“You’ll tell me where it is?” Mike demanded.
“Of course.” Matt smiled like a shark. “I know where the others are, too. They aren’t active yet—if you do not follow me, I will not need to use them, no?”
Three images of a satanically smirking Matt hovered in front of Mike’s nose: the back of his neck prickled in a cold sweat. I’m going to be sick, he realized. I’m probably concussed. The idea that the Clan had planted atomic bombs in storage lockers across the United States was like something out of a bad thriller—like the idea Islamic terrorists would crash hijacked airliners into the World Trade Center, before 9/11. Oh Jesus, I’ve got to tell someone! “I feel sick.”
“I know.” Matt peered at him. “Your eyes, the pupils are different sizes. Stand up now. It is very important you do not go to sleep.” Matt straightened up and took a step back. Mike pushed against the panel behind him and shoved himself upright, wobbling drunkenly. “To the elevators,” said Matt, gesturing with Mike’s own stolen gun.
What have I forgotten? Mike wondered dizzily. He stumbled and lurched toward the doorway. Feel sick . . .
“Elevator first. There is a telephone there, no?”
“Mmph.” His stomach heaved: he tried desperately not to throw up.
“Go on.”
Mike stumbled on down the corridor. He was certain he’d forgotten something, something important that had been on his mind before he got distracted, before the slab of window landed on him and Matt made his outrageous claim about the nuclear time bomb. Matt closed the door on the room with the damaged windows behind him, an unconscious slave to habit. Mike leaned against the wall, head down.
“What is it?” Matt demanded, pausing.
“I don’t feel so well—” What’s going to happen? Mike had a nagging sense that it was right on the tip of his tongue. Then his stomach gave a lurch. “Ugh.”
Matt took a step back, standing between Mike and the elevator core. He blinked, disgustedly. “Get it over with.”
“Going to be—” Mike never finished the sentence. A giant’s fist grabbed him under the ribs and twisted, turning his throat into a fire hose. He doubled over, emptying his guts across the carpet and halfway up the wall opposite.
Matt’s face twisted in disgust. “You’re no use to me like that. Wait here.” The next door along was a restroom. “I’ll get you some towels—”
There was a ringing in Mike’s ears, and a hissing. His guts stopped heaving, but he felt unaccountably tired. What have I forgotten? he asked himself, as he sat down and leaned against the wall. He felt his eyes closing. Something hard-edged was digging into his ribs. Oh, that. Must be time, then. He could put the mask on again in a few minutes, couldn’t he? Just a quick nap . . . Almost without willing it he felt his hand fumbling for the respirator, dragging it out of his inside pocket. His hands felt incredibly hot, but not in a painful way—it was like the best, most wonderful warm bath he’d ever had, all concentrated in his extremities. He never wanted it to stop. But that was all right: he managed to raise the mask to his face, doubling over to get his head low enough to reach, and inhaled through the filter. I wonder if Matt heard Eric’s announcement? he thought dizzily. If he was outside the building, at the time . . .
He was still breathing through the respirator when they found him twenty minutes later, put him on a stretcher, and hauled him off to hospital in an ambulance with blaring siren and flashing lights. But it took them another ten minutes to find Matthias—and by then it was five minutes too late to ask him whether he’d been bluffing.
14
ULTIMATUM
M
iriam found it hard to believe that she’d never attended a wedding among the great families of the Gruinmarkt in the months she’d been living among them. After a sleepless night, she chivvied her maids into helping her into the outfit Kara had picked from her wardrobe, then waited impatiently, tapping her toes while the ferret rousted out the sedan chair crew.
Another tedious, uneven magical mystery tour: another bland mansion with walled grounds, somewhere else in the city. Miriam straightened her back as the ferret and his guards waited. “This way,” he indicated, nodding toward a narrow passageway. “You will wait at the back, behind the wooden screen. You will say nothing during the ceremony. Observe, do not interfere or it will be the worse for you. I will fetch you from the reception afterward.”
“Worse?” she asked—rhetorically, for she had a very good idea what he meant. “All right.” She stuck her nose in the air and marched down the corridor as though her guards didn’t exist, as if she were attending this function of her own accord, and the occasion were a happy one.
The passage led to a small chapel, located near the back of the building in the oldest construction. The walls were of undressed stone, woodwork blackened with age. Her first surprise was that it was tiny, barely larger than her reception room. Her second surprise was the altar, and the brightly painted statues behind it. She’d have taken them for saints, but the iconography was wrong—no trinity here, but a confusing family tree of bickering authorities, a heavenly bureaucracy with responsibility for everything from births, marriages, and deaths to law enforcement, tax returns, and the afterlife. The post-migration Norse-descended tribes who had eventually settled the eastern seaboard of North America in this world had adopted the Church of Rome, but the Church of Rome hadn’t adopted Christianity, or Judaism, or anything remotely monotheistic. The Church here was a formalization and outgrowth of the older Roman pantheon, echoes of which had survived in the Catholic hierarchy of saints, the names and roles of the gods updated for more recent usage with a smattering of Norse add-ons. But no blood-eagles, Miriam thought, as she walked past the pews of menfolk to take her place behind the wooden latticework screen at the back, behind the women of the two households.
There were only about ten women present, and about twice that number of men; they were mostly servants and bodyguards, as far as Miriam could tell. A couple of heads turned as she walked in, including one formidable-looking lady. “Wer ind’she?”
“Excuse me, I am Helge. Kara asks me to, to come,” she managed in her halting hochsprache.
“Ah.” The woman frowned. She wasn’t much older than Miriam, but her attitude and the deference the others showed her suggested she was important. And there was a family resemblance. Mother? Aunt? Miriam dipped her head. The frown vanished. “I am . . . please? You are here,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Countess Frea. My daughter . . .” She shrugged, reaching the limits of her linguistic ability, and muttered something apologetic-sounding in hochsprache, too fast for Miriam to catch.
Miriam smiled and nodded. Some of the younger women were whispering, but then one of them moved aside and gestured to her. A seat at the back. Yes, well. Miriam accepted it silently, annoyed that her grasp of the language was insufficient to tell whether she was being snubbed or honored. I’ve been depending on Kara too much. And Brill, she told herself. Wherever she’s gotten to. Brilliana’s other duties made guessing at her whereabouts much less easy than dealing with Kara.
Another knot of women arrived, with much bowing and nodding and kissing of cheeks on both sides: an old lady with her daughters—both older than Kara’s mother, Frea—and their attendants. A brief introduction: Miriam bobbed her head and was happy enough to be ignored. At the front a couple of priests in odd vestments had begun chanting something in what might have been a mutant dialect of Latin, filtered through many generations of hochsprache-speaking colonials. A young lad swung an incense censer, spilling fumes across the altar as they continued. To Miriam’s uneducated eye (she’d been raised by her mother and her agnostic Jewish foster-father, and churchgoing hadn’t been on the agenda) it looked vaguely Catholic—until a third priest emerged from the not-a-vestry at the back, clutching an indignant white chicken and a silver knife. At which point Miriam was grateful for her place at the rear, which meant nobody was in a position to notice the way she closed her eyes until
the squawking and gurgling stopped. It wasn’t that she was particularly squeamish herself, but she found the idea of killing an animal in cold blood as part of a religious ritual rather disturbing. I got the impression from Olga that they didn’t do that anymore, she pondered. What else did I get wrong?
Things speeded up after the sacrifice, which the priests dedicated to the Lady of Domestic Harmony, the Lord of the Household, and sundry other parties of the hearth who were contractually obliged to bless familial alliances, as far as Miriam could tell, or who at least had to be bought off in order for the whole enterprise not to end in a messy annulment some hours later. Two men walked up to the altar, neither of them particularly young: Frea’s eyes lingered on the older one, making Miriam suspect he might be a relative. Kara’s father? The priests asked him a whole bunch of questions, the answers to which seemed to boil down to “Yes, she’s my daughter to give away.” The other man waited patiently. Miriam couldn’t see him clearly because of the screen, but she had an impression that he was in his thirties, balding, and stockily built. And there was a sword at his belt. A sword? In church? I don’t understand these people . . . Now it was his turn to answer questions. They sounded a lot like “How much are you willing to pay for this guy’s daughter?” to Miriam, but she was barely catching one word in four. It could have been anything from “Will you take her as your wife and love her and cherish her?” to “That’ll be three pounds of silver and sixteen goats, and make sure you keep her away from the wine.” The questioning went on and on, until Miriam’s eyes began to glaze over with a curious mixture of boredom and anxiety.
Some sort of resolution seemed to be reached. One of the priests turned and marched into the back room. A few seconds later he reappeared, followed by a subdued-looking Kara. They didn’t go in for frothy white wedding dresses and veils, it seemed. Kara was wearing a rich gown, but nothing significantly different from what she might have worn for any other public event. The bald guy with the sword asked her something, and she nodded: and a moment later the other priest offered them both a cup containing some kind of fluid. I hope that’s wine, Miriam thought with a sinking feeling as they sipped from it. She couldn’t see the chicken anymore. Somehow I don’t think these guys hold with abstractions like transubstantiation.
Conversation started up on the bench ahead of her almost immediately. “It’s done,” or “That’s that,” if she understood it correctly. Two of the younger maids (daughters? nieces? servants?) stood up, and one of them giggled quietly. Up front, the men were already rising and filing out of the side door. “You will with us, come?” asked the old woman in front of Miriam, and it took her a moment to realize she was being spoken to.
“Yes,” she said uncertainly.
“Good.” The old lady reached out and grabbed Miriam’s wrist, leaning on it as she levered herself up off the wooden bench. “You’ve got strong bones,” she said, and cackled quietly.
“I have?”
“Your babies will need that.” She let go of Miriam’s arm, oblivious to her expression. “Come.”
There didn’t seem to be any alternative. They filed upstairs, into a chilly ballroom where servants with trays circulated, keeping everyone sufficiently lubricated with wine to ensure a smooth occasion. Miriam ended up with her back to a wall, observing the knots of chattering women, the puff-chested clump of young men, the elders circulating and talking to one another. The menfolk mostly had swords, which took her aback slightly. It wasn’t something she’d seen in a social setting before—but then, too many of her social encounters had been in the royal court, or with other senior members of the nobility present. Carrying ironwork in the presence of the monarch was a faux pas of the kind that could get you executed. I’ve been sheltered, she decided. Or I just had too small and too skewed a sample to see much of how things really work here.
Kara and the bald guy had been installed on two stools on a raised platform, and had much larger cups than anyone else. Miriam tried to establish eye contact, but the bride was so focused on the floorboards that it would probably take a two-by-four to get her attention. A happy occasion indeed, she thought ironically, and drained her glass. How long until I can get away from this?
A hand clutching a bottle appeared in front of her and tilted it over her glass. “A drop more, perhaps?”
“Um.” Startled, Miriam looked sideways. “Yes, please.” He was in his late twenties, as far as she could tell, and he looked as if he had southeast Asian ancestry, which made him stand out in this crowd as effectively as if he’d had green skin and eyes on stalks. He was dressed like most of the men hereabouts, in loose-cut trousers and a tunic, but unlike the others he didn’t have a sword, or even a dagger, on his belt. “Do I know you?”
“I think not.” His English was oddly accented, but it wasn’t a hochsprache accent—there was something familiar about it. “Allow me to introduce myself? I am James, second son of Ang, of family Lee.” He looked slightly amused at her reaction. “I see you have heard of me.”
“I met your brother,” she said before she could stop herself. “Do you know who I am?”
He nodded, and she tensed, scanning the room for the ferret, his guards, anyone—because the circumstances under which she’d met his brother were anything but friendly. Damn, where are they? Why now? Her pulse roared in her ears, and she took a deep breath, ready to yell for help: but then he chuckled and slopped a bolus of wine into her glass. “You convinced the thin white duke to send him back to us alive,” said Lee. He raised his own glass to her. “I would thank you for that.”
Miriam felt her knees go weak with relief. “It was the sensible thing to do,” she said. The roaring subsided. She took a sip of wine to cover her confusion, and after a moment she felt calm enough to ask, “Why are you here?”
“Here? At this happy occasion in particular, or this primitive city in general?” He seemed amused by her question. “I have the honor of being a hostage against my brother’s safe return and the blood treaty between our families.” Was it really amusement, or was it ironic detachment? Miriam blinked: she was finding James Lee remarkably difficult to read, but at least now she could place his accent. Lee’s family had struck out for the west coast two centuries ago. In the process they’d gotten lost, detached from the Clan, world-walking to the alien timeline of New Britain rather than the United States. His accent was New British—a form of American English, surely, but one that had evolved differently from the vernacular of her own home. “I cannot travel far.” He nodded toward a couple of unexceptional fellows standing near the door. “But they let me out to mingle with society. I know Leon.” Another nod at the balding middle-aged groom, now chatting animatedly to Kara’s father from his throne at the far end of the room. “We play cards regularly, whist and black knave and other games.” He raised his glass. “And so, to your very good health!”
Miriam raised her own glass: “And to yours.” She eyed him speculatively. He was, she began to realize, a bit of a hunk—and with brains, too. What that implied was interesting: he was a hostage, sure, but might he also be something more? A spy, perhaps?
“Are you here because of, of her?” asked Lee, glancing at the platform.
“Yes.” Miriam nodded. “She was my lady-in-waiting. Before this happened.”
“Hmph.” He studied her face closely. “You say that as if it came as a surprise to you, milady.”
“It did.” Damn, I shouldn’t be giving this much away! “I wasn’t asked my opinion, shall we say.” It was probably the wine, on an empty stomach, she realized. She was feeling wobbly enough as it was, and the sense of isolation was creeping up on her again.
“I’d heard a rumor that you were out of favor.”
He was fishing, but he sounded almost sympathetic. Miriam looked at him sharply. Handsome is as handsome does, she reminded herself. “A rumor?”
“There’s a, a grapevine.” He shrugged. “I’m not the only guest of the families who is gathered to their bosom with all the
kind solicitude due an asp”—he snorted—“and people will talk, after all! One rumor made play of a scandal between you and a youngblood of the duke’s faction who, regrettably, died some months ago in an incident nobody will discuss: according to others, you kicked up a fuss sufficient to wake the dead, rattling skeletons in their closets until other parties felt the need to remove you from the game board to the toy box, if you will pardon the mixed metaphor.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the truth is both less scandalous and more sympathetic than any of the rumors would have it.”
“Really.” She smiled tightly and took a full mouthful of wine. “As a matter of fact both the rumors are more or less true, in outline at least. I’m pleased you’re polite enough not to raise the third one: it would be interesting to compare notes on the climate in New Britain some day, but right now I suspect we’d only upset our minders.”
Now it was Lee’s turn to look unhappy. “I want you to know that I did not approve of the attempts on your life,” he said rapidly. “It was unnecessary and stupid and—”
“Purely traditional.” Miriam finished her wine and pushed her glass at him. “Right. And you’re young and sensible and know how your hidebound grandparents ought to be running the family if they weren’t stuck in the past?”
He gave her an ironic smile as he refilled both their glasses. “Exactly. Oh dear, this bottle appears to be empty, I wonder how that happened?” He made a minute gesture and a servant came sidling up to replace it: How does he do that? Miriam wondered.
The Clan Corporate: Book Three of The Merchant Princes Page 27