clean escape as soon as they reached ground level. “The first guy wanted me in the garden. Unfortunately for their plans, Olga’s chaperone Margit turned up instead. I went back to tell Olga and ran into two guys with machine pistols.”
The Hidden Family Page 13