"But I'm not"—Miriam stopped. She picked up her glass again, rolling it between her palms. "Did Brill tell you the details of Dr. ven Hjalmar's creepy plan?" Huw nodded. "Good. But you know something? I'm old, and not all pregnancies come to term, and I am really not fucking happy about being turned into a brood mare. And I completed enough of pre-med that if—that's an if—I decide to lose it, you—that's a collective you—are going to have to keep me in a straitjacket for the next nine months if you want your precious heir. Assuming it exists and it's a boy. And I haven't made my mind up yet. And as for what yen Hjalmar's got coming, if he isn't dead, if I ever see him again . . ."
Silence. Then Huw spoke, in a low voice, as if talking to himself: "Miriam, if you are pregnant and you decide you don't want to go through with it, I would consider it a matter of my personal honor to help you end it. Just as long as you keep it quiet . . . the old folks, they wouldn't understand. But I won't be party to keeping you in a straitjacket."
"Uh. I. Er." Miriam drained her wineglass, trying to cover her confusion. "What you just offered. You know what you just said?"
"Yes." Huw nodded. "I will either get you the appropriate medication, or, if it's too late for that, help you get to an abortion clinic." He paused. "It wouldn't be the first time I've helped a girl out that way."
"Uh." Miriam stared at him. Just when I think I'm getting to understand them . . . "No offense, but you made it sound like organizing a shopping trip. . . ."
"I may be an MIT graduate student, but I'm from the Gruinmarkt." Huw visibly searched for words. "We don't place much stock in a babe 'til it's born, usually. Which is perhaps a good thing. You wouldn't want it to be born if it would trigger a blood feud that would claim its own—and its parents'—lives, would you?"
"But—you said it was leverage—"
"Yes, I did." He looked back at her. "But it's not the only lever you've got. The duke's accident elevates your rank in the game. You might still have a chance, even if you throw it away." He slid off his bar stool and picked up the dirty plates. "Just try to give the rest of us some warning when you make your mind up, huh?"
"I know what this looks like." She was still gripping the wineglass tightly, she realized, tightly enough to stop her hands shaking. "I am not going to flip. I've been here before, a long time ago."
"But"—Huw peered at her—"you're doing fine, so far."
"It's a control thing." Miriam forced herself to let go of the glass. "You never know, I might not be pregnant. I need a test kit. And then I need some space to think, to get my head around this." She paused. "Were you serious about that offer?"
Huw hesitated for a few seconds before answering. "All the plans anyone's making—they all rely on your active participation. We need you to trust us. Therefore"—he shrugged uncomfortably—"having made that offer I'm bound by it; if I forswear myself you'll never trust me, or any of us, ever again. And we, my faction, need you to show us what to do. That's more important than any crazy plan Henryk hatched to manipulate the succession. We need your trust. And that's something that can only be bought with our own."
Three o'clock in the morning.
The occasional crack of heavy-caliber gunfire, punctuated by the boom of a black-powder cannon, split the nighttime quiet outside the castle walls. Nobody was getting much sleep, least of all the guards who hunkered down in the courtyard around the central keep, night-vision goggles active, waiting for a sign.
The sign, when it came, was a mere flickering in the shadows near the dynamited well house. Two of the guards spotted it at once, lowered their guns, and darted out across the open ground towards it. Their target bent over, emptying his stomach on the hard-packed cobblestones. "This way, sir! We need to get under cover."
The traveler nodded weakly, straightening up. "Take. This." He held out a shoulder bag. "I'll mark the spot. It's crowded around there." His clothing was unfamiliar, but not his face; the sergeant nodded and took his bag.
"You sit down and wait, then. We'll be along presently." He glanced at the sky: So far the enemy forces hadn't tried lobbing shells into the courtyard at random, but it was only a matter of time before they got bored with sniping at window casements. "Try to stay close to the wall."
He dashed back towards the keep, not bothering to jink they held the walls so far, Lightning Child be praised—going flat-out with the shoulder bag clenched in both hands.
Carl was waiting in the grand hall with his staff. By lamplight, his face was heavily lined. He seemed, to the sergeant's eye, to have aged a decade in the past two days. "Let's see that," he suggested.
"Sir."
The guard up-ended the bag's contents in the middle of the table with a thin clatter of plastic. Carl picked one of the cards up and carefully angled it for a glance. He drew breath sharply. "What do you think?"
Oliver Hjorth took the card and squinted at it. "Yes, this looks like the right thing." He glanced at the guard. "You recognized the courier."
"It's Morgan du Hjalmar, somewhat the worse for wear." The baron thought for a moment. "He'll be wanting a ride back over, won't he."
Carl nodded. "See to it," he told the sergeant, then glanced sideways at Helmut Anders, his lieutenant. "Get everyone moving out. The recon lance first, as planned, then if the insertion is cold the, the casualty and his party"—he couldn't bring himself to refer to the duke by name—"followed by everyone else. My lord Hjorth, if you'd care to accompany my headquarters staff . . . Let's get a move on, people!"
The crowd gathered around the table scattered, except for the core of officers and Helmut, who carefully removed his helmet and scooped the laminated plastic cards into it, being careful to avert his eyes. He moved to stand by the door, waiting for the clatter and clump of boots as the recon lance descended the grand staircase, weapons ready.
"Take a card, move on out, Morgan over by the well house will show you the transit spot," he told them, holding the helmet before him. "You know what to do."
"Secure the area!" Erik grinned at Helmut, his enthusiasm evidently barely dampened by the disaster on the rooftop two days ago.
"They're supposed to be friendly," Helmut chided him. "So use your discretion."
"Aye!" Erik took a card and stepped forward. "Come on, you guys. Party's this way."
Olga watched from the back of the hall as the recon lance marched towards the well house and an appointment with an uncertain world. Better them than me, she told herself. There were any number of things that could go wrong. They might have the wrong knotwork, a subtle flaw in the design, and go . . . somewhere. Or the long-lost cousins of the hidden family might decide to use this opportunity to settle their old score against the eastern families. Any number of nasty little possibilities lay in that particular direction. Morgan's appearance suggested otherwise, but Olga had no great faith in his abilities, especially after what Helge—Miriam—had told her about the way he'd run her works in New Britain into the ground. Whatever can go wrong, probably has already gone wrong, and there's no point worrying about it. She tried the thought for size and decided it was an ill-fit for her anxiety. There's nothing to be done but wait and see. . . .
Minutes passed, then there was another flicker in the shadows, out in the courtyard. A brief pause, then a figure trotted back towards the great hall.
"Sir! The area was as described, and Cornet du Thorold sends word that he has secured the perimeter." The soldier looked slightly pale, but otherwise in good shape—he'd made his first transit on a comrade's back, specifically so he'd be able to make a quick return dash. "To my eye it's looking good. There are four covered trucks waiting, and eight men, not obviously armed, with your cousin Leonhard."
"Good." Captain Wu nodded. Then he glanced Olga's way. "Your cue, milady."
"Indeed." Olga turned back to the side chamber where her small team was waiting. They'd brought the duke downstairs earlier. Now he lay on a stretcher, eyes closed, breathing so slowly that she had to watch him closely to be sure he was still ali
ve. "Come on," she told Irma, Gerd, Martyn, and the four soldiers she'd roped in. "Let's get him to safety."
The slow march out to the moonlit well house, matching her pace to the stretcher beside her, the smooth touch of the laminated card between her fingers: Olga felt herself winding tight as a watch spring. The gun slung across her shoulder was a familiar presence, but for once it was oppressive: If she found herself using it in the next few minutes, then the duke's life—and by extension, the stable governance of the Clan—would be in mortal jeopardy. This has to work. Because if it doesn't . . .
Seconds spun down into focused moments. Olga found herself crouching astride a heavily built trooper. "Are we ready?" she asked, as the soldiers raised their cards and shone pocket flashlights on them. "Because—"
The world lurched—
"Oh," she said, and slid down her porter's back as he staggered.
There were floodlights. And walls of wood, and between the walls, four large trucks of unfamiliar design, and soldiers. Familiar soldiers, thank Sky Father, in defensive positions near the gates to the compound. "What is this place?" she demanded.
One of the men looked vaguely familiar. "Lady, ah, Thorold Hjorth? You are a friend of, of Helge?"
She blinked. "Yes. You are . . . ah, Sir James." She bobbed her head. "I see you made it back home."
"Indeed." He smiled faintly. "And how may I serve you?"
"Let's walk."
"Certainly."
James Lee had been dangerously smooth, she remembered, so smooth you could almost forget that his uncle and ancestors had waged a quiet war of assassination against her parents and grandparents, almost as soon as they'd concluded—erroneously that their patriarch had been abandoned by his eastern brothers. James was friendly, affable, polished, and a much better diplomat than anyone had expected when, as part of the settlement between the families, he'd been sent to stay in Niejwein as a guest—or hostage. Which makes him dangerous, she reminded herself. "I have a little problem," she said quietly.
"A problem?" He raised an eyebrow as they neared the rear of the truck where Irma and Gerd, with Leonhard's unwilling help, were lifting the duke into the covered load bed.
"A passenger who is somewhat . . . sick. We need dropping off elsewhere from the rest of Carl's men, to make a crossing to the United States where he can receive urgent medical care."
"If he's so sick, why—" James paused. "Oh. Who is he?"
"I don't think you want to know. Officially."
James paused in midstride. "There have been signals," he said. "Huge disturbances, civil strife in Gruinmarkt. We have eyes and ears; we cannot help but notice that things are not going according to your plans."
Olga nodded politely, trying not to give anything away. "Your point, sir?"
"You are imposing on us for a big favor," he pointed out. "Six months ago our elders were at daggers' drawn. Some of them are still not sure that sheathing them was a good idea. We have our own external security problems, especially here, and escorting your soldiers through our territory is bound to attract unwanted attention. I'm sorry to have to say this so bluntly, but I need something to give my elders, lest they conclude that you have nothing to offer them."
"I see." Olga kept her smile bland as she frantically considered and discarded options. Shoot his men and steal their vehicles was, regrettably, not viable; without native guides to the roads of Irongate they'd risk getting hopelessly lost, and in any case the hidden family's elders wouldn't have sent James without an insurance policy. Offer him something later would send entirely the wrong signal, make her look as weak as the debtor turning out his purse before a loan shark's collection agents. Her every instinct screamed no at the idea of showing him the duke in his current state, but on the other hand . . .
"Let me put it to you that your elders' interests are served by the continued stability of our existing leadership," she pointed out. "If one of our . . . leaders . . . had experienced an unfortunate mishap, perhaps in the course of world-walking, it would hardly enhance your security to keep him from reaching medical treatment."
"Of course not." James nodded. "And if I thought for a second that one of your leaders was so stricken, I would of course offer them the hospitality of our house—at least, for as long as they lingered." He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
Olga sighed. "You know we travel to another world, not like New Britain." Well, of course he did. "Their doctors can work miracles, often—at least, they are better than anything I've ever seen here, or anything available back home. It does not reflect on your honor that I must decline your offer of hospitality; it is merely the fact that the casualty might survive if we can get him into the hospital that is waiting for him, but he will probably die if we linger here." She looked James Lee in the eye. "And if he dies without a designated successor, all hell will break loose."
James swallowed. The violent amber flare of the floodlights made it hard to be sure, but it seemed to her that he looked paler than normal. "If it's the duke—" He began to turn towards the truck, and Olga grabbed him by one elbow.
"Don't!" she said urgently. "Don't get involved. Forget your speculation. It's not the duke; the duke cannot possibly be allowed to be less than hale, lest a struggle to inherit his seat break out in the middle of a civil war with the Pervert's faction. Let Ang— Let our sick officer pass, and if he recovers he will remember; and if he dies, you can remind his successors that you acted in good faith. But if you delay us and he dies . . . you wouldn't want that to happen."
She felt him tense under her hand, and clenched her teeth. James was taller than she, and significantly stronger: If he chose not to be restrained, if he insisted on looking in the truck—
He relaxed infinitesimally, and nodded. "You'd better go, my lady." Shadows flickered behind them—another lance of Wu's soldiers coming through. "Right now. Your men Leonhard or Morgan, one of them can guide you. Take this truck; I will arrange a replacement for your comrades." Olga released his elbow. He rubbed it with his other hand. "I hope you are right about your dream-world's doctors. Losing the thin white duke at this point would indeed not be in our interests."
"I'm pleased you agree." Olga glanced round, spotted Leonhard walking towards the driver's cabin. "I'd better go."
"One thing," James said hastily. "Is there any news of the lady Helge?"
"Helge?" Olga looked back at him. "She passed through New London a week ago. One of my peers is following her."
"Oh," James said quietly. "Well, good luck to her." He turned and walked back towards the gate.
Olga watched him speculatively for a few seconds. Now what was that about? she wondered. But there was no time to be lost, not with the duke stricken and semiconscious on the back. She climbed into the cab of the truck behind Leonhard and a close-lipped driver. "Let's go," she told them. "There's no time to lose."
5
the execution protocol
Governments run on order and process. There was probably a protocol for everything, thought agent Judith Herz—formerly of the FBI, now attached semipermanently to the Family Trade Organization—short of launching a nuclear attack on your own territory. Unfortunately that was exactly what she'd been tasked with doing, and probably nobody since the more psychotic members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff tasked with planning Operation Northwood during the 1960s had even imagined it. And even though a checklist had come down from on high and the colonel and Major Alvarez had confirmed it looked good, just thinking about it gave her a headache.
(1) Secure the package at all times. She glanced up from her clipboard, across the muddy field, at the white armored truck with the rectangular box body. The floodlights they'd hastily rigged that afternoon showed that it was having some difficulty reversing towards the big top; the rear axle would periodically spin, the engine roaring like an angry tiger as the driver grappled with its overweight carcass. Maybe we ought to have just used a minivan, she thought. With a suitable escort, it would have been less conspicuous. . . . O
n the other hand, the armed guards in the back, watching each other as well as the physics package, would probably disagree.
Do not deploy the package until arrival of ARMBAND. Armband, whatever it was—some kind of magic box that did whatever it was the world-walking freaks from fairyland did in their heads—had landed at MacArthur Airport; she'd sent Rich Hall and Amanda Cruz to pick it up. Check.
PAL codes—call WARBUCKS for release authorization. That was the bit that brought her out in a cold sweat, because along with the half-dozen unsmiling federal agents from the NNSA, call sign WARBUCKS meant that this was the real deal, that the permissive action lock code to activate the nuclear device would be issued by the vice president himself, as explained in the signed Presidential Order she'd been allowed to read—but not to hold—by the corpse-faced bastard from the West Wing who Colonel Smith answered to. Since when does the President give WARBUCKS backpack nukes to play with, anyway? she asked herself; but it looked official enough, and the folder full of top secret code words that had landed on her desk with a palpable thud yesterday suggested that this might be a cowboy operation, but if so, it was being led by the number one rancher himself. At least, that was what the signatures of half the National Command Authority and a couple of Supreme Court justices implied.
(4)FADM/ARMBAND final assembly and PAL programming to be carried out on launch scaffold. The thing in the tent gave her the creeps; Smith called it a transdimensional siege tower, but it looked too close to a field-expedient gallows for her liking. She was going to go up there with Dr. Rand and a posse of inspectors from NNSA and a couple of army officers and when they came down from the platform some person or persons unknown would be dead. Not that she was anti-death-penalty or anything, but she'd started out as an FBI agent: The anonymous military way of killing felt profoundly wrong, like a gap in a row of teeth, or a death in the family.
The Revolution Business: Book Five of the Merchant Princes Page 11