The Clan Corporate

INTERRUPTION

Miriam sat alone in her bedroom for a couple of hours, thoughts spinning feverishly through her brain. Shall I stay or shall I go? The old Clash song held a certain resonance. Give the bastards what they want and Iris doesn’t get hurt. The logic was sound, but the sick sense of humiliation she felt whenever she thought about it gave her a visceral urge to lash out. Go through with it. One year, two at the most. Yes, and then what?

They’d use artificial insemination. She’d have one or more small infants, be exhausted from the effort—it wasn’t for nothing that they called it labor—and the babies would in turn be hostages to use against her. The idea of bringing up children didn’t fill her with enthusiasm; she’d seen friends turned old before their days by the workload of diaper changes and late-night feedings. It was probably different for royalty: she’d have servants and wet nurses on call. But still, wasn’t that a bit irresponsible? Miriam felt a twinge of conscience. She’d gotten into this mess of her own accord. It wouldn’t be fair to take out her resentment on a baby who wasn’t even around at the time. Or on the idiot prince. It wasn’t his fault.

I wish I could just run away. She lay back on the bed and indulged her escape fantasies for a while, studiously not thinking about Iris. I could go back to New Britain. I’ve got friends there. But the Clan knew all about her company and her contacts. I’d have to start from scratch. Talk to Erasmus about a new identity. And without the Clan connection, she’d be a lot less useful to him and his friends. What if he wanted to stay in their good books? He could easily turn her over to Morgan. Nameless dread filled her. New Britain didn’t look like a hot place to spend the rest of her days, especially starting out halfway broke in the middle of a recession while trying to hide from the Clan. Which obviously ruled out technology start-ups, businesses based on her existing know-how, anything that might draw their attention. Iris found Morris. Who or what hope have I got?

Her thoughts turned to Cambridge. Home. I could go back to being a journalist, she thought. Yeah, right. That would work precisely as long as it took for her to run into someone she’d interviewed at a trade conference. Or until she needed a bank account and a driving license. Post-9/11, disappearing and getting a new identity was becoming increasingly difficult—

Which leaves the feds, she thought. I could go look up Mike. He worked for the DEA, didn’t he? Since Matthias went over the wall, something had clearly gone deeply wrong with the Clan courier networks. Matthias had blabbed to someone, and whatever he’d told them had caused the feds to start staking out safe houses. Which means they know something about the Clan, she told herself, with a dawning sense that she’d been far too slow on the uptake. She sat up. I’ve been an idiot. If I defected, I could join the Witness Protection Program and then—

She hit a brick wall. A series of unwelcome visions began playing themselves out in the theater of her imagination. There went Angbard—a scheming old bastard he might be, but still her uncle—shoved into a federal penitentiary at his age. Lock him up for life and throw away the key. And there went Iris—the entire family, everybody, they could arrest us all for complicity, criminal conspiracy. Right? There went Olga. And Brill—probably for murder, in her case, come to think of it. The government would play hardball. They’d find some way to come over here and mess things up. If necessary, they’d chop up a captured world-walker’s brains to figure out what made them tick, grow it in a petri dish and mount it on a bomber. Before 9/11 she wouldn’t have credited it, but this was a whole different world, these were dangerous times, and the administration might do anything if it thought there was a serious threat to the nation.

Forget law and order: it would be all-out war. Afghanistan was a source of hard drugs and terrorism before 9/11, and look what they’d done there when the rules changed. Everybody had cheered the collapse of the Taliban—and yes, those bastards had it coming—but what about the village goatherds on the receiving end of cluster bombs, intended for sheep that looked like guerillas when viewed in infrared from thirty thousand feet? What about the women and children killed when some bastard up the road with a satellite phone decided to settle a local long-running blood feud using a B-52 bomber, by phoning the CIA and telling them that there were Al-Qaida gunmen in the next village?

I can’t do that, Miriam thought despairingly. She flopped back on the bed again. I want out, sure. But do I want out badly enough to kill people? If the only person to suffer was Baron Henryk, perhaps the answer was yes—and that asshole doctor, she wouldn’t mind hurting him, or at least putting him through the same level of humiliation he’d inflicted on her. But the idea of turning everyone in the Clan over to the US government cut too close to the bone. I am one of them, she realized, turning the unwelcome idea over in her mind to examine it for feel. I don’t think like them and I hate the way they work, but I can’t hand my family over to the government. Leaving aside the fact that the Clan thought they were a government—and had a reasonable claim to being one—that thought clarified things somewhat.

And then there’s Mom.

Miriam took a deep breath. Her mood of fragile hope crashed, giving way to bleak depression. Henryk’s got me. Iris is right, I’m out of options. Unless something unexpected happens, I am stuck with this. I’ll have to go through with it. She winced. What did they say about pregnancy? You can’t world-walk while you’re expecting. Another unwanted, hostile imposition on her freedom. He won’t need a prison cell while I’m pregnant, she realized. And afterward . . . when Iris had made her escape she’d been young and healthy. By the time Miriam delivered, she’d be close to her mid-thirties.

There was a knock. Miriam pushed herself upright and stretched. The knock repeated, tentative, uncertain of itself. Not the ferret, she thought, walking over to the door. “Yes?” she demanded.

“Milady, we’re to—” She didn’t understand the rest, but she knew the tone of voice. She opened the door.

“You are, me, to dress?” Miriam managed haltingly. The two servants bobbed. “Good.” She shrugged. This is going to happen, she realized dismally, walking toward the wardrobe as if on autopilot. Oh well. I guess I should leave this to Helge, then. Helge? “Now what am I to wear?” she said aloud, surprising herself with her diction.

The Clan weren’t big on subtle messages. Helge let the servants lace her into an underdress, then help her into a winter gown of black silk and deep blue velvet. It had long sleeves, full skirts, and a neckline that rose to a high collar. Current fashion favored a revealing décolletage, but she was in a funereal mood. She wrapped a thick rope of pearls around her waist as a belt, and looped another around her collar. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her cheek was coming up in a fine bruise where Henryk had struck her, so she picked out a black lace veil, cloak, and matching gloves from her armoire. Let ’em wonder what kind of damaged goods they’re buying, she thought bitterly. This outfit wouldn’t give much away: truthfully, it looked like Victorian mourning drag. “I’m ready to go now,” she announced, entering the reception room. “Where is that, that idle—”

“Right here.” The front door was open, the ferret standing beside it. “My, how mysterious.”

“Is the coach ready?”

“If you would care to follow me . . .”

She managed to descend the staircase without tripping, and she clambered into the coach that was waiting. A sealed coach, with shuttered windows, she observed. Still a prisoner, I see, she noted ironically. Someone doesn’t trust me.

The air was close and the evening warm. Helge fanned herself as the coach clattered and swayed out of the courtyard and across the streets. Alone in the dark, she brooded listlessly. Is this the right thing to do? she wondered, then felt like kicking herself: See any alternatives, stupid? She felt stiff and defensive, her dress constricting and hot—more like a suit of armor than a display of glamour and wealth. I’m going to look like an idiot, she thought, preposterously frumpy. A moment later: Why should I care what they think? Bah.

After an interminable ride—which might have been five minutes or half an hour—the roadway smoothed, wheels crunching over gravel, and the carriage halted. Someone busied themselves with the padlock outside, then a glare of setting sunlight almost blinded Helge as she squeezed through the door.

“Milady.” It was—what was his name? Some flunky of Henryk’s, she decided. He handed her down the steps to a small gaggle of guards and ladies-in-waiting and general rubberneckers. “Please allow me to welcome you to the royal household. This is Sir Rybeck, master of the royal stables. And this is—”

It was a receiving line. For her. Helge offered her hand as she was gently moved along it, accepting bows and courtesies and strange lips on the back of her glove, smiling fixedly and trying not to bare her teeth. Two court ladies-in-waiting picked up the train of her cloak, and four guards in the red and gold of the royal troupe walked before her with long, viciously curved axes held aloft. This is public, she realized with a sinking feeling. They’re saying publicly that I rate the respect due a member of the royal household! Which meant there’d have to be some kind of announcement soon. Which in turn meant that they were definitely going through with it.

She’d never paid too much attention to royal etiquette in the past, and anything she’d accidentally read about in her old life was obviously inapplicable, but it was seriously intimidating. People were acting as if they were afraid of her. And if anyone thought her gown was unfashionable or noticed her bruised cheek under the veil, they were keeping quiet about it.

There was a huge banquet hall with several tables set up inside it, one of them on a raised platform at the back. People thronged the floor of the hall: as she entered the room there was a ripple of low-key conversation. Faces turned toward her. Butterflies flapped their wings in her stomach. “What now?” she asked her guide quietly, gripping his arm, forcing her hochsprache to perform.

“I escort you to the antechamber. You greet the king. You greet the prince. There will be drinks. Then there will be the meal.” He kept his diction clear and his phrases short, speaking slowly out of deference to her poor language skills. To her surprise, Helge understood most of what he said.

“Is the duke here? Angbard? Or Baron Henryk?” she asked.

His reply was a small shrug. “Alas, matters of state keep both of them away.”

“Oh.” Right. Matters of state, it seemed, conspired to keep her from giving them a piece of her mind. She walked past the curious crowds—she smiled and nodded at enquiries, but kept her feet moving—then a door opened ahead of her. Guards grounded their axes. None of the nobles at this show were wearing swords. She went right ahead, then her escort stopped, a restraining hand on hers. Miriam paused, then recognized the sad-faced man in front of her. Her mind went blank. He’s wearing a crown. You’re supposed to be marrying his son. What am I supposed to do now? Helge bent her knee in a deep curtsey. “Your majesty. I am, it pleases, me to see you.”

“Countess Helge. Your presence brings light to an old man’s eye. Please, take our arm.” He smiled hesitantly, his face wrinkling with the look of a man who’d born more cruel blows than anyone should face.

She bit her tongue and took the proffered arm gingerly. For an instant the urge to try a throw she’d learned in a self-defense class years ago taunted her. However, throwing the king over her shoulder might bear even less pleasant consequences than telling Baron Henryk to fuck off. “Yes, your majesty,” she said meekly, falling back into the Helge role, and she allowed Alexis Nicholau III to lead her across the room toward the stooped figure of his mother the queen, and the equally stooped, but much huskier, figure of his son, Prince Creon.

“We understand you know why you are here?”

“I—” Helge tripped over her tongue. “I am to marry, yes?”

“That is the idea.” The king frowned slightly. Then he reached up and lifted one corner of her veil. “Ah. We understand now.” He let it fall. “We apologize for our curiosity. Was it serious?”

“I—”could break Henryk’s career right now, for good, she realized. But that way it wouldn’t be personal, would it? “I walk into bed-post,” she said slowly. She felt a sudden stab of rage. Let him wonder when it’s going to come. “Is nothing serious.”

“Good.” The frown lifted slightly. “We trust you will willingly uphold your party’s side of the bargain, then?”

Bargain? What bargain? She looked at him blankly, then realized what he must be talking about. “I am the daughter of my mother.”

“That is more than sufficient.” He nodded. “A glass of wine for the countess,” he casually dropped in the direction a baron, who hustled away to find a waiter. “Prince Creon is a troubling responsibility,” he said.

“Responsibility?” It was a new word to Helge.

“Responsibility,” he repeated in English. “Hmm. Your tongue comes along wonderfully. Soon few will think you a half-wit like my son.”

Aha. “That is the veil, the, uh, cover, for the marriage?”

“For now.” The king nodded. Miriam forced herself to un-kink her fingers before she burst a seam in her gloves. They were curled into claws. They think I’m an idiot? “It is a useful fiction.”

“But your son—”

“Can speak for himself.” The king smiled sadly. “Can’t you, Creon?”

“Muh-marriage?” Creon lurched toward Helge curiously, stopped when he was facing her.

Helge sighed. He wasn’t ugly, that was the bad news. If you straightened his back, wiped away the string of drool, and unwound the genetic disorder that had left him wide-open to brain damage delivered by an assassin’s dose of artificial sweetener in his food when he was a child, he’d be more than presentable: he’d be a catch, like his elder brother. The thought of the older one nearly made her shudder: she caught herself in time. Remember what they call them, the Idiot and the Pervert, she warned herself. “Hello, Creon,” she said slowly.

“Muh-marriage?” he mumbled. “I’m hungry—”

It was a miracle he was still walking. Or conscious. She pitied him. “Do you know what that means?” she asked.

“Muh, muh—” He reached out a hand and she took it. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled as if by something far beyond his understanding, and squeezed. Helge yelped. Heads turned.

“We must apologize again,” said the prince’s father, stepping in to detach his hand from her wrist. He did so gently, then raised an eyebrow. “You are sure this is the prize you want?” he asked quietly.

Helge licked her lips. “So my mother tells me.” And the rest of my long-lost family. At gunpoint.

“Ah well, on your head be it, just so long as you are gentle with him. He needs protecting. It is not his fault.”

“I—” I’d like to find the assholes who did this to him and give them something in return. “I know that.” As unwilling arranged marriages went, Creon looked unlikely to be a demanding husband. I just hope Doctor ven Hjalmar knows what he’s doing, she thought. If he doesn’t, if they expect me to sleep with Creon . . . all of a sudden, test tubes and turkey basters held a remarkable allure. A glass of sparkling wine appeared in her hand and she drank it down in one mouthful, then held out her glass for a refill. “I will look after him,” she promised, and was surprised to find that it came easily. It’s not his fault he’s damaged goods, she thought, then did a double take. Is that what Henryk thinks I am?

The king nodded. “We must circulate,” he said. “At dinner, you will be seated to our left.” Then he disappeared, leaving her with Creon and his discreet minders, and the Queen Mother. Which latter worthy grimaced at her horribly—or perhaps it was intended as an impish grin—and hobbled over.

“It will go well,” she insisted, gripping Helge’s wrist. “You are a modest young woman, I see. Good for you, Helge. You have good hips, too.” She winked. “You will enjoy the fruits, if not the planting.”

“Uh. Thank you,” Helge said carefully, and detached herself as soon as she could, which turned out to be when Angelin’s glass ran dry. She glanced around, wondering if she could find somewhere to hide. Her disguise wasn’t exactly helping make her inconspicuous. Then she spotted a familiar face across the room. She slid along the wall toward his corner. His eyes slid past her at first: What’s wrong? she wondered. Then she realized. Oh, he doesn’t recognize me. She pushed back the veil and nodded at him, and James Lee started. “Hi,” she said, reverting to English.

“Hi yourself.” He eyed her up and down. “How—modest?”

“I’m supposed to be saving myself for my husband.” She pulled a face. “Not that he’d notice.”

“Hah. I didn’t know you were married.”

“I’m not. Yet. Are you?”

“Oh, absolutely not. So where’s the lucky man?” He looked mildly irritated. So, have I got your interest? Miriam wondered idly.

“Over there.” She tilted her head, then spotted the Queen Mother looking round. “ ’Scuse me.” She dropped her veil.

“You’re not—” He looked aghast. “You’re going to marry the Idiot?”

She sighed. “I wish people wouldn’t call him that.”

“But you—” He stopped. “You are. You’re going to do it.”

“Yes,” she said tightly. “I have a shortage of alternative offers, in case you’d forgotten. A woman of my age and status needs to be grateful for what she can get”—and for her relatives refraining from poisoning her mother—“and all that.”

“Ha. I’d marry you, if you asked,” said Lee. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“If—” She took a deep breath, constrained by the armor of her role. “I am required to produce royal offspring,” she said bitterly.

Lee glanced away. “The traditional penalty for indiscretions with the wives of royalty is rather drastic,” he murmured.

She snorted quietly. “I wasn’t offering.” Yet. “I’m not in the market.” But get back to me after I’ve been married to Creon for a year or two. By then, even the goats will be looking attractive. “Listen, did you remember what I asked for?”

“Oh, this?” A twist of his hand, and a gleam of silver: a small locket on a chain slid into his palm.

Helge’s breath caught. Freedom in a capsule. It was almost painful. If she took it she could desert all her responsibilities, her duty to Patricia, her impending marriage to the damaged cadet branch of the monarchy—“What do you want for it?” she asked quietly.

“From you?” Lee stared at her for a long second. “One kiss, my lady.”

The spell broke. She reached out and folded his fingers around the chain. “Not now,” she said gently. “You’ve no idea what it costs me to say that. But—”

He laid a finger on the back of her hand. “Take it now.”

“Really?”

“Just say you will let me petition for my fee later, that’s all I ask.”

She breathed out slowly. Her knees suddenly felt like jelly. Wow, you’re a sweet-talker. “You know you’re asking for something dangerous.”

“For you, no risk is too great.” He smiled, challenging her to deny it.

She took another deep breath. “Yes, then.”

He tilted his hand upside-down and she felt the locket and its chain pour into her gloved hand. She fumbled hastily with the buttons at her wrist, then slid the family treasure inside and re-fastened the sleeve. “Have you any idea what this means to me?” she asked.

“It’s the key to a prison cell.” He raised his wineglass. “I’ve been in that cell too. If I wanted to leave badly enough—”

“Oh. Oh. I see.” The hell of it was, he was telling the truth: he could violate his status as a hostage anytime he felt like it—anytime he felt like restarting a war that his own family could only lose. She felt a sudden stab of empathy for him. That’s dangerous, part of her realized. Another part of her remembered Roland, and felt betrayed. But Roland was dead, and she was still alive, and seemingly destined for a loveless marriage: why shouldn’t she enjoy a discreet fling on the side? But not now, she rationalized. Not right under the eyes of the royal dynasty, not with half the Clan waiting outside for a grand dinner at which a betrothal would be announced. Not until after the royal wedding, and the pregnancy—her mind shied away from thinking of it as her pregnancy—and the birth of the heir. The heir to the throne who’d be a W* heterozygote and on whose behalf Henryk wouldn’t, bless him, even dream of treason. After all, as the old epigram put it, Treason doth never prosper: what’s the reason? Why if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

A bell rang, breaking through the quiet conversation. “That means dinner,” said Lee, bowing slightly, then turning to slip away. “I’ll see you later.”

They filed out through the door, Helge on the king’s arm, before an audience of hundreds of faces. She felt her knees knock. For a moment she half-panicked: then she realized nobody could see her face. “Put back your veil, my dear,” the king murmured. “Your seat.”

Hypnotized, she sat down on something extremely hard and unforgiving, like a slab of solid wood. A throne. A brassy cacophony of trumpetlike horns blatted from the sidelines as other notables stepped forward and sat down to either side of—then opposite—her. She moved her veil out of the way, then recoiled. A wizened old woman—a crone in spirit as well as age—sat across the table from her. “You,” she accused.

“Is that any way to address your grandmother?” The old dowager looked down her nose at her. “I beg your pardon, your majesty, one needs must teach the young flower that those who stand tallest are the first to be cut down to size.”

“This is your doing,” Helge accused.

“Hardly. It’s traditional.” Hildegarde snorted. “Eat your sweetbreads. It’s long past time you and I had a talk and cleared the air between us.”

“We’d listen to her, if we were you,” the king told Helge. Then he turned to speak to the elderly courtier on his right, effectively locking her out of his sphere of conversation.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Helge said sullenly. She toyed with her food, some sort of meat in a glazed sugar sauce.

“Your traditional demeanor does you credit, my dear, but it doesn’t deceive me. You’re still looking for a way out. Let me tell you, there isn’t one.”

“Uh-huh.” Helge took a mouthful of appetizer. It was disgustingly rich, implausible as an appetizer. Oily, too.

“Every woman in our lineage goes through this sooner or later,” explained the dowager. She stabbed a piece of meat with her knife, held it to her mouth, and nibbled delicately at it with her yellowing teeth. “You’re nothing special, child.”

Helge stared at her, speechless with rage.

“Go on, hate me,” Hildegarde said indulgently. “It goes with the territory.” She’d switched to English, in deference to her granddaughter’s trouble with the vernacular, but now Miriam was having trouble staying in character as Helge. “It’ll go easier for you if you hate me. Go on.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in me.” Miriam bit into the sweetbread. Sheep’s pancreas, a part of her remembered. “Last time we met you called me a fraud.”

“Allow me to concede that your mother vouched for you satisfactorily. And I will admit she is who she claims to be. Even after a third of a century of blessed peace and quiet she’s hard to deny, the minx.”

“She’s no—”

“Yes she is. Don’t you see that? She even fooled you.”

“No she didn’t.”

“Yes she did.” The dowager put her fork down. “She’s always been the devious viper in my bosom. She brought you up to be loyal to her and her only. When she decided to come in from the cold, she sent you on ahead to test the waters. Now she’s making a play for the royal succession. And she’s got you thinking she’s a poor, harmless victim and you’re doing this to protect her, hasn’t she?”

Miriam stared at Hildegarde, aghast. “That’s not how it is,” she said hesitantly.

Her grandmother looked at her disdainfully. “As you grow older you’ll see things more clearly. You won’t feel yourself changing on the inside, but the outside—ah, that’s different. You’ve got to learn to look beneath the skin, child. The war of mother against daughters continues, and you can’t simply opt out of it by imagining there to be some special truce between your mother and yourself.” Servants were circulating with silver goblets of pale wine. “Ah, it’s time.”

“What?”

“Don’t drink that yet,” the dowager snapped. “It’s mead,” she added, “not that I’d expect you to know what that is, considering how Patricia neglected your upbringing.”

Miriam flushed.

There was another blast of trumpets. Everyone downed eating-knives and looked at the raised platform expectantly.

“A toast,” announced the king, raising his voice. “This evening, we have the honor to announce that our son Creon offers his hand to this lady, the Countess Helge voh Thorold d’Hjorth, in alliance of marriage. Her guardian, the Dowager Duchess Hildegarde voh Hjorth d’Hjalmar, is present this evening. My lady, what say you?”

He’s not talking to me, Miriam realized, as the dowager shuffled to her feet. “Your majesty, my lord. On behalf of my family I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this offer, and I assure you that she would be delighted to accept.”

Miriam stared, rosy-cheeked with embarrassment and anger, at her ancient grandmother.

“Thank you,” the king said formally. “May the alliance of our lines be peaceful and fruitful.” He raised his silver goblet. “To the happy couple!”

Several hundred silver goblets flashed in the light from the huge chandelier that dominated the ceiling of the room. A rumble of approval echoed like thunder across the room. Miriam looked around, her head twitching like a trapped bird.

“You can drink now,” the dowager murmured, casting her voice over the racket. “You look like you need it.”

“But I—do I get a chance to say anything?”

“No, for what would you say? In a decade you’ll be glad you didn’t speak. Just remember you owe me this opportunity to better yourself! I’ve worked hard for it, and if you let me down, girl—”

Incandescent with anger, Miriam glared across the table at her grandmother. “You told Henryk to threaten Mom. Didn’t you?”

“What if I did?” The dowager stared at her. “Your mother’s misled you quite enough already. It’s time you learned how the world works. You’ll understand in your time, even if you don’t like it now. And one day you’ll be a player yourself.”

“I wouldn’t cross the road to piss on you if you were on fire,” Miriam retorted half-heartedly. She took a deep mouthful of the mead. It tasted of honey and broken hearts. Her cheeks itched. Overtaken by an obscure emotion, she pulled her veil down again. Tears of sorrow, tears of rage—who could tell the difference? Not her. I’ll get you, she thought. I will be different! And nothing like this will ever happen to any daughter of mine!

The thunder of applause didn’t seem to be dying down. To her left, an elderly count was looking around in puzzlement. “Eh, what-what?” The applause had a rhythmic note, almost thunderous, as if a huge crowd outside was stamping their feet in synchrony.

“That’s enough,” called the king. “You can stop now!” He sounded in good spirits.

People were looking around. That’s odd, thought Miriam, puzzled. That’s not applause. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was—

There was an angry bang, with a harsh, flat note to it, then a sound, like a trillion angry bees. The windows overhead blew in, scattering shards of glass across the diners. Amidst the screams Miriam heard a harsh banging sound from outside, the noise of wheel-lock guns firing. The king turned to her. “Get under the table,” he said quietly: “Now.”

What? Miriam shuddered. Fragments of glass fell across the dining table. A jagged piece landed on the back of her hand, sticking into her glove. There was no pain at first. “What—”

Abruptly the king wasn’t there anymore. The dowager was gone, too. There was another deep thud that jarred her teeth and made her ears hurt. The main door to the hall was open, and smoke came billowing in through it.

Suddenly Miriam was very afraid. She tried to slide down under the table but her voluminous skirts got in the way, trapping her in a twisted mound of fabric. There was shouting, and more banging, gunfire. From off to one side she heard the flat crackle of an automatic weapon, firing in controlled bursts. People were running around the hall, trying to get out. She tugged and managed to get untangled. What the hell is going on? She ducked round the back of the throne, dropping to the floor behind the raised platform. Half a dozen servants and diners cowered there, including James Lee: he opened his mouth to ask her something.

A body fell from the platform in a spray of blood. Miriam crouched, arms covering her head. There was another bang from the room at the back where the royal party had assembled for dinner, an eternity ago. Men in black—black combat fatigues, torsos bulky with flak jackets, heads weirdly misshapen with gas masks—ran past the back of the dais, two of them staying to train guns behind. “Get down!” screamed one of the men in black. Then he saw her. “Milady? This way, now.” Shit, Clan security, Angbard’s men, Miriam thought, dizzy with the need for oxygen: What’s happening?

“This way.”

Miriam flinched. “Who’s attacking us?”

“I don’t know, milady—move!” She rose to a crouch, began to duck-walk along the back of the platform. “You, sir! On your feet, have you a gun?”

There was a noise behind her, so loud that she didn’t hear it so much as feel it in her abdomen. Someone thumped her hard in the small of her back and she went down, trying to curl up, her spine a red-hot column of agony. She was dimly aware of Clan guards rushing past. Blood on the floor, plaster and debris pattering down from the ceiling. There was more gunfire, some shouting.

As Miriam caught her breath she began to realize that the gunfire was continuing. And the Clan guards—there’s only a handful of them, she realized. They may have modern weapons, but that’s a lot of muskets out there. And cannon, by the sound of it. Sick fear gripped her. What’s going on?

Miriam felt sick to her stomach. The pain in her back was easing. It was bad, but not crippling: the boning of her corset had spread the force of the blow. She risked pushing herself to her knees and nothing happened. Then she looked round.

King Alexis Nicholau III sat with his legs sprawled apart, leaning against an ornamental pillar with an expression of ironic amusement on what was left of his face. About half of his brains were spread across the pillar, forming the body of an exclamation mark of which his face was the period.

“Surrender in the name of his majesty!” The hoarse voice sounded slightly desperate, as if he knew that if they didn’t surrender his head was going to end up gracing the top of a pike. “Yield in the name of his majesty, King Egon!”

Miriam kilted up her dress and began to crawl rapidly across the floor, past bodies and a howling, weeping old woman she didn’t recognize. She passed a servant lying on his back with blood pooling around him: evidently he hadn’t understood enough English. There was more smoke now, and it smelled of wood. I’ve got to get out of here, she realized. Fucking Egon! His accession to the throne depended on the support of the nobility, of course. He’ll have to kill everyone here, she realized coldly. If he thought his father had decided to sideline him in favor of his younger brother, how better to assure himself of the support of the old nobility than to liquidate the one group of noble houses who were the greatest threat to them?

She turned and crawled toward the door to the reception chamber. A bullet cracked off the tiled floor in front of her, spraying chips of marble, and she pulled back hastily.

It was twilight outside, and the chandelier was down. The soldiers outside seemed determined to bottle a couple of hundred people up inside a burning building with no fire extinguishers. People who’d come here to celebrate her betrothal. She felt a rising sense of nausea. Not that she’d wanted it herself, but this wasn’t her idea of how to extract herself from the situation—

There was a side door, discreet and undecorated, behind one of the pillars. She eyed the bullet holes high up it warily, then glanced round at the dais. It was partly shielded. She crawled forward again, her shoulder blades twitching. People were screaming now, cries of alarm mingling with the awful panting gasps of the wounded.

The door opened onto darkness. Miriam stood up as she ducked inside. Isn’t this the passage they brought me through to see the queen, the first time? she wondered. If so, there should be another door here—

She pushed the door carefully and it opened into another room, largely obscured by the pillar and drapes positioned to hide it from genteel attention. She froze in place, trying to look like another ornate swag of curtain. Half a dozen soldiers in what looked like stained leather overalls worn under chain-mesh surcoats were standing guard. Some held swords, but a couple were armed with modern-looking pistols. Two of them were covering a group of captives who lay facedown on the floor. “You will guard these tinkers in the rear,” one of them told his companion. “If there is any risk of escape, kill them.” He continued in rapid hochsprache, too fast for Miriam’s ear.

Two of the guards were yanking the captives to their feet. They seemed slow to move, disoriented. The guards were brutally efficient, dragging them forward toward the main door. The talkative one bent over a lump on the floor and did something. “Hurry!” Then he followed the others out hastily.

Shit. That’s got to be a bomb. As soon as he was out, Miriam scurried forward. It was green, it had shoulder straps, and there was some kind of timer on top of it. One of Matthias’s leftover toys. Why am I not surprised? If I move it—She froze, indecisive. What if there’s a trembler switch? She glanced at the door they’d left through. I’ve got to get out of here!

Miriam ducked into the next servant’s passage, darting along it. She reached the outer receiving chamber with the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, worth a fortune in this place, just about the time the men in black were leaving it. Creeping forward, she looked out across a scene of devastation. Beyond the shattered windows lay what seemed to be half the palace guard. They lay in windrows, many of them still clutching their broken pikestaffs. Another gout of thunder and a lick of flame told her why: across the ha-ha at the end of the terrace, a group of figures moved urgently about their business, manhandling an archaic-looking cannon back into position to bear on the west wing of the palace. More isolated gunfire banged across the garden, the flat bursts of the black powder weapons sounding like a Fourth of July party.

Jesus, it’s a full-scale coup, she thought, just as another distinctive figure stumbled around the front of the building.

“Creon!” she called out, forgetting that she was trying to hide. He was out in front, while she was at the back of the reception room, in near-darkness. He probably couldn’t hear her anyway. Her heart lurched. What’s he doing? Who the hell knows what he thinks he’s doing? Right now he was silhouetted against the twilight outside, but in a moment—

Creon loped away from the front of the palace, toward the gun crew. He seemed to be waving his arms

“Creon! No!” she yelled. Too late. One of the pikemen beside the cannon saw him, pointed: another soldier raised an ominously modern weapon, a rifle. They’re protecting their artillery, she realized blankly. Probably realize there’ll be no more modern ammunition when—Creon dropped like a stone.

Miriam shook herself, like a dog awakening from a deep sleep. Appalled, she took a step forward.

Someone grabbed at her from behind. He missed her, snagging her veil instead. She spun round and lashed out hard with her left fist, all the anger and frustration of the past days boiling up inside her. Then she doubled over in pain as her assailant punched her in the stomach.

“Aushlaant’ bisch—”

She gasped for air, looking up. He had a dagger in his hand, and an expression on his face that made her elbows and knees turn to jelly. He’s going to—

The back of the man’s head vanished in a red spray, and he dropped like a stone.

“Fuck!” she screamed, finally getting her breath back.

“Miriam?” Hesitantly. I know that voice, she thought dizzily. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she managed to choke. Putting one arm out she tried to lever herself up.

“Let me help—”

“No.” She managed to half sit up, then discovered her corset wouldn’t let her. “Yes.” What the fuck are you doing here? she wondered.

A hand under her left armpit gave her the support she needed. Her right hip hurt and her back and stomach felt bruised. She stood gasping for a minute, then turned and stared, too tired and bewildered to feel any surprise. He was wearing hiking gear and what looked like an army-surplus camo jacket under a merchant’s robe, obviously picked up on his way here. It was simply the final ironic joke to cap a whole day of petty horrors. “Tell me what you’re doing here,” she said, trying to keep her tone level. Think of the devil and he’ll drop by to say hello . . .

“I don’t know,” he said shakily. “It wasn’t meant to go like this. I was just sent here to have a quiet chat with you, gunfights weren’t on the agenda.” He stared at the body and swallowed.

“The agenda,” she said tartly, forcing herself to ignore it. “Are you still working for the DEA? Would this happen to be their idea?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m still a DEA agent, yes. In a manner of speaking. But there are chain-of-command issues.” He shook his head. “Any idea why that guy was trying to kill you?”

She felt an inane giggle trying to work its way up her throat, stifled it ruthlessly. Three years older, three years wiser. The last time she’d seen Mike she’d told him to scratch her name out of his address book. She’d been half-convinced he was a psychopath. Now she’d met some real psychopaths and she wasn’t so sure. “People just sort of keep trying to kill me around here. It seems to be the national sport.”

“Poor Miriam.” His tone was mock-sympathetic, but when she looked at him sharply his expression was anything but light. “I was sent here to have a little talk with you. Our intelligence was that this was a royal garden party: do they always blow the place up for kicks?”

“No. But the king was supposed to be announcing a royal wedding.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “The groom’s brother seems to have taken exception.”

“If this is their idea of a wedding party, I’d hate to see a divorce. Who’re the happy couple?”

“That’s the groom, over here.” She nodded at the window, at the darkness and flames beyond. “This was meant to be my engagement.” That’s right, oversimplify the situation for him, she mocked herself. “Only it seems to have turned into the excuse for a coup. I reckon this bastard was one of Egon’s thugs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s all right,” she said numbly. “It was an arranged marriage. They like to deal with uppity women by marrying them off.” She stared at him fixedly. I can’t believe I’m standing in a burning palace talking to Mike Fleming! “So this is DEA business, right? I guess Matthias spilled his guts in return for protection?”

“DEA—Matthias—” He stared at her tensely. A thought struck Miriam: hoping he wouldn’t notice, she clasped her hands together in front of her, trying to unobtrusively unfasten one cuff.

“How well did you know Matt?” Mike asked.

“He tried to kill me, and murdered my—” She bit her tongue. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ll bet.”

The sleeve was coming loose. She looked him in the eye. “Well?”

“Are you happy here?” he asked cautiously. “Because you don’t look it . . .”

“Am I—” The laugh from hell was back, trying to get out again. “The fuck I am! If you can get me away from here—” Her voice broke. “Please, Mike! Can you?” She hated the tremor of desperation but she couldn’t stop it. “I’m going mad!”

“I—I—oh shit.”

Her heart fell. “What is it?”

“I.” His voice was small. “I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“We’re moving in over here,” he said, in a voice that sounded like he was trying to figure out how to give her some bad news. “We need world-walkers.”

“You’ve come to the right place. Except the folks outside want them all dead; I think this could be a civil war breaking out, you know?”

“We need world-walkers.” He looked troubled. “But what the organization is doing with them—I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask—”

“Yes, I’m a goddamn world-walker!” Miriam vented. “That’s my mother you want to blame—she ran away decades ago, then they came and fetched her back and found me. Why do you want to know?”

He seemed to relax, as if coming to a decision. “I’ve got to go now,” he said.

“Can you put me in the Witness Protection Program?” she asked.

“I’d love to—I’d like nothing better than to get you into a safe house and a debriefing program. But listen, I’d also say—and I’m not supposed to—you should wait a bit. They’re using world-walkers as mules, Miriam. I mean, the folks I work for now, big-hat federal spooks. I was supposed to try and convince you to work as an informer for us, if that’s possible, but I guess this shit means it’s not . . .”

“It wouldn’t have worked anyway,” she said heavily. “They don’t trust me.”

He paused. “I can’t say I’m surprised. But at least I can report that. Identify you as a sympathizer, I mean. That’ll make things easier later on.” A longer pause. “If you can get over to Boston, do you still have my home number?”

“Damn,” she said bleakly, staring at him. The old Mike would never have given a smuggler an even break. “It’s that bad, is it?”

He nodded minutely. “There’s a turf war inside the bureaucracy. Cops like me are on the down side at present. Things are really bad. Matt created quite a mess.”

“I can imagine.” Miriam certainly could. She’d brainstormed a lot of things a determined world-walker could do; like reach the places other terrorists couldn’t reach, and escape to do it over again. If the government thought they were dealing with more than just a ring of supernatural drug smugglers . . . “Listen, this wasn’t my idea.” She thought about the locket. “Do you need a lift out of here?”

“No.” He turned, his back to the window. “This was supposed to be a quick in and out, with maybe a friendly chat in the middle. I’ve got my own way out of this. Take my advice, Miriam: get the hell away from these people. They’re pure poison. Go to ground, then phone me in a week or so and I’ll see if there’s a way to get you into the program without the spooks shutting you down.”

“Easier said than done,” she said bitterly, her shoulders shaking. They’ve got me over a barrel, they’ve got Mom—and this seemed to be her night for meeting unexorcised ghosts. “They’ve got my mom.”

“Oh.” He paused. “That makes things difficult, doesn’t it?” He took a deep breath. “I’ve got to go now.” He glanced at the locket she was dangling openly. “On foot, through the shit going down outside. Look, you get the hell out of here. Use your magic whatever. Call me. I won’t be back for a week or so, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Right.” He began to back toward the window. “Oh, and stay down until you world-walk. I don’t want you getting shot by accident.”

“Okay.” She held her hands up.

Some impulse made her ask, “Do you still have the hots for me, Mike?”

“In your dreams.”

Then he was gone. Miriam began to notice the screams and moans from the building, the pops and crackling and quiet roar of fire. And found she could smell smoke on the nighttime breeze.

I am in a burning building, she thought madly. The king’s just been shot. The man I was supposed to marry is dead, there’s a bomb behind me, the crown prince is holding a coup and shooting world-walkers. She tittered in disbelief. And not only did James Lee make a pass, but I just ran into an ex-boyfriend who’s working for the DEA.

She raised a fist to her mouth, the locket clenched tightly inside it. If I run away, they’ll think Egon’s men got me, she thought slowly, trying to gather her scattered wits. That means Mom’s off the hook! And—

If she could remember Mike’s phone number, she could defect. There was something happening there, okay. It had already started, so it wouldn’t be her fault if she sought sanctuary, the feds were already able to reach the Clan at home. “I could do it,” she told herself. “All I have to do is world-walk away from here. Then pick up the telephone.”

She glanced at the locket. “Hang on. It was James’s. Is it a Lee locket, or a Clan locket?” There was a big difference: a Lee locket would take her to New Britain, where a Clan locket would dump her somewhere in downtown New York. Which would be a pain, but if she could make it overnight, get some cash, she could phone Mike in the morning. Whereas if she ended up in New London . . . “Only one way to find out.”

Miriam turned round and stared at the corpse. He wore a soldier’s greatcoat. She’d need that: her current outfit wasn’t exactly inconspicuous anywhere. Swallowing bile, she stooped and rolled the body over. It was surprisingly heavy, but the coat wasn’t fastened and she managed to keep it out of the puddle. She pulled it over her shoulders: the pockets were heavy. Mentally she flipped a die, tensing. New York or New London. Please let it be New York . . .

She stared at the knotwork by the light of a blazing palace. It was hard to concentrate on world-walking, to find the right state of mind. The sky lit up behind her for a moment, as a pulse of sound slammed through her, then cut off suddenly. She stumbled, a dull ache digging into her temples, and her stomach flipped. The rich sweetbreads came up in a rush, leaving her bent over the stone gutter. The stone gutter. She straightened up slowly, taking in the narrow street, the loaf-shaped paving bricks, the shuttered houses leaning over her. The piles of stinking refuse and fish guts, the broken cartwheel at one corner.

“Fuck, I don’t believe this,” she said, and kicked at the curbstone. “Ouch.” It was New London, and her dream of easy defection shattered on the rock of reality. Frustrated, she looked around. “I could go back,” she told herself faintly. “Or not . . .” She’d run into the Clan again, and she might not be able to get away. With Creon dead, and the US military able to invade the Gruinmarkt, Henryk might do anything: going back was far too dangerous to contemplate. It’d be much harder to steal a Clan locket and run for New York, wouldn’t it? Damn, I’ve got to find Erasmus . . .

There was a chink of metal on stone, from about twenty yards up the alleyway.

A chuckle.

“Well, lookee here! And what’s a fine girl like her doing in a place like this?”

Miriam’s stomach lurched again. Not only am I in New London instead of New York, she realized, I’m in the bad part of town.

There was another chuckle. “Let’s ask her, why don’t we?”

And the bad part of town had noticed her.