The Hidden Family

Snark Hunting

One week and two new employees later (not to mention a signed, formal offer for the house), Miriam practiced her breaking-and-entering skills on the vacant garden for what she hoped would be the last time. After spending two uncomfortable hours in the hunting hide, she felt well enough to risk an early crossing.

Paulette was in the back office doing something with the fax machine when Miriam came in through the door. “What on earth—” She looked her up and down. “Jesus, what’s that you’re wearing?”

“Everyday office outfit in Boston, on the other side.” Miriam dropped her shoulder bag, took her hat and topcoat off, then pulled a face. “Any word on my mother?” she asked.

“Nothing I’ve heard,” said Paulie. “I put out a wire search, like you said. Nothing’s turned up.” She looked at Miriam worriedly. “She may be alright,” she said.

“Maybe.” Black depression clamped down on Miriam. She’d been able to keep it at bay while she was on the far side, with a whole different set of worries, but now she was home she couldn’t hide it anymore. “I’m going to the bathroom. I may be some time. Taking this stuff off’s a major engineering undertaking.”

“Want me to make you some coffee?” Paulette called around the door.

“Yes! Thanks!”

“So you have to play dress-up all the time?” Paulie asked around the door.

“It’s only dress-up if you can stop after a couple of hours,” Miriam said as she came back out, wearing her bathrobe. She accepted a coffee mug from Paulette. “What you’re wearing now would get you arrested for indecent exposure over there.” Paulette was in jeans and a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a black T-shirt.

“I think I get the picture. Sounds like a real bundle of laughs.” Paulette eyed her thoughtfully. “Two thoughts strike me. One, you’ve got a hell of a dry cleaning bill coming up. Secondly, have you thought about putting artificial fibers on your to-do list?”

“Yeah.” Miriam nodded fervently. “Starting with rayon, that came first I think. Then the overlocking sewing machine, nylon, and sneakers.” She yawned, winced at her headache, then stirred the coffee. “So tell me, how have things been while I’ve been away?”

“Well.” Paulie perched on the desktop beside the fax. “I’ve got the next gold shipment waiting for you. Brill is doing fine, and those, uh, feelers—” She looked furtive. “Let’s just say she’s going to be from Canada. Right?”

“Right,” Miriam echoed. “What else has she been up to?”

“She’s been visiting your friend Olga in the hospital. Once she spotted someone trying to tail her on the T, but she lost him quick. Olga is out of intensive and recovering nicely, but she’s got a scar under her hairline and her arm’s in a sling. The guards—” Paulie shrugged. “What is it with those guys?”

“What’s what?”

“Last time she went, she said one of them said she ought to come home. Any idea what that’s about?”

“Uh, yes, probably he was a relative of hers. You say she’s visiting Olga now?”

“Why, sure.” Paulette frowned. “I’ve just got an odd feeling about her. Great kid, but she’s hiding something. I think.”

“If she wanted me out of the way she’s had more than enough opportunities to do it quietly.”

“There is that,” Paulette agreed. “I don’t think she’s out to get you. I think it’s something else.”

“Me too. I just want to know for sure what she’s hiding. The way she and Kara were planted on me by Angbard’s office, she’s probably just reporting back to him—but if she’s working for someone else…” The fax machine bleeped and began to emit a page of curling paper. “Hmm. Maybe I should check my voice mail.”

She didn’t, not at first. Instead she went back into the bathroom and spent almost an hour standing in the cramped shower cubicle, at first washing and thoroughly cleaning her hair with detergents of a quality unimaginable in New Britain, even for the rich—then just standing there, staring at her feet beneath a rain the temperature of blood, wondering if she’d ever feel clean again. Thinking about the expression on Roger’s face when he’d been ready to murder a secret policeman for her, and about Burgeson’s kindly face, high ideals, and low friends. Friends who believed fervently in political ideals Miriam took for granted, and who were low subversives destined for the gallows if Smith and his friends ever caught up with them. Gallows where whoever had kidnapped or murdered Iris belonged—and that in turn led Miriam to think about her mother and how little time she’d spent with her in the past year, and how many questions she’d never asked. And more questions for Roland, and his face as he’d turned away, hurt by her rejection; a rejection he didn’t understand because it wasn’t anything personal, it was a rejection of the world he would unintentionally lock her into, rather than the person he was.

Miriam had lots of things to think of—all of them bleak.

She finished with the shower in much the same black mood she’d been in that fateful evening when she’d first opened the locket and unhitched a mind-gate leading to a world where things turned out to be paradoxically worse. Why bother? She wondered. Why do I keep going? True love would be a great answer if she believed in it. But she was too much the realist: While she’d love to find Roland in her bed and fuck him senseless—the need for him sometimes brought her awake from frustrated dreams in the still small hours—there wasn’t a cozy little cottage for two at the end of that primrose path. Miriam had held her daughter in her arms, once, twelve years ago, kissed her on the head and given her up for adoption. Over the next few years she’d spent nights agonizing over the decision, trying to second-guess the future, to decide whether she’d done the right thing.

The idea of bringing another child, especially a daughter, into the claustrophobic scheming of the Clan filled her with horror. She was a big girl now, and the idea of expecting a man to protect her didn’t strike her as cool. That wasn’t what she’d gone through pre-med and college and divorce and most of med school and the postgraduate campus of hard knocks for. But facing all this on her own was so daunting that sometimes it made her lie awake wondering if there was any point.

She wandered through into the bedroom and sat on the futon beneath the platform bed in the corner. Her phone was still sitting on the floor next to it, plugged in to charge but switched off. She picked it up, switched it on, waited for it to log on, then hit her mailbox.

“You have messages. Message one…” A gravelly voice, calling from ten days ago. “Miriam?” She sat up straight: It was Angbard! “I have been thinking very deeply and I have concluded that you are right.”

Her jaw dropped. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

“What you said about my security is correct. Olga is at evident risk. For the time being she remains in the hospital, but when you return, I release her into your care until Beltaigne, when I expect you both to appear before the Clan council to render an account of your persecution.”

Miriam found herself shaking. “Is there anything else?”

“There’s no news about your mother. I will continue to search until I find something positive to report to you. I am sorry I can’t tell you anything more about her disappearance. Rest assured that no stone will go unturned in hunting for her assailants. You may call me at any time, but bear in mind that my switchboard might—if you are correct—be intercepted. Good-bye.”

Click. “Message two—” Miriam shook her head. “Hello! This is a recorded greeting from Kleinmort Baintree Investments! Worried about your pension? You too—” Miriam hit the delete button.

“Message three: Call me. Please?” It was Roland, plaintive. She hit ‘delete’ again, feeling sick to her stomach. “Message four: Miriam? You there? Steve, at The Herald. Call me. Got work for you.”

It was the last message. Miriam stared at her phone for a good few seconds before she moved her thumb to the delete key. It only traveled a millimeter, but it felt like miles. She hung up. “Did I just hear myself do that?” she asked the empty room; “did I just decide to ignore a commission from The Herald?”

She shook her head, then began to rummage through the clothes in her burnished suitcase, looking for something to wear. They felt odd, and once dressed she felt as if she’d forgotten something, but at least it was comfortable and nothing pinched. “Weird,” she muttered and went back out into the corridor just as the front door banged open, admitting a freezing gust of cold air.

“Miriam!” Someone in a winter coat leapt forward and embraced her.

“Brill!” There was someone behind—“Olga! What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Olga looked around curiously. “What kind of house do you call this?”

“I don’t. It’s going to be a doppelgängered post office, though. Brill, let go, you’re freezing!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “The duke, he sent a message to you with lady Olga—”

“Yo! Coffee?” Paulie took one look at them and ducked back into the kitchenette.

“Come in. Sit down. Then tell me everything,” Miriam ordered.

They came in, stripping off outdoor coats: Olga had acquired a formal-looking suit from somewhere, which contrasted oddly with her arm in a sling. She shivered slightly. “How strange,” she remarked, looking round.

“Charming: quaint! What’s that?”

“A fax machine. Everything feeling strange?” Miriam looked at her sympathetically. “I know that sensation—been having it a lot, lately.”

“No, it’s how familiar it feels! I’ve been seeing it on after-dinner entertainments for so long, but it’s not the same as being here.”

“Some of those tapes are quite old,” Miriam remarked. “Fashions change very fast over here.”

“Well.” Olga attempted a shrug, then winced. “Oh, coffee.” She accepted the offered mug without thanks. Paulie cast her a black look.

“Uh, Olga.” Miriam caught her eye.

“What?”

“This is Paulette. She’s my business manager and partner on this side.”

“Oh!” Olga stood up. “Please, I’m so sorry! I thought you were—”

“There aren’t any servants here,” Brill explained patiently.

“Oh, but I was so rude! I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” said Paulette. She glanced at Miriam. “Is this going to happen every time? It could get old fast.”

“I hope not.” Miriam pulled a face. “Okay, Olga. What did Uncle A have to say for himself?”

“He came to visit me shortly after you left. I’d had time to think on your explanations, and they made uncommon sense. So much sense, in truth, that I passed them on to him in a most forthright manner.”

Brill cracked up.

“Care to share the joke?” Miriam asked carefully.

“Oh, it was mirthful!” Brill managed to catch her breath for a moment before the giggles came back. “She told him, she told—”

Olga kept her face carefully neutral. “I pointed out that my schooling was incomplete, and that I had been due to spend some time here in any case.”

“She pointed out—”

“Uh.” Miriam stared at Olga. “Did she by any chance have something pointed to do the pointing out with?”

“There was no need, he took the message,” Olga explained calmly.

“He also said that desperate times required desperate measures, and your success was to be prayed for by want of avoiding—” she glanced at Paulette—“the resumption of factional disputes.”

“Civil war, you mean. Okay.” Miriam nodded. “How long have you been out of the hospital?”

“But Miriam, this was today,” said Brilliana.

“Oh,” she said, hollowly. “I think I’m losing the plot.” She rubbed her forehead. “Too many balls in the air, and some of them are on fire.” She looked around at her audience; Paulie was watching them in fascination.

“Olga, did you keep the locket you took from the gunman?”

“Yes.” Olga looked uncertain.

“Good.” Miriam smiled. “In that case, you may be able to help me earn more than the extra million dollars I borrowed from Angbard last month.” She pretended to ignore Paulette’s sharp intake of breath. “The locket doesn’t work in this world,” she explained, “but if you use it on the other side, it takes you to yet another place—more like this one than your home, but just as different in its own way.”

She took a mouthful of coffee. “I’m setting up a business in, uh, world three,” she told Olga. “It’s going to set the Clan on its collective ear when they find out. It’s also going to flush out our mystery assassins, who live in world three. Right out of wherever they’re hiding. The problem is, it takes a whole day for me to world-walk across in each direction. Running a business there is taking all my time.”

“You want me to be a courier?” asked Olga.

“Yes.” Miriam watched her. “In a week or two I’ll own a house in world three that is in exactly the same place as this office. And we’ve already got the beginnings of a camp in world one, in the woods north of Niejwein, on the same spot. Once I’ve got the house established, it’ll be possible to go from here to there without having to wander through a strange city or know much about local custom—”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m not fit to be allowed out over there?” Olga’s eyes blazed.

“Er, no! No!” Miriam was taken aback until she noticed Brill stifling laughter. “Er. That is, only if you want to. Have you seen enough of Cambridge yet? Don’t you want to look around here, first, before going to yet another world?”

“Do I want—” Olga looked as if she was going to explode: “yes!” she insisted. “I want it all! Where do I sign? Do you want it in blood?”

Early evening, a discreet restaurant on the waterfront, glass windows overlooking the open water, darkness and distant lights. It was six-thirty precisely. Miriam nervously adjusted her bra strap and shivered, then marched up to the front desk.

“Can I help you?” asked the concierge.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m Miriam Beckstein. Party of two. I believe the person I’m expecting will already be here. Name of Lofstrom.”

“Ah, just a moment—yes, please go in. He’s at a window table, if you’d just come this way—”

Miriam went inside the half-deserted restaurant, still filling up with an upmarket after-work crowd, and headed for the back. After weeks in New Britain she felt oddly exposed in a black minidress and tux jacket, but nobody here gave her a second glance. “Roland?”

He’d been studying the menu, but now he rocketed to his feet, confusion in his face. “Miriam—” He remembered to put the menu down. “Oh. You’re just—”

“Sit down,” she said, not unkindly. “I don’t want you to offer me a seat or hold doors open when it’s easier for me to do it myself.”

“Uh.” He sat, looking slightly flustered. She felt a sudden surge of desire. He was in evening dress, like the first time. Together they probably looked as if they were heading for a night at the opera. A couple.

“It’s been how long?” she asked.

“Four weeks and three days,” he said promptly. “Want the number of hours, too?”

“That would be—” She stopped and looked at the waiter who’d just materialized at her elbow. “Yes?”

“Would sir et madame care to view the wine list?” he asked stuffily.

“You go ahead,” she told Roland.

“Certainly. We’ll have the Chateau Lafitte ’93, please,” he said without pause. The waiter scurried away.

“Come here often?” she asked, amused despite her better judgment.

“A wise man said, when you’re planning a campaign, preparation is everything.” He grinned wryly.

“Are we safe here?” she asked. “Really?”

“Hmm.” His smile slipped. “Angbard sent a message. Your house appears to be clear, but it might be a bad idea to sleep over there. It’s not doppelgängered, and even if it was, he couldn’t vouch for its security. Apart from that—” He looked at her significantly. “I made sure nobody back at the office knows where I am tonight. And I wasn’t tailed here.”

The wine arrived, as did the waiter. They spent a minute bickering good-naturedly over the relative merits of a warming chowder against the chef’s way with garlic mushrooms. “What has Angbard got you doing?” she asked.

“Well.” He looked ruefully out of the window. “After our last meeting it was like you’d thrown a hornet’s nest through his window. Everybody got to walk around downtown Cambridge in the snow, looking for a missing old lady in a powered wheelchair, you know? I ended up spending a week spying on a private security firm we’d hired. Didn’t find much except a few padded expenses claims. Then Angbard quietly started shuffling people around—again, nothing turned up except a couple of guards on the take. So then he put me back on regular courier duty in the post room, with a guard assignment or two on the side, moved himself to a high-rise in New York—real estate above the thirtieth floor is going cheap these days—left Matthias running Fort Lofstrom and Angus in Karlshaven, and declared that the search for your foster-mother couldn’t go on any longer. Uh, he figured we weren’t going to find anything new after that much time. Well.” He shrugged. “I can’t tell you any specifics about my current assignments, but his lordship told me that if you got in touch, I was to—” He paused.

“I think I can guess,” she said dryly.

“No, I promise! Angbard doesn’t know about us,” he said firmly. “He thinks we’re just friends.”

The appetizers arrived. Miriam took a sip of her chowder. The news about the hunt for Iris depressed her, but came as no real surprise. “Angbard. Does not know. That we, uh, you know.” Somehow the thought made her feel free and sinful, harboring personal secrets—as well as strategic information about the third universe—that the all-powerful intelligence head didn’t. She paused for a moment and studied the top of his head, trying to memorize every hair.

“I never told him,” Roland said, putting down his soup spoon. “Did you think I would?”

“You can keep secrets when it suits you,” Miriam noted.

He looked up. “I am an obedient servant to your best interests,” he said quietly. “If Angbard finds out he’ll kill us. If you want me to apologize for not giving him grounds to kill us, I apologize.”

She met his eyes. “Apology noted.” Then she went back to her soup. It was deliciously fresh and lightly seasoned, and Miriam luxuriated in it. She stretched out her legs, and nearly spilled soup everywhere as she found his ankle rubbing against hers. Or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter. Nearly two months of lonely nights was coming to the boil. “What would you do for me?” she whispered to him over the remains of the appetizer.

“Anything.” He met her eyes. “Almost anything.”

“Well, I’d like that. Tonight. On one condition.” The waiter removed their bowls, discreetly avoiding the line of sight between them—obviously couples behaving this way were a well-understood phenomenon in his line of work.

“What?”

“Don’t, whatever you do, talk about tomorrow,” she said.

“Okay. I promise.” And it was that simple. He surrendered before the main course, a sirloin steak for him and a salmon cutlet for her, and Miriam felt something tight unwind inside her, a subliminal humming tension that had been building up for what felt like forever. She barely tasted the food or noticed as they finished the bottle of wine. He paid, but she paid no attention to that, either. “Where to?” he asked.

“Do you still have an apartment here?” she replied.

“Yes.” She heard the little catch in his throat.

“Is it safe? You’re sure nobody’s, uh—”

“I sleep there. No booby traps. Do you want to—”

“Yes.” She knew it was a bad idea, but she didn’t care about that—at least, not right now. What she cared about, as she pulled her jacket on and allowed him to take her arm, was the warmth at the base of her spine and the sure knowledge that she could count on tonight. All the tomorrows could take their chances.

He drove carefully, back to his apartment in a warehouse redevelopment not far from the restaurant. Miriam leaned back, watching him sidelong from the passenger seat of the Jaguar. “This is it,” he said, pulling into the underground garage. “Are you sure?” he asked, turning off the engine.

She leaned forward and bit his lower lip, gently.

“Ow—” Their mouths met. “Not here,” he panted.

“Okay. Upstairs.”

They worked their way into the elevator without getting too disheveled. It stopped on a neat landing with three doors. Roland freed up a hand to unlock one, and punched a code into a beeping alarm system. Then they were inside. He locked the door, put a chain across it, then bolted it—and she tackled him.

“Not here!”

“Where, then?”

“There!” He pointed through an open door into the living room, dimly lit by an old seventies lava lamp that shed moving patterns of orange and red light across a sofa facing the uncurtained window.

“That’ll do.” She dragged him over, and they collapsed onto the sofa. He was ready for her, and it was all Miriam could do to force herself to unwrap a condom before she launched herself at him. There was no time to pull off his clothes. She straddled him, felt his hands working under her dress, and then she was—

—an hour later, sitting on the toilet, giggling madly as she watched him shower. Both of them frog-naked and sweaty. “We’ve got to stop this happening to us!” she insisted.

“Come again?”

She threw the toilet roll at him.

“You’re violent,” he complained: “That isn’t in The Rules.”

“You read that?”

“Olga’s elder sister had a copy. I sneaked a peek.”

“Ugh!” Miriam finished with the toilet. “Move over, you’re not doing that right.”

“I’ve been showering myself for years—”

“Yes, that’s what’s wrong. Stand up.” She stepped into the bathtub with him and pulled the shower curtain across.

“Hey! This wasn’t in the rules either!”

“Where’s the soap?”

“It does, doesn’t—ow!”

Morning came late. Miriam stirred drowsily, feeling warm and secure and unaccountably bruised. There was something wrong with the pillow: It twitched. She tensed. An arm! I didn’t, did I…?

Memory returned with a rush. “Your apartment is too big,” she said.

“It is?”

“Too many rooms.”

“What do you mean?”

She squirmed backwards slightly until she felt his crotch behind her.

“We managed the living room, the bathroom, and the bedroom. But you’ve got a kitchen, haven’t you? And what about the back passage?”

“I, uh.” He yawned, loudly. She could feel him stiffening. “Need the toilet,” he mumbled.

“Oh shit.” She rolled over and watched him stand up, fondly. Aren’t they funny in the morning? she thought. If only… Then the numb misery was back. It was tomorrow, already. Damn, she thought. Can’t keep it together for even a night! What’s wrong with me?

“Would you like some coffee?” he called through the open doorway.

“Yeah, please.” She yawned. Waking up in bed with him should feel momentous, like the first day of the rest of her life. But it didn’t, it just filled her with angst—and a strong desire to spit in the faces of the anonymous sons of bitches who’d made it so. She wanted Roland. She wanted to wake up this way forever. She’d even think about the marriage thing, and children, if it was just about him. But it wasn’t, and there was no way she’d sacrifice a child on the altar of the Clan’s dynastic propositions. Romeo and Juliet were just stupid dizzy teenagers, she thought morosely. I know better. Don’t I?

She stood up and pulled her dress on. Then she padded into Roland’s small kitchen. He smiled at her. “Breakfast?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She smiled back at him, brain spinning furiously. Okay, so why don’t you give him a chance? she asked herself. If he is hiding something, let’s see if he’ll get it off his chest. Now. She knew full well why she didn’t want to ask, but not knowing scared her. Especially while Iris remained missing. On the other hand, a plausible bluff might make him tell her whatever it was, and if it was about Iris, that mattered. Didn’t it? So what can I use—oh. It was obvious. “Listen,” she said quietly. “I know you’re holding out on me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You haven’t told Angbard. So who knows about us?”

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting: denial, maybe, or laughter; but his face crumpling up like a car wreck wasn’t on the list. “Damn,” he said quietly. “Shit.”

Her mouth went dry. “Who?” she asked.

Roland looked away from her. “He showed me pictures,” he said quietly. “Pictures of us. Can you believe it?”

“Who? Who are you talking about?” Miriam took a step back, suddenly feeling naked. Ask and ye shall learn.

Roland sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Matthias.”

“Jesus, Roland, you could have told me!” Anger lent her words the force of bullets: He winced before them. “What—”

“Cameras. All the cameras in Fort Lofstrom. Not just the ordinary security ones—he’s got bugs in some of the rooms, hidden and wired into the surveillance net. You can’t sweep for them, they don’t show up, and they’re not supposed to be there. He’s a spider, Miriam. We were in his web.” Roland’s face was turned toward her, white and tortured. “If he tells the old man—”

“Damn.” Miriam shook her head in disgust. “When?”

“After you disappeared, I swear it. Miriam, he’s blackmailing me. Not you, you might survive. Angbard’d kill me. He’d be honor-bound to, if it came out.”

Miriam glared at him. “What. What did he ask. You to do?”

“Nothing!” Roland cried out. He was right on the edge. I’m scaring him, she realized, an echo of grim satisfaction cutting through the numbness around her. Good. “At least, nothing yet. He says he wants you out of the picture. Not dead, just out of the Clan politics. Invisible. What you’re doing now—he thinks I’m behind it.”

“Give me that coffee,” Miriam demanded.

“When you called about the body in the warehouse, I told Matthias because he’s in charge of internal security,” Roland explained as he poured a mug from the filter machine. “Then when you told me there was a bomb, I couldn’t figure it out. Because if he wants to blackmail me he needs you to be alive, don’t you see? So I can’t see why he’d plant it, but at the same time—”

“Roland.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up. I’m trying to think.”

Shit. Matthias. Cameras everywhere. She remembered the servant’s staircase. Roland’s bedroom. So Matthias wants us out of the way? It was tempting. “Two million dollars.”

“Huh?”

“We could go a long way on two million bucks,” she heard herself say.

“But not far enough to outrun the Clan.”

“You want to—”

“Shut up.” She glared at Roland. He’d been holding out on her. For what sounded like good reasons, she admitted—but the thought made her blood run cold. Roland was no knight in shining armor. The Clan had broken him. Now all it took was Matthias pushing his buttons to make him do whatever they wanted. She wanted to hate him for it, but found that she couldn’t. The idea of going up against an organization with billions of dollars and hundreds of hands was daunting. Roland had done it once already, and paid the price. Okay, so he’s not brave, she thought. Where does that leave me? Am I brave, or crazy? “Are you holding out anything else on me?” she asked.

Roland took a deep breath. “No,” he said. “Honest. The only person who’s got anything on me is Matthias.” He chuckled bitterly, ending in a cough. “Nobody else. No other girlfriends. No boyfriends, either. Just you.”

“If Matthias has primed you for blackmail, he must want something you can do for him,” she pointed out. “He knows he could get rid of both of us by just giving us a shitload of money and covering our trail. And if he was behind these attempts to kill me, I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? So what does he want to do that involves me and needs you—and that he figures he needs a blackmail lever for?”

“I—don’t know.” Roland pulled himself together, visibly struggling to focus on the problem. “I feel so stupid. I haven’t been thinking rationally about this.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better start, then.” Miriam took a mouthful of coffee and looked at him. “What does Matthias want?”

“Advancement. Recognition. Power.” Roland answered immediately.

“Which he can’t get, because…?”

“He’s outer family.”

“Right.” Miriam stared at him. “Do you see a pattern here?” she asked.

“He can’t get it, from the Clan. Not as long as it’s run the way it is right now.”

“So.” Miriam stood up. “We’ve been stupid, Roland. Shortsighted.”

“Huh?” He looked at her uncomprehendingly, lost in his private self-hatred.

“I’m not the target. You’re not the target. Angbard is the target.”

“Oh shit.” He straightened up. “You mean Matthias wants to take over the whole Clan security service. Don’t you?”

Miriam nodded, grimly. “With whoever his mystery accomplices are. The faction who murdered my mother and kept the family feuds going with judicious assassinations over a thirty-year period. The faction from world three. Leave aside Oliver and that poisonous dowager granny and the others who’d like me dead, Matthias is in league with those assassins. And before he makes his move—”

“He’ll tell Angbard about us, whatever we do. To get us out of the frame before he rolls the duke up. Miriam, I’ve been a fool. But we can’t go to Angbard with it—we’d be openly admitting past disloyalty, hiding things from him. What are we going to do?”