The Hidden Family 
Charles Stross 
PRAISE FOR THE MERCHANT PRINCES SERIES 
The Family Trade 
"Charles Stress's The Family Trade is an inventive, irreverent, and delightful
romp into an alternate world where business is simultaneously low and high tech,
and where romance, murder, marriage, and business are hopelessly intertwined—and
deadly." —L. E. Modesitt, Jr. 

"Quirky, original, and entertaining. The Family Trade could 

be The Godfather of all fantasy novels." 

—Kevin J. Anderson, New York Times bestselling author of A Forest of Stars 

"The Family Trade is one of those rare delights—a book that is fun,
intelligently written, and which leaves a reader breathlessly wondering what
will happen next. Readers Beware: Stross weaves a tale that continually builds
to an engrossing climax. Once you get into this, you'll find yourself hooked."
—David Farland 

"The Family Trade shows that Charles Stross is no longer a beginner to watch,
but a star to watch." —Mike Resnick 

"Stross not only creates an alternate world that is fascinating and original, he
even does the unheard of, for a fantasist: His depiction of our world is deep
and real. His characters behave in ways that make sense. They know all the
things they should know, and don't know the things they shouldn't. The result is
that we readers can trust this author completely, dive into this story and let
it carry us wherever the current flows. "Not to mention the fact that it's
simply a great adventure, full of danger, of plots within plots, of forbidden
love, and political murder." —Orson Scott Card 

"The Hidden Family is a festival of ideas in action, fast moving and often very
funny, but underpinned by a rigorous logical strategy.... Stress's breezy,
almost Heinleinian mode of narration is on fine display."
—Locus 

"Miriam Beckstein, aka Countess Helge Thorold-Hjorth of the Clan, finds her own
world to conquer in this fast-moving sequel to The Family Trade.... Stress
continues to mix high and low tech in amusing and surprising ways.... [He]
weaves a tale worthy of Robert Ludlum or Dan Brown." 

—Publishers Weekly 

"English writer Charles Stress, whose books burst with pop-science ideas,intrigue, strong characters and even romance, continues his Merchant Princesseries.... Stress is an energetic writer.. . who creates page-turning reads....Readers will be relieved to learn that there is a lot to look forward to in The Hidden Family, including a finale that is all Gothic Romance: regrets, a balland a happy reunion." —Bookpage 
"These days, finding a science fiction or fantasy novel that doesn't feature akick-ass babe who is either cybernetically enhanced, a martial arts master or atrained ninja killer (or all three) can be hard work. The genres don't lack forBuffyesque role models ... But there's something different about Miriam, theheroine of Charles Stress' fantasy series 'The Merchant Princes'.... It is atribute to the budding powers of Stress, who works successfully in both thescience fiction and fantasy genres, that he pulls off this feat in a fashionboth amusing and gripping ... Miriam is a terrific character, turning the tableson all who would attempt to manipulate her, and setting in motion events thatpromise to transform the evolution of no less than three separate worlds. Forthose of us who actually are journalists working on deadline, Stress gives us anescape fantasy that is most seductive, indeed."—Salon.com 
"Stross effectively keeps all the the plates spinning that he launched intomotion in the first volume of this series.... Stross is having great fun withthese books, and it's contagious."—Scifi.com 
"The sequel to The Family Trade continues the adventures of Miriam, the high-tech journalist flung into a fantasy world that really does recall the earlyvolumes of Roger Ze-lazny's Amber series.... Laugh your way to an ending thatclearly promises further enjoyable volumes." —Booklist 
The Hidden Family 
BOOK TWO OF THE MERCHANT PRINCES 
charles stross 
TOR® 
fantasy 
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK 
For my parents 
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that thisbook is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to thepublisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment forthis "stripped book." 
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this bookare either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. 
THE HIDDEN FAMILY 
Copyright © 2005 by Charles Stress Teaser copyright © 2006 by Charles Stress 
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portionsthereof, in any form. 
Edited by David G. Hartwell 
A Tor Book 
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue 
New York, NY 10010 
www.tor.com 
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. 
ISBN 0-765-35205-2 EAN 978-0-765-35205-7 
First edition: June 2005 • First mass market edition: May 2006 
Printed in the United States of America 
098765432 
PART 1 
Business Plans 
Learned Counsel 
The committee meeting was entering its third hour when the king sneezed,bringing matters to a head. His Excellency Sir Roderick was speaking at the timeof the royal spasm. Standing at the far end of the table, before the red velvetcurtains that sealed off the windows and the chill of the winter afternoon beyond, Sir Roderick leaned forward slightly, clutching his papers to his bonychest and wobbling back and forth as he recited. His colorless manners matchedhis startling lack of skin and hair pigmentation: He kept his eyes downcast ashe regurgitated a seemingly endless stream of reports from the various heads ofpolice, correspondents of intelligence, and freelance informers who kept hisoffice abreast of news. 
"I beg your pardon." A valet flourished a clean linen handkerchief before theroyal nose. John Frederick blinked, his expression pained. "Ah-choo!" Althoughnot yet in middle age, the king's florid complexion and burgeoning waistline 
were already giving rise to worries among his physiopaths and apothecaries. 
Sir Roderick paused, awaiting the royal nod. The air in the room was heavy withthe smell of beeswax furniture polish, and a faint oily overlay from the quietlyfizzing gas lamps. "Sire?" 
"A moment." John Frederick, by grace of God king-emperor of New Britain andruler of the territories and dependencies thereof, took a fresh handkerchief andwaved off his equerry while anxious faces watched him from all sides. Hebreathed deeply, clearly battling to control the itching in his sinuses. "Ah.Where were we? Sir Roderick, you have held the floor long enough—take a seat, wewill return to you shortly. Lord Douglass, this matter of indiscipline among themasses troubles me. If the effects of the poor grain harvest last year are notmitigated in the summer, as your honorable colleague forecasts"—a nod at LordScotia, minister for rural affairs—"then there will be fertile soil for theranters and ravers to till next autumn. Is there any risk of a domestic upset?" 
Lord Douglass ran a wrinkled hand across his thinning hair as he considered hisreply. "As your majesty is doubtless aware—" He paused. "I had hoped to discuss this matter after hearing from Sir Roderick. If I may beg your indulgence?" Atthe royal nod, he leaned sideways. "Sir Roderick, may I ask you to rapidlysummarize the domestic situation?" 
"By your leave. Your majesty?" Sir Roderick cleared his throat, then addressedthe room. "Your majesty, my right honorable friends, the domestic condition iscurrently under control, but there are an increasing number of reports ofnonconformist ranters in the provinces. In the past month alone the royal policehave apprehended no less than two cells of Levelers, and uncovered three illicitprinters—one in Massachusetts, one in your majesty's western New Provinces, andone in New London itself." A whisper ran around the table: It was an open secretthat the ceUar press in the capital could print whatever they liked with onlyloose 
control, except for the most blatantly slanderous rumors and Leveler sedition.For there to be raids, the situation must be far worse than normal. "Thisignores the usual rumbling in the colonies and dominions. Finally, policeoperations uncovered a plot to blow up the Western Summer Palace at Monterey—Iwould prefer not to discuss this in open cabinet until we have resolved thesituation. Someone or something is stirring up Leveler activists, and there havebeen rumors of French livres greasing the wheels of treason. Certainly it takesmoney to run subversive presses or buy explosives, and it must be coming fromsomewhere." 
Sir Roderick sat down, and Lord Douglass rose. "Your majesty, I would say thatif adventures are contemplated overseas, and if this should coincide with a risein the price of bread, the introduction of new taxes and duties, and an outburstof Leveler ranting, I should not like to face the consequences without thecontinental reserves at Fort Victoria ready to entrain for either coast, not tomention securing the loyalty of the local regiments in each parliamentarydistrict." 
"Well, then." The king frowned, his forehead wrinkling as if to withstandanother fit of sneezing: "We shall have to see to such measures, shall we not?"He leaned forward in his chair. "But I want to hear more on this matter of where the homegrown thorns in our crown are obtaining their finances. It seems to methat if we can snip this odious weed in the bud, as it were, and demonstrate tothe satisfaction of our peers the meddling of the dauphin at work in our garden,then it will certainly serve our purposes. Lord Douglass?" 
"By all means, your majesty." The prime minister glanced at his minister forspecial affairs. "Sir Roderick, if you please, can you see to it?" 
"Of course, my lord." The minister inclined his head toward his monarch. "Assoon as we have something more than rumor and suspicion I will place it beforeyour majesty." 
"Now if we may return to the agenda?" The prime minister suggested. 
"Certainly." The king nodded his assent, and Lord Douglass cleared his throat,to continue with the next point on an afternoon-long agenda. The meetingcontinued and m every way beside the sneezing fit it seemed a perfectly normalsession of the Imperial Intelligence Oversight Committee, held before hisimperial Majesty John the Fourth, king of New Britain and dominions, in theBrunswick Palace on Long Island in the early years of the twenty-first century.Time would show otherwise ... 
On the other side of a flipped coin's fall, in an office two hundred miles awayin space and perhaps two thousand years away from the court of King John interms of historical divergence, another meeting was taking place. 
"A shoot-out." The duke's tone of voice, normally icily deliberate, roseslightly as he abandoned his chair and began to pace the confines of his office.With close-cropped graying hair, and wearing an immaculately tailored dark suit,he might have been mistaken for an investment banker or a high-class undertaker—but appearances were very deceptive. The duke, as head of the Clan's securityapparat, was anything but harmless. He paused beneath a pair of steelbroadswords mounted on the wall above a battered circular shield. "In the summer palace?" His tone hardened. "I find it hard to believe that this was allowed tohappen." He looked up at the swords. "Who was supposed to be in charge of herguard?" 
The duke's secretary—his keeper of secrets—cleared his throat. "Oliver, BaronHjorth is of course responsible for the well-being of all beneath his roof. Inaccordance with your orders I requested that he see to Lady Helge's security." Amoment's pause to let the implication sink in. "Whether he complied with yourorders bears investigation." 
The duke stopped pacing, standing in front of the broad picture windows thatlooked out across the valley below the castle. Heavily forested and seeminglyempty of human habitation, the river valley ran all the way to the coast,marking the northern border of the sprawling kingdom of Grainmarkt from theNordmarkt neighbors to the north. "And the lady Olga?" 
"She protests in the strongest terms, my lord." The secretary shrugged slightly,his face expressionless. "I sent Roland to attend to her personally, to ensureshe is adequately protected. For what it's worth, there were no identifyingmarks on the bodies. No tattoos, no indications of who they were. Not Clan. Butthey had weapons and equipment from the other side and I am—startled—that LadyOlga, even with help from our runaway, survived the incident." 
"Our runaway is my niece, Matthias," the duke reminded his secretary. "A ratherextraordinary woman." His expression hardened. "I want tissue samples,photographs, anything you can come up with. For the hit squad. Get themprocessed on the other side, run them across the FBI most-wanted database, pullwhatever strings you can find, but I want to know who they were and who theythought they were working for. And how they got there. The palace was supposedto be securely doppelgangered. Why wasn't it?" 
"Ah. I have already looked into that." Matthias waited. 
"Well then?" The duke clenched his hands. 
"About three years ago, Baroness Hildegarde ordered our agents on the otherside—via the usual shell company—to let out-one side of the doppelgangerfacility to a secondary Clan-owned shipping company she was setting up. It wasall aboveboard and conducted in public at Beltaigne, approved in full committee,but the shipping company moved away a year later to more suitable purpose-builtfacilities, and they in turn sub-let the premises. It was walled off from theoriginal bonded store and converted into short-lease storage, leaving it wideopen. Purely coincidentally, it covered the New Tower, and parts of the westwing of the palace were left undoppelgangered. Helge wouldn't have known enoughto recognize this as unusual, but it left most of her suite wide open to attackby world-walkers from the other side." 
"And where was Oliver, Baron Hjorth while this was going on?" the duke asked,deceptively mildly. A failure to doppelganger the palace correctly—to ensurethat it was 
physically collated with secure territory in the other universe to which theworld-walking and occasionally squabbling members of the Clan had access—was not a trivial oversight, not after the blood feud or civil war that had killed threeout of every four members of the six families only a handful of decades ago. 
"He was worrying about roofing costs, I imagine." Matthias shrugged again,almost imperceptibly. "If he even knew about it. After all, what does securitymatter if the building caves in?" 
"If." The duke frowned. "That slime-weasel Oliver is in Baroness Hildegarde'spocket, you mark my words. An unfortunate coincidence that they can both denyresponsibility for, and Helge, Miriam as she calls herself, is left facingassassins? It's almost insultingly convenient She's getting slack—we shall haveto teach her a lesson in manners." 
"What are your orders regarding your niece, my lord? Since she appears to haverun away, like her mother before her, she could be found in breach of thecompact—" 
"No, no need for that just yet." The duke walked slowly back to his desk, hisexpression showing little sign of the stiffness is his joints. "Let her movefreely for now." He lowered himself into his chair and stared at Matthias. "Iexpect to hear about her movements by and by. Has she made any attempt to get intouch?" 
"With us? I've heard no messages, my lord." Matthias raised one hand, scratchedan itch alongside his nose. "What do you think she'll do?" 
"What do / think?" The duke opened his mouth, as if about to laugh. "She's not atrained security professional, boy. She might do anything! But she is a trainedinvestigative journalist, and if she's true to her instincts, she'll startdigging." He began to smile. "I really want to see what she uncovers." 
Meanwhile, in a city called Boston in a country called the United States: -
"You know something?" asked Paulette. "When I told you to buy guns and drivefast I wasn't, like, expecting you to actually do that." She put her coffee cupdown, half-drained. There were dark hollows under her eyes, but apart from thatshe was as tidy as ever, not a hair out of place. Which, Miriam reflected, lefther looking a bit like a legal secretary: short, dark, Italianate subtype. 
Miriam shook her head. / wish I could keep it together the way she does, shethought. "You said, and I quote from memory, 'As your attorney I am advising youto buy guns and drive fast.' Right?" She smiled tiredly at Paulette. Her owncoffee cup was untouched. When she'd arrived at the other woman's house withBrilliana d'Ost in tow, the release of tension had her throwing up in thebathroom toilet. Paulette's wisecrack was in poor taste—Miriam had actuallykilled a man less than twenty-four hours ago in self-defense, and now thingswere starting to look really messy. 
"What's an attorney?" asked Brill, sitting up on the sofa, prim and attentive:nineteen or twenty, blond, and otherworldly in the terrifyingly literal way thatonly a Clan member could be. 
"Not me, I'm a paralegal. Just in case you'd forgotten, Miriam. I'd have tostudy for another two years before I can sit for the bar exams." 
"You signed up for the course like I asked? That's good." 
"Yeah, well." Paulette put her empty mug down. "Do you want to go through it allagain? Just so I know where I stand?" 
"Not really, but..." Miriam glanced at Brill. "Look, here's the high points.This young lady is Brilliana d'Ost. She's kind of an illegal immigrant, nopapers, no birth certificate, no background. She needs somewhere to stay whilewe sort things out back where she comes from. She isn't self-sufficient here—shemet her very first elevator yesterday evening, and her first train thismorning." 
Paulette raised an eyebrow. "R-i-i-ght," she drawled. "I think I can see howthis might pose some difficulties." 
"I can read and write," Brill volunteered. "And I speak 
English. I've seen Dynasty and Rob Roy, too." Brightly: "And The Godfather, thatwas the duke's favorite! I've seen that one three times." 
"Hmm." Paulette looked her up and down then glanced at Miriam. "This is a kindof what you see is what you get proposition, is it?" 
"Yes," Miriam said. "Oh, and her family wants her back. They might get violentif they find her, so she needs to be anonymous. All she's got are the clothes onher back. And then there's this." She passed Paulette a piece of paper. Pauletteglanced at it, then raised her other eyebrow and did a double take. 
"This is valid?" She held up the check. 
"No strings." Miriam nodded. "At least, as long as Duke Angbard doesn't cut offthe line of credit he gave me. You've got the company paperwork together, readyto sign? Good. What we do is, we open a company bank account. I pay this into itand issue myself with shares to the tune of fifty grand. We write you up as anemployee, you sign the contract, I issue you your first paycheck—eight thousand,covers your first month only—and a signing bonus of another ten thousand. Youthen write a check back to the company for that ten thousand, and I issue youthe shares and make you company secretary. Got that?" 
"You want me as a director?" Paulette watched her closely. "Are you sure aboutthat?" 
"I trust you," Miriam said simply. "And I need someone on this side of the wallwho's got signing authority and can run things while I'm away. I wasn't kiddingwhen I told you to set this up, Paulie. It's going to be big." 
Paulette stared at the banker's draft for fifty thousand dollars dubiously."Blood money." 
"Blood is thicker than water," BrilK commented. "Why don't you want to take it?" 
Paulette sighed. "Do I tell her?" she asked Miriam. 
"Not yet." Miriam looked thoughtful. "But I promised myself a few days back thatanything / start up will be clean. That good enough for you?" 
"Yeah." Paulette turned toward the kitchen doorway, then paused. "Brilliana? Isit okay if I call you Brill?" 
"Surely!" The younger woman beamed at her. 
"Oh. Well, uh, this is the kitchen. I was going to make some fresh coffee, but Ifigure if you're staying here for a while I ought to start by showing you wherethings are and how not to—" She glanced at Miriam. "Do they have electricity?"she asked. Miriam shook her head minutely. "Oh sweet Jesus! Okay, Brill, the first thing you need to learn about the kitchen is how not to kill yourself.See, everything works by electricity. That's kind of—" 
Miriam picked up a bundle of official papers and a pen, and wandered out intothe front hall. It's going to be okay, she told herself. Paulie 's going tomother-hen her. Two days and she '11 know how to cross the road safely, use aflush toilet, and work the washing machine. Two weeks, and if Paulie didn't killher, she'd be coming home late from nightclubs with a hangover. If she didn'tjust decide that the twenty-first century was too much for her, and hide underthe spare bed. Which, as she'd grown up in a world that hadn't got much past thelate medieval, was a distinct possibility. Wouldn't be a surprise; it's too muchfor me at times, Miriam thought, contemplating the stack of forms for declaringthe tax status of a limited liability company in Massachusetts with a sinkingheart. 
That evening, after Paulette and Miriam visited the bank to open a businessaccount and deposit the checks, they holed up around Paulie's kitchen table. Acouple of bottles of red wine and a chicken casserole went a long way towardputting Brill at her ease. She even managed to get over the jittery fear ofelectricity that Paulie had talked into her in the afternoon to the extent offlipping light switches and fiddling with the heat on the electric stove. "It'smarvelous!" she told Miriam. "No need for coal, it stays just as hot as you wantit, and it doesn't get dirty! What do all the servants do for a living? Do theyjust laze around all day?" "Um," said Paulette. One glance told Miriam that shewas 
suffering a worse dose of culture shock than the young transportee—her shoulderswere shaking like jelly. "Like, that's the drawback, Brill. Where would you havethe servants sleep, in a house like this?" 
"Why, if there were several in the bedchamber you so kindly loaned—oh. I'm todrudge for my keep?" 
"No," Miriam interrupted before Paulette could wind her upany further. "Brill,ordinary people don't have servants in their homes here." 
"Ordinary? But surely this isn't—" Brill's eyes widened. 
Paulette nodded at her. "That's me, common as muck!" she said brightly. "Listen,the way it works in this household is, if you make a mess, you tidy it upyourself. You saw the dishwasher?" Brill nodded, enthused. "There are othergadgets. A house this big doesn't need servants. Tomorrow we'll go get you somemore clothes—" She glanced at Miriam for approval."—then do next month's foodshopping, and I'll show you where everything's kept. Uh, Miriam, this is gonnaslow everything up—" 
"Doesn't matter." Miriam put her knife and fork down. She was, she decided, notonly over-full but increasingly exhausted. "Take it easy. Brill needs to knowhow to function over here because if it all comes together the way I hope, she'sgoing to be over here regularly on business. She'll be working with you, Ihope." She picked up her wineglass. "Tomorrow I'm going to go call on arelative. Then I think I've got a serious road trip ahead of me." 
"You're going away?" asked Brill, carefully putting her glass down. 
"Probably." Miriam nodded. "But not immediately. Look, what I said earlierholds—you can go home whenever you want to, if it's an emergency. All you haveto do is catch a cab around to the nearest Clan safe house and hammer on the door. They'll have to take you back. If you tell them I abducted you, they'llprobably believe it—I seem to be the subject of some wild rumors." She smiled tiredly. "I'll give you the address in the morning, alright?" The smile faded."One thing. Don't you dare bug out on Paulie without telling 
her first. They don't know about her and they might do something about her ifthey learn ... mightn't they?" 
Brill swallowed, then nodded. "I understand," she said. 
"I'm sure you do." Miriam realized Paulette was watcning her through narrowedeyes. "Brill has seen me nearly get my sorry ass shot to pieces. She knows thescore." 
"Yeah, well. I was meaning to talk to you about that, too." Paulette didn't lookpleased. "What the hell is happening over there?" 
"It's a mess." Miriam shook her head. "First, Olga tried to kill me. Luckily shegave me a chance to talk my way out of it first—someone tried to set me up whileI was visiting you, last time. Then the shit really hit the fan. Last night Ifigured out that my accommodation was insecure, the hard way, then partiesunknown tried to rub out Olga and me, both. Multiple parties. There are at leasttwo factions involved, and I don't have a clue who this new bunch are, which iswhy I'm here and brought Brill—she's seen too much." 
"A second gang? Jesus, Miriam, you're sucking them up like a Hoover! What'sgoing on?" 
"I wish I knew, believe me." She drained her wineglass. "Hmm. This glass isdefective. Better fix it." Before she could reach for the bottle, Paulettepicked it up and began to pour, her hand shaking slightly. "Had a devil of atime getting here, I can tell you. Nearly put my back out carrying Brill, thenfound some evil son of a bitch had booby-trapped the warehouse. Earlier I phonedRoland to come tidy up—someone murdered the site watchman—but instead someoneput a bomb in it." 
"I told you that smoothie would turn out to be a weasel," Paulette insisted."It's him, isn't it?" 
"No, I don't think so." Miriam shook her head. "Things are messy, very messy. Weran into one of Angbard's couriers on the train over, so I gave him a messagethat should shake things loose if it's anyone on his staff. And now... well."She pulled out the two lockets from her left pocket. "Spot the difference." 
Paulette's breath hissed out as she leaned forward to study them. "Shit. Thatone on the left, the tarnished one—that's yours, isn't it? But the other—" 
"Have a cigar. I took it off the first hired gun last night. He won't be needingit anymore." 
"Mind if I? . ¦." Paulette picked the two lockets up and sprang the catch. Shefrowned as she stared at the contents, then snapped them closed. "The designsare different." 
"I guessed they would be." Miriam closed her eyes. 
Brill stared at the two small silver disks as if they were diamonds or jewels ofincalculable value. Finally she asked, timidly, "How can they be different? Allthe Clan ones are the same, aren't they?" 
"Who says it's a Clan one?" Miriam scooped them back into her pocket. "Look,firstly I am going to get a good night's sleep. I suggest you guys do the same 
thing. In the morning, I'm going to hire a car. I'd like to be able to go home,
just long enough to retrieve a disk, but—" 

"No, don't do that," said Paulette. 
Miriam looked at her. "I'm not stupid. I know they're probably watching the
house in case I show up. It's just frustrating." She shrugged. 

"It's not that bad," Paulette volunteered pragmatically. "Either they got the
disk the first time they black-bagged you—or they didn't, in which case you know
precisely where it is. Why not leave it there?" 

"I guess so," Miriam said tiredly. "Yeah, you're right. It's safe where it is."
She glanced at Brill, who mimed incomprehension Until she was forced to smile.
"Still. Tomorrow I'm going to spend some time in a museum. Then—" She glanced at
Paulette. 

"Oh no, you're not going to do that again," Paulie began. 
"Oh yes, I am." Miriam grinned humorlessly. "It's the only way to crack the
story wide open." Her eyes went wide. "Shit! I'd completely forgotten! I've got

a feature to file with Steve, for The Heraldl The deadline's got to be real
soon! If I miss it there's no way I'll get thecolumn—" 
"Miriam." 
"Yes, Paulie?" 
"Why are you still bothering about that?" 
"I—" Miriam froze for a moment. "I guess I'm still think-
ing of going back to my old life," she said slowly. "It's something to hang

onto." 

"Right." Paulette nodded. "Now tell me. How much money is there on that platinum
card?" 
Pause. "About one point nine million dollars left." 
"Miriam?" 
"Yes, Paulie?" 
"As your legal advisor I am telling you to shut the fuck up and get a good

night's sleep. You can sort out whether you're going to write the article
tomorrow—but I'd advise you to drop it. Say you've got stomach flu or something.
Then you can take an extra day over your preparations for the journey. Got it?" 

"Yes, Paulie." 
"And another thing?" 
"What's that?" 
"Drink your wine and shut your mouth, dear, you look like a fish." 
The next day, Miriam pulled out her notebook computer— which was now acquiring a

few scratches—and settled down to pound the keyboard while Paulette took Brill
shopping. It wasn't hard work, and she already knew what she was going to write,
and besides, it saved her having to think too hard about her future. The main 

headache was not having access to her Mac, or a broadband connection. Paulie,despite her brief foray into dot-com management, had never seen the point ofspending money to receive spam at home. Finally she pulled out her mobile anddialed The Herald's front desk. "Steve Blau, please," she said, and waited. 
"Steve. Who's this?" 
"Steve? It's Miriam." She took a deep breath. "About that feature." 
"Deadline's this Thursday," he rumbled. "You needing an extension?" 
She breathed out abruptly, nearly coughing into the phone. "No, no, I'm ready toe-mail you a provisional draft, 
see if it fits what you were expecting. Uh, I've had a bit of an exciting lifelately, got a new phone number for you." 
"Really?" She could almost hear his eyebrows rising. 
"Yeah. Domestic incident, big-time." She extemporized hastily. "I'm having tolook after my mother. She's had an incident. Broken hip. You want my newdetails?" 
"Sure. Hang on a moment. Okay, fire away." 
Miriam gave him her new e-mail and phone numbers. "Listen, I'll mail in the copyin about an hour's time. Is there anything else you're looking for?" 
"Not right now." He sounded amused. "They sprang a major reorg on us right afterour last talk, followed by a guerilla page-plan redesign; looks like that slotfor a new columnist I mentioned earlier is probably going to happen. Weekly, op­ed piece on medical/biotech investment and the VC scene, your sort of thing. CanI pencil you in for it?" 
Miriam thought furiously. "I'm busier than I was right after I left TheWeatherman, but I figure I can fit it in. Only thing is, I'll need a month'snotice to start delivering, and I'd like to keep a couple of generic op-edpieces in the can in case I'm called away. I'm going to be doing a lot of head-down stuff in the next year or so. It won't stop me keeping up with the readingbut it may get in the way of my hitting deadlines once in a blue moon. Could youlive with that?" 
"I'll have to think about it," he said. "I'm willing to make allowances. Butyou're a pro. You'd give me some warning wherever possible, right?" 
"Of course, Steve." 
"Okay. File that copy. Bye." 
She put the phone down for a moment, eyes misting over. I've still got a reallife, she told herself. This shit hasn 't taken everything over. She thought ofBrill, trapped by family expectations and upbringing. If I could unhook theirclaws, I could go back to being the real me. Really. Then she thought about therest of them. About the room at the Marriott, and what had happened in it. AboutRoland, and her. Maybe. 
She picked the phone up again. It was easier than thinking. 
Iris answered almost immediately. "Miriam, dear? Where have you been?" 
"Ma?" The full weight of her worries crashed down on her. "You wouldn't believeme if I told you! Listen, I'm onto a story. It's—" She struggled for a suitablemetaphor. "It's as big as Watergate. Bigger, maybe. But there's people involvedwho're watching me. I'd like to spend some time with you, but I don't know if itwould be safe." 
"That's interesting." She could hear her adoptive mother's mind crunching gearseven on the end of a phone. "So you can't come and visit me?" 
"Remember what you told me about COINTELPRO, Ma?" 
"Ah, those were the days! When I was a young firebrand, ah me." . "Ma!" 
"Stuffing envelopes with Jan Six, before Commune Two imploded, picketings andsit-ins—did I tell you about the time the FBI bugged our phones? How we gotaround it?" 
"Mom." Miriam sighed. "Really! That student radical stuff is so old, you know?" 
"Don't you old me, young lady!" Iris put a condescending, amused tone in hervoice. "Is your trouble federal, by any chance?" 
"I wish it was." Miriam sighed again. 
"Well then. I'll meet you at the playground after bridge, an hour before closingtime." Click. 
She'd hung up, Miriam realized, staring at her phone. "Oh sweet Jesus," shemurmured. Never, ever, challenge a onetime SDS activist to throw a tail. Shegiggled quietly to herself, overcome by a bizarre combination of mirth andguilt—mirth at the idea of a late-fifties Jewish grandmother with multiplesclerosis giving the Clan's surveillance agents the slip, and guilt, shockingguilt, at the thought of what she might have unintentionally involved Iris in.She almost picked up the phone to apologize, to tell Iris not to bother— butthat would be waving a red rag at a bull. When Iris got it into her mind to dosomething, not even the FBI and the federal government stood much chance ofstopping her. 
The playground. That's what she'd called the museum, when she was small. "Can wego to the playground?" she'd asked, a second-grader already eating into herparents' library cards, and Iris had smiled indulgently and taken her there, torun around the displays and generally annoy the old folks reading the signsunder the exhibits until, energy exhausted, she'd flaked out in the dinosaurwing. 
And bridge. Iris never played card games. That must mean ... yes. The bridgeover the Charles River. More confirmation that she meant the Science Museum, anhour before closing time. Right. Miriam grinned mirthlessly, remembering Iris'sbedtime stories about the hairy years under FBI surveillance, the times she andMorris had been pulled in for questioning—but never actually charged withanything. When She was older, Miriam realized that they'd been too sensible, haddropped out to work in a radical bookstore and help with a homeless shelterbefore the hard-core idiots began cooking up bombs and declaring war on theSystem, a System that had ultimately gotten tired of their posturing and rolledover in its sleep, obliterating them. 
Miriam whistled tunelessly between her teeth and plugged her cellular modem cardback into the notebook, ready to send in her feature article. Maybe Iris* couldteach her some useful techniques. The way things were going, she needed everyedge. 
A landscape of concrete and steel, damp and gray beneath a sky stained dirtyorange. The glare of streetlamps reflected from clouds heavy with the promise ofsleet or rain tomorrow. Miriam swung the rental car around into the parking lot,lowered her window to accept a ticket, then drove on in search of a space. Itwas damply cold outside, the temperature dropping with nightfall, but eventuallyshe found a free place and parked. The car, she noted, was the precise sameshade of silver-gray as Iris's hair. 
Miriam walked around the corner and down a couple of flights of stairs, thenthrough the entrance to the museum. 
Warm light flooded out onto the sidewalk, lifting her gloom. Paulette hadbrought Brill home earlier that afternoon, shaking slightly. The color- andpattern-enhanced marketing strategies of modern retail had finally driven Brillinto the attack of culture shock Miriam had been expecting. They'd left Brillhunched up in front of the Cartoon Network on cable, so Paulette could giveMiriam a lift to the nearest Avis rental lot. And now— 
Miriam pushed through the doors and looked around. Front desk, security gates, ahuge human-powered sailplane hanging from the ceiling over the turnstiles, staffbusy at their desks—and a little old lady in a powered wheelchair, whirringtoward her. Not so little, or so old. "You're late! That's not like you," Irischided her. "Where have you been?" 
"That's new," Miriam said, pointing to the chair. 
"Yes, it is." Iris grinned up at her, impishly. "Did you know it can outrun atwo-year-old Dodge Charger? If you know the footpaths through the park and don'tgive the bastards time to get out and follow you on foot." She stopped grinning."Miriam, you're in trouble. What did I teach you about trouble?" 
Miriam sighed. "Don't get into it to begin with, especially don't bring it homewith you," she recited, "never start a war on two fronts, and especially don'tstart a land war in Asia. Yes, I know. The problem is, trouble came looking forme. Say, isn't there a coffee shop in the food court, around the corner from thegift shop?" 
"I think I could be persuaded—if you tell me what's going on." 
Miriam followed her mother's wheelchair along the echoing corridor, dodging theodd family group. It took them a few minutes, but finally Miriam got them bothsorted out with drinks and a seat at a table well away from anyone else. "It wasthe shoe box," Miriam confessed. Iris had given her a shoe box full of itemsrelating to her enigmatic birth-mother, found stabbed in a park nearly a thirdof a century ago. After all those years gathering dust in the attic the locketstill worked, dumping Miriam into a world drastically 
unlike her own. "If you hadn't given it to me, they wouldn't be staking out yourhouse." 
"Who do you think they are?" 
Miriam swallowed. "They call themselves the Clan. There are six families in theClan, and they're like this." She knotted her fingers together, tuggedexperimentally. "Turns out I'm, uh, well, how to put this? I'm not a Jewishprincess. I'm a—" 
"She was important," Iris interrupted. "Some kind of blue blood, right? Miriam,what does the Clan do that's so secret you can't talk but so important they needyou alive?" 
"They're—" Miriam stopped. "If I told you, they might kill you." 
Iris raised an eyebrow. "I think you know better than that," she said quietly. 
"But—" 
"Stop trying to overprotect me!" Iris waved her attempted justification away."You always hated it when I patronized you. So what is this, return-the-favorweek? You're still alive, so you have something on them, if I know you. So itfollows that you can look after your old mother, right? Doesn't it?" 
"It's not that simple." Miriam looked at her mother and sighed. "If I knew you'dbe safe ..." 
"Shut up and listen, girl." Miriam shut up abruptly and stared at her. Iris waswatching her with a peculiar intensity. "You are by damn going to tell meeverything. Especially who's after you, so that I know who to watch for. Becauseanyone who tries to get at you through me is going to get a very nasty surpriseindeed, love." For a moment, Iris's eyes were icy-cold, as harsh as the assassinin the orangery at midnight, two days before. Then they softened. "You're allI've got left," she said quietly. "Humor your old ma, please? It's been a longtime since anything interesting happened to me— interesting in the sense of theChinese proverb, anyway." 
"You always told me not to gossip," Miriam accused. 
"Gossip is as gossip does." Iris cracked a smile. "Keep your powder dry and yourallies briefed." 
"I'll—" Miriam took a sip of her coffee. "Okay," she said, licking her dry lips."This is going to take a long time to tell, but basically what happened was, Itook the shoe box home and didn't do anything with it until that evening. Whichprobably wasn't a good thing, because ..." 
She talked for a long time, and Iris listened, occasionally prompting her formore detail but mostly just staring at her face, intently, with an expressionsomewhere between longing and disgust. 
Finally Miriam ran down. "That's all, I guess," she said. "I left Brill withPaulie, who's looking after her. Tomorrow I'm going to take the second locketand, well, see if it works. Over here or over there." She searched Iris's face."You believe me?" she asked, almost plaintively. 
"Oh, I believe you, kid." Iris reached out and covered her hand with her own:older, thinner, infinitely familiar. "I—" She paused. "I haven't been entirelyhonest with you," she admitted. "I had an idea this was going to get weirdbefore I gave you the box, but not like this. It seemed like a good time to passit on when you began sniffing around their turf. Large-scale money laundering isexactly the sort of thing the, this Clan, would be mixed up in, and I suspected—well. I expected you to come back and ask me about it sooner, rather than simplyjumping in. Maybe I should have warned you." She looked at Miriam, searchingly. 
"It's okay, Ma." Miriam covered Iris's hand with her other. 
"No, it's not okay," Iris insisted. "What I did was wrong! I should have—" 
"Ma, shut up." 
"If you insist." Iris watched her with a curious half-smile. 'This secondknotwork design—I want to see that. Can you show me sometime?" 
"Sure." Miriam nodded. "Didn't bring it with me, though." 
Her mother nodded. "What are you going to do next?" 
"I'm—" Miriam sighed. "I warned Angbard that if anybody touched a hair on yourhead, he was dead meat. But 
now there's a second bunch after me, and I don't have a hotline to their boss. Idon't even know who their boss is." 
"Neither did Patricia," murmured Iris. 
"What did you say?" 
"I'd have thought it was obvious," Iris pointed out quickly. "If she'd known,they wouldn't have gotten near her." She shook her head. "A really bad business,that." For a moment she looked angry, and determined—the same expression Miriamhad glimpsed in a mirror recently. "And it hasn't gone away." She snorted. "Giveme your secret phone number, girl." 
"My secret—what?" 
Iris grinned at her. "Okay, your dead-letter drop. So we can keep in touch whenyou go on your wanderings. You do want to keep your old mom informed of what theenemies of freedom and civilization are up to, don't you?" 
"Ma!" Miriam smiled right back. "Okay, here it is," she said, scribbling hernew, sanitized mobile number down on a piece of paper and sliding it over toIris. 
"Good." Iris tucked it away quickly. "This locket you found—you think it goessomewhere else, don't you?" 
"Yes. That's the only explanation I can come up with." 
"To another world, where everything will of course be completely different."Iris shook her head. "As if two worlds wasn't already one too many." 
"And mystery assassins. Don't forget the mystery assassins." 
"I'm not," said her mother. "From what you've been telling me ..." She narrowedher eyes. "Don't trust any of them. Not the Clan, not even the one you bedded.They're all—they sound like—a bunch of vipers. They'll screw you as soon as youthink you're safe." 
"Ma." Miriam began to blush. "Oh, I don't trust them. At least, not to doanything with my best interests at heart." 
"Then you're smarter than I was at your age." Iris pulled on her gloves. "Givean old lady a lift home? Or at least, back to the woods? It's a cold and scarynight. Mind you, I may have forgotten to bring your red cloak, but any wolveswho try to lay hands on this old granny will come off worse." 
PawnBroker 
It's no good," said Miriam, rubbing her forehead. "All I get is crossed eyes,blurred vision, and a headache. It doesn't work." She snapped the assassin'slocket closed in frustration. 
"Maybe it doesn't work here," Brill suggested. "If it's a different design?" 
"Maybe." Miriam nodded. "Or then again, it's a different design and it camethrough on the other side. How do I know where I'd end up if I did get it towork here?" She paused, then looked at the locket. "Maybe it wasn't real cleverof me to try that here," she said slowly. "I really ought to cross over before Itry it again. If there's really a third world out there, how do we know thereisn't a fourth? Or more? How do we know that using it twice in succession bringsyou back to die place you departed from—that travel using it is commutative? Itraises more questions than it answers, doesn't it?" 
"Yes—" Brill fell silent. 
"Do you know anything about this?" Miriam asked. 
"No." She shook her head slowly. "I don't—they never spoke about thepossibility. Why should they? It was as much as anyone could do to travelbetween this world and the other, without invoking phantoms. Would testing a newsigil not be dangerous? If it by some chance carried you to another world wherewild animals or storms waited ..." 
"Someone must have tried it." Miriam frowned. "Mustn't they?" 
"You would have to ask the elders," Brill offered. "All I can tell is what I wastold." 
"Well, anyway," Miriam rubbed her forehead again, "if it works, it'll be onehell of a lever to use with Angbard. I'll just have to take mis one and crossover to the other side before I try to go wherever its original owner came from.Then try from there." 
"Can you do that?" Brill asked. 
"Yes. But just one crossing gives me a cracking headache if I don't take mypills. I figure I can make two an hour apart. But if I run into something nastyon the far side-—wherever this one takes me—I'll be in deep trouble if I need toget away from it in a huriy." 
Malignant hypertension wasn't a term she could use with Brill, but she'd seenwhat it could do to people. In particular she'd seen a middle-aged man who'd notbothered to follow the dietary guidelines after his HMO doctor prescribed him anancient and dubious monoamine oxidase inhibitor. He'd flatlined over the cheese board at a birthday party, the glass of sparkling white wine still at hand.She'd been in the emergency room when the ambulance brought him in, bleedingfrom nose and eyes. She'd been there when they turned the ventilator off andfilled out the death certificate. She shook her head. "It'll take careful planning." 
Miriam glanced at the window. Snow drifted down from a sky the color ofshattered dreams. It was bitterly cold outside. "What I should do is go across,hole up somewhere and catch some sleep, then try to cross over the next day so Ican run away if anything goes wrong. Trouble is, it's going to be just as coldon the other side as it is here. And if I have to run 
away, I get to spend two nights camping in the woods, in winter, with asplitting headache. I don't think that's a really great idea. And I'm limited towhat I can carry." 
Wheris Paulie due back? she wondered. She'll be able to help. 
"What about a coaching-house?" Brill asked, practical-minded as ever. 
"A coaching—" Miriam stopped dead. "But I can't—" "There's one about two miles down the road from Fort Lofstrom." Brill looked thoughtful. "We dress you as a, an oracle's wife, summoned to a village down thecoast to join your husband in his new parish. Your trap broke a wheel and—" Sheran down. "Oh. You don't speak hoh'sprashe." 
"Yup." Miriam nodded. "Doesn't work well, does it?" 
"No." Brill wrinkled her nose. "What a nuisance! We could go together," sheadded tentatively. 
"I think we'll have to do that," said Miriam. "Probably I play the mute motherand you play the daughter—I try to look older, you to look younger. Think itwould work?" 
From Brilliana's slow nod she realized that Brill did—and wasn't enthusiastic about it. "It might." 
"It would also leave you stranded in the back of beyond up near, where was it,Hasleholm, if I don't come back, wouldn't it?" Miriam pointed out. "On the otherhand, you'd be in the right place. You could make your way to Fort Lofstrom andtell Angbard what happened. He'd take care of you," she added. "Just tell him Iordered you to come along with me. He'll swallow that." 
"I don't want to go back," Brilliana said evenly. "Not until I've seen more ofthis wonderful world." 
Miriam nodded soberly at her. "Me too, kid. So we're not going to plan on me notcoming back, are we? Instead, we're going to plan on us both going over,spending the night at a coach-house, and then walking down the road to the nextone. They're only about twenty miles apart—it's a fair hike, but not impossible.Along the way, I disappear, and catch up with you later. We spend the nightthere, then we turn back—and cross back here. How does that sound?" 
"Three days?" Brill looked thoughtful. "And you'll bring me back here?" 
"Of course." Miriam brooded for a moment. "I think I want some more tea," shedecided. "Want some?" 
"Oh yes!" Brilliana sat up eagerly. "Is there any of Earl Grey's own blend?"] 
"I'll just check." Miriam wandered into Paulette's kitchen, her mind spinninggears like a car in neutral. She filled the kettle, set it on the hob to boil,began searching for tea bags. There's got to be a way to make this work better,she thought. The real problem was mobility. If she could just arrange how tomeet up with Brill fifteen miles down the road without having to walk thedistance herself—"Oh," she said, as the kettle began to boil. 
"What is it?" asked Brill, behind her. 
"It's so obvious!" Miriam said as she picked the kettle up. "I should havefigured it out before." 
"Figured? What ails you?" 
She poured boiling water into the teapot. "A form of speech. I meant, I'veworked out what I need to do." She put the lid on the pot, moved it onto a tray,and picked it up to carry back into the living room. "Go on." 
"You've hatched a plan?" 
"Yes." Miriam kicked the kitchen door shut behind her. "It's quite simple. I'vebeen worrying about having to camp in the woods in winter, or make myselfunderstood, or keep up appearances with you. That's wrong. What I should havebeen thinking about is how I can move myself about, over there, to somewherewhere there's shelter, without involving anyone else. Right?" 
"That makes sense." Brilliana looked dubious. "But how are you going to do that,unless you walk? You couldn't take a horse through. Come to think of it, Ihaven't seen any horses here—" 
Miriam took a deep breath. "Brill, when Paulie gets back I think we're going togo shopping. For an all-terrain bicycle, a pair of night-vision goggles, asewing machine, and some fabric..." 
* * * 
The devil was in the details. In the end it took Miriam two days to buy herbicycle. She spent the first day holed up with cycle magazines, spokehead Websites, and the TV blaring extreme sports at her. The second day consisted ofbeing patronized in successive shops by men in skintight neon Lycra bodysuits,to Brill's quietly scandalized amusement. In the end, the vehicle of Miriam'sdesire turned out to be a Dahon folding mountain bike, built out of chromedaluminium tubes. It wasn't very light, but at thirty pounds—including carryingcase and toolset—she could carry it across easily enough, and it wasn't a toy.It was a real mountain bike that folded down into something she could haul in abackpack and, more importantly, something that could carry herself and a fullload over dirt trails as fast as a horse. 
"What is that thing?" Brill asked, when she finished unfolding it on a spread ofnewspapers on Paulette's living room carpet. "It looks like something youtorture people with." 
"That's a fair assessment." Miriam grimaced as she worked the alien keys on thesaddle-post, trying to get it locked at a comfortable height. "I haven't riddena bike in years. Hope I haven't forgotten how." 
"When you sit on that thing, you can't possibly be modest." 
"Well, no," Miriam admitted. "I plan to only use it out of sight of otherpeople." She finished on the saddle and began hunting for an attachment placefor the toolkit. 'The Swiss army used to have a regiment of soldiers who rodethese things, as mounted infantry—not cavalry. They could cover two hundredmiles a day on roads, seventy a day in the mountains. I'm no soldier, but Ifigure this will get me around faster than my feet." 
"You'll still need clothing," Brill pointed out. "And so will /. What I cameacross in isn't suitable for stamping around in the forest in winter! And wecouldn't possibly be seen wearing your camping gear if we expect to stay in acoaching inn." 
"Yup. Which is where this machine comes in." Miriam pointed to the other bigbox, occupying a large chunk of the floor. "I take it there's no chance that youalready know how to use an overlocker?" 
The overlocker took them most of the rest of the day to figure out, and itnearly drove Paulette to distraction when she came home from the errand she'dbeen running to find Miriam oiling a bicycle in the hall and Brill puzzling outthe manual for an industrial sewing machine and a bunch of costume patternsMiriam had bought. "You're turning my house into an asylum!" she accused Miriam,after kicking her shoes off. 
"Yeah, I am. How's the office hunt going?" 
"Badly," snapped Paulette. Her voice changed: "Offices, oy, have we got offices!You should see our offices, such wonderful offices you have never imagined! Bythe way, how long have you been in business? There'll be a deposit if it's lessthan two years." 
"Uh-huh." Miriam nodded. "How big a deposit?" 
"Six months rent," Paulie swallowed. "For two thousand square feet with aloading bay and a thousand feet of office above it, that comes to about thirtythousand bucks. Plus municipal tax, sewer, electric and gas. And the broadbandyou want." 
"Hmm." Miriam nodded to herself, then hit the quick-release bolts. The bikefolded in on itself like an intricate origami sculpture and she locked it downin its most compact position, then eased the carrying case over it. 
"Hey, that's real neat," Paulette said admiringly. "You turning into a fitnessfreak in your old age?" 
"Don't change the subject." Miriam grunted, then upended the case and zipped itshut. Folded, the bike was a beast. She could get the thing comfortably on herback but would be hard put to carry anything else. Hmm. "Back in a minute." Sheshouldered the bike pack and marched to the back door that opened on Paulette'syard. "Here goes nothing," she muttered, and pulled out her locket. 
Half an hour later she was back without the bike, stagger-
ing slightly, shivering with cold, and rubbing her sore forehead. "Oh, I reallydon't need to do that so fast," she groaned. 
"If you will do that with no preparation—" Paulette began to say waspishly. 
"No, no." Miriam waved her away. "I took my pills, boss, honest. It's justreally cold over there." 
"Where did you stash it?" Paulie asked practically. 
"Where your back wall is, over on the other side, where there's nothing butforest. Brrr. Up against a tree, I cut a gash in the bark." She brandished herknife. "Won't be hard to find if we go over from here: Main thing will bewalking to the road, the nearest one is about half a mile away. Better go in themorning." 
"Right," Paulette said skeptically. "About the rent." 
"Yeah." Miriam nodded. "Look, give me fifteen minutes to recover and I'll get mycoat. Then we can go look over that building, and if it's right we'll gostraight on to the bank and move another whack of cash so you can wave a depositunder their nose." She straightened up. "We'll take Brill. There's a theatricalcostume shop we need to check out; it might speed things up a bit." Herexpression hardened. "I'm tired of waiting, and the longer this drags on theharder it'll be to explain it to Angbard. If I don't get in touch soon, I figurehe'll cut off my credit until I surface. It's time to hit the road." 
Two days later, a frigid morning found Miriam dozing fitfully on a lumpy,misshapen mattress with a quiedy snoring lump to her left. She opened her eyes.Where am I? she wondered for a moment, then memory rescued the day. Oh. A pileof canvas bags before her nose formed a hump up against the rough, unpainted planks of the wall. The snoring lump twitched, pushing her closer to the edge.The light streamed in through a small window, its triangular tiles of glassuneven and bubbled. She'd slept fully dressed except for her boots and cloak,and she felt filthy. To make matters worse, some-
thing had bitten her in the night, found her to its taste, and invited itsfamily and friends along for Thanksgiving. 
"Aargh." She sat up and swung her feet out, onto the floor. Even through herwool stockings the boards felt cold as ice. The jug under the bed was freezingcold too, she discovered as she squatted over it to piss. In fact, the air wasso chilly it leached all the heat out of any part of her anatomy she exposed toit. She finished her business fast and shoved the pot back under the bed tofreeze. 
"Wake up," she called softly to Brilliana. "Rise and shine! We've got a good dayahead!" 
"Oh, my head." Brill surfaced bleary-eyed and disheveled from under the quilt."Your hostelries aren't like this." 
"Well, this one won't stay like this for long if I get my way," Miriamcommented. "My mouth tastes like something died in it. Let me get my boots onand warm my toes up a bit." 
"Hah." Brilliana's expression was pessimistic. "They let the fire run low, I'dsay." She found die chamber pot. Miriam nodded and looked away. So much for ensuite bathrooms, she thought mordantly. "You stand up, now," Brill ordered aftera minute. 
"Okay. How do I look?" asked Miriam. 
"Hmm. I think you will pass. Don't brush your hair until we are out of sight,though. It's too clean to be seen in daylight, from all those marvelous soapseveryone uses on the other side, and we don't want to attract attention. Humph.So what shall we do today, my lady?" 
"Well, I think we'll start by eating breakfast and paying die nice man." Nicewas not an adjective Miriam would normally use on a hotelier like the onelurking downstairs— back home she'd be more inclined to call the police—butstandards of personal service varied wildly in the Gruin-markt. "Let's hit theroad to Hasleholm. As soon as we're out of sight, I'm going to vanish. Youremembered your pistol?" 
Brill nodded. 
"Okay, then you're set up. It should just be a quiet day's walk for you. If yourun into trouble, first try to get off the road, then shoot—I don't want youtaking any chances, even 
if there isn't much of a bandit problem around these parts in winter. Luckilyyou're more heavily armed than anyone you could possibly meet except a Clancaravan." 
"Right." Brill nodded uncertainly. "You're sure that strange contraption willwork?" 
Miriam nodded. "Trust me." 
Breakfast below consisted of two chipped wooden bowls of oatmeal porridge,salted, eaten in the kitchen under the watchful (if squinting) eyes of the publican's wife—which made it harder for Miriam to palm her pills. She made asong and dance of reciting some kind of grace prayer over the bowls. Miriamwaited patiently, moving her lips randomly—her mute and incomprehendingcondition explained by Brill, in her capacity as long-suffering daughter. 
Barely half an hour later, Miriam and Brill were on the road again, headingtoward the coast, breath steaming in the frigid morning air. It was bitterlydry, like an icy desert. A heavy frost had fallen overnight, but not much snow.Miriam hunched beneath a heavy canvas knapsack that held her bicycle and extrasupplies. Brill, too, bore a heavy bag, for Miriam had made two trips through tocache essential supplies before they began this trip. Although they'd come onlytwo miles from Paulette's house, they were centuries away in the most importantway imaginable. Out here, even a minor injury such as a twisted ankle could be adisaster. But tiiey had certain advantages that normally only the Clan and itsconstituent families would have—from their modern hiking boots to the heftyautomatic pistol Brill carried in a holster concealed beneath her Thinsulate­lined cloak. 
"This had better work." Miriam's teeth chattered slighly as she spoke. "I'mgoing to feel really stupid if it turns out that mis locket doesn't work here,either." 
Brill said pragmatically, "my mother said you could tell if they're dead. Haveyou looked at it since we came through?" 
"No." Miriam fumbled in her pouch for it. It clicked open easily and she shut itat once. "Ick. It'll work, alright, if I don't spill my guts. It feels rougherthan the other one." 
Frozen leaf skeletons crunched beneath their boots. The 
post house was soon out of sight, the road empty and almost untraveled inwinter. Bare trees thrust limbs out above them, bleak and barren in the harshlight of morning. "Are we out of sight, yet?" asked Miriam. 
"Yes." Brill stopped walking. "Might as well get an early start." 
Miriam paused beside her. She shuffled her feet. "Don't wait long. If I don'treturn within about five minutes, assume it means everything's alright. Justkeep walking and I'll join you at the post house. If you hear anyone coming onthe road, hide. If I'm late, wait over for one day then buy a horse or mule,head for Fort Lofstrom, and ask to be taken to Angbard. Clear?" 
"Clear." For a moment Brill froze, then she leaned forward and embraced Miriam."Sky Father protect you," she whispered. 
"And you," said Miriam, more surprised than anything else. Abruptly she huggedBrill back. "Take care." Then she pulled away, pulled out the assassin's locket,and stood in the middle of the road staring into its writhing depths. 
It was twelve o'clock, and all the church bells in Boston were chiming noon. 
The strange woman received nothing more than covert glances as she walked alongThe Mall, eyes flickering to either side. True, she wore a heavy backpack—somewhat singular for a woman—and a most peculiar cap, and her dress was aboutas far from fashionable as it was possible to be without street urchinsharassing her with accusations of vile popery; but she walked with an air ofgranite determination that boded ill for anyone who got in her way. 
Traffic was light but fast, and she seemed self-conscious as she looked bothways repeatedly before crossing the street. An open Jolly-car rumbled past behind her, iron wheels striking sparks from the cobblestones. There was a burstof raucous laughter from the tars within, returning to the North Station for thejourney back to the royal dock-
yards. She dodged nimbly, then reached the safety of the sidewalk. 
The pedestrian traffic was thicker near the fish market and the chandlers andother merchant suppliers. The woman glanced at a winter chestnut seller, raisedher nose as she sidestepped a senescent pure-collector mumbling over his sack ofdogshit, then paused on the corner of The Mall and Jefferson Street, glancingbriefly over one shoulder before muttering into her scarf. 
"Memo: This is not Boston—at least, not the Boston I know. All the street namesare wrong and the buildings are stone and brick, not wood or concrete. Trafficdrives on the left and the automobiles—there aren't many—they've got chimneys,like steam locomotives. But the signs are in English and the roads are made ofcobblestones or asphalt and it feels like Boston. Weird, really weird. It's morelike home than Niejwein, anyway." 
She carried on down the street, mumbling into the tie-clip microphone pinnedinside her scarf. A brisk wind wheezed down the street, threatening to raise itfrom her head: She tugged down briskly, holding it in place. 
"I see both men and women in public—more men than women. Dress style is—hmm.Victorian doesn't describe it, exactly. Post-Victorian, maybe? Men wear cravatsor scarves over high collars, with collarless double-breasted suits and biggreatcoats. Hats all round, lots of hats, but I'm seeing suit jackets withyellow and blue stripes, or even louder schemes." She strode on, past a baroquefire hydrant featuring cast-iron Chinese dragons poised ready to belch a streamof water. "Women's costume is all tightly tailored jackets and hems down to theground. Except some of the younger ones are wearing trousers under knee-lengthskirts. Sort of Oriental in style." A woman pedaled past her on a bicycle, backprimly upright. The bike was a black bone-shaker. "Hm. For cycling, baggytrousers and something like a Pakistani tunic. Everyone wears a hat or scarf."She glanced left. "Shop prices marked in the windows. I just passed a cobbler'swith a row of metal lasts and leather samples on display and Jesus Christ." 
She paused and doubled back to stare into the small, grimy windows of the shopshe'd nearly passed. A distant buzzing filled her ears. "A mechanical addingmachine— electric motor drive, with nixie tubes for a display. That's a dividekey, what, nineteen-thirties tech? Punched cards? Forties? Wish I'd paid moreattention in the museum. These guys are a long way ahead of the Gruinmarkt. Hey,that looks like an Edison phonograph, but there's no trumpet and those are tubesat the back. And a speaker." She stared closer. The price ... "price in pounds,shillings, and pennies," she breathed into her microphone. 
Miriam paused. A sense of awe stole over her. This isn't Boston, she realized.This is something else again. A whole new world, one that had vacuum tubes andadding machines and steam cars—a shadow fell across her. She glanced up and thebreath caught in her throat. And airships, she thought. "Airship!" she muttered.It was glorious, improbably streamlined, the color of old gold in the wintersunshine, engines rattling the window glass as it rumbled overhead, pointinginto the wind. / can really work here, she realized, excitedly. She paused,looking in the window of a shipping agent, Greenbaum et Pty, "gateways to theworld." 
" 'Scuse me, ma'am. Can I help you with anything?" 
She looked down, hurriedly. A big, red-faced man with a bushy moustache and auniform, flat-topped blue helmet— oops, she thought. "I hope so," she said timidly. Gulp. Try to fake a French accent? "I am newly arrived in, ah, town.Can you kind sir direct me to a decent and fair pawnbroker?" 
"Newly arrived?" The cop looked her up and down dubiously, but made no movetoward either his billy club or the brass whistle that hung on a chain aroundhis neck. Something about her made up his mind for him. Maybe it was the lack ofpatching or dirt on her clothes, or the absence of obvious malnutrition. "Wellnow, a pawnbroker—you'll not want to be destitute within city limits bynightfall, hear? The poorhouse is near to overflowing this season and youwouldn't want a run-in with the bench, now, would ye?" 
Miriam bobbed her head. "Thank you kindly, sir, but I'll 
be well looked after if I can just raise enough money to contact my sister. Sheand her husband sent for me to help with the children." 
"Well then." He nodded. "Go down Jefferson here, turn a left into Highgate.That'll bring you to Holmes Alley. Don't go down the Blackshaft by mistake, it'san odious rookery and you'll never find your way out. In Holmes Alley you canfind the shop of Erasmus Burgeson, and he'll set you up nicely." 
"Oh thank you," Miriam gushed, but the cop had already turned away—probablylooking for a vagrant to harass. 
She hurried along for a block then, remembering the cop's directions, followedthem. More traffic passed on the road and overhead. Tractors pulling four oreven six short trailers blocked the street intermittently, and an incongruousyellow pony trap clattered past. Evidently yellow was the interuniverse color ofcabs, although Miriam couldn't guess what Boston's environmentalists would havemade of the coal burners. There were shops here, shops by the dozen, but nodepartment stores, nor supermarkets, or gas-burning cars, or color photographs.The advertisements on the sides of the buildings were painted on, simple sloganslike BUY EDISON'S ROSE PETAL SOAP FOR SKIN LIKE FLOWER BLOSSOM. And there were,now she knew what to look for, no beggars. 
A bell rang as Miriam pushed through the door of Erasmus Burgeson's shop,beneath the three gold spheres that denoted his trade. It was dark and dusty,shelves racked high with table settings, silverware, a cabinet full of pistols,other less identifiable stuff—in the other side of the shop, rack after rack ofdusty clothing. The cash register, replete with cherubim and gold leaf, told itsown story: And as she'd hoped, the counter beside it displayed a glass lid abovea velvet cloth layered in jewelry. There didn't seem to be anybody in the shop.Miriam looked about uneasily, trying to take it all in. This is what people hereconsider valuable, she thought. Better get a handle on it. ¦ A curtain at the back stirred as a gaunt figure pushed into 
the room. He shambled behind the counter and turned to stare at her. "Haven't seen you in here before, have I?" he asked, quizzically. 
"Uh, no." Miriam shuffled. "Are you Mr. Burgeson?" she asked. 
"The same." He didn't smile. Dressed entirely in black, his sleeves and trousersthin as pipe cleaners, all he'd need would be a black stovepipe hat to look likea revenant from the Civil War. "And who would you be?" 
"My name is Miriam, uh, Fletcher." She pursed her lips. "I was told you are apawnbroker." 
"And what else would I be in a shop like this?" He cocked his head to one side,like a parrot, his huge dark eyes probing at her in the gloom. 
"Well. I'm lately come to these shores." She coughed. "And I am short of money,if not in posessions that might be worth selling. I was hoping you might be ableto set me up." 
"Posessions." Burgeson sat down—perched—on a high, backless wooden stool thatraised his knees almost to the level of the counter-top. "It depends what typeof posession you have in mind. I can't buy just any old tat now, can I?" 
"Well. To start with, I have a couple of pieces of jewelry." He noddedencouragingly, so Miriam continued. "But then, I have in mind something moresubstantial. You see, where I come from I am of not inconsiderable means, and Ihave not entirely cut myself off from the old country." 
"And what country would that be?" asked Burgeson. "I only ask because of therequirements of the Aliens and Sedition Act," he added hastily. 
"That would be—" Miriam licked her lips. "Scotland." 
"Scotland." He stared at her. "With an accent like that," he said with heavyirony. "Well, well, well. Scotland it is. Show me the jewelry." 
"One moment." Miriam walked forward, peered down at the countertop. "Hmm. Theseare a bit disappointing. Is this all you deal in?" 
"Ma'am." He hopped down from the stool. "What do you take me for? This is thecommon stock on public display, 
where any mountebank might smash and grab. The better class I keep elsewhere." 
"Oh." She reached into her pouch and fumbled for a moment, then pulled out whatshe'd been looking for. It was a small wooden box—purchased from a head shop inCambridge, there being a pronounced shortage of cheap wooden jewelry boxes onthe market—containing two pearl earrings. Real pearls. Big ones. "For starters,I'd like you to put a value on these." 
"Hmm." Burgeson picked the box up, chewing his lower lip. "Excuse me." Hewhipped out a magnifying lens and examined them minutely. "I'll need to testthem," he murmured, "but if these are real pearls, they're worth a pretty penny.Where did you get them?" 
"That is for me to know and you to guess." She tensed. 
"Hah." He grinned at her cadaverously. "You'd better have a good story next timeyou try to sell them. I'm not sticking my neck in a noose for your mistress ifshe decides to send the thief-takers after you." 
"Hmm. What makes you think I'm a light-fingered servant?" she asked. 
"Well." He looked down his nose at her. "Your clothes are not what a woman of fashion, or even of her own means, would wear—" 
"Fresh off the boat," Miriam observed. 
"And earrings are among the most magnetic of baubles to those of a jackdawdisposition," he added. 
"And wanting a suit of clothes that does not mark me out as a stranger," Miriamcommented. 
"Besides which," he added with some severity, "Scotland has not existed for ahundred and seventy years. It's all part of Grande Bretaigne." 
"Oh." Miriam covered her mouth. Shit! "Well then." She mustered up a sicklysmile. "How about this?" 
The quarter-kilogram bar of solid gold was about an inch wide, two inches long,and half an inch thick. It sat on the display case like an intrusion fromanother world, shimmering with the promise of wealth and power and riches. 
"Well now," breathed Burgeson, "if this is what ladies of means pay their billswith in Scotland, maybe it's not such an unbelievable fiction after all." 
Miriam nodded. It had better cover the bills, she thought, the damn thing set meback nearly three thousand dollars. "It all depends how honest you aren't," shesaid briskly. "There are more where this one comes from. I'm looking to buyseveral things, including but not limited to money. I need to fit in. I don'tcare if you're fiddling your taxes or lying to the government, all I care aboutis whether you're honest with your customers. You don't know me, and if youdon't want to, you'll never see me again. On the other hand, if you say 'yes'—"she met his eyes—"this need not be our last transaction. Not by a very longway." 
"Hmm." Burgeson stared right back at her. "Are you in French employ?" he asked. 
"Huh?" 
Miriam's fleeting look of puzzlement seemed to reassure him. "Well that's good,"he said genially. "Excuse me while I fetch the aqua regia: If this is pure I canadvance you, oh, ten pounds immediately and another, ahum—" He picked up thegold bar and placed it on the balance behind him. "—sixty two and eightshillings by noon tomorrow." 
"I don't think so." Miriam shook her head. "I'll take ten today, and sixtytomorrow—plus five full pounds' credit in your shop, here and now, for goods youhold." She'd been eyeing the price tags. The shilling, a twentieth of a pound,seemed to occupy the same role as the dollar back home, except that they wentfurther. Pounds were big currency. 
"Ridiculous." He stared at her. "Three pounds." 
"Four." 
"Done," he said, unnervingly rapidly. Miriam had a feeling that she'd been had,somehow, but nodded. He strode over to the door and flipped the sign in thewindow pane to CLOSED. "Now by all means, let me test out this bar. I'll justtake a sample with this scalpel, mind. .." He hurried into the back room. Aminute later he re-emerged, bearing a glass measuring cylinder full of waterinto which he 
dropped the gold bar. Scribbled measurements followed. Finally he nodded. "Oh,most satisfying," he muttered to himself before looking at her. "Your sample isindeed of acceptable purity," he said, looking almost surprised. Reaching intoan inner pocket he produced a battered wallet, from which he plucked improbablylarge banknotes. "Nine one-pound notes, milady, the balance in silver and a fewcoppers. I hope these are to your satisfaction; the bank across the street willhappily exchange them, I assure you." Next he produced a fountain pen and aledger, and a wax brick and a candle and a metal die. "I shall just make outthis promissory note for sixty pounds to you. If you would like to select frommy wares, I can work while you equip yourself." 
"Do you have a measuring tape?" she asked. 
"Indeed." He pulled one down from a hook behind the counter. "If you need anyalterations making, Missus Boriso-vitch across the way is a most excellentseamstress, works while you wait. And her daughter is a fine milliner, too." 
Over the next hour, Miriam ransacked the pawnbroker's shop. The range ofclothing hanging in mothballs from rails all the way up to the ceiling, adizzying twenty feet up, was huge and strange, but she knew what she wanted—anything that wouldn't look too alien while she realized her liquid assets andfound a real dressmaker to equip her for the sort of business she intended toconduct. Which would almost certainly require formal business wear, as highfinance and legal work usually did back home. For a miracle, Miriam discovered amatching jacket, blouse, and long skirt that was in good condition and closeenough to her size to fit. She changed in Burgeson's cramped, damp-smellingcellar while he reopened the shop. It took some getting used to the outfit—thejacket was severely tailored, and the blouse had a high stiff collar—but in hisdusty mirror she saw someone not unlike the women she'd passed on her way intotown. 
"Ah." Burgeson nodded to her. 'That is a good choice. It will, however, cost youone pound fourteen and sixpence." 
"Sure." Miriam nodded. "Next. I want a history book." 
"A history book." He looked at her oddly. "Any particular title?" 
She smiled thinly. "One covering the past three hundred years, in detail." 
"Hmm." Burgeson ducked back into the back of the shop. While he was gone, Miriamlocated a pair of kidskin gloves and a good topcoat: The hats all lookedgrotesque to her eye, but in the end she settled on something broad-brimmed andfloppy, with not too much fur. He returned and dumped a hardbound volume on theglass display case. "You could do worse than start with this. Alfred's Annals ofthe New British" 
"I could." She stared at it. "Anything else?" 
"Or." He pulled another book up—bound in brown paper, utterly anonymous, thinnerand lighter. "This." He turned it to face her, open at the fly-leaf. 
"The Hanoverian Exodus Reconsidered"—she bit her lip when she saw the author."Karl Marx. Hmm. Keep this on the bottom shelf, do you?" 
"It's only prudent," he said, apologetically closing it and sliding it under thefirst book. "I'd strongly recommend it, though," he added. "Marx pulls nopunches." 
"Right. How much for both of them?" 
"Six shillings for the Alfred, a pound for the Marx—you do realize that simplybeing caught with a copy of it can land you a flogging, if not five years exilein Canadia?" 
"I didn't." She smiled, suppressing a shudder. "I'll take them both. And thehat, gloves, and coat." 
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, madam," he said fervently. "Whenshall I see you again?" 
"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes. "No need for the money tomorrow. I will not beback for at least five days. But if you want another of those pieces—" "How many can you supply?" he asked, slipping the question in almost casually. 
"As many as you need," she replied. "But on the next visit, no more than two." 
"Well then." He chewed his lower lip. "For two, assuming 
this one tests out correctly and the next do likewise, I will pay the sum of twohundred pounds." He glanced over his shoulder. "But not all at once. It's toodangerous." 
"Can you pay in services other than money?" she asked. 
"It depends." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't deal in spying, sedition, orpopery." 
"I'm not in any of those businesses," she said. "But I'm really, truly, from along way away. I need to establish a toehold here that allows me to set up animport/export business. That will mean... hmm. Do you need identity papers tomove about? Passports? Or to open a bank account, create a company, hire alawyer to represent me?" 
He shook his head. "From too far away," he muttered. "God help me, yes to all ofthose." 
"Well, then." She looked at him. "I'll need papers. Good papers, preferably realones from real people who don't need them anymore—not killed, just the usual, abirth certificate from a babe who died before their first birthday," she addedhastily. 
"You warm the cockles of my heart." He nodded slowly. "I'm glad to see youappear to have scruples. Are you sure you don't want to tell me where you comefrom?" 
She raised a finger to her lips. "Not yet. Maybe when I trust you." 
"Ah, well." He bowed. "Before you leave, may I offer you a glass of port? Just alittle drink to our future business relationship." 
"Indeed you may." She smiled, surreptitiously pushing back her glove to checkher watch. "I believe I have half an hour to spare before I must depart. Mycarriage turns back into a pumpkin at midnight." 
PART 2 
POINT Of Divergence 
History Lesson 
You are telling me that you don't know where she is?" The man standing by theglass display case radiated disbelief, from his tensed shoulders to his drawnexpression. 
Normally the contents of the case—precious relics of the 
Clan, valuable beyond belief—would have fascinated him, but right now hisattention was focused on the bearer of bad news. 
"I told you she'd be difficult." The duke's secretary was unapologetic. Hedidn't sneer, but his expression was one of thinly veiled impatience. "You are dealing with a woman who was born and raised on the other side; she was clearlygoing to be a handful right from the start. I told you that the best way to dealwith her would be to coopt her and move her in a direction she was already goingin, but you wouldn't listen. And after that business with the hired killer—" 
"That hired killer was my own blood, I'll thank you to remember." Esau's tone ofvoice was ominously low. 
"I don't care whether he was the prince-magistrate of Xian-Ju province, it wasdumb! Now you've told Angbard's men that someone outside the Clan is trying tokill her, and you've driven her underground, and you've ruined her usefulness tome. I had it all taken care of until you attacked her. And then, to go after herbut kill the wrong woman by mistake when I had everything in hand ... !" 
"You didn't tell us she was traveling in company. Or hiding in the lady Olga'srooms. Nor did we expect Olga's lady-in-waiting to get nosy and take someoneelse's bait. We're not the only ones to have problems. You said you had her asgood as under control?" Esau turned to stare at Matthias. Today the secretarywore the riding-out garb of a minor nobleman of the barbarian east: brocadejacket over long woolen leggings, a hat with a plume of peacock feathers, andriding boots. "You think forging the old man's will takes care of anything atall? Are you losing your grip?" 
"No." Matthias rested his hand idly on his sword's hilt. "Has it occurred to youthat as Angbard's heir she would have been more open to suggestions, rather thanless? Wealth doesn't necessarily translate into safety, you know, and she wasclearly aware of her own isolation. I was trying to get her under control, or atleast frightened into cooperating, by lining up the lesser families against herand positioning myself as her protector. You spooked her instead, before I couldcomplete the groundwork. You exposed her to too much too soon, and the result isour shared loss. All the more so, since someone—whoever—tried to rub her outwith Lady Olga." 
"And whose fault is it that she got away?" Esau snarled quietly. "Whose littletripwire failed?" 
"Mine, I'll admit." Matthias shrugged again. "But I'm not the one around herewho's blundering around in the dark. I really wanted to enlist her in our cause.Willingly or unwillingly, it doesn't matter. With a recognized heir in ourpocket, we could have enough votes that when we get rid of Angbard ... well. Ifthat failed, we'd be no worse off with her dead, but it was hardly a desirablegoal. It's a good thing for you that I've got some contingency plans in hand." 
"If the balance of power in the Clan tips too far toward the Lofstrom-Thorold-Hjorth axis, we risk losing what leverage we've got," warned Esau. "Never mindthe old bat's power play. What did she think she was up to, anyway? If thecouncil suspected ..." He shook his head. "You have to get this back undercontrol. Find her and neutralize her, or we likely lose all the ground we havemade in the past two years." 
"I risk losing a lot more than that," Matthias reminded him pointedly. "Why didyour people try to kill her? She was a natural dissident. More use to us alivethan dead." 
"It's not for the likes of you to question our goals." Esau glared. 
Matthias tightened his grip on his sword and turned slowly aside, keeping hiseyes on Esau the whole time. "Retract that," he said flatly. 
"I—" Esau caught his eye. A momentary nod. "Apologize." 
"We are partners in this," Matthias said quietly, "to the extent that both ournecks are forfeit if our venture comes to light. That being the case, it isessential that I know not only what your organization's intended actions are,but why you act as you do—so that I can anticipate future conflicts of interestand avoid them. Do you understand?" 
Esau nodded again. "I told you there might be preexisting orders. There wasindeed such an order," he said reluctantly. "It took time to come to light,that's all." 
"What? You mean the order for—gods below, you're still trying to kill the motherand her infant? After what, a third of a century?" 
It was Esau's turn to shrug. "Our sanctified elder never rescinded the command,and it is not for us to question his word. Once they learned of the child'scontinued existence, my cousins were honor-bound to attempt to carry out theorders." 
"That's as stupid as anything I've ever heard from the Clan council," Matthiascommented dryly. "Times change, you know." 
"/ know! But where would we be without loyalty to our forefathers?" Esau lookedfrustrated for a moment. Then he 
pointed to the glass display case. "Continuity. Without it, what would the Clanbe? Or the hidden families?" 
"Without—that?" Matthias squinted, as against a bright light. A leather beltwith a curiously worked brass buckle, a knife, a suit of clothes, a leatherboundbook. "That's not the Clan, whatever you think. That's just where the Clanbegan." 
"My ancestor, too, you know." 
Matthias shook his head. "It wasn't clever, meeting here," he murmured. 
"We're safe enough." Esau turned his back on the Founder's relics. "The questionis, what are we to do now?" 
"If you can get your relatives to stop trying to kill her, we can try to pin theblame on someone else," Matthias pointed out. "A couple of candidates suggestthemselves, mostly because they have been trying to kill her. If we do that thenwe can go back to plan A, which you'll agree is the most profitable outcome ofthis situation." 
"Not possible." Esau draw a finger across his throat. 'The elders spoke, thirty-three years ago." 
Matthias sighed. "Well, if you insist, we can play it your way. But it's goingto be a lot harder, now. I suppose if I can get my hands on her foster-motherthat will probably serve as a lure, but it's going to cost you—" 
"I believe I can arrange a gratuity if you'd take care of this loose end for us.Maybe not on the same scale as owning your own puppet countess, but sufficientrecognition of your actions." 
"Well, that would be capital. I'll set the signs and alert my agents. At leasthere's something we can agree on." 
"Indeed." 
Matthias opened the door into the outer receiving room of the cramped oldmerchant's house. "Come on." 
Esau followed Matthias out of the small storeroom and down a narrow staircase that led out into the courtyard of the house. "So what do you propose to do onceshe's dead?" 
"Do?" Matthias stopped and stared at the messenger, his expression unreadable."I'm going to see if I can salvage the situation and go right on as I wasbefore. What did you expect?" 
Esau tensed. "Do you really think you can take control of the Clan's security—even from your current position— without being an actual inner family member andClan shareholder?" 
Matthias smiled, for a moment. "Watch me." 
Gathering twilight. Miriam hid from the road behind a deadfall half buried insnow while she stripped off her outer garments. Her teeth chattering from coldas she pulled on a pair of painfully cold jeans. She folded her outfit carefullyinto the upper half of her pack, then stacked the disguise she'd started outwearing in the morning on top. Then she unfolded and secured the bike. Finallyshe hooked the bulky night-vision glasses around her face—like wearing atelescope in front of each eye, she thought—zipped the seam in the backpack thatturned it into a pair of panniers, slung them over the bike, and set off. 
The track flew past beneath her tires, the crackle of gravel and occasional popof a breaking twig loud in the forest gloom. The white coating that drapedaround her seemed to damp out all noise, and the clouds above were huge anddark, promising to drop a further layer of fine powdery snow across the scenebefore morning. 
Riding a bike wasn't exactly second nature, but the absence of other trafficmade it easier to get to grips with. The sophisticated gears were a joy to use,making even the uphill stretches at least tolerable. Seven-league boots, shethought dreamily. The other town, whatever it was called, not-Boston, was builtfor legs and bicycles. She'd have to buy one next time she went there, wheneverthat was. Despite her toast to the prospects of future business with Burgeson,she had her reservations. Poor Laws, Sedition Acts, and a cop who obliginglygave directions to a clearly bent pawnbroker—it added up to a picture that madeher acutely nervous. It's so complex! What did he mean, there's no Scotland?Until I know what their laws and customs are like it's going to be too dangerousto go back. 
The miles spun by. After an hour and a half Miriam could feel them in her calfmuscles, aching with every push on the pedals—but she was making good speed, andby the time darkness was complete the road dipped down toward the coast,paralleling the Charles River. Eventually she turned a corner, taking her intoview of a hunched figure squatting by the roadside. 
Miriam braked hard, jumped off the bike. "Brill?" she asked. 
"Miriam?" Brill's face was a bright green pool in the twilight displayed by hernight goggles. "Is that you?" 
"Yes." Miriam walked closer, then flicked her goggles up and pulled out a pocketflashlight. "Are you okay?" 
"Frozen half to death." Brill smiled shakily. "But otherwise unharmed." 
A vast wave of relief broke over Miriam. "Well, if that's all..." 
"This cloak lining is amazing," Brill added. "The post house is just past the
next bend. I've only been waiting for an hour. Shall we go?" "Sure." Miriam glanced down. "I'd better change, first." It was the work of afew minutes to disassemble the bike, pull on her outfit over her trousers, andturn the bike and panniers into a backpack disguised by a canvas cover. "Let'sget some dinner," Miriam suggested. 
"Your magic goggles, and lantern." Brill coughed discreetly. 
"Oh. Of course." Together they fumbled their way through the darkness toward the
promise of food and a bed, be it ever so humble. 
Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, Paulette's doorbell 
chimed. "Who is it?" she called from behind the closed door. 
"It's us! Let us in!" She opened the door. Brill stumbled in 
first, followed by Miriam. "Trick or treat?" 
"Trick." Paulette stood back. "Hey, witchy!" 
"It is, isn't it." Miriam closed the door. "It itches, too. I 
don t know how to put this discreetly—have you got any nea spray?" 
"Fleas! Away with you!" Paulette held her nose. "How did it go?" 
"I'll tell you in a few minutes. Over a coffee, once I've made it to the

bathroom—oh shit." Miriam stared up the staircase at Brilliana's vanishing feet."Well at least that's sorted." She dropped her pack onto the carpet; it landedwith a dull thump."'Scuse me, but I am going to strip. It's an emergency." 
"Wait right there," said Paulie, hurrying upstairs. 
By the time she returned, bearing a T-shirt and a pair of sweats from the
luggage, Miriam had her boots off and was down to outer garments. "Damn, central

heating," she said wonderingly. "There's nothing to make you appreciate it like
three days in a Massachusetts winter without it. Well, two and a half." 
"Did you got where you wanted to go?" Paulie asked, pausing. 
"Yeah." Miriam cracked a wide, tired grin. 
"Give me five, baby!" 
High fives were all very well, but when Miriam winced Paulette got the message.

"Use the living room," she said. "Get the hell out of those rags and then go up

to my bedroom, okay? You can use the bedroom shower." 
"You're a babe, babe." Miriam nodded. She pulled a face. "Oh shit. I think I'm
coming on." 

"That's no fun. Look, go. I'll sort the mess out later, 'kay?" 

An hour later Miriam—infinitely warmer and cleaner— sat curled at one end ofPaulette's living room sofa with a mug of strong tea. Brill, wrapped in aborrowed bathrobe, sat at the other end. "So tell me, how was your walk in thewoods?" Paulette asked Brill. "Meet any bears?" 
"Bears?" Brill looked puzzled. "No, and a good thing—" she caught Miriam's eye."Oh. No, it was uneventful." 
"Well then." Paulie focused on Miriam. "You had more luck, huh? Not just a walkin the woods?" 
"Well, apart from Brill half freezing to death while I was trying not to getarrested, it was fine." 
"Getting. Arrested." Paulette picked up the teapot and poured herself a mug."You're not getting away with that, Beckstein. Didn't they accept your presspass or something?" 
"It's Boston, but not as we know it," Miriam explained. "Uh, about two milessoutheast of here I found myself on the edge of town. They speak English andthey drive automobiles, but that's about as far as the similarities go." Shepulled out her dictaphone and turned the volume up: "zeppe-lin overhead, with aBritish flag on it! Uh, four propellers, sounds like diesel engines. There goesanother steam car. They seem to make them big deliberately, I don't think I'veseen anything smaller than a fifty-eight Caddy yet." 
Paulette closed her mouth with a visible effort. "Did you take photographs?" sheasked. 
"Uh-huh." Miriam grinned and held up her wrist. "You'll have them just as soonas I get my Casio secret agent watch plugged into the computer. I knew thoseInspector Gadget toys would come in handy sooner or later." 
"Toys." Paulette rolled her eyes. 
"Well, now we've got a whole new world to not understand," said Miriam. "Anyconstructive suggestions?" 
"Yep." Paulette put her mug down. "Before you go over again, girl, we work outwhat you're going to do. You need a lawyer or business manager over there,right? And you need money, and somewhere to live, and we need to find a place onthe far side that's away from human habitation in Brill's world and we can renton our own side. Right? And we need to understand what you're messing withbefore you get yourself arrested. So spill it!" 
Miriam reached into her bag and pulled out two books then dumped them on thetable with a bump. "History lesson time. Watch out for the one with the brownpaper cover," she warned. "It bites." 
Paulette opened mat one first, looked at the flyleaf, and sucked in her breath."Communist?" she asked. 
"Nope, it's much weirder than that." Miriam picked up the 
other book. "I'll start with this one, you start with that one, then we'llswap." 
Paulette glanced at the window. "It's nearly eleven, for Pete's sake! You want Ishould pull an overnighter?" 
"No, that won't be necessary." Miriam put her book down and looked at her. "I'vebeen meaning to raise this for a while. I've been staying here, and I didn'tmean to. I really appreciate you putting Brill up, but two guests is two toomany and—" "Shut up," Paulette said fiercely. "You're going to stay here till you've toldme what you've seen and gotten your act together to move out properly! And hitthe deadline," she muttered under her breath. 
"Deadline?" Miriam raised an eyebrow. 
"The Clan summit," Brill explained tonelessly. She yawned. "I told Paulie aboutit." 
"You can't let them do it!" Paulette insisted. 
"Do what?" Miriam blinked. 
"Move to declare you incompetent and make you a permanent ward of whoever theClan deems appropriate," Brill explained. She looked puzzled. "Didn't you know?That's what Olga said Baron Oliver was muttering about." 
Iris raised the cup of coffee to her lips with both hands. She looked a littleshaky today, but Miriam knew better than to make a fuss. "So what did you donext?" she asked. 
"I went to bed." Miriam leaned back, then glanced around. The level ofbackground noise in the museum food court was high and all their neighborsseemed to be otherwise preoccupied. "What else could I do? Beltaigne is nearlyfive months away, and I'm not going to let the bastards stampede me." 
"But the other place, this new one—" Iris sounded distracted—"doesn't it takeyou a whole day to go each way, even if you have somewhere to stay at the otherend?" 
"There's no point going off half-cocked, Ma." Miriam idly opened a tube of sugarcrystals and stirred them into her 
latte. "Look, if Baron Hjorth wants to declare me incompetent, he's going tohave to come up with some evidence. He might shove it through if I'm not thereto defend myself, but I figure the strongest defense I can get is proof thatthere's a conspiracy out there—a conspiracy that murdered my birth-mother and istrying to murder me, too, not just the petty shit he and my—grandmother—areshoveling at me. A second-strongest defense is evidence that I may be erratic,but I've come up with something valuable. Now, the assassin's locket takes me tothis other world—call it world three—and I've got to wonder. Does this meanthey're not part of the Clan or families? They're working on the other side andin world three, while the Clan works on the other side and here, call here worldtwo and Niejwein is part of world one. I'm, I guess, the first member of theClan to actually become aware of world three and be able to get over there. Thatmeans that I can see about finding whoever's sending the killers—see defenseone, above—or see about opening up a whole new trade opportunity—see defensetwo, above. I'm going to tie the whole story up with a bow and hand it to them.And mess up Baron Hjorth's game into the bargain." She rolled up the empty sugartube into a tight little wad and threw it at the back of the booth. 
"That sounds like my daughter," Iris said thoughtfully. She grinned. "Don't letthe bastards realize you've got the drop on them until it's too late for them tododge." She put the smile aside. "Morris would be proud of you." 
"Urn." Miriam nodded, unable to trust her tongue. "How have you been? How didyou get away from them tonight?" 
"Well, you know, I haven't had much trouble with being under surveillancelately." Iris sipped her coffee. "Funny how they don't seem to be able to tellone old woman in a motorized blue wheelchair from another, isn't it?" 
"Ma, you shouldn't have!" 
"What, give some of my friends an opportunity for a little adventure?" Irissnorted and pushed her bifocals up her nose. Slyly: "Just because my daughterthinks she can go haring off to other worlds, running away from her problems—" 
"It's the source of my goddamn problems, not the solution," Miriam interrupted. 
"Well good, just as long as you understand that." Iris met her eyes with acoolly unreadable expression that slowly moderated into one of affection."You're grown up now and there's not a lot I can teach you. Just as well really,one day I won't be around to do the teaching and it'd be kind of embarrassingif—" 
"—Mother!" 
"Don't you 'mother' me! Listen, I raised you to face facts and deal with theworld as it really is, not to pretend that if you stick your head in the sandproblems will go away. I'm in late middle age and I'm damned if I'm not going toinflict my hard-earned wisdom on my only daughter." She looked mildly disgusted."Come to think of it, I wish someone had beaten it into me when I was a child.Pah. But anyway. You're playing with fire, and I would really hate it if you gotburned. You're going to try and track down these assassins from anotheruniverse, aren't you? What do you think they are?" 
"I think—" Miriam paused. "They're like the Clan and the families," she saidfinally. "Only they travel between world one and world three, while the Clantravel between world one and world two, our world. I figure they decided theClan were a threat a long time ago and that's probably something to do with,with why they tried to nail my mother. All those years ago. And they're smallerand weaker than the Clan, that much seems obvious, so I can maybe set up inworld three, their stronghold, before they notice me. I think." 
"Ambitious." Iris didn't crack a smile. "What did I tell you when you wereyoung, about not jumping to conclusions?" 
"Um. You know better? Is there something you haven't been telling me?" 
Iris nodded sharply. "Can you permit your mother to keep one or two things toherself?" 
"Guess so." Miriam shrugged uncomfortably. "Can you give your daughter anyhints?" 
"Only this." Iris met her gaze unflinchingly. "Firstly, do you really thinkyou'd have been hidden from the families 
for all these years without someone over there covering your trail?" 
"Ma—" 
"I can't tell you for sure," she added, "but I think someone may have beenwatching over you. Someone who didn't want you dragged into all this—at leastnot until you were good and ready to look out for yourself." 
Miriam shook her head. "Is that all? You think I've got a fairy godmother?" 
"Not exactly." Iris finished her coffee. "But here's a 'secondly' for you tothink about. Shortly after you surfaced, the strangers, these assassins, startedhunting for you. To say nothing of the second bunch who tried to wipe out this Olga person. Doesn't that suggest something? What about that civil war among thefamilies that you told me about?" 
"Are you trying to suggest it's part of some sixty-year-old feud?" Miriamdemanded. "Or that it isn't over?" 
"Not exactly. I'm wondering if the sixty-year-old feud wasn't part of thisbusiness, if you follow my drift. Like, started by outsiders meddling for theirown purposes." 
"That's—" Miriam paused for thought—"Paranoid! I mean, why—" 
"What better way to weaken a powerful enemy than to get it fighting itself?"Iris asked. 
"Oh." Miriam was silent for a while. "You're saying that because of who I am—nothing more, just because of who my parents were—I'm the focus of a civil war?" 
"Possibly. And you may just have reignited it by crawling out of the woodwork."Iris looked thoughtful. "Do you have any better suggestions? Are you involved inanyming else that might explain what's going on?" 
"Roland—" Miriam stopped. Iris stared at her. "You said not to trust any ofthem," Miriam continued slowly, "but I think I can trust him. Up to a point." 
Iris met her eyes. "People do the strangest things for money and love," shesaid, a curious expression on her face. "I should know." She chuckledhumorlessly. "Watch your back, dear. And... call me if you need me. I don'tpromise 
I'll be there to help—with my health that would be rash— but I'll do my best."            
• ¦ 
The next morning Paulette arrived back at the house around noon, whistlingjauntily. "I did it!" she declared, startling Miriam out of the history book shewas working up a headache over. "We move in tomorrow!" 
"We do?" Miriam shook her head as Brill came in behind Paulie and closed the door, carefully wiping the snow off her boots on the mat just inside. 
"We do!" Paulette threw something at her; reaching out instinctively, Miriamgrabbed a bunch of keys. 
"Whereto?" 
"The office of your dreams, madam chief high corporate executive!" 
"You found somewhere?" Miriam stood up. 
"Not only have I found somewhere, I've rented it for six months up front."Paulette threw down a bundle of papers on the living room table. "Look. Athousand square feet of not-entirely-brilliant office space not far fromCambridgeport. The main thing in its favor is a downstairs entrance and abackyard with a high wall around it, and access. On-street parking, which is aminus. But it was cheap—about as cheap as you can get anything near thewaterfront for these days, anyway." Paulie pulled a face. "Used to belong to asmall and not very successful architect's practice, then they moved out orretired or something and I grabbed a three-year lease." 
"Okay." Miriam sighed. "What's the damage?" 
"Ten thousand bucks deposit up front, another ten thousand in rent. About eighthundred to get gas and power hooked up, and we're going to get a lovely billfrom We the Peepul in a couple of months, bleeding us hard enough to giveDracula anemia. Anyway, we can move in tomorrow. It could really use a newcarpet and a coat of paint inside, but it's open plan and there's a smallkitchen area." 
"The backyard looked useful," Brill said hesitantly. 
"Paulie took you to see it?" 
"Yeah." Brill nodded. Where 'd she pick that up from? Miriam wondered: Maybe shewas beginning to adjust, after all. 
"What did you think of it?" Miriam asked as Paulette hung her coat up and headedupstairs on some errand. 
"That it's where ordinary people workl There's nowhere for livestock, not enoughlight for needlework or spinning or tapestry, not enough ventilation for dyeingor tanning, not enough water for brewing—" She shrugged. "But it looks verynice. I've slept in worse palaces." 
"Livestock, tanning, and fabric all take special types of building here," Miriamsaid. "This will be an office. Open-plan. For people to work with papers. Hmm.The yard downstairs. What did you think of that?" 
"Well. First we went in through a door and up a staircase like that one there,narrow—the royal estate agent, is that right? took us up there. There's a roomat the top with a window overlooking the stairs, and that is an office for asecretary. I thought it rather sparse, and there was nowhere for the secretary'sguards to stand duty, but Paulie said it was good. Then there is a short passagepast a tiny kitchen, to a big office at the back. The windows overlooking theyard have no shutters, but peculiar plastic slats hung inside. And it was dim.Although there were lights in the ceiling, like in the kitchen here." 
"Long lighting tubes." Miriam nodded. "And the back?" 
"A back door opens off the corridor onto a metal fire escape. It goes down intothe yard. We went there and the walls are nearly ten feet high. There is a biggate onto the back road, but it was locked. A door under the fire escape opensinto a storage shed. I could not see into any other windows from inside theyard. Is that what you wanted to know?" 
Miriam nodded. "I think Paulie's done good. Probably." Hope there's somethingappropriate on the far side, in "world three," she thought. "Okay, I'm going tostart on a shopping list of things we need to move in there. If it works out,I'll start ferrying stuff over to the other side—then make a trip through to thefar side, to see if we're in the right 
place." She grinned. "If this works, I will be very happy." And I won't have tofork out a second deposit for somewhere more useful, she noted mentally. 
"How was your reading?" Paulie asked, coming downstairs again. 
"Confusing." Miriam rubbed her forehead. "This history book—" she tapped thecover of the "legal" one—"is driving me nuts." 
"Nuts? What's wrong with it?" 
"Everything!" Miriam raised her hands in disgust. "Okay, look. I don't know muchabout English history, but it's got this civil war in the sixteen-forties, goes on and on about some dude called the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell. I lookedhim up in Encarta and yes, he's there, too. I didn't know the English had acivil war, and it gets better: They had a revolution in 1688, too! Did you knowthat? I sure didn't, and it's not in Encarta—but I didn't trust it, so I checkedBritannica and it's kosher. Okay, so England has a lot of history, and it's allin the wrong order." 
She sat down on the sofa. "Then I got to the seventeen-forties and everythingwent haywire." 
"Haywire. Like, someone discovered a time machine, went back, and killed theirgrandfather?" 
"Might as well have." Miriam rolled her eyes. "The Young Pretender—look, I'm notmaking these names up—sails over from France in 1745 and invades Scotland. Andin this book, he got to crown himself king in Edinburgh." 
"Young pretender—what did he pretend to be?" 
"King. Listen, in our world, he did the same—then he marched on London and gothimself spanked, hard, by King George. That's George the first, not the KingGeorge the thingummy who lost the war of Independence." 
"I think I need an aspirin," said Paulette. 
"What this means is mat in the far side, England actually lost Scotland in 1745.They fought a war with the Scots in 1746, but the French joined in and whackedtheir fleet in the channel. So they whacked the French back in the Caribbean, 
and the Dutch joined in and whacked the Spanish-—settling old scores—and thenthe Brits, while their back was turned. It's all a crazy mess. And somewhere inthe middle of this mess things went wrong, wrong, wrong. According to Bri­tannica, Great Britain got sucked into something called the Seven Years' Warwith France, and signed a peace treaty in 1763. The Brits got to keep Canada butgave back Guadaloupe and pissed off the Germans, uh, Prussians. Whatever thedifference is. But according to this looking-glass history, every time theEnglish—not the Brits, there's no such country—started getting somewhere, theking of Scotland tried to invade—there were three battles in as many years atsome place called New Castle. And then somewhere in the middle of this, KingGeorge, the second King George, gets himself killed on a battlefield in Germany,and is succeeded by King Frederick, and I am totally confused because there isno King Frederick in Britannica." 
Miriam stopped. Paulette was looking bright, fascinated— and a million milesaway. "That was when the French invaded," she said. 
"Huh?" Paulie shook her head. "The French? Invaded where?" 
"England. See, Frederick was the crown prince, right? He got sent over here, tothe colonies as a royal governor or something—"Prince of the Americas"—becausehis stepmother the queen really hated him. So when his father died he was overhere in North America—and the French and Scottish simultaneously invadedEngland. Whose army, and previous king, had just been whacked. And theysucceeded." 
"Um, does this mean anything?" Paulette looked puzzled. 
"Don't you see?" demanded Miriam. "Over on the far side, in world three, thereis no United States of America: Instead there's this thing called New Britain,with a king-emperor! And they're at war with the French Empire—or cold war, orwhatever. The French invaded and conquered the British Isles something like two hundred and fifty years ago, and have held it ever since, while the Britishroyal family moved to North America. I'm still putting it all together. 
Like, where we had a constitutional congress and declared independence andfought a revolutionary war, they had something called the New Settlement and setup a continental parliament, with a king and a house of lords in charge." Shefrowned. "And that's as much as I understand." 
"Huh." Paulette reached out and took the book away from her. "I saw you looklike that before, once," she said. "It was when Bill Gates first began spoutingabout digital nervous systems and the net. Do you need to go lie down for a bit?Maybe it'll make less sense in the morning." 
"No, no," Miriam said absently. "Look, I'm trying to figure out what isn'tthere. Like, they've had a couple of world wars—but fought with wooden sailingships and airships. There's a passage at the end of the book about the 'miracleof corpuscular transsubstantiation'—I think they mean atomic power but I'm notsure. They've got the germ theory of disease and steam cars, but I didn't seeany evidence of heavier-than-air flight or antibiotics or gasoline engines. Thewhole industrial revolution has been delayed—they're up to about the 1930s inelectronics. And the social thing is weird. I saw an opium pipe in thatpawnbroker's, and I passed a bar selling alcohol, but they're all wearing hatsand keeping their legs covered. It's not like our 1920s, at least not more thanskin-deep. And I can't get a handle on it," she added frustratedly. "I'll justhave to go over there again and try not to get myself arrested." 
"Hmm." Paulette pulled up a carrier bag and dumped it on the table. "I've beendoing some thinking about that." 
"You have? What's about?" 
"Well," Paulie began carefully, "first thing is, nobody can arrest you and holdyou if you've got one of these lockets, huh? Or the design inside it. Brill—" 
"It's the design," Brilliana said suddenly. "It's the family pattern." Sheglanced at Paulette. "I didn't understand the history either," she saidplaintively. "Some of the men ..." she tailed off. 
"What about them?" Asked Miriam. 
"They had it tattooed on their arms," she said shyly. "They said so, anyway. Sothey could get away if someone 
caught them. I remember my uncle talking about it once. They even shaved theirscalp and tattooed it there in reverse, then grew their hair back—so that ifthey were imprisoned they could shave in a mirror and use it to escape." 
Miriam stared at her in slack-jawed amazement. "That's brilliant!" she said."Hang on—" her hand instinctively went to her head. "Hmm." 
"You won't have to shave," said Paulie, "I know exactly what to do. You knowthose henna temporary tattoos you can get? There's this dot-com that takesimages you upload and turns them into tattoos, then sends them to you by mailorder. They're supposed to last for a few days. I figure if you put one on theinside of each wrist, then wear something with sleeves that cover it—" 
"Wow." Miriam instinctively glanced at the inside of her left wrist, smooth andhairless, unblemished except for a small scar she'd acquired as a child. "Butyou said you'd been thinking about something else." 
"Yup." Paulette upended her shopping bag on the table. "Behold: a pair ofdigital walkie-talkies, good for private conversations in a ten-mile radius! Andlo, a hands-free kit." 
"This is going to work," Miriam said, a curious fixed smile creeping across herface. "I can feel it in my bones." She looked up. "Okay. So tell me, Paulie,what do you know about the history of patent law?" 
It took Miriam another day to work up the nerve to phone Roland. Before she'dgone back to Niejwein, to the disastrous plot and counterplot introduction tocourt life that had culminated in two attempts to murder her on the same night,they'd exchanged anonymous mobile phones. If she went outside she could phonehim, either his voice mail or his own real-life ear, and dump all the unwantedcomplexities of her new life on a sympathetic shoulder. He'd understand: Thatwas half the attraction that had sparked their whirlwind affair. He probablygrasped the headaches she was facing better than anyone else, Brill included.Brill was still not 
much more than a teenager with a sheltered upbringing. But Roland knew just hownasty things could get. If I trust him, she thought wistfully. Someone hadmurdered the watchman and installed the bomb in the warehouse. She'd told Roland about the place, and then ... correlation does not imply causation, she toldherself. 
In the end she compromised halfway, taking the T into town and finding a dinerwith a good range of exit options before switching on the phone and dialing.That way, even if someone had grabbed Roland and was actively tracing the call,they wouldn't find her before she ended the call. It was raining, and she had aseat next to the window, watching the slug-trails of rain on the glass as herlatte cooled while she tried to work up her nerve to call him. 
When she dialed, the phone rang five times before he picked it up, a near-eternity in which she changed her mind about the wisdom of calling him severaltimes. But it was too late: She was committed now. "Hello?" he asked. 
"Roland. It's me." 
"Hello, you." Concern roughened his voice: "I've been really worried about you.Where are—" 
"Wait." She realized she was breathing too fast, shallow breaths that didn'tseem to be bringing in enough oxygen. "You're on this side. Is anyone with you?" 
"No, I'm taking a day off work. Even your uncle gives his troops leavesometimes. He's been asking about you, though. As if he knows I've got some kindof channel to you. When are you going to come in? What have you been doing? Olgahad (lie craziest story—" 
"If it's about the incident in her apartment, it's true." Miriam stopped,glanced obliquely at the window to check for reflections. There was nobody nearher, just a barrista cleaning the coffee machine on the counter at the otherside of the room. "Is Edsger around? He hasn't gone missing or anything?" 
"Edsger?" Roland sounded uncertain. "What do you know about—" 
"Edsger. Courier on the Boston-New York run." Quickly Miriam outlined herdeparture from the Clan's holdings in 
the capital city Niejwein, her encounter with the courier on an Accela express."Did he arrive alright?" 
"Yes. I think so." Roland paused. "So you're telling me somebody tried to killyou in the warehouse as well?" A note of anger crept into his voice. "When Ifind out who—" 
"You'll do nothing," Miriam interrupted. "And you're not going to tell me youcan provide security. There's a mole in the organization, Roland, they'd workaround you—and I've found out something more interesting. There's a whole bunchof world-walkers you don't know about, and they're coming in from yet anotherworld, where everything's different. What we were talking about, the wholetechnology transfer thing, it can work there, too. In fact, that's what I'mdoing now, with Brill. The politics—do you know anything about BaronessHildegarde's interests? Olga said she's going to try to get the Clan committeeto declare me incompetent. Before that happens I want to be able to make herlook like an idiot. I'm working on the other side, Roland, in the third world,building a front company. So I'm going to stay out of touch for quite a bitlonger." 
"That makes sense. Can I see you?" he asked. A pause: "I really think we've gota lot to work out. I don't know about you." Another pause, "I was hoping wecould ..." 
This was the hardest part. "I don't think so," Miriam heard herself saying. "I'dlove to spend some time with you, but I've got so much to do. And there isn'tenough time to do it. I can't risk you being followed, or Angbard deciding toreel me in too soon. I want to, but—" 
"I get it." He sounded distant. 
"I'm not dumping you! It's just I, I need some time." She was breathing too fastagain. "Later. Give me a week to sort things out, then we'll see." 
"Oh. A week?" The distant tone vanished. "Okay, a week. I'll wait, somehow.You'll take care of yourself? You're sure you're safe where you are?" 
"For now," Miriam affirmed, crossing her fingers. "And I'll have a lot more totell you then, I'll need your advice." And everything else. The urge to drop herresolve, grab any chance 
to see him, was so strong she had trouble resisting. Keep it businesslike, fornow. "I love you," she said impulsively. 
"Me too. I mean, I love you, too." It came out in a tongue-tied rush, followedby a silence pregnant with unspoken qualifications. 
"I'd better go," she said at last. 
"Uh. Okay, then." 
"Bye." She ended the call and stared bleakly at the rain outside the window. Hercoffee was growing cold. Now why did I really say that? She wondered, puzzled:Did I really mean it? She'd said those words before, to her husband— now ex­husband—and she'd meant them at the time. Why did this feel different? 
"Damn it, I'm a fool," she told herself gloomily, muttering under her breath sothat the waitress at the far end of the bar took pains to avoid looking at her.I'm a fool for love, and if , I don't handle this carefully, I could end up adead fool. Damn it, why did I have to take that locket in the first place? 
The raindrops weren't answering, so she finished her latte hurriedly and left. 
They spent the next three days exercising Miriam's magic credit card discreetly.Angbard hadn't put a stop on it. Evidently the message had gotten through: Don'tbug me, I'm busy staying alive. A garden shed, a deluxe shooting hide, andenough gas-powered tools to outfit a small farm vanished into the trunk ofMiriam's rental car in repeated runs between Home Depot and Costco and the newoffice near Cambridge-port. Miriam didn't much like the office—it had a residualsmell of stale tobacco and some strange coffee-colored stains on the carpet thatnot even an industrial carpet cleaner could get rid of—but she had to admit thatit would do. 
They moved a couple of sofa beds into the rear office, and paid a locksmith tocome around and beef up the door frame with deadbolts, and install an intruderalarm and closed-circuit TV cameras covering the yard and both entrances. Asmall fridge and microwave appeared in the kitchen, a tele-
vision set and video in the front office. Paulette and Miriam groaned at eachother about their aches and pains, and even Brill hesitantly joined in thebitching and moaning after they unloaded the flat-pack garden shed. "This hadbetter be worth it," Miriam said on day three as she swallowed a Tenolol tabletand a chaser of ibuprofen on the back of her lunchtime sub. 
"You're going across this afternoon?" asked Paulie. 
"I'm going in half an hour," Miriam corrected her. "First trip to see if it'sokay. Then as many short ones as I can manage, to ferry supplies over. I'll takeBrill through to help get the shed up and covered, then come back to plotexpedition one. You happy with die shopping list?" 
"I mink so." Paulette signed. "This isn't what I was expecting when we gotstarted." 
"I know." Miriam grinned. "But I think this is going to work out. Listen, you'vebeen going crazy with the both of us living on top of you for the past week, butonce we're gone we'll be out of your hair for at least five days. Why don't youkick back and relax? Get in some of that partying you keep moaning aboutmissing?" 
"Because it won't be the same without you! I was planning on showing you some ofthe good life. Get you hitched up with a date, anyway." 
Miriam sobered. "I don't need a date right now," she said, looking worried—andwistful. 
"You're—" Paulette raised an eyebrow. "You still hooked on him?" 
Miriam nodded. "It hasn't gone away. We spoke yesterday. I keep wanting to seehim." 
Paulette caught her arm. "Take it from me: don't. I mean, really, don't. If he'sfor real, he'll be waiting for you. If he isn't, you'd be running such a hugerisk—" 
Miriam nodded, wordlessly. 
"I figured that was what it was," Paulie said softly. "You want him whether ornot he's messed up with the shits who're trying to kill you or disinherit you,is that right?" 
"I think he's probably got his reasons," Miriam said reluc-
tantly. "Whatever he's doing. And I don't think he's working for them. But—" 
"Listen, no one is worth what those fuckers want to do to you. Understand?" 

"But if he isn't—" it came out as more of a whine than Miriam intended. She 
shook her head. 
"Then it will all sort itself out, won't it?" said Paulette. "Eventually." 
"Maybe." 
They broke off as the noise of the door opening downstairs reached them. Two

pairs of eyes went to the camera. It was Brill, coming in from the cold: She'dbeen out shopping on foot, increasingly sure-footed in the social basics of day-to-day life in the twenty-first century. "I look at her, and I think she'll belike you when she's done some growing up," Paulette commented quietly. 
"Maybe." Miriam stood up. "What've you got?" she called down the stairwell. 
"Food for the trip." Brill grinned. Then her smile turned thoughtful: "Do you
have a spare gun?" she asked. 
"Huh? Why?" 
"There are wild animals in the hills near Hasleholm," she said matter-of-factly. 
"Oops." Miriam frowned. "Do you really think it's a problem?" 
"Yes." Brill nodded. "But I can shoot. He is very conservative, my father, and

insisted I learn the feminine virtues— I deportment, dancing, embroidery,

and marksmanship. There 
are wolves, and I'd rather have a long gun for dealing with them." Paulette
rolled her eyes. 

"Okay. Then I guess we'll have to look into getting you a hunting rifle as soonas possible. In the meantime, there's the pistol I took from the courier. Wheredid you stash it?" 
"Back at Paulette's home. But I really could use something bigger in case ofwolves or bears," Brill said seriously. She shoved her hair back out of the wayand sniffed. "At least a pistol will protect me from human problems." 
"Deep joy. Try not to shoot any Clan couriers, huh?" 
"I'm not stupid." Brill sniffed again. 
"I know: I just don't want you taking any risks," Miriam added. "Okay, kids,

it's time to move. And I'm not taking you through just yet, Brill." She reachedfor her heavy hiking jacket, pulled it on, and patted the right pocket to checkher own gun was in place. "Wish me luck," she said, as she walked toward theback door and the yard beyond. 
Cleaning the AIR 
Miriam snapped into awareness teetering on the edge of an abyss. She flungherself sideways instinctively, grabbing for a tree branch—caught it, took two desperate strides as the ground under her feet crumbled, then felt her boots grip solid 
ground that didn't crumble under her feet. 
"Shit." She glanced to her left. A large patch of muddy soil lay exposed in themiddle of the snowscape, exposed on the crest of a steep drop to a half-frozenstreambed ten feet below and twenty feet beyond what would be the side of theyard. "Oh shit." She gasped for breath, icy terror forcing her to inhale thebitterly cold air. Horrified, she looked down into the stream. If we 'd rentedthe next unit over, or if I'd carried Brill over—a ducking in this sort ofweather could prove fatal. Or could I have come through at all? She glanced up.She'd been lucky with the tree, a young elm that grew straight and tall for thefirst six feet. The forest hereabouts was thin. / need to ask Brill what elseshe hasn't 
thought to tell me about world-walking, she realized. Perhaps her mother wasright about her being over-confident. A vague memory floated up from somewhere,something about much of Boston being built on landfill reclaimed from the bay.What if I'd tried this somewhere out at sea? she thought, and leaned against thetree for a minute or two to catch her breath. Suddenly, visions of comingthrough with her feet embedded in a wall or hovering ten feet above a lakedidn't seem comical at all. 
She closed her locket and carefully pocketed it, then looked around. "It'll do,"she muttered to herself. "As long as I avoid that drop." She stared at itcarefully. "Hmm." She'd gone through about a foot away from the left-hand wallof their yard: The drop-off was steepest under the wall. The yard was abouttwelve feet wide, which meant— 
"Right here." She took out her knife and carved a blaze on the tree around headheight. Then she dropped her backpack and turned around, slowly, trying to takein the landscape. 
The stream ran downhill toward the river a quarter of a mile away, but it wasnext to invisible through the woods, even with the barren winter branchesblocking less of the view than the summer's profusion of green. In the otherdirection trees stretched away as far as she could see. "I could walk for milesin this, going in circles," Miriam told herself. "Hmm." 
She carved another blaze on a tree, then began cautiously probing into thewoods, marking trees as she went. After an hour she'd established that there wasno sudden change in the landscape for a couple of hundred yards in twodirections away from her little backyard. Sheer random chance had brought herthrough in nearly the worst possible place. 
"Okay," she told herself, squeezing her forehead as if she could cram theheadache back inside the bones of her skull. "Here goes." And this time, shepulled down her left sleeve and looked at the chilly skin on the inside of herwrist—pale and almost blue with cold, save for the dark green-and-brown designstippled in dye below the pulse point. 
It worked. 
That night, Miriam didn't sleep well. She had a splitting headache and felt sickto her stomach, an unfamiliar nausea for one who didn't suffer migraines. Butshe'd managed a second trip after dark, only four hours after the first, andreturned after barely an hour with aching back and arms (from lifting the heavyshooting hide and a basic toolkit) and a bad case of the shivers. 
Brilliana fussed over her, feeding her moussaka and grilled octopus from a Greektake-out she'd discovered somewhere—Brill had taken to exploring strangecuisines with the glee of a suddenly liberated gastronome—and readied her next consignment. "I feel like a Goddamn mule," Miriam complained over a bottle ofwine. "If only there were two of us!" 
"I'd do it if I could," Brill commented, stung. "You know I would!" 
"Yes, yes... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It's just—I can carry eightypounds on my back, just. A hundred and twenty? I can't even pick it up. I wish Icould take more. I should take up weight lifting ..." 
"That's what the couriers all do. Why don't you use a walking frame?" askedBrill. 
"A walking—is this something the Clan does that I don't know about?" 
Brill shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said, "I never saw how they operatethe post service. But surely—if we get a very heavy pack ready, and lift it soyou can walk into it backwards men just lock your knees, wouldn't that work?" 
"It might." Miriam pulled a face. "I might also twist an ankle. Which would bebad, in the middle of nowhere." 
"What happens if you try to go through with something on the ground?" Brillasked. 
"I don't." Miriam refilled her glass. "It was one of the first things I tried.If you jump on my back I can just about carry you for thirty seconds or sobefore I fall over—that's long enough. But I tried with a sofa a while ago. Allthat happened was, I got a splitting headache and threw up in the toilet. Idon't know how I managed it the first time, sitting in a 
swivel chair, except maybe it was something to do with its wheels—there wasn'tmuch contact with the floor." 
"Oh, right." 
"Which says interesting things about the family trade," Miriam added. "They'relimited by weight and volume in what they can ship. Two and a half tons a week.If we open up 'world three' that'll go down, precipitously, although the three-way trade may be worth more. We've got to work out how to run an import/exportbusiness that doesn't run into the mercantilist zero-sum trap." 
"The what?" Brill looked blank. 
Miriam sighed. "Old, old theory. It's the idea that there are only a finitequantity of goods of fixed value, so if you ship them from one place to another,the source has to do without. People used to think all trade worked that way.What happens is, if you ship some commodity to a place where it's scarce, sooneror later the price drops—deflates— while you're buying up so much of the supplythat the price rises at the source." 
"Isn't that the way things always work?" Brill asked. 
"Nope." Miriam took a sip of wine. "I'm drinking too much of this stuff, tooregularly. Hmm, where was I? This guy called Adam Smith worked it out about twocenturies ago, in mis world. Turns out you can create value by working withpeople to refine goods or provide services. Another guy called Marx worked onSmith's ideas a bit further a century later, and though lots of people dislikethe prescription he came up with, his analysis of how capitalism works is quitegood. Labor— what people do—enhances the value of raw materials. This table isworth more than the raw timber it's made out of, for example. We can createvalue, wealth, what-have-you, if we can just move materials to where the labor input on them enhances their value the most." She drifted off, staring at the TVset, which was showing a talk show with the volume muted. (Brill said it mademore sense that way.) "The obvious thing to move is patents," she murmured."Commercially valuable ideas." 
"You think you can use the talent to create wealth, instead of movine itaround?" Brill looked nuzzled. 
"Yes, that's it exactly." Miriam put her glass down. "A large gold nugget is nouse to a man who's dying of thirst in a desert. By the same token, a gold nuggetmay be worth a lot more to a jeweler, who can turn it into something valuableand salable, than it is to someone who just wants to melt it down and use it ascoin. Jewelry usually sells for more than its own weight in raw materials,doesn't it? That's because of me labor invested in it. Or the scarcity of theend product, a unique work of art. The Clan seems to have gotten hung up onship; ping raw materials around as a way of making money. I want to ship ideasaround, instead, ideas that people can use to create value locally—in eachworld—actually create wealth rather than just cream off a commission fortransporting it." 
"And you want to eventually turn my world into this one, Brilliana said calmly. 
"Yes." Miriam looked back at her. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing, do youthink?" 
Brill gestured at the TV set. "Put one of those, showing that, in everypeasant's house? Are you kidding? I think it's the most amazingly wonderfulthing I've ever heard of!" She frowned. "My momer would say that's typical ofme, and my father would get angry and perhaps beat me for it. But I'm right, andthey're wrong." 
"Ah, the self-confidence of youth." Miriam picked up her glass again. "Doesn'tthe idea of, like, completely wiping out the culture of your own people worryyou? I mean, so much of what we've got here is such complete shit—" She stopped.Brill's eyes were sparkling—with anger, not amusement. 
"You really think so? Go live in a one-room hut for a couple of years, bearingilliterate brats half of whom will die before they're five! Without a fancytoilet, or even a thunder-mug to piss in each morning. Go do that, where theonly entertainment is once a week going to the temple where some fat stupidpriest invokes the blessings of Sky Father and his court on your heads and praysthat the harvest doesn't fail again like it did five years ago, when two of yourchildren starved to death in front of your eyes. Then tell me that yourculture's shit!" 
Miriam tried to interrupt: "Hey, what about—" 
Brill steamed right on. "Shut up. Even the children of the well-off—like me—growup living four to a room and wearing hand-me-downs. We are married off towhoever our parents think will pay best bride-price. Because we're members ofthe outer families we don't die of childbed fever—not since the Clan so graciously gave us penicillin tablets and morphine for the pain—but we get tobear child after child because it's our duty to the Clan! Are you insane, mylady? Or merely blind? And it's better for us in the families than for ordinarywomen, better by far. Did you notice that within the Clan you had rights? Orthat outside the Clan, in the ordinary aristocracy, you didn't? We have at leastone ability that is as important, more important, than what's between our legs:another source of status. But those ordinary peasants you feel such guilt fordon't have any such thing. There's a better life awaiting me as a humble illegalimmigrant in this world than there is as a lady-in-waiting to nobility in my own. Do you think I'd ever go back there for any reason except to help youchange the world?" 
Taken aback, Miriam recoiled slightly. "Ouch," she said. "I didn't realize allthat stuff. No." She picked up her wine glass again. "It's post-colonial guilt,I guess," she added by way of explanation. "We've got a lot of history here, andit's really ugly in parts. We've got a long tradition of conquering other peopleand messing them up. The idea of taking over and running people for their owngood got a very bad name about sixty years ago—did anyone tell you about theSecond World War? So a lot of us have this cringe reflex about the whole idea." 
"Don't. If you do what you're planning, you couldn't invade and conquer, anyway.How many people could you bring through? All you can do is persuade people tolive their lives a better way—the one thing the families and the Clan have neverbothered trying to do, because they're swimming desperately against the stream,trying to hold their own lives together. It takes an outside view to realizethat if they started building fabulous buildings and machines 
like these at home they wouldn't be dependent on imported luxuries from theworld next door. And they never—" her chest heaved—"let us get far enough awayto see that clearly. Because if we did, we might not come back." 
She looked depressed. 
"You don't want to go back?" asked Miriam. "Not even to visit, to see yourfamily and friends?" 
"Not really." It was a statement of fact. "This is better. I can find newfriends here. If I go there, and you fail—" she caught Miriam's gaze. "I mightnever be able to come back here." 
For a moment, looking at this young woman—young enough to be at college but witheyes prematurely aged by cynicism and the Clan's greedy poverty of riches—Miriamhad second thoughts. The families' grip on their young was eggshell-thin, alwaysin danger of bursting. If they ever got the idea that they could just take theirlockets or tattoos or scraps of paper and leave, the Clan would be gone within ageneration. Am I going to end up making this family tyranny stronger? shewondered. Because if so, shouldn't I just give up now. .. ? "I won't fail you,"she heard herself saying. "We'll fix them." 
Brill nodded. "I know you will," she said. And Miriam nodded right back at her,her mind awash with all the other family children, her distant relatives—thesiblings and cousins she'd never known, might never have known of, who wouldlive and die in gilded poverty if she failed. 
A woman dressed in black stepped out of the winter twilight. 
She looked around curiously, one hand raised to cover her mouth. "I'm insomebody's garden by the look of things. Hedge to my left, dilapidated shed infront of me—and a house behind. Can't be sure, but it looks a mess. The hedge iswildly overgrown and the windows are boarded up." 
She glanced around, but couldn't see into the neighboring gardens. "Seems likean expensive place." She furtively scratched an arrowhead on the side of theshed, pointing to the spot she'd arrived on, then winced. "This light is hurting 
my head. Ow ..." She hitched her coat out of the grayish snow then stumbledtoward the house, crouching below the level of the windows. 
She paused. "It looks empty," she muttered to the dictaphone. "Forward ho." Shewalked around to the front of the house, where the snow was banked in deep drifts before the doors and blank-eyed wooden window shutters. Nobody had beenin or out for days, that much was clear. There was a short uphill drivewayleading to a road, imposing iron gates chained in front. "Damn. How do I getout?" She glanced round, saw a plaque on the front of the house— BLACKSTONES,1923. A narrow wooden gate next to the pillar supporting one of the cast-irongates was bolted on the inside. Miriam waded toward it, shivering from the snow,shot the bolt back, and glanced round one final time to look at the house. 
It was big. Not as big as the palace in Niejwein, or Angbard's fortress, butbigger than anything she'd ever lived in. And it was clearly mewed up, shuttersnailed across those windows that weren't boarded, gates chained tight. Shegrinned, gritting her teeth against the cold. "Right, you're mine." Then sheslipped through the wooden door and onto the sidewalk. The street here waspartially swept. On the other side of it lay an open field in the middle of whatwas dense forest in world one and downtown Cambridge in world two. She could seeother big town houses on the other side of the field, but that didn't matter.She turned left and began walking toward the crossroads she could see at the farcorner of the quadrangle. 
Her teeth were chattering by the time she reached the clock tower on the strangetraffic circle at the crossroads. There was almost no traffic on this bitterlycold morning. A lone pony-trap clattered past her, but the only vehicles she sawout and about were strange two-deck streetcars, pantographs sparkingoccasionally as they whirred down the far side of the field and paused at astand in the middle of the traffic circle. Miriam blinked back the instinctive urge to 
check her watch. What day is it? she wondered. A sign in heavy classicallettering at the empty tram stop answered her question: Sunday service only. Oh.Below it was a timetable as bemusingly exact as anything she'd seen at anairport back home—evidently trams from this stop ran into the waterfront andover something called Deny Bridge once every half hour on Sundays, for a fare of3d, whatever that meant. She shivered some more and stepped inside the woodenshelter, then fidgeted with the handful of copper change that she had left.Second thoughts began to occur to her. Was it normal for a single woman to catcha tram, unaccompanied, on a Sunday? What if Burgeson's shop was closed? What if— 
A streetcar pulled up beside the shelter with a screech of abused steel wheels.Miriam plucked up her courage and climbed aboard. The driver nodded at her, thenwithout warning moved off. Miriam stumbled, almost losing her footing before shemade it into the passenger cabin. She sat down without looking around. Thewooden bench was cold but there seemed to be a heater running somewhere. Shesurreptitiously examined her fellow passengers, using their reflections in thewindows when she couldn't look at them directly without being obvious. They werean odd collection—a fat woman in a ridiculous bonnet who looked like a Salvation Army collector, a couple of thin men in oddly cut, baggy suits with hats pulleddown over their ears, a twenty-something mother, bags under her eyes and twoquietly bickering children by her side, and a man in what looked like a CivilWar uniform coming toward her, a ticket machine hung in front of his chest.Miriam took a deep breath. I'm going to manage this, she realized. 
"I'm going to Highgate, for Holmes Alley. How much is it, please, and what's theclosest stand? And what's this stop called?" 
"That'll be fourpence, miss, and I'll call you when it's your stop. This isRoundgate interchange." He looked at her slightly oddly as she handed him asixpence, but wound off a 
strip of four penny tickets and some change, then turned away. "Tickets,please." 
Ouch. Miriam examined the tickets in her hand. Is nothing simple? she wondered.Even buying streetcar tickets was a minor ordeal of anticipation and surprise.Brill did very well, she began to realize. Maybe too well. Emm. That wouldexplain why Angbard is letting me run... 
The tram trundled downhill at not much better than walking pace, the driveroccasionally ringing an electric bell then stopping next to a raised platform.The houses were much closer together here, in terraces that shared side wallsfor warmth, built out of cheap red brick stained black from smoke. There was anevil smell of half-burned coal in the air, and chimneys belched from everyroofline. She hadn't noticed it in the nob hill neighborhood of Blackstones, butthe whole town smelled of combustion, as if there'd been a house fire a blockaway. The air was almost acrid, a nasty sour taste undercutting the cold andcoating her throat when she tried to breathe. Even the cloud above wasyellowish. The tram turned into a main road, rattled around a broad circle witha snow-covered statue of a man on a horse in the middle, then turned along analarmingly skeletal box-section bridge that jutted out over the river. Miriam,watching the waterfront through the gray-painted girders, felt a most unsettlingwave of claustrophobia—as if she was being taken into police custody for a crimeshe hadn't committed. She forced herself to shrug it off. Everything will bealright, she told herself. 
The town center was almost empty compared to its state the last time she'dvisited. It smelled strongly of smoke— chimneys on every side bespoke residentsin the upstairs flats—but the shop windows were dark, their doors locked. Adistant church bell clattered numbly. Scrawny pigeons hopped around near thegutter, exploring a pile of horse dung. The conductor tapped Miriam on theshoulder, and she started. "You'll be wanting the next stop," he explained. 
"Thank you," she replied with a wan smile. She stood up, waiting on the openplatform as the stop swung into view, 
then pulled the string threaded through brass eyeholes that she'd seen the otherpassengers use. A bell dinged behind in the driver's partition and he threw onthe brakes. Miriam hopped off the platform, shook her coat out, hiked her bag uponto her shoulder, and stepped back from the tram as it moved off with a loudwhirr and a gurgle of slush. Then she took stock of her surroundings. 
Everything looked different in the chilly gloom of a Sunday morning. The shopfronts, comparatively busy last time she'd been here, looked like vacant eyes,and the peddlars hawking roast chestnuts and hand-warmers had disappeared. Dothey have Sunday trading laws here? she wondered vaguely. That could be anuisance— 
Burgeson's shop was closed, too, a wooden shutter padlocked into place acrossthe front window. But Miriam spotted something she hadn't noticed before, asolid wooden door next to the shop with a row of bell-pull handles set in atarnished plaque beside it. She peered at them. E. Burgeson, esq. "Aha," shemuttered, and pulled the handle. 
Nothing happened. Miriam waited on the doorstep, her toes freezing and feelingincreasingly damp, and cursed her stupidity. She put her hand on the knob andyanked again, and this time heard a distant tinkling reward. Then the doorscraped inward on a bare-walled corridor. "Yes?" 
"Mr. Burgeson?" she smiled hopefully at him. "I'm back." 
"Oh." He was dressed as he had been in the shop, except for a pair of outrageouspurple slippers worn over bare feet. "You again." A faint quirk tugged at theside of his upper lip. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to open the shop." 
"If it's convenient." 
He sniffed. "It isn't. And this is rather irregular—although something tells meyou don't put much stock by regularity. Still, if you'd care to grace my humbleabode with your presence and wait while I find my galoshes—" 
"Certainly." 
She followed him up a tightly spiraling stone-flagged staircase that opened outonto a landing with four stout-looking doors. One of them stood open, and hewent inside 
without waiting for her. Miriam began to follow, then paused on the threshold. 
"Come on, come on," he said irritably. "Don't leave the door open, you'll letthe cold in. Then I'll have to fetch more coal from the cellar. What's keepingyou?" 
"Oh, nothing," she said, stepping forward and shutting the door behind her. Thehall had probably once been wide enough for two people to stand abreast in, andit was at least ten feet high, but now it felt like a canyon. It was walled fromfloor to ceiling with bookcases, all crammed to bursting. Burgeson haddisappeared into a kitchen—at least Miriam supposed it was a kitchen—in which akettle was boiling atop a cast-iron stove that looked like something thatbelonged in a museum. The lights flickered as the door closed, and Miriamabruptly realized that they weren't electric. "I see you've got more books uphere than you have down in the shop." 
"That's work, this is pleasure," he said. "What did you come to disturb mySunday worship for, this time?" 
"Sunday worship? I don't see much sign of that around here," Miriam let slip.She backed up hastily. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't cause you any trouble?" 
"Trouble, no, no trouble, not unless you count having the King Street thief­taker himself asking pointed questions about my visitor of the other morning."His back was turned to her, so Miriam couldn't see his expression, but shetightened her grip on her bag, as she suddenly found herself wishing that thepockets of her coat were deep enough to conceal her pistol. 
"That wasn't my doing," she said evenly. 
"I know it wasn't." He turned to face her, and she saw that he was holding asomewhat tarnished silver teapot. "And you'd taken the Marx, so it wasn't as ifit was lying around for him to trip over, was it? For which I believe I owe youthanks enough to cancel out any ill will resulting from his unwelcome visit." Heheld up the pot. "Can I offer you some refreshment, while you explain why you'rehere?" 
"Sure." She glanced in die opposite direction. "In there?" 
"The morning room, by all means. I will be but a few moments." 
Miriam walked into Burgeson's morning room and got a surprise. The room wasperfectly round. Even the window frames and the door were curved in line withthe wall, and the plaster moldings around the ceiling described a perfect circletwelve feet in diameter. It was also extremely untidy. A huge and dubiousChesterfield sofa with stuffing hanging out of its arms hulked at one side, halfsubmerged beneath a flood of manuscripts and books. An odd-looking uprightpiano, its scratched lid supporting a small library, leaned drunkenly againstthe wall. There was a fireplace, but the coals in it barely warmed the air immediately in front of it, and the room was icy cold. A plate with the remnantsof a cold lunch sat next to the fireplace. Miriam sat gingerly on the edge ofthe sofa. The sofa was cold too, so that it seemed to suck the heat rightthrough her layers of heavy clothing. 
"How do you take your tea?" Burgeson called. "Milk, sugar?" 
He was moving in the hall. She slipped a hand into her bag and pulled out herweapon, and pointed its spine at him. "Milk, no sugar," she replied. 
"Very good." He advanced, bearing a tray, and laid it down in front of thefireplace. There were, she noticed, bags under his eyes. He looked tired, orpossibly ill. "What's that?" He asked, staring at her hand. 
"One good history book deserves another," she said evenly. 
"Oh dear." He chuckled hoarsely. "You know I can't offer you anything for it.Not on a Sunday. If the police—" 
'Take it, it's a gift," she said impatiently. 
"A gift?" From his expression Miriam deduced that the receipt of presents wasnot an experience wim which Erasmus Burgeson was well acquainted—he made no moveto take it. "I'm touched, m'dear. Mind if I ask what prompted this unexpectedgenerosity?" He was staring at her warily, as if he expected her to sprout batwings and bite him. 
"Sure," she said easily. "If you would pour the tea before 
it gets cold? Is it always this cold here in, uh, whatever this city is called?" 
He froze for a moment, then knelt down and began pouring tea from the pot intotwo slightly chipped Delft cups. "Boston." 
"Ah, Boston it is." She nodded to herself. "The cold?" 
"Only when a smog notice is in effect." Burgeson pointed at the fire. "Damnedsmokeless fuel ration's been cut again. You can only burn so much during a smog,or you run out and then it's just too bad. Especially if the pipes burst. Butwhen old father smog rolls down the Back Bay, you'd rather not have been born,lest pipes of a different kind should go pop." He coughed for effect and pattedhis chest. "You speak the King's English remarkably well for someone who doesn'tknow a blessed thing. Where are you from, really?" 
She put the book down on the heap on the sofa. "As far as I can tell, about tenmiles and two hundred years away," she said, feeling slightly light-headed atthe idea of telling him even this much. 
"Not France? Are you sure you don't work for the dauphin's department?" Hecocked his head on one side, parrotlike. 
"Not France. Where I come from they chopped his head off a long time ago." Shewatched him carefully. 
"Chopped his head off? Fascinating—" He rose on one knee, and held out a cup toher. 
"Thank you." She accepted it. 
"If this is madness, it's a most extraordinary delusion," he said, nodding."Would you be so good as to tell me more?" 
"In due course. I have a couple of questions for you, however." She took adecorous sip of the tea. "Specifically, taking on trust the question of yourbelief in my story, you might want to contemplate some of the obstacles atraveler from, um, another world, might face in creating an identity forthemselves in this one. And especially in the process of buying a house andstarting a business, when one is an unaccompanied female in a strange country. Idon't know much about me legal status of women here other than that it differs 
quite significantly from where I come from. I think I'm probably going to need alawyer, and possibly a proxy. Which is why I thought of you." 
"I see." Burgeson was almost going cross-eyed in his attempts to avoidinterrupting her. "Pray tell, why me?" 
"Because an officer of the law recommended you." She grinned. "I figure a fencewho is also an informer is probably a safer bet than someone who's soincompetent that he hasn't reached a working accommodation with the cops." Therewere other reasons too, reasons connected with Miriam's parents and upbringing,but she wasn't about to give him that kind of insight into her background. Trustwent only so far, after all. 
"A fence—" He snorted. "I'm not dishonest or unethical, ma'am." 
"You just sell books that the Lord Provost's Court wants burned," she said, withan amused tone. "And the police recommend you. Do I need to draw a diagram?" 
He signed. "Guilty as charged. If you aren't French, are you sure you aren't aBlack Chamber agent playing a double gamer' 
"What's the Black Chamber?" 
"Oh." Abruptly he looked gloomy. "I suppose I should also have sold you analmanac." 
"That might have been a good idea," she agreed. 
"Well, now." He brushed papers from the piano stool and sat on it, opposite her,his teacup balanced precariously on a . bony knee. "Supposing I avoid sayinganything that might incriminate myself. And supposing we take as a matter offaith your outrageous claim to be a denizen of another, ah, world? Like thisone, only different. No le Roi Francaise, indeed. What, then, could you bewanting with a humble dealer and broker in secondhand goods and wares likemyself?" 
"Connections." Miriam relaxed a little. "I need to establish a firm identityhere, as a woman of good character. I have some funds to invest—you've seen theform they take—but mostly ... hmm. In the place I come from, we do thingsdifferently. And while we undoubtedly do some 
things worse, everything I have seen so far convinces me that we are far, farbetter at certain technical fields. I intend to establish a type of company thatas far as I can tell doesn't exist here, Mister Burgeson. I am limited in thegoods I can carry back and forth, physically, to roughly what I can carry on myback—but ideas are frequently more valuable than gold bricks." She grinned. "Isaid I'd need a lawyer, and perhaps a proxy to sign documents for my business. Iforgot to mention that I will also want a patent clerk and a front man forpurposes of licensing my inventions." 
"Inventions. Such as?" He sounded skeptical. 
"Oh, many things." She shrugged. "Mostly little things. A machine for bindingdocuments together in an office that is cheap to ran, compact, and efficient—somuch so that where I come from they're almost as common as pens. A better designof brake mechanism for automobiles. A better type of wood screw, a better kindof electric cell. But one or two big things, too. A drug that can cure mostfulminating infections rapidly and effectively, without side effects. A moreefficient engine for aviation." 
Burgeson stared at her. "Incredible," he said sharply. "You have some proof thatyou can come up with all these miracles?" 
Miriam reached into her bag and pulled out her second weapon, one that had costher nearly its own weight in gold, back home, a miniature battery-powered gadgetwith a four-inch color screen. "When I leave, you can start by looking at thatbook. In the meantime, here's a toy we use for keeping children quiet on longjourneys where I come from. How about some light Sunday entertainment?" And shehit the "start" button on the DVD player. 
Three hours and at least a pint of tea later, Miriam stepped down from a hackneycarriage outside the imposing revolving doors of the Brighton Hotel. Behind her,the driver grunted as he heaved her small trunk down from the luggage rack—"ifyou're going to try to pass in polite society you'll 
need one, no lady of quality would travel without at least a change of day wearand her dinner dress," Burgeson had told her as he gave her the trunk—"and youneed to be at least respectable enough to book a room." Even if the trunk hadbeen pawned by a penniless refugee and cluttered up a pawnbroker's cellar for acouple of years, it looked like luggage. 
"Thank you," Miriam said as graciously as she could, and tipped the driver asixpence. She turned back to the door to see a bellhop already lifting her trunkon his handcart. "I say! You there." 
The concierge at the front desk didn't turn his nose up at a single womantraveling alone. The funereal outfit Burgeson had scared up for her seemed toforbid all questions, especially after she had added a severe black cap and anet veil in place of her previous hat. "What does milady require?" he askedpolitely. 
"I'd like to take one of your first-class suites. For myself. I travel with noservants, so room service will be required. I will be staying for at least aweek, and possibly longer while I seek to buy a house and put the affairs of mylate husband in order." / hope Erasmus wasn't stringing me along about gettinghold of a new identity, she thought. 
"Ah, by all means. I believe room fourteen is available, m'lady. Perhaps youwould like to view it? If it is to your satisfaction..." 
"I'm sure it will be," she said easily. "And if it isn't you'll see to it, I'msure, won't you? How much will it be?" 
He stiffened slightly. "A charge of two pounds and eleven shillings a nightapplies for room and board, ma'am," he said severely. 
"Hmm." She sucked on her lower lip. "And for a week? Or longer?" 
"I believe we could come down from that a little," he said, less aggressively."Especially if provision was made in advance." 
"Two a night." Miriam palmed a huge, gorgeously colored ten-pound note onto thefront desk and paused. "Six shillings on top for the service." 
The concierge smiled and nodded at her. 'Then it will be an initial fournights?" he asked. 
"I will pay in advance, if I choose to renew it," she replied tonelessly.Bastard, she thought angrily. Erasmus had primed her with the hotel's rates. Twopounds flat was the norm for a luxury suite: This man was trying to soak her."If it's satisfactory," she emphasized. 
"I'll see to it myself." He bowed, then stepped out from behind his desk. "If Imay show you up to your suite myself, m'lady?" 
Once she was alone in the hotel suite, Miriam locked the door on the inside,then removed her coat and hung it up to dry in the niche by the door. "I'mimpressed," she said aloud. "It's huge." She peeled off her gloves and slungthem over a brass radiator that gurgled beneath the shuttered windows, thenunbuttoned her jacket and collar and knelt to unlace her ankle boots—her feetwere beginning to feel as if they were molded to the inside of the damp, coldleather. Chilblains as an occupational hazard for explorers of other worlds? shethought whimsically. She stepped out of her shoes then carried them to theradiator, stockinged feet feeling almost naked against the thick pile of thewoolen carpet. 
Dry at last, she walked over to the sideboard and the huge silver samovar,steaming gently atop a gas flame plumbed into the wall. She poured a glass fullof hot water and dunked a sachet of Earl Grey tea into it. Finally, gratefully,she plopped herself down in the overstuffed armchair opposite the bedroom door,pulled out her dictaphone, and began to compose a report to herself. "Here I am,in Suite fourteen of the Brighton Hotel. The concierge tried to soak me. Gettinga handle on the prices is hard—a pound seems to be equivalent to about, uh, twohundred dollars? Something like that. This is an expensive suite, and it shows,it's got central heating, electric lights—incandescent filaments, lots of them,dim enough you can look right at them—and silk curtains." She glanced throughthe open bathroom door. "The bathroom looks to be all brass and porcelainfittings and a flushing toilet. Hmm. Must check to see what their 
power distribution system's like. Might be an opportunity to sell them electricshowers." 
She sighed. 'Tomorrow Erasmus will fix me up with a meeting with his attorneyand start making inquiries about that house. He also said he'd look into apatent clerk and get me into the central reading library. Looks like theirintellectual property framework is a bit primitive. I'll need to bring over somemore fungibles soon. Gold is all very well, but I'm not sure it isn't cheaperhere than it is back home. I wonder what their kitchens are short of," sheadded, brooding. 
"Damn. I wish there was someone to talk to." She clicked off the little machine and put it down on the sideboard, frowning. Whether or not Erasmus Burgeson wastrustworthy was an interesting question. Probably he was, up to a point—as longas he could sniff a way to put one over on the cops who were enforcing hisunwilling cooperation. But he was most clearly a bachelor, and there wassomething uncomfortable, slightly strained about him when she was in hispresence. He's not used to dealing with women, other than customers in his shop,she decided. That's probably it. 
In any event, her head ached and she was feeling tired. Think I'll leave thedining room for another day, she decided. The bed seemed to beckon. Tomorrowwould be a fresh start... 
GOLD BUGS The following morning, Miriam awakened early. It was still semi-dark outside.She yawned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair."Hmm. They wear it long here, don't they?" It would just have to do, shethought, as she dressed in yesterday's clothes once more. She carefully sortedthrough her shoulder bag to make sure there was nothing too obtrusively alien init, then pulled her boots on. 
She paused at the foot of the main staircase, poised above the polished marblefloor next to the front desk. "Can I help you, ma'am?" a bellhop offeredeagerly. 
She smiled wanly. "Breakfast. Where is it?" The realization that she'd missedboth lunch and dinner crashed down on her. Abruptly she felt almost weak fromhunger. 
"This way, please!" He guided her toward two huge mahogany-and-glass doors setat one side of the foyer, then ushered her to a seat at a small table, topped inspotless linen. "I shall just fetch the waiter." 
Miriam angled her chair around to take in the other diners as discreetly aspossible. It's like a historical movie! she thought. One set in a reallyexclusive Victorian hotel, except the Victorians hadn't had a thing for vividturquoise and purple wallpaper and the costumes were messed up beyondrecognition. Men in Nehru suits with cutaway waists, women in long skirts ortrousers and wing-collared shirts. Waiters with white aprons bearing plates of—fish? And bread rolls? The one familiar aspect was the newspaper. "Can you fetchme a paper?" she asked after the bellhop. 
"Surely, ma'am!" he answered, and was off like a shot. He was back in a secondand Miriam fumbled for a tip, before starting methodically on the front page. 
The headlines in The London Intelligencer were bizarrely familiar,simultaneously tainted with the exotic. "Speaker: House May Impeach Crown forAdultery"—but no, there was no King Clinton in here, just unfamiliar names and aproposal to amend the Basic Law to add a collection of additional charges forwhich the Crown could be impeached— Adultery, Capitative Fraud, andIrreconsilience, whatever that was. They can impeach the king? Miriam shook herhead, moved on to the next story. "Morris and Stokes to hang," about a pair ofjewel thieves who had killed a shopkeeper. Farther down the page was moreweirdness, a list of captains of merchantmen to whom had been granted letters ofmarque and reprise against "the forces and agents of the continental enemy," anda list of etheric resonances assigned for experimentation by the TelopticWireless Company of New Britain. 
A waiter appeared at her shoulder as she was about to turn the page. "May I beof service, ma'am?" 
"Sure. What's good, today?" 
He smiled broadly. "The kippers are most piquant, and if I may recommend Mrs.Wilson's strawberry jam for after? Does ma'am prefer tea or coffee?" 
"Coffee. Strong, with milk." She nodded. "I'll take your recommendations,please. That'll be all." 
He rustled away from her, leaving her puzzling over the 
meaning of a story about taxation powers being granted by The-King-In-Parliamentto the Grand Estates, and enforcement of the powers of printing rights by theRoyal Excise. Even the addition of a powerful dose of coffee and a plate of smoked fish—not her customary start to the day, but nevertheless remarkablyedible on an empty stomach—didn't make it any clearer. This place is so complex!Am I ever going to understand it? She wondered. 
She was almost to the bottom of her coffee when a different bellhop arrived,bearing a silver platter. "Message for the Widow Fletcher?" he asked, using thepseudonym Miriam had checked in under. 
"That's me." Miriam took the note atop the platter—a piece of card with stripsof printed tape gummed to it. MEET ME AT 54 GRT MAURICE ST AT 10 SEE BATES STOPEB ENDS. "Ah, good." She glanced at the clock above the ornate entrance. "Canyou arrange a cab for me, please? To Great Maurice Street, leaving in twentyminutes." 
Folding her paper she rose and returned to her room to retrieve her hat andtopcoat. The game's afoot, she thought excitedly. 
By the time the cab found its way to Great Maurice Street she'd cooled off alittle, taking time to collect her thoughts and begin to work out what sheneeded to do and say. She also made sure her right glove was pulled down aroundher wrist, and the sleeve of her blouse was bunched up toward the elbow. Notthat it was the ideal way to make an exit— indeed, it would wreck her planscompletely if she had to escape by means of the temporary tattoo of a certainintricate knot—but if Erasmus had decided to sell her out to the constabulary,he'd be sorry. 
Great Maurice Street was a curving cobblestoned boulevard hemmed in on eitherside by expensive stone town houses. Little stone bridges leapt from sidewalk tobroad front doors across a trench which held two levels of subterranean windows. The street and sidewalks had been swept free of snow, although huge piles stoodat regular intervals in 
the road to await collection. Miriam stepped down from the cab, paid the driver,and marched along the sidewalk until she identified number 54. "Charteris, Batesand Charteris," she muttered to herself. "Sounds legal." She advanced on thedoor and pulled the bell-rope. 
A short, irritated-looking clerk opened the door. "Who are you?" he demanded. 
Miriam stared down her nose at him. "I'm here to see Mr. Bates," she said. 
"Who did you say you were?" He raised a hand to cup his ear and Miriam realizedhe was half-deaf. 
"Mrs. Fletcher, to see Mr. Bates," she replied loudly. 
"Oh. Come in, then, I'll tell someone you're here." 
Lawyers' offices didn't differ much between here and her own world, Miriamrealized. There was a big, black, ancient-looking electric typewriter with akeyboard like a church organ that had shrunk in the wash, and there was anarchaic telephone with a separate speaking horn, but otherwise the onlydifferences were the clothes. Which, for a legal secretary in mis place andtime—male, thin, harried-looking— included a powdered wig, knee breeches, and acutaway coat. "Please be seated—ah, no," said the secretary, looking bemused asa tall fellow dressed entirely in black opened the door of an inner office andwaggled a finger at Miriam: "This is His Honor Mr. Bates," he explained. "Youare ... ?" 
"I'm Mrs. Fletcher," Miriam repeated patiently. "I'm supposed to be seeing Mr.Bates. Is that right?" 
"Ah, yes." Bates nodded congenially at her. "If you'd like to come this way,please?" 
The differences from her own world became vanishingly small inside his office,perhaps because so many lawyers back home aimed for a traditional feel to theirfurnishings. Miriam glanced round. "Burgeson isn't here yet," she observeddisapprovingly. 
"He's been detained," said Bates. "If you'd care to take a seat?" 
"Yes." Miriam sat down. "How much has Erasmus told you?" 
Bates picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles and balanced them on the bridgeof his nose. His whiskers twitched, walruslike. "He has told me enough, Ithink," he intoned in a plummy voice. "A woman fallen upon hard times, husbanddead after years abroad, papers lost in an unfortunate pursuit—I believe hereferred to the foundering of the Green-baum Lamplight, a most unpleasantexperience for you, I am sure—and therefore in need of the emolientreaffirmation of her identity, is that right? He vouched for you mostplaintively. And he also mentioned something about a fortune overseas, held intrust, to which you have limited access." 
"Yes, that's all correct," Miriam said fervently. "I am indeed in need of newpapers—and a few other services best rendered by a man of the law." 
"Well. I can see at a glance that you are no Frenchie," he said, nodding at her."And so I can see nothing wrong with your party. It will take but an hour todraw up the correct deeds and post them with the inns of court, to declare youridentity fair and square. Erasmus said you were born at Shreveport on, ah, if Imay be so indelicate, the seventh of September, in the year of our lord nineteenhundred and sixty nine. Is that correct?" 
Miriam nodded. Near enough, she thought. "Uh, yes." 
"Very well. If you would examine and sign this—" he passed a large and imposingsheet of parchment to her— "and this—" he passed her another, "we will set thewheels of justice in motion." 
Miriam examined the documents rapidly. One of them was a declaration of somesort; asserting her name, age, place of birth, and identity and petitioning fora replacement birth certificate for the one lost at sea on behalf of the vacantauthorities of—"Why are the authorities of Shreveport not directly involved?"she asked. 
Bates looked at her oddly. "After what happened during the war there isn'tenough left of Shreveport to have any authorities," he muttered darkly. 
"Oh." She read on. The next paper petitioned for a passport in her name, with apeculiar status—competent adult. "I 
see I am considered a competent adult here. Can you just explain precisely whatthat entails?" 
"Certainly." Bates leaned back in his chair. "You are an adult, aged overthirty, and a widow; mere is no man under whose mantle your rights and autonomyare exercised, and you are deemed old enough in law to be self-sufficient. Soyou may enter into contracts at your own peril, as an adult, until such time asyou choose to remarry, and any such contracts as you make will then be bindingupon your future husband." 
"Oh," she said faindy, and signed in the space provided. Better not marryanyone, then. She put the papers back on his desk then cleared her throat."There are some other matters I will want you to see to," she added. 
"And what might those be?" He smiled politely. After all, the clock was tickingat her expense. 
"Firstly." She held up a finger. "There is a house that takes my fancy; it islocated at number 46, Bridge Park Lane, and it appears to be empty. Am I rightin thinking you can make inquiries on my behalf about its availability? If it'sopen for lease or purchase I'd be extremely interested in acquiring it, and I'llwant to move in as soon as possible." 
Bates sat up straight and nodded, almost enthusiastically. "Of course, ofcourse," he said, scribbling in a crabbed hand on a yellow pad. "And is thereanything else?" he asked. 
"Secondly." She held up a second finger. "Over the next month I will be wantingto create or purchase a limited liability company. It will need setting up. Inaddition, I will have a number of applications for patents that must beprocessed through the royal patent office-—I need to locate and retain a patentagent on behalf of my company." 
"A company, and a patents agent." He raised an eyebrow but kept writing. "Isthere anything else?" he asked politely. 
"Indeed. Thirdly, I have a quantity, held overseas, I should add, of bullion.Can you advise me on the issues surrounding its legal sale here?" 
"Oh, that's easy." He put his pen down. "I can't, because it's illegal foranyone but the crown to own bullion." He 
pointed at the signet nng he wore on his lett hand. No rule against jewelry, ofcourse, so long as it weighs less than a pound. But bullion?" He sniffed. "Youcan perhaps approach the mint about an import license, and sell it to the crownyourself—they'll give you a terrible rate, not worth your while, only ten poundsfor an ounce. But that's the war, for you. The mint is chronically short. If Iwere you I'd sell it overseas and repatriate the proceeds as bearer bonds." 
"Thank you." Miriam beamed at him ingratiatingly to cover up the sound of herteeth grinding together. Ten pounds for an ounce? Erasmus, you and I are goingto have strong words, she thought. Scratch finding an alternative, though. "Howlong will this take?" she asked. 
"To file the papers? I'll have the boy run over with them right now. Yourpassport and birth certificate will be ready tomorrow if you send for them frommy office. The company—" he rubbed his chin. "We would have to pay aparliamentarian to get the act of formation passed as a private member's bill inthis sitting, and I believe the going rate has been driven up by the demands ofthe military upon the legislature in the current session. It would be cheaper tobuy an existing company with no debts. I can ask around, but I believe it willbe difficult to find one for less than seventy pounds." 
"Ouch." Miriam pulled a face. "There's no automatic process to go through to setone up?" 
"Sadly, no." Bates shook his head. "Every company requires an act of parliament;rubber-stamping them is bread and butter for most MPs, for they can easilycharge fifty pounds or more to put forward an early day motion for a five-minutebill in the Commons. Every so often someone proposes a registry of companies and a regulator to create them, but the backbenches won't ever approve that—it wouldtake a large bite out of their living." 
"Humph." Miriam nodded. "Alright, we'll do it your way. The patent agent?" 
Bates nodded. "Our junior clerk, Hinchliffe, is just the fellow for such a job.He has dealt witii patents before, and will doubtless do so again. When will youneed him?" 
Miriam met Bates's eye. "Not until I have a company to employ him, a companythat I will capitalize by entirely legal means that need not concern you." Thelawyer nodded again, eyes knowing. "Then—let's just say, I have encountered someingenious innovations overseas that I believe may best be exploited by patentingthem, and farming out the rights to the patents to local factory owners. Do youfollow?" 
"Yes, I think I do." Bates nodded to himself, and smiled like a crocodile. "Ilook forward to your future custom, Mrs. Fletcher. It has been a pleasure to dobusiness with such a perceptive member of the frail sex. Even if I don't believea word of it." 
Miriam spent the rest of the morning shopping for clothes. It was a disorientingexperience. There were no department or chain stores: Each type of garmentneeded purchasing from a separate supplier, and the vast majority neededalterations to fit. Nor was she filled with enthusiasm by what she found. "Whyare fashion items invariably designed to make people look ugly or feeluncomfortable?" she muttered into her microphone, after experiencing amilliner's and a corsetiere's in rapid succession. "I'm going to stick to sportsbras and briefs, even if I have to carry everything across myself," shegrumbled. Nevertheless, she managed to find a couple of presentable walkingsuits and an evening outfit. 
At six that evening, she walked through the gathering gloom to Burgeson's shopand slipped inside. The shop was open, but empty. She spent a good minutetapping her toes and whistling tunelessly before Erasmus emerged from the back. 
"Oh, it's you," he said distractedly. "Here." He held out an envelope. 
Miriam took it and opened it—then stopped whistling. "What brought this on?" sheasked, holding it tightly. 
His cheek twitched. "I got a better price than I could be sure of," he said. "Itseemed best to cut you in on the profits, in the hope of a prosperous futuretrade." 
Miriam relaxed slightly. "I see." She slid the envelope into 
a jacket pocket carefully. The five ten-pound notes in it were more than she'dexpected to browbeat out of him. "Is your dealer able to take larger quantitiesof bullion?" she asked, abruptly updating her plans. 
"I believe so." His face was drawn and tired. "I've had some thinking to do." 
"I can see that," she said quietly. Fifty pounds here was equivalent tosomething between three and seven thousand dollars, back home. Gold wasexpensive, a sign of demand, and what did that tell her? Nothing good. "What'sthe situation? Do you trust Bates?" 
"About as far as I can throw him," Erasmus admitted. "He isn't a fellowtraveler." 
"Fellow traveler." She nodded to herself. "You're a Marxist?" 
"He was the greatest exponent of my faith, yes." He said it quietly andfervently. "I believe in natural rights, to which all men and women are bornequal; in democracy: and in freedom. Freedom of action, freedom of commerce,freedom of faith, just like old Karl. For which they hanged him." 
"He came to somewhat different conclusions where I come from," Miriam saiddryly, "although his starting conditions were dissimilar. Are you going to shutup shop and tell me what's troubling you?" 
"Yes." He strode over and turned the sign in the door, then shot the bolt. "Inthe back, if you please." 
"After you." Miriam followed him down a narrow corridor walled in pigeon holes.Parcels wrapped in brown paper gathered dust in them, each one sprouting aplaintive ticket against the date of its redemption—graveyard markers in thecatacombs of usury. She kept her hand in her right pocket, tightening her gripon the small pistol, heart pounding halfway out of her chest with tension. 
"You can't be a police provocateur," he commented over his shoulder. "For onething, you didn't bargain hard enough over the bullion. For another, you slippedup in too many ways, all of them wrong. But I wasn't sure you weren't simply amadwoman until you showed me that intricate engine 
and left the book. He stepped sideways into a niche with a flight of woodensteps in it, leading down. "It's far too incredible a story to be a flight-of­the mind concoction, and far too . .. expensive. Even the publisher's notes! Thequality of the paper. And the typeface." He stopped at the foot of the stairsand stared up at her owlishly, one hand clutching at a load-bearing beam forsupport. "And the pocket kinoma-graph. I think either you're real or I'm goingmad," he said, his voice hollow. 
"You're not mad." Miriam took the steep flight of steps carefully. "So?" 
"So it behooves me to study this fascinating world you come from, and ask how itcame to pass." Erasmus was moving again. The cellar was walled from floor toceiling in boxes and packing cases. "It's fascinating. The principles ofenlightenment that your republic was founded on—you realize they were smotheredin the cradle, in the history I know of? Yes, by all means, the ParliamentarySettlement and the exile were great innovations for their time—but the idea of arepublic! Separation of Church and State, a bill of rights, a universalfranchise! After the second Leveler revolt, demands for such rights becamesomething of a dead issue here, emphasis on the dead if you follow me ... hmm."He stopped in a cleared space between three walls of crates, a paraffin lamphanging from a beam overhead. 
"This is a rather big shop," Miriam commented, tightening her grip on the gun. 
"So it should be." He glanced at her, saw the hand in her pocket. "Are you goingto shoot me?" 
"Why should I?" She tensed. 
"I don't know." He shrugged. "You've obviously got some scheme in mind, one thatmeans someone no good, whatever else you're doing here. And I might know toomuch." 
Miriam came to a decision and took her hand out of her pocket—empty. 
"And I'm not an innocent either," Erasmus added, gesturing at the crates. "I'mglad you decided not to shoot. Niter of glycerol takes very badly to suddenshocks." 
Miriam took a deep breath and paused, trying to get a grip on herself. She felta sudden stab of apprehension: The stakes in his game were much higher thanshe'd realized. This was a police state, and Erasmus wasn't just a harmlessdealer in illegal publications. "Listen, I have no intention of shooting anyoneif I can avoid it. And I don't care about you being a Leveler quartermaster witha basement full of explosives—at least, as long as I don't live next door toyou. It's none of my damn business, and whatever you think, I didn't come hereto get involved in your politics. Even if it sounds better than, than what's outthere right now. On the other hand, I have my own, uh, political problems." 
Erasmus raised an eyebrow. "So who are your enemies?" 
Miriam bit her lip. Can I trust him this far? She couldn't see any choices atthis point but, even so, taking him into her confidence was a big step. "I don'tknow," she said reluctantly. "They're probably well-off. Like me, they cantravel between worlds—not to the one in the book I gave you, which is my own,but to a much poorer, medieval one. One in which Christianity never gotestablished as the religion in Rome, the dark ages lasted longer, and the Norsemigration reached and settled this coast, as far inland as the Appalachians, andthe Chinese empire holds the west. These people will be involved in trading,from here to there—I'm not sure what, but I believe ownership of gold issomething to investigate. They'll probably be a large and prosperous family,possibly ennobled in the past century or two, and they'll be rich andconservative. Not exactly fellow travelers." 
"And what is your problem with them?" 
"They keep trying to kill me." Now she'd said it, confiding in him felt easier."They come from over here. This is their power base, Erasmus. I believe theyconsider me a threat to them. I want to find them before they find me, and orderthings in a more satisfactory manner." 
"I think I see." He made a steeple of his fingers. "Do you want mem to die?" 
"Not necessarily," she said hesitantly. "But I want to know who they are, andwhere they came here from, and to stop 
their agents trying to kill me. I've got a couple of suspicions about who theyare that I need to confirm. If I'm correct I might be able to stop the killing." 
"I suggest you tell me your story then," said Erasmus. "And we'll see if there'sanything we can do about it." He raised his voice, causing her to start."Aubrey! You can cease your lurking. If you'd be so good as to fetch the openbottle of port and three glasses, you may count yourself in for a long story."He smiled humorlessly. "You've got our undivided attention, ma'am. I suggest youuse it wisely ..." 
Back at the hotel a couple of hours later, Miriam changed into her evening dressand went downstairs, unaccompanied, for a late buffet supper. The waiter wasunaccountably short with her, but found her a solitary small table in a darkcorner of the dining room. The soup was passable, albeit slightly cool, and acold roast with vegetables filled the empty corners of her stomach. She watchedthe well-dressed men and few women in the hotel from her isolated vantage point,and felt abruptly lonely. Is it just ordinary homesickness? she wondered, orculture shock? One or two hooded glances came her way, but she avoided eyecontact and in any event nobody attempted to engage her in conversation. It's asif I'm invisible, she thought. 
She didn't stay for dessert. Instead she retreated to her room and soughtsollace with a long bath and an early night. 
The next morning she warned the concierge that she would be away for a few daysand would not need her room, but would like her luggage stored. Then she took acab to the lawyer's office. "Your papers are here, ma'am," said Bates'ssecretary. 
"Is Mr. Bates free?" she asked. "Just a minute of his time." 
"I'll just check." A minute of finger twiddling passed. "Yes, come in, please." 
"Ah, Mr. Bates?" She smiled. "Have you made progress with your inquiries?" 
He nodded. "I am hoping to hear about the house tomorrow," he said. "Itsoccupant, a Mr. Soames, apparently passed away three months ago and it is lyingvacant as part of his estate. As his son lives in El Dorado, I suspect an offerfor it may be received with gratitude. As to the company—" He shrugged. "Whatbusiness shall I put on it?" 
Miriam thought for a moment. "Call it a design bureau," she said. "Or anengineering company." 
'That will be fine." Bates nodded. "Is there anything else?" 
"I'm going to be away for a week or so," she said. "Shall I leave a depositbehind for the house?" 
"I'm sure your word would be sufficient," he said graciously. "Up to what levelmay I offer?" 
"If it goes over a thousand pounds I'll have to make special arrangements totransfer the funds." 
"Very well." He stood up. "By your leave?" 
Miriam's last port of call was the central library. She spent two hours there,quizzing a helpful librarian about books on patent law. In the end, she tookthree away with her, giving her room at the hotel as an address. Carefullyputting them in her shoulder bag she walked to the nearest main road and waveddown a cab. "Roundgate Interchange," she said. I'm going home, she thought. Atlast! A steam car puttered past them, overtaking on the right hand side. Back toclean air, fast cars, and electricity everywhere. 
She gazed out of the cab's window as the open field came into view through thehaze of acrid fog that seemed to be everywhere today. / wonder how Brill andPaulie have been ? She thought. It'll be good to see them again. 
It was dusk, and nobody seemed to have noticed the way that Miriam had damagedthe side door of the estate. She slunk into the garden, paced past the hedge andthe dilapidated greenhouse, then located the spot where she'd blazed a mark onthe wall. A fine snow was falling as she pulled out the second locket and, withthe aid of a pocket flashlight, fell headfirst into it. 
She staggered slightly as the familiar headache returned with a vengeance, but aquick glance told her that nobody had come anywhere near this spot for days. Afresh snowfall had turned her hide into an anonymous hump in the gloom a coupleof trees away. She waded toward it—then a dark shadow detatched itself from atree and pointed a pistol at her. 
"Brill?" she asked, uncertainly. 
"Miriam!" The barrel dropped as Brill lurched forward and embraced her. "I'vebeen so worried! How have you been?" 
"Not so bad!" Miriam laughed, breathlessly. "Let's get under cover and I'll tellyou about it." 
Brill had been busy; the snowbank concealed not only the hunting hide, but afully assembled hut, six feet by eight, somewhat insecurely pegged to the iron-hard ground beneath the snow. "Come in, come in," she said. Miriam steppedinside and she shut the door and bolted it. Two bunks occupied one wall, and aparaffin heater threw off enough warmth to keep the hut from freezing. "It'sbeen terribly cold by night, and I fear I've used up all the oil," Brill toldher. "You really must buy a wood stove!" 
"I believe I will," Miriam said thoughtfully, thinking about the coal smoke andyellow sulfurous smog that had made the air feel as if she was breathing brokenglass. "It's been, hmm, three days. Have you had any trouble?" 
"Boredom," Brilliana said instantly. "But sometimes boredom is a good thing. Ihave not been so alone in many years!" She looked slightly wistful. "Would youlike some cocoa? I'd love to hear what adventures you've been having!" 
That night Miriam slept fitfully, awakening once to a distant howling noise thatraised the hair on her neck. Wolves? she wondered, before rolling over anddozing off again. Although the paraffin heater kept the worst of the chill atbay, there was frost inside the walls by morning. 
Miriam woke first, sat up and turned the heat up as high as it would go, then—still cocooned in the sleeping bag—hung her jeans and hiking jacket from a hookin the roof right over the heater. Then she dozed off again. When she awakened, 
she saw Brill sitting beside the heater reading a book. "What is it?" she askedsleepily. 
"Something Paulie lent me." Brill looked slightly guilty. Miriam peered at thespine: The Female Eunuch. Sitting on a shelf next to the door she spotted apopular history book. Brill had been busy expanding her horizons. 
"Hmm." Miriam sat up and unzipped her bag, used the chamber pot, then hastilypulled on the now-defrosted jeans and a hiking sweater. Her boots were freezingcold—she'd left them too close to the door—so she moved them closer to the heater. "You've been thinking a lot." 
"Yes." Brilliana put the book down. "I grew up with books; my father's libraryhad five in hoh'sprashe, and almost thirty in English. But this—the style is sostrange! And what it says!" 
Miriam shook her head. Too much to assimilate. "We'll have to go across soon,"she said, shelving the questions that sat at the tip of her tongue—poisonousquestions, questions about trust and belief. Brill seemed to be going through aphase of questioning everything, and that was fine by Miriam. It meant she wasless likely to obey if Angbard or whoever was behind her told her to point a gunat Miriam. Searching her bag Miriam came up with her tablets, dry-swallowedthem, then glanced around. "Anything to drink?" 
"Surely." Brill passed her a water bottle. It crackled slightly, but most of thecontents were still liquid. "I didn't realize a world could be so large," Brilladded quietly. 
"I know how you feel," Miriam said with feeling, running fingers through herhair—it needed a good wash and, now she thought about it, at least a trim—she'sspent the past four weeks so preoccupied in other things that it was growingwild and uncontrolled. "The far side is pretty strange to me, too. I think I'vegot it under control, but—" she shrugged uncomfortably. Private ownership ofgold is so illegal there's a black market in it, but opium and cocaine are soldopenly in apothecary shops. Setting up a company takes an act of Parliament, butthey can impeach the king. "Let's just say, it isn't quite what I was expecting.Let's go home." 
"Alright." 
Miriam and Brill pulled their boots and coats on. Brill turned off the heaterand folded die sleeping bags neatly then went outside to empty the chamber pot.Miriam picked up her shoulder bag, and then went outside to join Brill on thespot she'd marked on her last trip. She took a deep breath, pulled out thelocket with her left hand, took all of Brill's weight on her right hip for awobbly, staggering moment that threatened to pull her over, and focused— 
On a splitting headache and a concrete wall as her grip slipped and Brillskidded on the icy yard floor. "Ow!" Brill stood up, rubbing her backside. "Thatwas most indelicately done." 
"Could be worse." Miriam winced at the pain in her temples, glanced around, andshook her head to clear the black patches from the edge of her vision. There wasno sign of any intrusion, but judging by the boxes stacked under the metal fireescape—covered with polythene sheeting against the weamer—Paulette had beenbusy. "Come on inside, let's fix some coffee and catch up on the news." 
The office door opened to Miriam's key and she hastily punched in the code todisable the burglar alarm. Then she felt the heat, a stifling warmth thatwrapped itself around her like a hot bath towel. "Wow," she said, "come get aload of this." 
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" Brill shut and locked the door behind her and lookedaround. "Ooh, I haven't been this warm in days!' She hastily opened her jacketand untied her boots, the better to let the amazing warmth from the under-floorheating get closer to her skin. 
"You'll want to use the shower next," Miriam said, amused. "I could do with ittoo, so don't be too long." The shower in the office bathroom was cramped andcheap, but better than the antique plumbing arrangements on the far side. "I'llmake coffee." 
Miriam found her mobile phone in the front room. Its battery had run down whileshe'd been gone, so she plugged it in to recharge. She also found a bunch ofuseful items— 
Paulette had installed a brand new desk telephone and modem line while she'dbeen away—and a bunch of paperwork from the city government. 
She was drinking her coffee in the kitchen when the front door opened. Miriamducked out into the corridor, hand going to her empty jacket pocket before sherealized what the reaction meant. "Paulie!" she called. 
"Miriam! Good to see you!" Paulette had nearly jumped right out of her skin whenshe saw Miriam, but now she smiled broadly. "Oh wow. You look like you've spenta week on the wild side!" 
"That's exactly what I've done. Coffee?" 
"I'd love some, thanks." There was someone behind her. "In the front office,Mike, it needs to come through under the window," she said over her shoulder."We're putting a DSL line in here," she told Miriam. "Hope you don't mind?" 
"No, no, that's great." She retreated back into the small kitchenette, mindblanking on what to do next. She'd been thinking about a debriefing session withPaulie and Brill, then a provisioning trip to the universe next door, then agood filling lunch—but not with a phone company installer drilling holes in thewall. 
Paulette obviously had tilings well in hand here, and there was no way Miriamwas going to get into the shower for a while. She stared at the coffee machineblackly for a while. Maybe I should go and see Iris, she decided. Or... hmm. Isit time to call Roland again? 
"Miriam. You've going to have to tell me how it's going." Paulette waited in thekitchen doorway. 
"In due course." Miriam managed a smile. "Success, but not so total." Miriamsobered up fast. "At your end?" 
"Running low on money—the burn rate on this operation is like a goddamn start­up," Paulette complained. "I'll need another hundred thousand to secure all thestuff you left on the shopping list." 
"And don't forget the paycheck." Miriam nodded. "Listen, I found one good thingout about the far side. Gold is about 
as legal there as heroin is here, and vice versa. I'm getting about two hundredpounds on the black market for a brick weighing sixteen Troy ounces, worth aboutthree thousand, three five, dollars here. A pound goes a lot further than adollar, it's like, about two hundred bucks. So three and a half thousand herebuys me the equivalent of forty thousand over there. Real estate prices are low,too. The place I need to buy on the far side is huge, but it should go for abouta thousand pounds, call it equivalent to two hundred grand here. In our ownBoston it'd be going for upwards of a million, easily. But gold is worth so muchthat I can pay for it with five bars of the stuff—about eighteen thousanddollars on this side. I've found an, uh, black-market outlet who seemsreasonably trustworthy at handling the gold—he's got his angles, but I know whatthey are. And it is amazingly easy to set up a new identity! Anyway, if I playthis right I can build a front as a rich widow returning home from the empirewith a fortune and then get the far side money pump running." 
"What are you going to carry the other way?" Paulette asked, sharply.x 
"Not sure yet." Miriam rubbed her temples. "It's weird. They sell cocaine andmorphine in drugstores, over the counter, and they fly Zeppelins, and NewBritain is at war with the French Empire, and their version of Karl Marx wasexecuted for Ranting—preaching democracy and equal rights. With no industrialrevolution he turned into a leveler ideologue instead of a socialist economist.I'm just surprised he was born in the first place—most of the names in thehistory books are unfamiliar after about eighteen hundred. It's like a differentbranch in the same infinite tree of history; I wonder where Niejwein fits init... let's not go there now. I need to think of something we can import." Shebrooded. "I'll have to think fast. If the Clan realizes their drug-money pumpcould run this efficiently they'll flood the place with cheap gold and drop theprice of crack in half as soon as they learn about it. There's got to be someother commodity that's valuable over here that we can use to repatriate ourprofits." 
"Old masters," Paulette said promptly. 
"Huh?" 
"Old masters." She put her mug down. "Listen, they haven't had a world war, havethey?" 
"Nope, I'm afraid they have," Miriam said, checking her watch to see if shecould take another pain killer yet. "In fact, they've had two. One in theeighteen-nineties that cost them India. The second in the nineteen-fifties that,well, basically New Britain got kicked out of Africa. Africa is a mess of Frenchand Spanish colonies. But they got a strong alliance with Japan and theNetherlands, which also rule most of northwest Germany. And they rule SouthAmerica and Australia and most of East Asia." 
"No tanks? No H-bombs? No strategic bombers?" 
"No." Miriam paused. "Are you saying—" 
"Museum catalogues!" Paulie said excitedly. "I've been thinking about this a lotwhile you've been gone. What we do is, we look for works of art dating to beforethings went, uh, differently. In the other place. Works that were in museums inEurope that got bombed during World War Two, works that disappeared and havenever been seen since. You get the picture? Just one lost sketch by Leonardo ..." 
"Won't they be able to tell the difference?" Miriam frowned. "I'd have thoughtthe experts would—" she trailed off. 
"They'll be exactly the same age!" Paulette said excitedly. "They'd be the realthing, right? Not a hoax. What you do is, you go over with some art cataloguesfrom here and when you've got the money you find a specialist buyer and you buythe paintings or marbles or whatever for your personal collection. Then bringthem over here. It's about the only thing that weighs so little you can carryit, but is worth millions and is legal to own." 
"It'll be harder to sell," Miriam pointed out. "A lot harder to sell." 
"Yeah, but it's legal," said Paulie. She hesitated momentarily: "unless you wantto go into the Bolivian marching powder business like your long-lost relatives?" 
"Um." Miriam refilled her coffee mug. "Okay, I'll look at it." Miriam Beckstein,dealer in fine arts, she thought. It had a peculiar ring to it, but it wasbetter than Miriam Beckstein, drug smuggler. "Hmm. How's this for a cover story?I fly over to Europe next year, spend weeks trolling around out there in Franceand Germany and wherever the paintings went missing. Right? I act secretive andjust tell people I'm investigating something. That covers my absence. What I'llreally be doing is crossing to the far side then flying right back to NewBritain by airship. Maybe I'll come home in the meantime, maybe I can work overthere, whatever. Whichever I do, it builds up a record of me being out of thecountry, investigating lost art, and I use the travel time to read up on arthistory. When I go public over here, it's a career change. I've gone intounearthing lost works of art and auctioning them. Sort of a capitalist versionof Indiana Jones, right?" 
"Love it." Paulie winked at her. "Wait till I patent the business practice, 'amethod of making money by smuggling gold to another world and exchanging it forlost masterpieces'!" 
"You dare—" Miriam chuckled. "Although I'm not sure we'll be able to extractanything like the full value of our profits that way. I'm not even sure we want to—having a world to live in where we're affluent and haven't spent the past fewdecades developing a reputation as organized criminals would be no bad thing.Anyway, back to business. How's the patent search going?" 
"I've got about a dozen candidates for you," Paulie said briskly. "A couple ofdifferent types of electric motor that they may or may not have come up with.Flash boilers for steam cars, assuming they don't already have them. They didn'tsound too sophisticated but you never know. The desk stapler—did you see any?Good. I looked into the proportional font stuff you asked for, but the Varitypermechanism is just amazingly complicated, it wouldn't just hatch out of nowhere.And the alkaline battery will take a big factory and supplies of unusual metalsto start making. The most promising option is still the disk brake and theasbestos/resin brake shoe. But I came up with another for you: the parachute." 
"Parachute—" Miriam's eyes widened. "I'll need to go check if they've inventedthem. I know Leonardo drew one, but it wouldn't have been stable. Okay!" Sheemptied the coffeepot into her and Paulette's mugs, stirred in some sugar."That's great. How long until the cable guy is done?" 
"Oh, he's already gone," Paulette said. "I get to plug the box in myself, don'tyou know?" 
"Excellent." Miriam picked up her mug. "Then I can check my voice mail inpeace." 
She wandered into the front office as Brill was leaving the shower, wrapped intowels and steaming slightly. A new socket clung rawly to the wall just underthe window. Miriam dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk, noticing theaches of sleeping on a hard surface for the first time. She picked up her phoneand punched in her code. Paulette intercepted Brill, asking her something as sheled her into the large back office they'd begun converting into a living room. 
"You have two messages," said the phone. 
"Yeah, yeah." Miriam punched a couple more buttons. 
"First message, received yesterday at eleven-forty two: Miriam? Oh, Sky Father!Listen, are you alright? Phoneme, please'' It was Roland, and he didn't soundhappy. Anguish rose in her chest. Roland—she didn't let the thought reach hertongue. "It's urgent," he added, before the click of the call ending. 
"Second message, received yesterday at nine-twelve: Miriam, dear? It's me."Iris, she realized. There was a pause. "I know I haven't been entirely candidwith you, and I want you to know that I bitterly regret it." Another, muchlonger pause and the sound of labored breathing. Miriam clutched the phone toher ear like a drowning woman. "I've ... something unexpected has come up. I'vegot to go on a long journey. Miriam, I want you to understand that I am going tobe alright. I know exactly what I'm doing, and it's something I should have doneyears ago. But it's not fair to burden you with it. I'll try to call you orleave messages, but you are not to come around or try to follow me. I love you."Click. 
"Shit!" Miriam threw the mobile phone across the room 
in a combination of blind rage and panic. She burst out of her chair and ran forthe back room, grabbed her jacket and was halfway into her shoes by the timePaulette stuck a curious head out of the day room door. "What's going on?" 
"Something's happened to Iris. I'm going to check on her." 
"You can't!" Paulette stood up, alarmed. 
"Watch me," Miriam warned. 
"But it's under—" 
"Fuck the surveillance!" She fumbled in her bag for the revolver. "If the Clanhas decided to go after my mother I am going to kill someone." 
"Miriam—" it was Brill—"Paulie and I can't get away the way you can." 
"So you'd better be discreet about the murder business," said Paulette. Shefixed Miriam with a worried stare. "Can you wait two minutes? I'll drive." 
"I—yes." Miriam forced herself to unclench her fists and take deep, steadybreaths. 
"Good. Because if it is the Clan, rushing in is exactly what they'll expect youto do. And if it isn't, if it's the other guys, that's what they'll want you todo, too." She swallowed. "Bombs and all. Which is why I'm going with you. Gotit?" 
"I—" Miriam forced herself to think. "Okay." She stood up. "Let's go." 
They went. 
Paulette cruised down Iris's residential street twice, leaving a good five-minute interval before turning the rental car into the parking space at the sideof her house. "Nothing obvious," she murmured. "You see anything, kid?" 
"Nothing," said Miriam. 
Brill shook her head. "Autos all look alike to me," she admitted. 
"Great. .. Miriam, if you want to take the front door, I'm going to sit herewith the engine running until you give the all-clear. Brill—" 
"I'll be good." She clutched a borrowed handbag to her chest, right hand buriedin it, looking like a furtive sorority girl about to drop an unexpected presenton a friend. 
Miriam bailed out of the car and walked swiftly to Iris's front door, noticingnothing wrong. There was no damage around the lock, no broken windows, nothingat all out of the usual for the area. No lurking Dodge vans, either, when sheglanced over her shoulder as she slipped the key into the front door and turnedit left-handed, her other hand full. 
The door bounced open and Miriam ducked inside rapidly, with Brill right behindher. The house was empty and cold—not freezing with the chill of a dead furnace,but as if the thermostat had been turned down. Miriam's feet scuffed on the carpet as she rapidly scanned each ground floor room through their open doors,finishing in Iris's living room— 
No wheelchair. The side table neatly folded and put away. Dead flowers on themantlepiece. 
Back in the hall Miriam held up a finger, then dashed up the stairs, kickingopen door after door—the master bedroom, spare bedroom, box room, and bathroom. 
"Nothing," she snarled, panting. In the spare bedroom she pulled down the hatchinto the attic, yanked the ladder down-but there was no way Iris could have gotten up there under her own power. She scrambled up the ladder all the same,casting about desperately in the dusty twilight. "She's not here." 
Down in the ground floor hallway she caught up with Paulette, looking grave."Brill said Iris is gone?" 
Miriam nodded, unable to speak. It felt like an act of desecration, toomonstrous to talk about. She leaned against the side of the staircase, takingshallow breaths. "I've lost her." She shut her eyes. 
"Over here!" It was Brill, in the kitchen. 
"What is it—" 
They found Brill inspecting a patch of floor, just inside the back door. "Look,"she said, pointing. 
The floor was wooden, varnished and worn smooth in places. The stains, however,were new. Something dark had spilled across the back doorstep. Someone hadmopped it up 
but they hadn't done a very good job, and the stain had worked into the grain ofthe wood. 
"Outside. Check the garbage." Miriam fumbled with the lock then got the dooropen. "Come on!" She threw herself at the Dumpsters in the backyard, terrifiedof what she might find in them. The bins were huge, shared with the houses toeither side, and probably not emptied since the last snowfall. The snow wasalmost a foot deep on top of the nearest Dumpster. It took her half a minute toclear enough away to lift the lid and look inside. 
A dead man stared back at her, his face blue and his eyes frozen in anexpression of surprise. She dropped the lid. 
"What is it?" asked Paulette. 
"Not Iris." Miriam leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths, her headspinning. Who can he be? "Check. The other bins." 
"Other bins, okay." Paulette gingerly lifted the lids, one by one—but none ofthem contained anything worse than a pile of full garbage bags which, when torn,proved to contain kitchen refuse. "She's not here, Miriam." 
"Oh thank god." 
"What now?" asked Paulie, head cocked as if listening for the sound of sirens. 
"I take another look while you and Brill keep an eye open for strangers."Steeling herself, Miriam lifted the lid on the bin's gruesome contents. "Hmm."She reached out and touched her hand to an icy cold cheek. "He's been dead forat least twelve hours, more likely over twenty-four." A mass of icy black stuffin front of the body proved to be Iris's dish towels, bulked up by more frozenblood than Miriam could have imagined. She gingerly shoved them aside, until shesaw where the blood had come from. "There's massive trauma to the upper thorax,about six inches below the neck. Jesus, it looks like a shotgun wound. Saw acouple in the ER, way back when. Um ... sawed-off, by the size of the entrywound, either that or he was shot from more than twenty yards away, which wouldhave had to happen outdoors, meaning witnesses. His chest is really torn up,he'd have died instantly." She dropped the wadding back in front of the body. He was, shenoted distantly, wearing black overalls and a black ski mask pulled up over hisscalp like a cap. Clean-shaven, about twenty years old, of military appearance.Like a cop or a soldier—or a Clan enforcer. 

She turned around and looked at the back door. Something was wrong with it; ittook almost a minute of staring before she realized— 
"They replaced the door," she said. "They replaced the fucking door!" 
"Let's go," Paulette said nervously. "Like right now? Anywhere, as long as it'saway? This is giving me the creeps." 
"Just a minute." Miriam dropped the Dumpster lid shut and went back inside thehouse. Iris phoned me when the shit hit the fan, she realized distantly. She wasstill alive and free, but she had to leave. To go underground, like in thesixties. When the FBI bugged her phone. Miriam leaned over Iris's favoritechair, in the morning room. She swept her hand around the crack behind thecushion; nothing. "No messages?" She looked up, scanning the room. Themantlepiece: dead flowers, some cards ... birthday cards. One of them said 32TODAY. She walked toward it slowly, then picked it up, unbelieving. Her eyesclouded with tears as she opened it. The inscription inside it was written inIris's jagged, half-illiterate scrawl. Thanks for the memories of treasurehunts, and the green party shoes, it said. "Green party shoes?" 
Miriam dashed upstairs, into Iris's bedroom. Opening her mother's wardrobe shesmelled mothballs, saw row upon row of clothes hanging over a vast mound ofshoes—a pair of green high-heeled pumps near the front, pushed together. Shepicked them up, probed inside, and felt a wad of paper filling the toes of theright shoe. 
She pulled it out, feeling it crackle—elderly paper, damaged by the passage oftime. A tabloid newspaper page, folded tight. She ran downstairs to where Brillwas waiting impatiently in the hall. "I got it," she called. 
"Got what?" Brill asked, her voice incurious. 
"I don't know." Miriam frowned as she locked the door, 
then they were in the back of the car and Paulie was pulling away hastily,fishtailing slightly on the icy road. 
"When your mother phoned you," Paulie said edgily, "what did she say? Daughter,I've killed someone? Or, your wicked family has come to kidnap me, oh la! Whatis to become of me?" 
"She said." Miriam shut her eyes. "She hadn't been entirely honest with me.Something had come up, and she had to go on a journey." 
"Someone died," said Brill. "Someone standing either just outside the back dooror just inside it, in the doorway. Someone shot them with a blunderbuss." Shewas making a singsong out of it, in a way that really got on Miriam's nerves.Stress, she thought. Brill had never seen a murder before last week. Now she'sseen a couple in one go, hasn't she? "So someone stuffed the victim in a barrelfor Iris, went out and ordered a new door. Angbard's men will have been watchingher departure. Probably followed her. Why don't you call him and ask about it?" 
"I will. Once we've returned this car and rented a replacement from another hireshop." She glanced at Brill. "Keep a lookout and tell me if you see any carsthat seem to be following us." 
Miriam unfolded the paper carefully. It was, she saw, about the same fateful dayas the first Xeroxed news report in the green and pink shoebox. But this wasgenuine newsprint, not a copy, a snapshot from the time itself. Most of it wasinconsequential, but there was a story buried halfway down page two that madeher stare, about a young mother and baby found in a city park, the mothersuffering a stab wound in the lower back. She'd been wearing hippy-style clothesand was unable to explain her condition, apparently confused or intoxicated. Thepolice escorted her to a hospital with the child, and the subeditor proceeded toeditorialize on the evils of unconventional lifestyles and the effects ofdomestic violence in a positively Hogarthian manner. No, Miriam thought, theymust have gotten it wrong. She was murdered, Ma told me! Not taken into hospitalwith 
a stab wound! She shook her head, bewildered and hurting. "I'll do that. Butfirst I need some stuff from my house," she said, "but I'm not sure I dare gothere." 
"What stuff?" asked Paulie. Miriam could see her fingers white against the rimof the steering wheel. 
"Papers." She paused, weighing up the relative merits of peace of mind and ashotgun wound to the chest. "Fuck it," she said shortly. "I need to go home. Ineed five minutes there. Paulie, take me home." 
"Whoa! Is that really smart?" asked Paulette, knuckles tightening on thesteering wheel. 
"No." Miriam grimaced. "It's really not smart. But I need to grab some stuff,the goddamn disk with all your research on it. I'll be about thirty seconds. Wecan ditch the car immediately afterwards. You willing to wait?" 
"Didn't you say they'd staked you out?" 
"What does that mean?" Brill asked, confused. "What are you talking about?" 
Miriam sighed. "My house," she said. "I haven't been back to it since my fun-loving uncle had me kidnapped. Roland said it was under surveillance so Ifigured it would be risky. Now—" 
"It's even more risky," Paulette said vehemently. "In fact I think it's stupid." 
"Yes." Miriam bared her teeth, worry and growing anger eating at her: "But Ineed that disk, Paulie, it may be the best leverage I've got. We don't have timefor me to make millions in world three." 
"Oh shit. You think it may come to that?" 
"Yeah, 'oh shit' indeed." 
"What kind of disk?" Brill asked plaintively. 
"Don't worry. Just wait with the car." Miriam focused on Paulette's driving. Theanswer will be somewhere in the shoebox, she thought, desperately. And ifAngbard had my ma snatched, I'll make him pay! 
Familiar scenery rolled past, and a couple of minutes later they turned into aresidential street that Miriam knew well enough to navigate blindfolded. Amiserable wave of home-sickness managed to penetrate her anger and worry: This was where she belonged,and she should never have left. It was her home, dammit! And it slid past to theleft as Paulette kept on driving. 
"Paulie?" Miriam asked anxiously. 
"Looking for suspicious-acting vehicles," Paulie said tersely. 
"Oh." Miriam glanced around. "Ma said there was a truck full of guys watchingher." 
"Uh-huh. Your mother spotted the truck. What did she miss?" 
"Right." Miriam spared a sideways glance: Brill's head was swiveling like aceiling fan, but her expression was more vacant than anything else. Almost as ifshe was bored. "Want to drive round the block once more? When you get back tothe house stop just long enough for me to get out, then carry on. Come back andpick me up in three minutes. Don't park." 
"Um. You sure that you want to do this?" 
"No, F m not sure, I just know that I have to." 
Paulie turned the corner then pulled over. Miriam was out of the car in a secondand Paulette pulled away. There was virtually nobody about—no parked occupiedvans, no joggers. She crossed the road briskly, walked up to her front door, andremembered two things, in a single moment of icy clarity. Firstly, that she hadno idea where her house keys might be, and secondly, that if there were nowatchers this might be because— 
Uh-oh, she thought, and backed away from the front step, watching where her feetwere about to go with exaggerated caution. A cold sweat broke out in the smallof her back, and she shuddered violently. But fear of trip wires didn't stop hercarefully opening the yard gate, slipping around the side of the house, and upto the shed with the concealed key to the French doors at the back. 
When she had the key, Miriam paused for almost a minute at the glass doors,trying to get her hammering heart under control. She peered through thecurtains, thoughtfully. They'll expect me to go in the front, she realized. Buteven 
so... She unlocked the door and eased it open a finger's width. Then she reachedas high as she could, and ran her index finger slowly down the opening, feelingfor the faint tug of a lethal obstruction. Finding nothing, she opened the doorfarther, then repeated the exercise on the curtains. Again: nothing. And so,Miriam returned to her home. 
Her study had been efficiently and brutally strip-searched. The iMac was gone,as were the boxes of CD-ROMs and the zip drive and disks from her desk. Moreobviously, every book in the bookcase had been taken down, the pages riffled,and dumped in a pile on the floor. It was a big pile. "Bastards," she saidquietly. The pink shoebox was gone, of course. Fearing the worst she tiptoedinto her own hallway like a timid burglar, her heart in her mouth. 
It was much the same in the front hall. They'd even searched the phone books. Ablizzard of loose papers, lay everywhere, some of them clearly trampledunderfoot. Drawers lay open, their contents strewn everywhere. Furniture hadbeen pulled out from the walls and shoved back haphazardly, and one of the hallbookcases leaned drunk-enly against the opposite wall. At first sight shethought that the living room had gotten off lightly, but the damage turned out to be even more extensive—her entire music collection had been turned out onto the floor, disks piled on a loose stack. 
"Fuck." Her mouth tasted of ashes. The sense of violation was almost unbearable,but so was the fear that they'd taken her mother and found Paulie's researchdisk as well. The money-laundering leads were in the hands of whoever had donethis to her. Whoever they were, they had to know about the Clan, which meantthey'd know what the disk's contents meant. They were a smoking gun, one thatwas almost certainly pointing at die Clan's east coast operations. She knelt bythe discarded CD cases and rummaged for a minute— found The Beggar's Operaempty, the CD-ROM purloined. 
She went back into the front hall. Somehow she slithered past the fallenbookcase, just to confirm her worst fear. They'd strung the wire behind thefront door, connecting one 
end of it to the handle. If she hadn't been in such a desperate hurry that she'dforgotten her keys, the green box taped crudely to the wall would have turnedher into a messy stain on the sidewalk. Assassin number two is the one who likesClaymore mines, she reminded herself edgily. The cold fear was unbearable andMiriam couldn't take any more. She blundered out through the French doors at theback without pausing to lock them, round the side of the house, and onto thesidewalk to wait for Paulie. 
Seconds later she was in the back of the car, hunched and shivering. "I don'tsee any signs of anything going on," Paulie said quietly. She seemed to havecalmed down from her state at Iris's house. "What do you want to do now? Whydon't we find a Starbucks, get some coffee, then you tell us what you found?" 
"I don't think so." Miriam closed her eyes. 
"Are you alright?" Brill asked, concern in her voice. 
"No, I'm not alright," Miriam said quietly. "We've got to ditch the car, now.They trashed the place and left a trip-wire surprise behind the front door.Paulie, the box of stuff my mother gave me was gone. And so was the disk." 
"Oh—shit. What are we going to do?" 
"I—" Miriam stopped, speechless. "I'm going to talk to Angbard. But not untilI've had a few words with Roland." She pulled an expression that someone whodidn't know her might have mistaken for a smile. "He's the one who told me aboutthe surveillance. It's time to clear the air between us." 
PART 3 
Capitalism for 
Beginners 
Interrogations 
The city of Irongate nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, soot-stainedand smoky by day, capped at night by a sky that reflected the red glow of theblast furnaces down by the shpping canal. From the center of town, the GreatNorth-East Railway spur led off toward the coastline and the branches for Bostonand New London. West of the yards and north of the banked ramparts of the Vaubanpattern fortress sloped a gentle rise populated by the houses of the gentry,while at the foot of the slope clustered tight rows of worker's estates. 
Irongate had started as a transport nexus at the crossing of the canal and therailways, but it had grown into a sprawling industrial city. The canal and itsattendant lock system brought cargos from as far as the Great Lakes—and, inanother time, another world, it was the site of a trading post with the greatIroquis Nation, who dominated the untamed continental interior between theGruinmarkt and the empire of the West. 
There was a neighborhood down in the valley, rubbing shoulders with the slums ofthe poor and the business districts, that was uncomfortable with its ownidentity. Some people had money but no standing in polite society, no title orprospects for social advancement. They congregated here, Chinese merchants andJewish brokers and wealthy owners of bawdy houses alike, and they took pains tobe discreet, for while New Britain's laws applied equally to all men, theenforcers of those laws were only too human. 
Esau walked slowly along Hanover Street, his cane tapping the cobblestones withevery other stride. It was early evening and bitterly cold with it, but thestreet sweepers had been at work and the electric street lamps cast a warm glowacross the pavement. Esau walked slowly, forgoing the easy convenience of a cab,because he wanted time to think. It was vital to prepare himself for the meetingthat lay ahead, both emotionally and intellectually. 
The street was almost empty, the few pedestrians hurrying with hands thrust deepin coat pockets and hats pulled down. Esau passed a pub, a blare of brassy noiseand a stench of tobacco smoke squirting from the doorway as it opened to emit acouple of staggering drunks. "Heya, slant-eye!" one of them bellowed after him.Esau kept on walking steadily, but his pulse raced and he carefully grasped thebutt of the small pistol in his pocket. Don't react, he told himself. You cankill him if he attacks you. Not before. Not that Esau looked particularlyOriental, but to the Orange louts of Iron-gate anyone who didn't look likethemselves was an alien. And reports of a white man killed by a Chinee wouldinflame the popular mood-—building on the back of a cold winter and word ofdefeats in the Kingdom of Siam. The last thing Esau's superiors needed right nowwas a pogrom on the doorstep of their East Coast headquarters. 
The betting shops were closed and the pawnbrokers shut, but between two suchshops Esau paused. The tenement door was utterly plain, but well painted andsolidly fitted. A row of bellpulls ran beside a set of brass plaques bearing thenames of families who hadn't lived here in decades. Esau 
pulled the bottom-most bellpull, then the second from the top, the next onedown, and the first from the bottom, in practiced series. There was a click fromthe door frame and he pushed through, into the darkened vestibule within. Heshut the door carefully behind him, then looked up at the ceiling. 
"Esh'sh icht," he said. 
"Come on in," a man's voice replied in accented English. The inner door openedon light and finery—a stairwell furnished with rich hand-woven carpets,banisters of mahogany, illuminated by gilt-edged lamps in the shape of nakedmaidens. A ceramic lucky cat sat at one side of the staircase, opposite a guard.The guard bowed stiffly as soon as he saw Esau's face. "You are expected, lord,"he said. 
Esau ignored him and ascended the staircase. The tenement block above the twoshops had been cunningly gutted and rebuilt as a palace. The rooms behind thefront windows—visible from the street as ordinary bedrooms or kitchens—were Amesrooms barely three feet deep, their floors and walls and furniture slanted topreserve the semblance of depth when seen from outside. The family had learnedthe need for discretion long ago. Fabulous wealth was no social antidote forepicanthic folds and dark skins in New Britain and if there was one thing the mob disliked more than Chinee-men, it was rich and secretive criminal familiesof Chinee-men. 
Vermin, Esau thought of the two drunks who had harangued him outside the pub.Never mind. At the top of the staircase he bowed once to the left, to thelacquered cabinet containing the household shrine. Then he removed his topcoat,hat, and shoes, and placed them in front of the servant's door to the right ofthe stairs. Finally he approached the door before the staircase, and knockedonce with the head of his cane. 
The door swung open. "Who calls?" asked the majordomo. 
"It is I." Esau marched forward as the majordomo bowed low, holding the dooraside for him. Like the guard below, the majordomo was armed, a pistol at hiship. If the mob 
ever came, it was their job to buy the family time to escape with their lives."Where can I find the elder of days?" 
"He takes tea in the Yellow Room, lord," said the major-domo, still facing thefloor. 
"Rise. Announce me." 
Esau followed the majordomo along a wood-floored passage, the walls hung withancient paintings. Some of them legacies of home, but others, in the Europeanrenaissance style, bore half-remembered names. The majordomo paused at a doorjust beyond a Caravaggio, then knocked. After a whispered conversation twoguards emerged—guards in family uniform this time, not New British streetclothes. In addition to their robes and twin swords (in the style this shadow-world called "Japanese," after a nation that had never existed in Esau's familyhome) they bore boxy black self-feeding carbines. 
"His lordship," said the majordomo. Both soldiers came to attention. "Followme." 
The majordomo and guards proceeded before Esau, gathering momentum and a hand'scount of additional followers as befitted his rank: a scribe with his scrolls and ink, a master of ceremonies whose assistant clucked over Esau's suit,following him with an armful of robes, and a gaggle of messengers. By the timethey arrived outside the Yellow Room, Esau's quiet entry had turned into aprocession. At the door, they paused. Esau held out his arms for the servants tohang a robe over his suit while the majordomo rapped on the door with hisceremonial rod of office. "Behold! His lordship James Lee, second of the line,comes to pay attendance before the elder of days!" 
"Enter," called a high, reedy voice from inside the room. 
Esau entered the Yellow Room, and bowed deeply. Behind him, the servants went totheir knees and prostrated themselves. 
"Rise, great-nephew," said the elder. "Approach me." 
Esau—James Lee—approached his great-uncle. The elder sat cross-legged upon acushioned platform, his wispy beard brushing his chest. He had none of theextravagant finger-
nails or long queue that popular mythology in this land imagined the mandarinclass to have. Apart from his beard, his silk robes, and a certain angle to hischeekbones, he could pass for any beef-eating New Englishman. The family resemblance was pronounced. This is how I will look in fifty years, James Leethought whenever he saw the elder. If our enemies let me live that long. 
He paused in front of the dais and bowed deeply again, then once to the left andonce to the right, where his great-uncle's companions sat in silence. 
"See, a fine young man," his great-uncle remarked to his left. "A strong righthand for the family." 
"What use a strong right hand, if the blade of the sword it holds is brittle?"snapped his neighbor. James held his breath, shocked at the impudence of the oldman—his great-uncle's younger brother, Huan, controller of the eastern reachesfor these past three decades. Such criticism might be acceptable in private, butin public it could only mean two things—outright questioning of the Eldest'sauthority, or the first warning that things had gone so badly awry that honorcalled for a scapegoat. 
"You are alarming our young servant," the Eldest said mildly. "James, be seated,please. You may leave," he added, past Esau's shoulder. 
The servants bowed and backed out of the noble presence. James lowered himselfcarefully to sit on the floor in front of the elders. They sat impassively untilthe doors thumped shut behind his back. "What are we to make of these accounts?"asked the Eldest, watching him carefully. 
"The accounts? ..." Esau puzzled for a moment. This was all going far too fastfor comfort. "Do you refer to the reports from our agent of influence, or tothe—" 
'The agent." The Eldest shuffled on his cushion. "A cup of tea for my nephew,"he remarked over his shoulder. A servant Esau hadn't noticed before steppedforward and placed a small tray before him. 
"The situation is confused," Esau admitted. "When he first notified me of there-emergence of the western alliance's line 
I consulted with uncle Stork, as you charged me. My uncle sent word that theorders of your illustrious father were not discharged satisfactorily and musttherefore be carried out. Unfortunately, the woman's existence was known far andwide among the usurpers by this time, and her elder tricked us, mingling herparty with other women of his line so that the servants I sent mistook the onefor the other. Now she has gone missing, and our agent says he doesn't knowwhere." 
"Ah," said the ancient woman at the Eldest's right hand. The Eldest glanced ather, but she fell silent. 
"Our agent believes that the elder Angbard is playing a game within the usurperclan," Esau added. "Our agent intended to manipulate her into a position ofinfluence, but controlled by himself—his goal was to replace Angbard. This goalis no longer achievable, so he has consented to pursue our preferences." 
"Indeed," echoed Great-Uncle Huan, "that seems the wisest course of action tome." 
"Stupid!" Esau jerked as the Eldest's fist landed on a priceless lacquered tray."Our father's zeal has bound us to expose ourselves to their attack, lost avalued younger son to their guards, and placed our fate in the hands of amercenary—" 
"Ah," sighed the ancient woman. The Eldest subsided abruptly. 
"Then what is to be done?" asked Huan, almost plaintively. 
"Anomer question," said Esau's great-uncle, leaning forward. "When you sentbrothers Kim and Wu after the woman they bodi failed to return. What of theirtalismans?" 
James Lee hung his head. "I have no news, Eldest." He closed his eyes, afraid toface the wrath he could feel boiling on the dais before him. "The word Ireceived from our agent Jacob is that no locket was found on either person. Thatthe woman Miriam disappeared at the same time seems to suggest—" his voicebroke. "Could she be of our line, as well?" he asked. 
"It has never happened before," quavered the ancient woman next to the Eldest. 
He turned and stared at her. "That is not the question, 
aunt," he said, almost gently. "Could this long-lost daughter of the westernalliance have come here?" he asked Esau. "None of them have ever done so before. Not since the abandonment." 
James Lee took a deep breath. "I thought it was impossible," he said. "Thefamily is divided by the abandonment. We come here, and they go ... wherever itis that the source of their power is. They abandoned us, and that was the end ofit, wasn't it? None of them ever came here!' 
"Do we know if it's possible?" asked Huan, squinting at Esau. "Our skill runs inthe ever-thinning blood of the family. So does theirs. I see no way—" 
"You are making unfounded assumptions," the Eldest interrupted. He turned hiseyes on Esau. 'The talisman is gone, and so is the woman. I find that highlysuggestive. And worrying." He ran his fingers through his beard, distractedly."Nephew, you must continue to seek the woman's demise. Seek it not because of myfather's order, but because she may know our secrets. Seek her in the barbariancastles of Niejwein; also seek her here, in the coastal cities of the north­east. You are looking for a mysterious woman of means, suddenly sprung from thinair, making a place for herself. You know what to do. You must also—" he pausedand took a sip of tea—"obtain a talisman from the usurper clan. When you haveobtained one, by whatever means, compare it to your own. If they differ then Icharge you to attempt to use it, both here and in the world of our ancestors.See where it takes you, if anywhere! If it is to familiar territory, then we mayrest easy. But if the talent lies in the pattern instead of the bearer, we areall in terrible danger." 
He glanced at the inner shrine, in its sealed cabinet on the left of the YellowRoom. "Our ancestor, revered though he be, may have made a terrible error aboutthe cause of the abandonment. Unthinkable though that is, we must questioneverything until we discern the truth. And then we must find a way to achievevictory." 
* * * 
"Hello, Roland's voice mail. If it's still secure, meet me at the Marriott suiteyou rented, tonight at six p.m. Bye." She stabbed the "off" button on her phoneviciously then remarked to the air, "Be there or be dead meat." 
Paulette was bent over the screen of her laptop, messing around with some finearts web sites, a browser window pointing to a large online bookstore: "Are yousure you mean that?" she murmured. 
"I don't know." Miriam frowned darkly, arms crossed defensively. "Give me thecar keys, I'm going for a drive. Back late." 
Being behind the wheel of a car cleared Miriam's head marvelously. The simpleroutine of driving, merging with traffic and keeping the wheels on the icy road,distracted her from the ulcer of worry gnawing away at her guts. At Home Depotshe shoved a cart around with brutal energy, slowing only when a couple of five-gallon cans of kerosene turned it into a lumbering behemoth. Afterwards she leftquickly and headed for the interstate. 
She was almost a hundred and thirty miles south of Boston, driving fast, hauntedby evil thoughts, when her phone rang. She held it to her ear as she drove. 
"Yes?" 
"Miriam?" Her throat caught. 
"Roland? Where are you?" 
"I'm in the hotel suite right now. Listen, I'm so sorry." 
You will be, if I find you're responsible, she thought. "I'll be over in aboutan hour, hour and twenty," she said. "You're alone?" 
"Yes. I haven't told anyone else about this room." 
"Good, neither have I." They'd rented the room in New York for privacy, for asafe house where they could discuss their mutual plans and fears—and for otherpurposes. Now all she could think of was the man in her mother's Dumpster, eyesfrozen and staring. "Do you know if Angbard got my message?" 
"What message?" He sounded puzzled. "The courier—" 
"The message about my mother." 
"I think so," he said uncertainly. "You sure you can't be here any faster?" 
She chuckled humorlessly. "I'm on the interstate." 
"Uh, okay. I can't stay too long—got to go back over. But if you can be here inan hour we'll have an hour together." 
"Maybe," she said guardedly. "I'll see you." 
She killed the phone and sped up. 
It took her only an hour and ten minutes to make the last sixty miles, crosstown, and find somewhere to park near the hotel. As she got out of the car shepaused, first to pat her jacket pocket and then to do a double take. This iscrazy, she thought, I'm going everywhere with a gun! And no license, much less aconcealed-carry permit. Better not get stopped, then. Having to cross over in ahurry would be painful, not to say potentially dangerous; the temporary tattooson her wrists seemed to itch as she pushed through the doors and into the lobbyof the hotel. 
The elevator took forever to crawl up to the twenty-second floor, then she wasstanding in the thickly carpeted silence of the hallway outside the room. Sheknocked, twice. The door opened to reveal Roland, wearing an immaculate businesssuit, looking worried. He looked great, better than great. She wanted to tearhis clothes off and lick him all over—not an urge she had any intention ofgiving in to. 
His face lit up when he saw her. "Miriam! You're looking well." He waved herinto the room. 
"I'm not looking good," she said automatically, shoulders hunched. "I'm a mess."She glanced around. The room was anonymous as usual, untouched except for thebig aluminium briefcase on the dressing table. She walked over to the row of bigsealed windows overlooking the city. "I've been living out of a suitcase fordays on end. Why did you call me yesterday?" She steeled herself for theinevitable, ensuring that his next words came as a surprise. 
"It's—" He looked drawn. "It's about Olga. She's been shot. She's stable, but—" 
"Was it a shotgun?" Miriam interrupted, startled out of her scriptedconfrontation. 
"A shotgun?" He frowned. "No, it was a pistol, at close 
range. After you disappeared, ran or whatever, she started acting verystrangely. Refused to let anyone anywhere near her chambers then moved into yourapartment at House Hjorth, deeply disconcerting Baron Oliver—she did itdeliberately to snub him, I think." He shook his head. "Then someone shot her.The servants were in the antechamber to her room, heard a scuffle and shots—shedefended herself. When they went in, there was blood, but no assassin to beseen." 
Miriam leaned against the wall wearily, overcome by a sense that events werespinning out of control. "After I ran. Anything about a corpse in the orangery?Or a couple more in Olga's rooms? We sure left enough bullet holes in the walls—" 
"What? " Roland stood up, agitated. "I didn't hear anything about this! I gotthe message about you"running, but not—" 
"There were two assassination attempts." Miriam tugged at the curtains, pullingthem shut. You can never be sure, she thought, chilled: even though a highbuilding was implicitly doppelgangered, inaccessible from the other worlds, aClan sniper in a neighboring office block could shoot and then make a cleanescape as soon as they reached ground level. "The first guy wanted me in thegarden. Unfortunately for their plans, Olga's chaperone Margit turned upinstead. I went back to tell Olga and ran into two guys with machine pistols." 
"But." Roland shut his mouth, visibly biting his tongue, as Miriam stared athim. 
"I don't think they were working together," Miriam added after a brief pause."That's why I.. . left." 
"I ought to get you to a safe house right now," said Roland. "It's what Angbardwill expect. We can't have random strangers trying to murder Clan heiresses.That they should have shot Olga is bad enough, but this goes far beyond anythingI'd known about." He glanced at her sharply. "It's as if I'm being kept out ofthe loop deliberately." 
"Tell me about Olga?" Miriam asked. Well, we know just how reliable Angbardthinks you are. "How is she being looked after? What sort of treatment is shereceiving?" 
"Whoa! Slowly. Baron Oliver couldn't afford to look as if he was ignoring an attack under his own roof—he personally got her across to anemergency room in New York, and notified the Duke while they stabilized her.Angbard had her moved to Boston Medical Center by helicopter once she was ready:She's in a private room, under guard." Roland looked mildly satisfied at herexpression of surprise. "She's got round-the-clock bodyguards and hot and coldrunning nurses. Angbard isn't taking any chances with her safety. We couldprovide bodyguards for you, too, if you want—" 
"Not an issue. But I want to visit Olga." Miriam put her shoulder bag down onthe bed. "Tonight." 
"You can't. She's stable, but that doesn't mean she's taking visitors. She's ona drip and pain killers with a hole in one arm and a head injury. Shock andblood loss—it took us nearly two hours to get her to the emergency room. Maybein a couple of days, when she's feeling better, you can see her." 
"You said she had a head injury?" 
"Yeah. The bad guy used a small-caliber popgun, that's why she's still alive."He looked at her. "You carry—" 
Miriam pulled out her pistol. "Like this?" she asked dryly. "Fuck it, Roland, ifI was going to kill Olga, I wouldn't mess around. You know damn well they werehoping to nail me instead." 
"I know, I know." He looked irritated and gloomy. "It wasn't you. Nobody withhalf a wit says it was you, and the fools that do don't have any pull at court.But your departure set more tongues flapping than anything else that's happenedin years; a real scandal, say the idiots. Eloping with a lady-in-waiting,according to the more lurid imaginations. It doesn't look good to them, theshooting coming so soon after." 
"Well, I don't give a shit whether I look good or bad to the Clan." Miriamstared at him through narrowed eyes. "What about my mother?" she asked. 
"Your mother? Isn't she alright?" He looked surprised. "Is she—" 
"I went over there this morning. She phoned last night while I was away.Something about going on a long journey. 
Today there is a new back door in her kitchen, and a dead man's body in theDumpster behind her house, and not a sign of her to be found. I told Angbardthat if anything happened to her, heads would roll, and I meant it." 
Roland sat down heavily in the room's armchair. "Your mother?" His face waspale. 'This is the first I've heard of it." 
Miriam pursed her lips. "Would Angbard tell you if he was going to order herabducted?" 
"Abducted—" Roland began to look worried. "Someone was shot on her doorstep?" 
"You're catching on. Someone was shot with a sawed-off shotgun. And she sure ashell didn't stuff him into a Dumpster and repair the kitchen door beforeleaving, or mop up the blood stains. In case you didn't know, she's got multiplesclerosis. She's in a wheelchair right now, and even when the disease is inremission she walks with crutches." 
Miriam watched him go through the stages of surprise, denial, anger, and alarmwith gloomy satisfaction. 'That doesn't make sense!" he insisted. "Angbard put her under a protective watch! If someone had gotten through to her I would knowabout it!" 
"Don't be so sure of yourself." 
"But it can't be!" He was vehement. 
"Listen, I know a shotgun wound when I see one, Roland. I stuck my finger in itand waggled it about. You know something? It was sawed-off, either that or hewas shot from at least fifty feet away, and I figure that would have attractedsome attention. It makes a hell of a mess. Which ward is Olga in? I have got togo and see her. What the hell is Angbard playing at?" 
"I don't know," he said slowly. "He's not exactly been confiding in me lately."Roland's frown deepened. 
Miriam took a deep breath. "I went over to my house," she said quietly. 
"Oh?" Roland looked slightly stunned, but it wasn't the expression of a would-bemurderer confronted by a surprisingly animated victim: He looked much the wayshe felt. 
"Someone searched it efficiently. They left an, uh, sur-
prise. Behind the front door. I'm not sure what kind except that it's probablyexplosive and it's wired to the handle. Only reason I'm here is I forgot my keysand had to use the back way in." 
"Oh shit—" He stood up, his hand going to his pocket instinctively. "You'realright?" 
"Not for want of somebody trying," she said dryly. "Seems to me that we have apattern. First, someone tries to kill me or mess with Olga. They then try harderto kill me and succeed in killing Olga's chaperone. I shoot one killer andleave, taking Brill with me. Olga moves into my room at the palace and someoneshoots her. Meanwhile, people who should know where I've gone don't, and mymother vanishes, and everywhere I'm likely to go on this side starts Isprouting bombs. Can you tell me what kind of fucking pat-
tern I am seeing here, Roland? Can you?" 
"Someone is out to get you," he said through gritted teeth. "More than oneconspiracy, by the sound of it. And they're getting Olga by mistake. Repeatedly.For some reason. And they're lying to me, too. And Angbard is treating me as apotential security leak, keeping me in the dark and feeding me shit." 
"Right." She nodded jerkily. "So what are we going to do about it?" She watchedhim like a hawk. | "I think—" He came to some decision, because hetook a 
step toward her. "I think you'd better come with me. I'm going to take you toAngbard in person and we'll sort out this out in person—he's over here now,taking personal control. We can accommodate you at Fort Lofstrom, a fullydoppel-gangered apartment, round-the-clock guards—" 
She pushed his hand away. "I don't think so." 
"What do you mean, you don't think so?" He looked surprised. 
"I can look after myself, thank you," she said coolly. "I'm making arrangements.I'll get this sorted out by Beltaigne. One last question. Do you have any ideawho might be trying to kill me?" 
"Lots of suspects with motives, but no evidence." Puzzle-
ment and worry mingled in his expression. For a moment he looked as if he wasabout to say something more, then he shook his head. 
"Well then, that means I win because I do know roughly who's trying to kill me,"she said, gloomily triumphant. "And I'm going to flush them from cover. Yourclue is this: They're not part of the Clan, and a doppelgangered house on theother side is no defense—but they can't get at me while I'm here." 
"Miriam," he rolled his eyes. "You're being paranoid. I'll get your mother'shouse checked out immediately, but you'll be a lot safer if we put a dozen armedbodyguards around you—" 
"Safer from what? Safe from some blood feud that was ancient before I was born? Or safe from the idiots who think they're going to inherit my mother's estate ifI can be declared incompetent next May, in front of a Clan council? Get real,Roland, the Clan is nearly as big a threat to my freedom as the world-walkingassholes who shot Olga and booby-trapped the warehouse!" 
"Booby-trapped—" his eyes widened. 
"Yeah, a claymore mine on a tripwire in the doorway. And nobody cleared up thenight watchman's body. Do you begin to get it?" She began to back away towardthe door. "Someone set up the bomb, someone inside Angbard's security operation!And," she continued in a low voice, "you were in the right places at the righttimes." 
Roland looked angry. "Miriam, you can't mean that!" He paced across the roomrestlessly. "Come on, look, let me sort everything out and it'll be okay, won'tit? I'll vet your guards—" 
"Roland." She shook her head, angry with him, angry with herself for wanting togive in and take him up on an offer that meant far more and went far furtherthan words could express: "I'm gone. If you know where I'm going, the bad guyswill find out—if you aren't one of them." She kept her hand in her pocket, justin case, but the idea of shooting him filled her with a numinous sense ofhorror. 
He looked appalled. "Can't we just... ?" I "Just what?" she cried. "Kiss and make up? Jesus, 
Roland, don't be naive!"I 
"Shit." He stared at her. "You really mean it." 
"I am going to walk out the door in a minute," she said tensely, hating herselffor her own determination, "and we are not going to see each other again untilnext May, probably. At least, not in the next few days or weeks. We both needtime out. I need to get my head together and see if I can flush the bastardswho're trying to kill me. You need to think about who you are and who I am andwhere we're going before we take this any further—and you need to find whoever'swormed their way into Angbard's confidence and whoever shot Olga." 
"I don't care about Olga! I care about you\" he snapped. 
"That is part of the problem I've got with you right now," she said coldly, and
headed for the door. 
A thought occurred to her as she pulled the door open. "Roland?" 

"Yes?" He sounded coldly angry. 
"Tomorrow I'm going to get lost again, probably until Beltaigne. Keep checking
your voice mail—there's no need to hold this room any longer." 

"I wish you wouldn't do this," he said quietly. She shut the door behind her and

departed, her heart infinitely heavier than it had been when she arrived. 
Ring ring. There was a breeze blowing, and the park was bitterly cold: Miriam
sat hunched at one end of a bench. 

"Hello? Lofstrom Associates, how may I help you?" 
"This is Miriam. I want to talk to Angbard." 
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lofstrom is unavailable right now—" 
"I said I'm Miriam. If you don't know the name, check with someone who does. You

have five minutes to get Angbard on the line before the shit hits the fan." 
"I'll see what I can do. Please hold—" 
beep beep beep 
"Hello?" A different voice, not Angbard's, came on the line. 
"To whom am I speaking?" Miriam asked calmly. 
"Matthias. And you are?" 
"Miriam Beckstein. I want to talk to Angbard. Right now. This call has been

logged by the front desk." 
"I'm sorry, but he's in a meeting. If—" 
"If I don't get him on the line right now I'll make sure the Boston Globe

receives a package that will blow your East Coast courier line wide open. You
have sixty seconds." Her fingers tensed on the handset. 
"One moment." 
Click. 

"Angbard here. What's this?" 
"It's me," said Miriam. "Sorry I had to strong-arm my way past your mandarins,
but it's urgent." 

"Urgent?" She could almost hear the eyebrows rising. "I've never seen Matthias

so disturbed since—well. Unpleasant events. What did you tell him?" 
"Oh, nothing much." Miriam leaned back, felt the cold bench bite through her
coat, sat up straight again. "Listen. I told you something about my mother. That
if anything happened to her I would be really pissed off." 

"Yes?" Polite interest colored Angbard's voice. 

"I'm really pissed off. Really, really pissed off." 
"What happened?" he demanded. 
"She's gone. There's a dead man in the Dumpster behind her house, killed with ashotgun. She had time to phone me to say she was going on a journey—I don't knowif anyone was holding a gun to her head. Roland didn't know this. Apparently ithappened at the same time that Olga was shot. And my house has been burgled andstuff taken, and somebody booby-trapped the front door." 
"Come here immediately. Or if you tell me where you are I'll send a carload ofguards—" 
"No, Angbard, that won't work." She swallowed. "Listen. I am about to vanishmore deeply than last time. Don't worry about Brilliana, she's safe. What I wantyou to do . . . look for my mother. By all means. Raise heaven and earth. I amgoing to visit Olga tomorrow and I do not expect to be 
stopped. If I don't leave that meeting and reach a certain point, unhindered,later tomorrow, unpleasant letters will go in the mail. I am serious about this,I am pissed off, and I am establishing my own power base because I believe thatcivil war you told me about is not over and the faction who started it is tryingto fire it up again, through me." 
"But Helge, that faction—" he sounded coldly angry— "they're your father's sideof your family!" 
"That's not the faction I'm thinking of," she said dryly. "The people I have inmind never signed on to the cease-fire. Listen, I will be in touch ahead of theBeltaigne conference. I'm going to have some really big surprises for you all,including ... well, anyone who tries to declare me incompetent is going to get areally nasty shock. I'm going to keep in touch through Roland, but he won't knowwhere I'm hiding. So, if you find my mother tell Roland. More to the point,don't trust your staff. Someone is not telling you everything that happens inthe field. I think you've got a mole." 
"Explain." The terser he became the better Miriam felt. 
She thought for a moment. Tell him about Roland? No, but.. . "Ask Roland aboutthe warehouse warning I phoned him. Find out why instead of cleaners calling,someone turned up and booby-trapped the place. Looks like the same style aswhoever planted the bomb behind the front door of my house. You didn't knowabout that? Ask Matthias about the courier I intercepted on the train. Ask Olgaabout the previous assassination attempts. By the way, if I think her life is indanger, I reserve the right to move Olga somewhere safer. Once she's out ofimmediate danger." 
"You're asking for a blank check," he said. "I've noticed the withdrawals.They're big." 
"I'm setting up an import/export business." Miriam took a deep breath. "I'llannounce it to the Clan at Beltaigne. By then, I should have a return oninvestment that will, um, justify your confidence in me." Another deep breath."I'd like another million dollars, though. That would make things run smoother." 
"Are you sure?" asked Angbard. He sounded almost amused, now. 
"A million here, a million there, pretty soon you're talking serious money. Yes,I'm sure. It's a new investment opportunity in the family tradition. Like Isaid, I'm not setting up in competition—think of it as proof of concept for a whole new business area the Clan can move into. And a way of making Baron OliverHjorth and his backers look really stupid, if that interests you." 
"Well. If you insist, I'll take your word for it." He was using the indulgentpaterfamilias voice again. "It'll be in your account by the day after tomorrow.From central funds this time, not my own purse." In a considerably icier tone:"Please don't disappoint me in your investments. The Council has a very shortway of dealing with embezzlement and not even your position would protect you." 
"Understood. One other thing, uncle." 
"Yes?" 
"Why didn't you tell me about the other branch of the Clan? The one thataccidentally got mislaid a couple of hundred years ago and is now blunderingaround in the dark trying to kill people?" 
"The—" He paused. "Who told you about them?" 
"Sleep well," she told him, and hit the "off" button on her phone with aconsiderable sense of satisfaction. She looked at the sky, saw night was pullingin already. It was time to go pick up Brill and visit the hospital. She hopedOlga would be able to talk to visitors. All she needed was confirmation of onelittle point and she could be on her way back to the far side, and the businessempire she planned to establish. 
Boston Medical Center was much like any other big general hospital, a maze ofcorridors and departments signposted in blue. Uniformed porters, clericalofficers, maintenance staff, and lots of bewildered relatives buzzed about likea nest of bees. As they entered, Miriam murmured to Brill: "usual drill, do whatI do. Okay?" 
"Okay." They walked up to reception and Miriam smiled. 
"Hi there, I'm wondering if it's possible to visit a patient? An Olga, uh,Hjorth—" 
The receptionist, bored, shoved hair up past her ear bug. "I'll just check. Uh,what did you say your name was?" 
"Miriam Beckstein. And a friend." 
"Yeah, they're expecting you, go right up. You'll find her on ward fourteen.Have a nice day!" 
"This place smells strange," Brill muttered as Miriam hunted for the elevators. 
"It's a hospital. Full of sick people, they use disinfectant to keep diseasesdown." 
"An infirmary?" Brill looked skeptical. "It doesn't look like one to me!" 
Miriam tried to imagine what an infirmary might look like in the Gruinmarkt, andfailed. When were hospitals invented, anyway? she wondered irrelevantly as theelevator doors slid open, and a bunch of people came out. "Come on," she said. 
Ward fourteen was on the third floor, a long walk away. Brill kept glancing fromside to side as they passed open doors, a hematology lab here, the vestibule ofanother ward there. Finally they found the front desk. "Hello?" said Miriam. 
"Hello yourself." The nurse at the desk glanced up. "Visiting hours run untileight," she commented, "you've got an hour. Who are you looking for?" 
"Olga Hjorth. We're expected." 
"Hmm." The nurse frowned and glanced down, then her frown cleared. "Oh, yeah,you're on the list. I'm sorry," she looked apologetic. "She's only taking a fewvisitors; we've got orders to keep strangers out. And she's on nil by mouthright now, so if you've brought any food or drink you'll have | to leave it right here at the desk." 
"No, that's okay," said Miriam. "Uh, can you ask if she's willing to see myfriend here? Brill?" i "That's me," said Brill, miscueing off Miriam'srequest. 
i - "Oh, well—you're on the clear list." The nurse shrugged. ' "It's just thatsomebody shot her." She frowned. "She's un-\ der guard. Spooks, if you followmy drift." 
Miriam gave her a sympathetic smile. "I follow. They know us both." 
"That way." The nurse pointed. "Second door on the right. Knock before you openit." 
Miriam knocked. The door opened immediately. A very big guy in dark clothes anddark glasses filled it. "Yes?" he demanded, in a vaguely central-Europeanaccent. 
"Miriam Beckstein and Brill van Ost to see Olga. We're expected." 
"One moment." The door closed, then opened again, this time unobstructed. "Shesays to come in." 
It was a small anteroom and there were not one but three heavies in suspiciouslybulky jackets and serious expressions hanging around. One of them was sittingdown reading a copy of Guns and Ammo, but the other two were on their feet andthey studied Miriam carefully before they opened the inner door. "Olga!" criedBrill, rushing in. "What have they done to you?" 
"Careful," warned Miriam, following her. 
"Hello," said Olga. She smiled slightly and shifted in the bed. 
"Excuse me," the young nurse said waspishly. "I'll just be finishing here beforeyou disturb her, if you don't mind?" 
"Oh," said Brill. 
"I don't mind," said Miriam, staring at Olga. "How are you?" she askedanxiously. 
"Bad." Olga's smile warmed slightly. "Tired'n'bruised. But alive." Her eyestracked toward the nurse, who was fiddling with the drip mounted on the side ofthe bed, and Miriam nodded minutely. The back of her bed was raised and therewas a huge dressing over her right shoulder. Alarming-looking drain tubesemerged from it, and a bunch of wires from under the neck of her hospital gownfed into some kind of mobile monitor on a trolley. It chirped occasionally."Damn." Half of her hair was missing, and there was another big dressingcovering one side of her head, but no drain tubes—which, Miriam supposed, was agood sign. 'This feels most strange." 
"I'll bet it does," Miriam said with some feeling. Wow, she 
thought, thinking about Brill's first reaction to New York, she's handling itwell. "Did they find whoever did it?" 
"I'm told not." Olga glanced at the nurse again, who glanced back sternly andstraightened up. 
"I'll just leave you to it," she announced brightly. "Remember, no food ordrink! And don't tire her out. I'll be back in fifteen minutes; if you need mebefore then, use the buzzer." 
Miriam, Brill, and Olga watched her departure with relief. "Strange fashionshere," Olga murmured. "Strange buildings. Strange everything." 
"Yeah, well." Miriam glanced at the drip, the monitoring gear, everything else.Cable TV, a private bathroom, and a vase with flowers in it. Compared to thecare Olga would receive in the drafty palace on the other side, this was thevery lap of luxury. "What happened?" 
"Ack." Olga coughed. "I was in your, your room. Asleep. He appeared out ofnowhere and shot... well." She shifted slightly. "Why doesn't it hurt more?" sheasked, sounding puzzled. "He shot at me, but I am a light sleeper. I was alreadysitting up. And I sleep with my pistol under my pillow." Her smile widened. 
Miriam shook her head. "Did he get away?" she asked. "If not, did you get hislocket?" 
"I wondered when you would ask." Olga closed her eyes. "Managed to grab itbefore they found me. It's in the drawer there." 
She didn't point at the small chest of drawers, but Miriam figured it out.Before she could blink, Brill had the top drawer open and lifted out a chainwith a disk hanging from it. "Give me," said Miriam. 
"Yeah?" Brill raised an eyebrow, but passed it to her all the same. 
"Hmm." Miriam glanced at it, felt a familiar warning dizziness, and glancedaway. Then she pulled back a cuff and looked at the inside of her right wrist.The same. "Same as the bastard who killed Margit. Exactly the same. While theother bunch of heavies who tried to roll us over at the same time didn't have any lockets. At all." 
"Thought so," murmured Olga. 
"Listen, they're after us both," said Miriam. "Olga?" 
"I'm listening," she said sleepily. "Don't worry." 
"They're after us both," Miriam insisted. "Olga, this is very important. You'reprobably going to be stuck here for two or three days, minimum, and it'll takeweeks before you're well—but as soon as you're well enough to move, Angbard willwant to take you back to his fortress on the other side. It is really importantthat you don't go there. I mean, it's vital. The killers can reach you on theother side, in Fort Lofstrom, even in a doppelgangered room. But they can'treach you here. Listen, I've got a friend here working for me. And Brill's here,too. You can stay with us, if you like. Or talk to Roland, get Roland to help.I'm pretty sure he's reliable—for you, at least. If you stay in Angbard'sdoppelgangered rooms on this side, the ones he uses to stop family membersgetting at him in the fort, you'll be safe from the lost family in world three, and from the other conspirators, but not from the mole. And if you go back toNiejwein, the conspirators will try to kill you." 
"Wait!" Olga struggled visibly to absorb everything. "Lost family? World three?What's—" 
"The assassin who killed Margit." Miriam tensed. "It's a long story. I thinkthey're after you, now, because of me." 
Olga shook her head. "But why? I mean, what purpose could that serve?" 
"Because it'll discredit me, or it'll restart the civil war, and I'm fairlycertain that's what the bunch from world three, the long-lost relatives, want toachieve. If I die and it can be blamed on one half of the Clan, that starts itup again. If you die and it looks like I've schemed with Roland to get you outof the way so I can marry him, it starts up for a different reason. Do you see?" 
"Vaguely." Olga opened her eyes and looked at Miriam. "You'll have to explain itagain later. Do you think they'll let me stay here?" 
"Hmm." Miriam thought for a moment. "You can stay here to recover. I don't thinkeven Angbard is stupid enough 
to move you while you're ill. You can lean on him to let you stay a bit longerto see what it's like, too. That might work. If he's got any sense he'll work itout from what I told him. But he isn't safe, Olga." 
Brill turned around. "They abducted—or killed— Miriam's foster-mother, milady.Yesterday, at the same time they shot you." 
"Oh!" Olga looked pensive. "So. What would you suggest?" "I think you shouldstay here for now. When you're better, I want to—" Miriam caught Brill's eye—"introduce you to a friend of mine called Paulette. And then we'll see." Shelicked her lips. "I've got a business proposition in mind. One that will flushout the bastards who want us both dead, and make everybody involved wealthybeyond belief." She grinned at Olga. "Interested?" 
Agreements 
Almost exactly two weeks later, Miriam sat in front of a mirror in the BrightonHotel, brushing her hair and pulling a face. It's definitely getting longer, shethought. Damn that hairdresser! She'd drawn the line at a wig, but evenshoulder-length hair was considered eccentrically short by Boston politesociety, and a reputation for eccentricity was something Miriam didn't want tocultivate—it would happen anyway, and could only get in her way. But she hadn'thad hair even this long since she was a teenager. Bloody nuisance, she thoughtaffectedly, then snorted with amusement. This place is getting to me. Even theway they talk! The house purchase was going ahead, the conveyancing . papers andlegal to-ing and fro-ing well in hand. Erasmus had taken delivery of no lessthan ten pounds of twenty-three carat gold, an immense amount by any standard—back in Cambridge it would have paid Miriam's salary at The Weatherman foralmost a year—and had warned his shad-
owy compatriots to expect much larger amounts to start flowing soon, "from asympathetic source." His stock had risen. Meanwhile, Miriam had taken pains toquietly slip into at least two meetings of the Friendly Party to keep an eye onwhere the money was going. When she'd left money on the collecting tray, it hadbeen with a sense that she was doing the right thing. 
The Levelers, despite official persecution (and the imprisonment of many oftheir leading lights for sedition), had a political agenda she thought sheunderstood, one not too alien from her own. High upon it was a bill of rights;the universal franchise (granting women the vote here for the first time); equalrights regardless of age, race, and sex; and separation of Church from state.That the imperial government didn't take such things for granted gave Miriam onesource of comfort; if she was going to get her start here by smugglingcontraband gold to fund radicals, at least they were radical democrats. Theironies in the similarity between her activities and the Clan's own businessmodel didn't leave her untouched. She consoled herself with two thoughts:Smuggling gold to undermine a despotic monarchy wasn't in the same moral leagueas being the main heroin connection for the East Coast, and she intended toswitch to a different business model just as soon as she could. 
Miriam checked her appearance in the mirror. With earrings and a pearl chokerand the right haircut and dress she could just about pass, but she still feltshe was walking a knife-edge in maintaining appearances. New Britain seemed totake class consciousness almost as seriously as the feudal nobility of theGruinmarkt. It was depressing, and the need to dive into the detail work ofsetting up a business here left her no time to pursue casual friendships. Whenshe had time to think about it, she realized she was lonely. But at least shehad the option of going home in a few more days. That was more than Brill had.Or Iris, wherever she was. 
As she locked the jewel box, there was a knock at the door. A bellhop bobbed toher outside. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but you have a visitor." He offeredMiriam a card on a 
silver tray. Miriam nodded. "Please show Sir Alfred Durant to my table in thedining room. I have been expecting him, and I will join him shortly. I'm alsoexpecting a Mr. Humphrey Bates. If you'd care to see they are offered anaperitif first." 
Miriam left her room and headed downstairs, outwardly calm but inwardly tense.Paradoxically, some things were easier to do over here. The primitive state ofthe corporate scene made it relatively easy to mount an all-out assault on mecaptains of industry, for which she was deeply grateful. (An SEC-approved duediligence background check such as she'd have faced at home would have smashedthrough her public identity as if it was made of wet cardboard.) But otherthings were harder to fake. People judged your trustworthiness by a whole slewof social indicators, your class background, and the way you spoke and dressed.The equivalent of a dark suit and a PowerPoint presentation would get youprecisely nowhere unless you were a member of the right clubs or had been to thecorrect finishing school. If you were an outsider, you needed a special edge—andyou needed to be at least twice as good. 
She'd spent most of the day running scenarios for how this meeting could play,ranging from the irredeemably bad to the unexpectedly good. She'd gotten herstory prepared, her answers ready, her lawyer in attendance, and just abouteverything—except her hair—straight. Now all that remained was to see if SirDurant would bite ... or whether he'd turn out to be an inveterate snob, or anoverbred twit whose business was run for him by self-effacing middle-classtechnicians. 
She'd reserved me Hanover Room off the back of the carvery downstairs. Mostrestaurants in this city were associated with hotels, and the Brighton's was avery expensive, very exclusive one. As she came through the door, two men rose.One of them was the lawyer, Bates, and the other—she smiled at him and dippedher head briefly. "You must be Sir Alfred Durant?" she asked. "I've been lookingforward to meeting you." 
"A pleasure, ma'am," he said, in a hoarse, slightly gravelly voice. Durant wasthin and tall, imposing but with a 
hauteur that spoke more of a weary self-confidence than of arrogance. His eyeswere soft, brown, and deceptively tired-looking. "Please, you must call meAlfred. Mr. Bates has been pinning my ears back with stories about you." 
"Indeed." Miriam's expression acquired a slightly fixed, glassy overtone as shenodded to her lawyer. "Well, and have you arrived in good health? Has anyoneoffered you a drink? I say, waiter—" 
The waiter hurried over. "Yes, milady?" 
Durant raised an eyebrow. "Gin and tonic for me," he said slowly—or was itmelancholia? He likes people to think he drives from the back seat, Miriamnoted. Watch this one. 
"A sweet Martini for me," Bates added. Next to Sir Durant he was short, plump,and somewhat overeager. 
"Certainly." Miriam relaxed slightly. "A sherry, please," she added. "If you'dlike to come in, I believe our table is waiting ... ?" 
The scandalous overtones of a single woman entertaining two gentlemen to dinnerin a closed room were mildly defused by her black dress and rumored widowhood.Bates had confirmed that there were no unsalubrious rumors about Sir Durant's personal life—or at least none she need worry about. Miriam concentrated onbeing a perfect hostess while pumping Durant for information about himself, andkeeping Bates from either drying up or running off at the mouth. Durant was notthe most forthcoming of interview subjects, but after the soup she found aworthwhile button to press, and triggered a ten-minute monologue on the topic ofcar-racing. "It is without doubt the wooden track that makes it so exciting,"Durant droned over the salmon steak—expensively imported by airship from thenorth—"for with the embankment of the course, and the addition of pneumonicwheels, they get up to the most exhausting speeds. There was the time old TimmyWatson's brakes failed on the inside straight toward the finish line atYeovilton—" 
After the best part of two hours, both Bates and Sir Durant were reclining intheir chairs. Miriam felt bloated and silently cursed the etiquette thatprevented her from leaving 
the table for a minute, but the last-minute addition of an excellent glass ofvintage port seemed to have helped loosen Alfred up. Especially after Miriam hadasked a couple of leading questions about brake shoe manufacture, which veereddangerously close to discussing business. 
"You seem to me to be unusually interested in brakes," Sir Durant said, cuppinghis glass in one hand and staring at her across the table with the expression ofa well-fed and somewhat cynical vulture. "If you'll pardon me for saying this,it's a somewhat singular interest in one of the fairer sex." 
"I like to think I have lots of singular interests." Miriam smiled. Patronizingold bastard. "I have spent much of my time traveling to far places and I'mafraid my education in the more feminine arts may be a little lacking. Business,however, is another matter." 
"Ah, business." Bates nodded knowingly, and Miriam had to actively resist thetemptation to kick him under the table. 
"Business." Durant, too, nodded. "I noticed your purchase of a company—was it byany chance Dalkeith, Sidney and Fleming?—with interest. A fine engineeringventure, once upon a time." 
Miriam nodded. "I like to get my hands dirty. By proxy," she added, glancing atBates. "It's something of a hobby. My father taught me never to take anythingfor granted, and I extended the lesson to the tools in his workshop." 
"I see." Durant nodded. "I found the, ah, samples you sent me most interesting." 
"Good." When she smiled this widely, Miriam's cheeks dimpled: She hated to bereminded of it, but there was no escaping the huge gilt-framed mirror hangingabove the sideboard opposite. Is that rouged harpy in the evening dress reallyme? "That was the idea." 
"My men applied one of the samples to a test brake engine. The results wereprecisely as your letter promised." 
"Indeed." Miriam put her glass down. "I wouldn't waste your time, Alfred. Idon't like to mince words. I'm a woman in a hurry, and I wanted to get yourattention." 
"Can you provide more samples?" His stare was penetrating. 
"Yes. It will take about a month to provide them in significant quantities,though. And the special assembly for applying them." It had taken a week to getthe chrysotile samples in the first place, and longer to set up the workshop,have them ground to powder, and set into the appropriate resin matrix. Epoxideresins were available here, but not widely used outside the furniture trade.Likewise, asbestos and rock wool—chrysotile—could be imported from Canada, butwere only really used in insulating furnaces. The young industrial chemistMiriam had hired through Bates's offices, and the other three workers in hermakeshift research laboratory, were initially startled by her proposal, but wentalong with it. The resulting grayish lumps didn't look very impressive, andcould certainly do with much refinement, but the principle was sound. And shewouldn't be stopping with asbestos brakes—she intended to obsolesce it asrapidly as she'd introduced it, within a very few years, once she got herresearch and development department used to a steady drip feed of advancedmaterials from the other world. "The patents are also progressing nicely, bothon the brake material and on the refinements we intend to apply to its use." Shesmiled, and this time let her teeth show. "The band brake and the wheel brakewill be ancient history within two years." 
"I'd like to know how you propose to produce the material in sufficient volumeto achieve that," said Sir Durant. "There's a big difference between alaboratory experiment and—" 
"I'm not going to," Miriam butted in. "You are." She stopped smiling. "That'swhat this meeting is about." 
"If I disagree?" He raised his glass. Miriam caught Bates shrinking back in hischair out of the corner of her eye. 
"You're not the only big fish in the pond." Miriam leaned back and stifled ayawn. "Excuse me, please, I find it rather hot in here." She met Sir Durant'sgaze. "Alfred, if man is to travel faster, he will have to learn to stop moreefficiently first, lest he meet with an unfortunate accident. You made 
your fortune by selling pneumonic wheels—" tires, she mentally translated. "Ifyou pause to consider the matter, I'm sure you'll agree that cars that travelfaster and stop harder will need more and better pneumonics, too. I'm prepared to offer you a limited monopoly on the new brake material and a system that willuse it more efficiently than wheel brakes or band brakes—in return for a sharein the profits. I'm going to plow back those profits into research in ways toimprove automotive transport. Here and now—" she laid a fingertip on the tablefor emphasis—"there is one car for every thirty-two people in New Britain. If wecan make motoring more popular, to the point where there is one car for everytwo people—" she broke off. 
"Not very ambitious, are you?" Sir Durant asked lightly, eyes gleaming. At theother side of the table Bates was gaping at her, utterly at a loss for words. 
Many thoughts collided in Miriam's mind at that moment, a multivehicle pileup ofpossible responses. But the one that found its way to her lips was, "nothardly!" She picked up her glass, seeing that it was nearly empty, and raisedit. "I'd like to propose a toast to the future of the automobile: a car forevery home!" 
Miriam was able to rent premises for her company in a former engineering shop onthe far side of town. She commuted to it by cab from the hotel while she waitedfor Bates to process the paperwork for her house purchase. She was acutely awareof how fast the luxury accommodation was gobbling her funds, but there didn'tseem to be a sensible alternative—not if she wanted to keep up the front ofbeing a rich widow, able to entertain possible investors and business partnersin style. Eventually she figured she'd have to buy a steam car—but not thisyear's model. 
The next morning she had a quick shower, dressed in her black suit and heavyovercoat, then hailed a cab outside without lingering for breakfast. The air wasicy cold but thankfully clear of smog. As the cab clattered across tram 
rails and turned toward New Highgate, she closed her eyes, trying to get herthoughts in order. 
"Two weeks," she told herself, making a curse of it. She'd been here for sixnights already and it felt like an eternity. Living out of suitcases grew oldfast and she'd shed any lingering ideas of the romance of travel back when shewas covering trade shows and haunting the frequent flyer lounges. Now it wasjust wearying, and even an expensive hotel suite didn't help much. It lackedcertain essential comforts—privacy, security, the sensation of not being inpublic the whole time. She was getting used to the odd clothing and weirdmanners but doubted she'd ever be comfortable with it. And besides, she wasmissing Roland, waking sometimes from vague sensual dreams to find herself alonein a foreign city. "Seven more days and I can go home!" Home, to her own damnhouse, if she could just lean on Angbard a bit harder—failing that, to theoffice, where she could lock the door, turn on the TV, and at least understandeverything she was seeing. 
The cab arrived. Miriam paid the driver and stepped out. The door to the shopwas already unlocked, so she went straight in and opened up the office. It wassmall but modern, furnished in wood and equipped with electric lamps, atelephone, and one of the weird chord-key typewriters balanced precariously onone of the high, slanted writing desks. It was also freezing cold until she litthe gas fire. Only when it was blazing did she go through the mail then head forthe lab. 
The lab was a former woodworking shop, and right now it was a mess. Roger hadmoved a row of benches up against one wall, balanced glass-fronted cabinets ontop of them, and made enthusiastic use of her line of credit at an instrumentmaker's shop. The results included a small potter's kiln— converted into amakeshift furnace—and a hole in the ceiling where tomorrow a carpenter wouldcall to begin building a fume cupboard. Roger was already at work, digging into a wooden crate that he'd manhandled into the center of the floor. "Good morningto you," said Miriam. "How's it going?" 
"I'll tell you when I get into this," Roger grunted. He was 
in his late twenties, untidy even in a formal three-piece suit, and blessed withnone of the social graces that would have allowed him to hang onto his job whenthe Salisbury Works had shed a third of their staff three months earlier.Rudeness concealed shyness; he'd been completely nonplussed by Miriam at first,and was still uneasy in her presence. 
"That'll be the chrysotile from Union Quebecois," she said. "Isn't it?" 
"It should be. If they haven't sent us rock salt by mistake again." He laid downhis crowbar and straightened up panting, his breath steaming in the cold air. 
"If they have, they'll pay for it." She grinned. "Go make yourself a pot of tea,I don't want you freezing to death on the job." 
"Um, yes, Ma'am." Roger shuffled toward the other back room—the one Miriamintended to have converted into that luxury, a kitchen and indoor toilet blockfor the work force—that currently held only a cast-iron wood stove, a stack oflumber, and a kettle. He gave her a wide berth, as if being female in theworkplace might be contagious. Miriam watched his back disappear before sheknelt to pick up the crowbar, and went around the lid of the crate levering outthe retaining nails. Men. She laid the crowbar down and dusted her skirt offbefore he returned, bearing a chipped mug containing some liquid as dark ascoffee. 
"I think you'll find it easier to open now," Miriam remarked, laying one hand onthe lid. "What have you got in mind for resin processing this week?" 
"I was thinking about the vulcanization process," Roger muttered. "I want to seehow varying the sulfate concentration affects the stiffness of the finishedmixture." 
"I was asking about resins," Miriam pointed out. "In particular, the epoxidesample I suggested you look into on Thursday. Have you done anything with ityet?" 
"Um, I was getting to it." Roger glanced at her face then looked away bashfully. 
"That's why I suggested a timetable," said Miriam. "You can estimate how longeach batch will take to run; you al-
ready do that for yourself, don't you? Put the timetable on the blackboard and Iwon't have to keep asking you die same questions." 
"Oh, alright then." He nodded. 
"I wanted the epoxide sample running as soon as possible because we have apossible customer," she added. 
"A customer?" He brightened visibly. 
"Yes, a customer." She kept her face sober. "But we won't have them if we don'thave a suitable product, will we? They're going to want an extensive range ofsamples in about four weeks time, for their own materials testing people. That'swhy I want you to get on to the epoxide-based samples as soon as possible. Ifyou time the kiln runs right, you can probably put your sulfate experimentsthrough at the same time. Just as long as they don't hold up the epoxide." 
Oh, right. I'll do it that way, then," he said, almost carelessly. And he would.She'd met Roger's type before, hammering keyboards into submission in dot-comstart-ups. He'd work overnight if he had to, without even noticing, just to getthe product ready to meet the deadline—as long as he had a target to aim for.All this thrashing about with rubber and vulcanization processes was just adistraction. 
"I'm going to be in the office today," she added. "I've got an idea to work on.The carpenter will be in here tomorrow to work on the fume cupboard, and thenthe kitchen. Meanwhile, you wouldn't happen to know any model engineers lookingfor work? I have some mechanical assemblies to get started." 
"Mechanical—" he almost went cross-eyed. "Why?" 
"A better way of applying this wonderful high-friction material to the task ofstopping a moving vehicle," she pointed out. "You think this high-frictioncompound will work well if you just clamp it to a pneumonic? It'll work— rightuntil the rubber wall of the wheel wears through and it blows out. What we needis a hub-mounted disk bolted to the wheel with a block of brake material to either side, which can be clamped or released by hydraulic calipers, balanced toapply force evenly. With me so far?" 
"Um, I think so." He looked abstracted. "I, I don't know any model artificers.I'm sorry. But I'm sure you'll find someone." 
"Oh I think I will, indeed I do." She headed back to the office, leaving Rogerwrestling a ten-kilogram lump of very high-grade rock wool onto his workbench. 
The day passed in a blur. Miriam had rigged a travel transformer for her laptop,which she kept in a locked drawer in the office along with an inkjet printer anda small digitizer tablet. The CAD software was a pain to use with such a smallscreen, but far better than the huge draftsman's board and ink pens in the farcorner of the room. Between calls she lost herself in an extruded 3D model of a brake assembly— one of her own invention, crude but recognizable as the ancestorof late twentieth-century disk brakes. Another file awaited her attention—steelradial bands for reinforcing tires. The idea was sound, but she kept having todivert into her physics and engineering textbooks. Her calculus was rustier thanshe was willing to admit, and she was finding some of the work extremely hard. 
But perfection didn't matter. Getting there first mattered. Get there first andjust-good-enough and you could buy the specialists to polish the design toperfection later. This was the lesson Miriam had learned from watching over theshoulders of her Silicon Valley colleagues, and from watching a myriad ofbiotech companies rise and fall—and it was the lesson she intended to shove upNew Britain's industrialists so hard it made them squeak. 
One o'clock. Miriam blinked, suddenly dizzy. Her buttocks ached from the hardstool, she was hungry, and she needed the lavatory. She stood up and put thenotebook PC away, then headed for the toilet—an outhouse in the backyard.Afterwards she slipped out the front door in search of lunch. Of such elementswere a working day made. 
In the public environment of the hotel, or the lab, she cut an eccentric,possibly scandalous figure. On the streets she was just another woman, betterdressed than most, hurrying about her errands. Anonymity of a kind: Treasure itwhile you can, she told herself as she lined up at a street corner 
where a baker's boy had set up a stand to sell hot bacon rolls. It won't last. 
She returned to the office and had been busy for an hour— phoning her lawyer,then calling a commercial agent at what passed for a recruiting house—when therewas a peremptory knock on the side window. "Who's there?" she demanded, standingup to open it. 
"Police. Inspector Smith at your service." A bushy moustache and a suspicious,beefy face stood behind an imposing warrant card with a crown and heraldicbeasts cavorting atop it chased her in through the open window. "HomelandDefense Bureau. Are you Mrs. Fletcher?" 
"Uh, yes." Flustered, Miriam tried to pull herself together. "How can I be ofservice?" 
"I'd like a word with you if I may." 
"Ah, do come in, then." Miriam hurried to open the door. Shit, what did I dowrong? She wondered. There was a deep hollow icy feeling in her stomach as shehauled the door open and smiled, ingratiatingly. "What can I do for you,officer?" she asked, leaving the door and retreating behind the front desk. 
"Ah, well." He nodded, then remembered his manners and took his hat off. 
Bizarre, thought Miriam, fascinated as a bird facing a snake. To her surpriseshe realized that she wasn't frightened for herself—only for her plans, whichdepended on continuity and legality for their success. 
"Been in business long?" asked the Inspector. 
"No," she said, tight-lipped. "This is a new venture." 
"Ah well" 
He looked around slowly. Luckily she'd put the computer away before lunch, andeverything was much as it should be in an office. He moved to shove the doorclosed. "Don't do that," Miriam said quickly. 
"Alright." He found the one comfortable chair in the office—a wooden swivelchair too low to work at the writing desks—and looked her in the eyes. "How longhave you known Erasmus Burgeson?" 
"Huh?" Miriam blinked. "Not long. A few weeks?" 
"I see." Smith nodded portentiously. "How did you come to know him?" 
"Is this an official investigation?" 
"I'm asking the questions. How did you come to know him?" 
"Uh." Miriam considered her options. Not official, she decided. "If this isn'tan official investigation, why should I tell you?" 
"Because." He looked irritated. "Little lady, if you don't want to cooperatewhile it's unofficial, I can go away and waste my time making it official. Andthen you'll have to cooperate, and it will be the worse for you because I won'thave to knock on your door polite, like. Do I make myself clear?" 
"Perfectly." She didn't smile. "I first met Erasmus Burge-son because one ofyour own officers directed me to him when I asked if he knew where I could finda pawnbroker. Is that what you wanted to know?" 
"Ah, well." Smith looked even more annoyed now, but not in her direction. "Youwouldn't happen to know which officer this would be?" 
"Hmm. He'd have been on duty in Highgate Close on, um, the morning of Saturdaythe sixteenth. I think he thought I might be lost. That might be enough for youto find his notebook." 
"Humph. So you asked for a pawnbroker and he gave you directions to Burgeson. Isthat all? Why did you want a pawnbroker in the first place?" 
The Inspector's blunt manner was beginning to annoy Miriam. But that's what hewants, she realized suddenly: He wants me to make a slip. Hmm. "I arrived on theIndia Line ship Vespasian that morning, after a crossing from Ceylon," she toldhim, very deliberately keeping to her story—the Vespasian had indeed docked thatday, with some passengers aboard, but was conveniently halfway across theAtlantic by now. "I was so preoccupied with packing my posessions and gettingashore that I forgot to ask the purser to convert my scrip to honest currency.In addition, clothing suitable for 
the climate of Ceylon is inadequate here. So I thought a sensible first stepwould be to find a pawnshop and exchange an old pair of earrings and a smallpearl necklace for a decent wool suit and the wherewithal to find a hotel roomand cable my banker." 
All of which was, very remotely, true—and indeed Erasmus had arranged, for a feeand by way of a friend of a fellow traveler, for the purser of the Vespasian tofind a passenger of her name in the ship's manifest should anyone ask—but it wasonly as Miriam spun it out in front of Smith's skeptical gaze that she realizedhow thin a tale it sounded. If she was in Smith's shoes she could punch holes init with very little effort. But Smith simply nodded. "I see," he said. "Yourhusband left you adequately provided for, didn't he?" 
Miriam nodded. "Indeed." Keep it close. Make him dig. 
"And so you dabble in manufacturing." It wasn't phrased as a question, so Miriamdidn't answer. She just sat tight wearing a politely interested expression,wishing for the phone to ring or something to disturb the silence that stretchedout uncomfortably. 
"I said, you dabble in manufacturing." 
"I do not 'dabble' in anything, Mr. Smith," Miriam finally stated in her iciesttone. "You're a police officer. You can go ask the patent office questions—I'msure Mr. Sagetree will be able to tell you whether there is any merit in theapplications I filed last week. The first three, Inspector, of the many I havein mind." 
"Ah. I stand corrected." Smith leaned back in his chair. "Well then, may Irephrase? Do you have any opinion of Burgeson's business? Does he strike you asin any way at all being odd?" 
Miriam shook her head and allowed an irritated expression to cross her face."He's a pawnbroker," she said. "He's a very literate pawnbroker with a good linein conversation, but I imagine sitting in the back of a shop gives him a lot oftime to read, don't you?" 
"A literate pawnbroker. So this would explain why you have visited hisestablishment on three occasions?" 
Shit, shit, shit—"The first time, as I've told you, I needed money and suitableattire. The second time—let me see, on my first visit I had noticed a hat that was not then out of hock. I went back to see if it was available, and also toredeem my earrings and necklace. On the third occasion— well, he'd shown me someof the antiquarian books various of his customers pawned when they fell uponhard times. I confess I was quite partial to a couple of them." She forced asmile. "Is that a crime?" 
"No." Inspector Smith stood, unfolding smoothly to a good six feet. He was ahuge, imposing man, overweight but built like a rugby player, and now shenoticed that his nose had been broken, although it had set well. "But you shouldbe careful who you associate with, Mrs. Fletcher. Some people question Mr.Burgeson's patriotism and devotion to the Crown, you know. He keeps strangecompany, and you would not want to be taken for one among them." 
"Strange company?" She looked up at Smith. 
"Strangers." He wore a peculiar tight, smug expression. "Frenchies, some of 'em.And papists. Uppity women suffragists, too." Miriam glanced past his shoulderthen looked away hastily. Roger was leaning in the laboratory doorway, one handbehind his back. / don't need this, she thought to herself. 
"He hasn't done anything to hang himself yet," Smith continued, "but there'salways a first time." He nodded to himself. "I see my job as ensuring thereisn't a second, if you catch my drift. And that the first 'appens as soon aspossible." 
Miriam looked past him. "Roger, go back to your workbench," she called sharply. 
Roger turned and shuffled away, bashfully. Inspector Smith shook himself, thespell broken, and glanced over his shoulder. 
"Huh. Another bad 'un, I shouldn't be surprised." Smith smirked at Miriam."Wouldn't want anything to 'appen to him, would you? I really don't know whatthe world's coming to, a single woman running a business full of strapping youngmen. Huh. So, let's see. The question is, are you a good citizen?" 
"Of course I'm a good citizen," Miriam said tightly, crossing her arms. "Ireally don't see what your point is." 
"If you're a good citizen, and you were to learn something about the personalhabits of a certain pawnbroker—" The inspector paused, brow wrinkled as if he'djust caught himself in an internal contradiction: "casting no aspersions on yourreputation, if you follow me, ma' am." Another pause. "But if you happened toknow anything that would be of interest, I'm sure you'd share it with the police..." 
"I've got a business to run, inspector," Miriam pointed out coldly. "Thisbusiness pays taxes which ultimately go to pay your wages. You are getting inthe way. I'm a law-abiding woman, and if I find out anything you need to knowyou will be the first to hear of it. Do I make myself understood?" 
"Ah, well." Smith cast her a sly little glance. "You will, as well, won't you?Huh." He paused in the doorway. "If you don't you'll be bleeding sorry," hehissed, and was gone like a bad smell. 
"Oh shit," Miriam whispered, and sat down heavily in the swivel chair he'dvacated. Now the immediate threat was past, she felt weary, drained beyondbelief. The bastard! 
"Uh, ma'am?" 
"Yes, Roger." She nodded tiredly. "Listen. I know you meant well, but, nexttime—if there is a next time—stay out of it. Leave the talking to me." 
"Uh, yes." He ducked his head uncertainly. "I meant to say—" 
"And leave the fucking crowbar behind. Have you any idea what they'll do to youfor attacking a Police Inspector with a crowbar?" 
"Ma'am!" His eyes bulged—at her language, not the message. 
"Shit." She blinked. "Roger, you're going to have to get used to hearing mecurse like a soldier if you work for me for any length of time. At least, you'llhear it when the bastards are attacking." She caught his eye. "I'm not a lady.If I was, I wouldn't be here, would I?" she added, almost plaintively. Andthat's for sure, more than you'll ever know. 
"Ma'am." He cleared his throat, then carefully pretended not to have heard asingle word. "It's about the furnace. I've got the first epoxide mixture curingright now, is that what you wanted?" 
"Yes!" she exclaimed, relief forcing its way out of her in a shout. "That's whatI wanted." She began to calm down. A thought occurred to her. "Roger. When yougo home tonight, I'd like you to post a letter for me. Not from the pillar boxoutside, but actually into the letter box of the recipient. Will you do that?" 
"Um." He blinked. "Would it be something to do with the King's man as called,just now?" 
"It might be. Then again it might not. Will you?" 
"Yes," he said firmly. "Don't like those folks. Not at all." 
After he retreated to his workbench Miriam sat down in front of the manual typewriter and threaded some paper into it—then paused. They can identitytypewriters by their typeface, can't they? she remembered. Sort of like afingerprint. And they lift messages off used ribbons, too. She pulled out thenotebook computer and briefly tapped out a note, then printed it on the battery-powered inkjet printer she'd brought over with her. Let them try and identifythat. 
She took care to pull on her gloves before feeding the paper in, and beforefolding it and putting it in the envelope, leaving no fingerprints toincriminate. Then she addressed it and sealed it. If they were tailing Roger orhad staked out Burgeson's shop it was just too bad—nothing she could do wouldhelp—but if they were still looking for information she doubted things wouldhave gone that far. Besides which, Erasmus had agreed to make inquiries on herbehalf: If the inspector nailed him for sedition, there'd go her most fruitfulline of inquiry in pursuit of the hidden enemies who'd murdered her birth motherand tried to kill her. 
It was only on her way home, having given the anonymous tip to Roger, that sherealized she'd stepped over the line into active collusion with the Levelerquartermaster. 
Snark Hunting 
One week and two new employees later (not to mention a signed, formal offer forthe house), Miriam practiced her breaking-and-entering skills on the vacantgarden for what she hoped would be the last time. After spending twouncomfortable hours in the hunting hide, she felt well enough to risk an earlycrossing. 
Paulette was in the back office doing something with the fax machine when Miriamcame 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 hershoulder bag, took her hat and topcoat off, then pulled a face. "Any word on mymother?" 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," shesaid. 
"Maybe." Black depression clamped down on Miriam. She'd been able to keep it atbay while she was on the far 
side, with a whole different set of worries, but now she was home she couldn'thide it anymore. "I'm going to the bathroom. I may be some time. Taking thisstuff 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 shecame back out, wearing her bathrobe. She accepted a coffee mug from Paulette."What you're wearing now would get you arrested for indecent exposure overthere." 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 eyedher thoughtfully. "Two thoughts strike me. One, you've got a hell of a drycleaning bill coming up. Secondly, have you thought about putting artificialfibers 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 ather headache, then stirred the coffee. "So tell me, how have things been whileI've been away?" 
"Well." Paulie perched on the desktop beside the fax. "I've got the next goldshipment waiting for you. Brill is doing fine, and those, uh, feelers—" Shelooked 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 someonetrying to tail her on the T, but she lost him quick. Olga is out of intensiveand recovering nicely, but she's got a scar under her hairline and her arm's ina 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 ideawhat 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. Greatkid, but she's hiding something. I think." 
"If she wanted me out of the way she's had more than enough opportunities to doit quietly." 
"There is that," Paulette agreed. "I don't think she's out to get you. I thinkit's something else." 
"Me too. I just want to know for sure what she's hiding. The way she and Karawere planted on me by Angbard's office, she's probably just reporting back tohim—but if she's working for someone else ..." The fax machine bleeped and beganto 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 spentalmost an hour standing in the cramped shower cubicle, at first washing andthoroughly cleaning her hair with detergents of a quality unimaginable in NewBritain, even for the rich—then just standing there, staring at her feet beneatha 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 asecret policeman for her, and about Burgeson's kindly face, high ideals, and lowfriends. Friends who believed fervently in political ideals Miriam took forgranted, and who were low subversives destined for the gallows if Smith and hisfriends ever caught up with them. Gallows where whoever had kidnapped ormurdered Iris belonged—and that in turn led Miriam to think about her mother andhow little time she'd spent with her in the past year, and how many questionsshe'd never asked. And more questions for Roland, and his face as he'd turnedaway, hurt by her rejection; a rejection he didn't understand because it wasn'tanything personal, it was a rejection of the world he would unintentionally lockher 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 thingsturned out to be paradoxically worse. Why bother? She wondered. Why do I keepgoing? True love would be a great answer if she believed in it. But she was toomuch 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 inthe still small hours—there wasn't a cozy little cottage for two at the end ofthat primrose path. Miriam had held her daughter in her arms, once, twelve yearsago, kissed her on the head and given her up for adoption. Over the next fewyears she'd spent nights agonizing over the decision, trying to second-guess thefuture, to decide whether she'd done the right thing. 
The idea of bringing another child, especially a daughter, into theclaustrophobic scheming of the Clan filled her with horror. She was a big girlnow, 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 ofmed school and the postgraduate campus of hard knocks for. But facing all thison her own was so daunting that sometimes it made her lie awake wondering ifthere was any point. 
She wandered through into the bedroom and sat on the futon beneath the platformbed in the corner. Her phone was still sitting on the floor next to it, pluggedin to charge but switched off. She picked it up, switched it on, waited for itto 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 deeplyand 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 thetime being she remains in the hospital, but when you return, I release her intoyour care until Beltaigne, when I expect you both to appear before the Clancouncil 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 findsomething positive to report to you. I am sorry I can't tell you anything moreabout her disappearance. Rest assured that no stone will go unturned in huntingfor her assailants. You may call me at any time, but bear in mind that myswitchboard might—if you are correct—be intercepted. Good-bye." 
Click. "Message two—" Miriam shook her head. "Hello! This is a recorded greetingfrom 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, atThe Herald. Call me. Got work for you." 
It was the last message. Miriam stared at her phone for a good few secondsbefore she moved her thumb to the delete key. It only traveled a millimeter, butit felt like miles. She hung up. "Did I just hear myself do that?" she asked theempty 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 burnishedsuitcase, looking for something to wear. They felt odd, and once dressed shefelt as if she'd forgotten something, but at least it was comfortable andnothing pinched. "Weird," she muttered and went back out into the corridor justas 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 youcall this?" 
"I don't. It's going to be a doppelgangered post office, though. Brill, let go,you're freezing!" 
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "The duke, he sent a message to you withlady 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-lookingsuit from somewhere, which contrasted oddly with her arm in a sling. Sheshivered slightly. , "How strange," she remarked, looking round. "Charming:quaint! What's that?" 
"A fax machine. Everything feeling strange?" Miriam looked at hersympathetically. "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 ioke?" 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 thanthe extra million dollars I borrowed from Angbard last month." She pretended toignore Paulette's sharp intake of breath. "The locket doesn't work in thisworld," she explained, "but if you use it on the other side, it takes you to yetanother place—more like this one than your home, but just as different in itsown 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 findout. It's also going to flush out our mystery assassins, who live in worldthree. Right out of wherever they're hiding. The problem is, it takes a wholeday for me to world-walk across in each direction. Running a business there istaking 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 die same place as this office. And we've already got thebeginnings of a camp in world one, in the woods norm of Niejwein, on the samespot. Once I've got the house established, it'll be possible to go from here tothere without having to wander through a strange city or know much about localcustom—" 
"Are you trying to tell me I'm not fit to be allowed out over there?" Olga'seyes 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'tyou 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. "Iwant it all! Where do I sign? Do you want it in blood?" 
Early evening, a discreet restaurant on the waterfront, glass windowsoverlooking the open water, darkness and distant lights. It was six-thirtyprecisely. Miriam nervously adjusted her bra strap and shivered, then marched upto 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'mexpecting 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 comethis way—" 
Miriam went inside the half-deserted restaurant, still filling up with anupmarket after-work crowd, and headed for the back. After weeks in New Britainshe felt oddly exposed in a black minidress and tux jacket, but nobody here gaveher a second glance. "Roland?" 
He'd been studying the menu, but now he rocketed to his feet, confusion in hisface. "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. Hewas in evening dress, like the first time. Together they probably looked as ifthey 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 ather 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 beclear, but it might be a bad idea to sleep over there. It's not doppelgangered,and even if it was, he couldn't vouch for its security. Apart from that—" Helooked at her significantly. "I made sure nobody back at the office knows whereI am tonight. And I wasn't tailed here." 
The wine arrived, as did the waiter. They spent a minute bickering good­naturedly over the relative merits of a warming chowder against the chef's waywith garlic mushrooms. "What has Angbard got you doing?" she asked. 
"Well." He looked ruefully out of the window. "After our last meeting it waslike you'd thrown a hornet's nest through his window. Everybody got to walkaround downtown Cambridge in the snow, looking for a missing old lady in apowered wheelchair, you know? I ended up spending a week spying on a privatesecurity 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 coupleof guards on the take. So then he put me back on regular courier duty in thepost 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 thesedays—left Matthias running Fort Lof-strom and Angus in Karlshaven, and declaredthat the search for your foster-mother couldn't go on any longer. Uh, he figuredwe 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 lordshiptold 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'rejust friends." 
The appetizers arrived. Miriam took a sip of her chowder. The news about thehunt for Iris depressed her, but came as no real surprise. "Angbard. Does notknow. 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 momentand 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 Iwould?" 
"You can keep secrets when it suits you," Miriam noted. 
He looked up. "I am an obedient servant to your best interests," he saidquietly. "If Angbard finds out he'll kill us. If you want me to apologize fornot giving him grounds to kill us, I apologize." 
She met his eyes. "Apology noted." Then she went back to her soup. It wasdeliriously fresh and lightly seasoned, and Miriam luxuriated in it. Shestretched out her legs, and nearly spilled soup everywhere as she found hisankle 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 dofor 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 theirbowls, discreetly avoiding the line of sight between them—obviously couplesbehaving 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 maincourse, a sirloin steak for him and a salmon cudet for her, and Miriam feltsomething tight unwind inside her, a subliminal humming tension that had beenbuilding up for what felt like forever. She barely tasted the food or noticed asthey 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, notright now. What she cared about, as she pulled her jacket on and allowed him totake her arm, was the warmth at the base of her spine and the sure knowledgethat she could count on tonight. All the tomorrows could take their chances. 
He drove carefully, back to his apartment in a warehouse redevelopment not farfrom the restaurant. Miriam leaned back, watching him sidelong from thepassenger seat of the Jaguar. "This is it," he said, pulling into theunderground 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. Itstopped on a neat landing with three doors. Roland freed up a hand to unlockone, and punched a code into a beeping alarm system. Then they were inside. Helocked 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 wasready for her, and it was all Miriam could do to force herself to unwrap acondom before she launched herself at him. There was no time to pull off hisclothes. She straddled him, felt his hands working under her dress, and then shewas— 
—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. Butyou'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," hemumbled. 
"Oh shit." She rolled over and watched him stand up, fondly. Aren't they funnyin the morning? she thought. If only ... Then the numb misery was back. It wastomorrow, already. 
Damn, she thought. Can't keep it together for even a night! What's wrong withme? 
"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 herwith angst—and a strong desire to spit in the faces of the anonymous sons ofbitches who'd made it so. She wanted Roland. She wanted to wake up this wayforever. She'd even think about the marriage thing, and children, if it was justabout him. But it wasn't, and there was no way she'd sacrifice a child on thealtar of the Clan's dynastic propositions. Romeo and Juliet were just stupiddizzy teenagers, she thought morosely. I know better. Don't I? 
She stood up and pulled her dress on. Then she padded into Roland's smallkitchen. He smiled at her. "Breakfast?" he asked. 
"Yeah." She smiled back at him, brain spinning furiously. Okay, so why don't yougive him a chance? she asked herself. If he is hiding something, let's see if he'11 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 otherhand, a plausible bluff might make him tell her whatever it was, and if it wasabout Iris, mat 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 agenius 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 thelist. "Damn," he said quietly. "Shit." 
Her mouth went dry. "Who?" she asked. 
Roland looked away from her. "He showed me pictures," he said quietly. "Picturesof us. Can you believe it?" 
"Who? Who are you talking about?" Miriam took a step back, suddenly feelingnaked. 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 ofbullets: 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 bethere. He's a spider, Miriam. We were in his web." Roland's face was turnedtoward 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, youmight 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, sherealized, 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'mbehind it." 
"Give me that coffee," Miriam demanded. 
"When you called about the body in the warehouse, I told Matthias because he'sin charge of internal security," Roland explained as he poured a mug from thefilter machine. "Then when you told me there was a bomb, I couldn't figure itout. Because if he wants to blackmail me he needs you to be alive, don't yousee? 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. "Twomillion dollars." 
"Huh?" 
"We could go a long way on two million bucks," she heard herself say. "But notfar enough to outrun the Clan." 
"You want to—" 
"Shut up." She glared at Roland. He'd been holding out on her. For what soundedlike good reasons, she admitted— but the thought made her blood run cold. Rolandwas no knight in shining armor. The Clan had broken him. Now all it took wasMatthias pushing his buttons to make him do whatever they wanted. She wanted tohate him for it, but found that she couldn't. The idea of going up against anorganization with billions of dollars and hundreds of hands was daunting. Rolandhad done it once already, and paid the price. Okay, so he's not brave, shethought. Where does that leave me? Am I brave, or crazy? "Are you holding outanything else on me?" she asked. 
Roland took a deep breath. "No," he said. "Honest. The only person who's gotanything on me is Matthias." He chuckled bitterly, ending in a cough. "Nobodyelse. No other girlfriends. No boyfriends, either. Just you." 
"If Matthias has primed you for blackmail, he must want something you can do forhim," she pointed out. "He knows he could get rid of both of us by just givingus a shitload of money and covering our trail. And if he was behind theseattempts to kill me, I'd be dead, wouldn't I? So what does he want to do thatinvolves 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 onthe 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 andlooked 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 rightnow." 
"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 wholeClan security service. Don't you?" 
Miriam nodded, grimly. "With whoever his mystery accomplices are. The factionwho murdered my mother and kept the family feuds going with judiciousassassinations over a thirty-year period. The faction from world three. Leaveaside Oliver and that poisonous dowager granny and the others who'd like medead, 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 beforehe rolls the duke up. Miriam, I've been a fool. But we can't go to Angbard withit—we'd be openly admitting past disloyalty, hiding things from him. What are wegoing to do ?" 
PART 4 
StakeOut 
Tip Off 
It was a Friday morning late in January. The briefing room in the policefortress was already full as the inspector entered, and there was a rattle ofchairs as a dozen constables came to their feet. Smith paused for a moment,savoring their attentive expressions. "At ease, men," he said, and continued tothe front of the room. "I see you're all bright and eager this morning. Sit downand rest your feet for a while. We've got a long day ahead, and I don't want youwhining about blisters until every last one of our pigeons is in the pokey." 
A wave of approving nods and one or two coughs swept the room. Sergeant Stonestayed on his feet, off to one side, keeping an eye on his men. 
"You'll all be wondering what this is all about, then," began Smith. "Some ofyou'll 'ave heard rumors." He glanced around the room, trying to see if anyonelooked surprised. Rumors were a constable's stock in trade, after all. "If anyof 'em turns out to be true, I want to know about it, because if 
you've heard any rumors about what I'm telling you now, odds are the pigeons'veheard it too. An' today we're going to smash a nest of rotten eggs." 
He scanned his audience for signs of unease: Here and there a head noddedsoberly, but nobody was jumping up and down. "The name of the game is smuggling," he said dryly. "In case you was wondering why it's our game, and notthe Excise's, it turns out that these smugglers have a second name, too:Godwinite scum. The illegal press we cracked last week was bankrolled from here,in my manor, by a Leveler quartermaster. We ain't sure where the gold's comingfrom, but my money is on a woman who's lately moved into town and who smellslike a Frog agent to me. At least, if she ain't French she's got some seriousexplaining to do." 
Smith clapped his hands together briskly to warm them up. 
"You men, your job is to help me give our little lady an incentive to sing likea bird. We are going to run this by shifts and you are going to stick to herlike glue. Two tailing if she goes out, two on the manor, four hours on, fouroff, but the off team ready to go in if I says so. We are going to keep this upuntil she makes contact with a known seditionist or otherwise slips up, or untilwe get word that more gold is coming. Then we're going to get our hands on herand find out who her accomplices are. When that happens we are going to get themback here, make them talk, and cut out the disease that has infected Boston forthe past few years. A lot of traitors to the crown are going to go for a longwalk to Hudson Bay, a bunch more are going to climb the nevergreen tree, and youare going to be the toast of the town." Smith grinned humor-lessly. "Now,sergeant. If you'd like to run through the work details, we can get started ..." 
A few hours later, a woman stepped out from behind a hedge, kicked the snow fromher boots, and glanced around the dilapidated kitchen garden. 
"Hmm." She looked at the slowly collapsing greenhouse, 
where holes in the white curtain revealed the glass panes that had fallen in.Then she saw the house, most of its windows dark and gloomy. "Hah!" 
She strode up the garden path boldly, a huge pack on her shoulders: When shecame to the side door she banged on it with a confident fist. "Anyone at home?"she called out. 
"Just a minute there!" The door scraped ajar. "Who be you, and what d'you want,barging into our garden—" 
"That's enough, Jane, she's expected." The door opened wide. "Olga, come in!" 
The maid retreated, looking suspiciously at the new arrival as she steppedinside and shut the door. Miriam called: "Wait!" 
"Yes'm?" 
"Jane, this is Olga, my young cousin. She'll be staying here from time to timeand you're to treat her as a guest. Even if she has an, uh, unusual way ofannouncing her arrival. Is that understood?" 
"Yes'm." The kitchen maid bobbed and cast a sullen glance at Olga. Olga didn'treact. She was used to servants. 
"Come on in and get out of the cold," Miriam told her, retreating through thescullery and kitchen into a short corridor that led to the huge wooden entrancehall. "Did you have a good trip? Let's get that pack stowed away. Come on, I'llshow you upstairs." There was only one staircase in this house, with a hugewindow in front of it giving a panoramic view of the short drive and the frontgarden. Miriam climbed it confidently and gestured Olga toward a door beside thetop step. "Take the main guest bedroom. Sorry if it looks a bit underfurnishedright now—I'm still getting myself moved in." 
The bedroom was huge, uncarpeted, and occupied by a single wardrobe and a high-canopied bed. It could have come straight out of House Hjorth, except for thegurgling brass radiators under the large-paned windows, and the dim electriccandles glowing overhead. "This is wonderful," Olga said with feeling. Shesmiled at Miriam. "You're looking good." 
"Huh." Miriam shrugged. "I'm taking a day out from the office, slobbing aroundhere to catch up on the patent paperwork." She was in trousers and a baggysweater. "I'm afraid I scandalized Jane. Had to tell her I was into dress reform." 
"Well, what does the help's opinion matter? / say you look fine." Olga slid outfrom under her pack and began to unbutton her overcoat. "Do you have anything Ican take for a headache?" 
"Sure, in the bathroom. I'll show you." Miriam paused. "How would you like aguided tour of the town?" she asked. 
"I'd love it, when the headache is sorted." Olga rubbed her forehead. "Thiscargo had better be worth it," she said as Miriam knelt and began to work on thepack. "I feel like a pack mule." 
"It's worth it, believe me." Miriam worked the big, flattish box loose from thetop of Olga's pack. "A decent flat-panel monitor will make all the difference torunning AutoCAD, believe me. And the medicine and clothes and, uh, other stuff."Other stuff came in a velvet bag and was denser than lead, almost ten kilogramsof gold in a block the size of a pint of milk. "Once I've stored this safely andchanged, we can go out. We'll need to buy you another set of clothes whileyou're over here." 
"It can wait." Olga reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a pistol, heldit out to Miriam. "I brought this along, by the way. Lady Brilliana is waitingon the other side." 
"She is, is she?" Miriam pulled a mirthless smile. "Good. Did she bring thatcannon of hers?" 
"Yes." Olga nodded. 
"You'd better put that away," Miriam warned. "People don't go armed here, exceptthe police. You don't want to attract attention." 
"Yes. I noticed that in your world, as well." Olga found an inner pocket in hercoat and slid the gun into it carefully. "Who's to defend you?" 
"The thief-takers and constables, in theory. Ordinary thief-takers are mostlysafe, but the police constabulary are 
somewhat different here—their job is to defend the state against its ownsubjects." Miriam picked up the dense velvet bag with both hands and carried itto the doorway, glanced either way, then ducked through into the next room. 
"This is your bedroom?" asked Olga. 
"Yes." Miriam grunted. "Here, help me move the bed." There was a loose panel inthe skirting board behind the bed. Miriam worried it loose, to reveal a smallsafe which she unlocked. The bag of bullion was a tight fit because the safe wasalready nearly full, but she worked it closed eventually and put the wooden slatback before shoving the bed up against it. "That's about ten thousand pounds,"Miriam commented—"enough to buy this house nine times over." 
Olga whistled appreciatively. "You're doing it in style." 
"Yeah, well, as soon as I can liquidate it, I'm going to invest it." Miriamshrugged. "You're sure Brill is alright?" she asked. 
"Brilliana is fine," Olga said dismissively. "I don't believe you have anythingto worry about on her part." 
"I don't believe she's a threat." Miriam shook her head. "A snoop planted byAngbard is another matter." 
"Hmm." Olga looked skeptical. "I see." 
"Give me ten minutes? I need to get decent." 
"Certainly." Olga retreated to the bathroom—opposite the guestroom—to play withthe exotic fixtures. They weren't as efficient as those in Miriam's office orFort Lofstrom, but they'd do. 
Miriam met her on the landing, dressed for a walk in public and wearing aridiculous-looking bonnet. "Let's head to the tram stop," she suggested. "I'lltake you by the office and introduce you to people. Then there's a friend I wantyou to meet." 
Miriam couldn't help but notice the way Olga kept turning her head like a yokelout in the big city for the first time. "Not like Boston, is it?" she said, asthe tram whined around the corner of Broad Street and narrowly avoided a coster­monger's cart with a screech of brakes and an exchange of curses. 
"It's—" Olga took a deep breath: "smellier," she declared. She glanced around."Smaller. More people out and about. Colder. Everyone wears heavier clothing,like home, but well cut, machine-made. Dark fabrics." 
"Yes," Miriam agreed. "Clothing here costs much more than in world two becausethe whole industrial mass-production thing hasn't taken off. People wear hand­me-downs, insist on thicker, darker fabrics that wear harder, and fashionchanges much more slowly. It used to be like that back home; in 1900 a pair oftrousers would have cost me about four hundred bucks in 2000 money, but clothingfactories were already changing that. One of the things on my to-do list isintroducing new types of cloth-handling machines and new types of fabric. OnceI've got a toe-hold chiseled out. But don't assume this place is whollyprimitive—it isn't. I got some nasty surprises when I arrived." 
Something caught her eye. "Look." She pointed up into the air, where a distantlozenge shape bearing post from exotic Europe was maneuvering toward an airfieldon the far side of town. 
"Wow. That must be huge! Why don't your people have such things?" 
Miriam pulled a wry face. "We tried them, long ago. They're slow and they don'tcarry much, but what really killed them was politics. Over here they'vedeveloped them properly—if you want to compare airships here with airships backhome, they've got the U.S. beat hands-down. They sure look impressive, don'tthey?" 
"Yes." 
Miriam stood up and pulled on the bell cord, and the tram slid to a halt. "Comeon," she urged. They stepped off the platform into shallow slush outside astreet of warehouses with a few people bustling back and forth. "This way." 
Olga followed Miriam—who waited for her to catch up— toward an open doorway.Miriam entered, and promptly turned right into a second doorway. "Behold, theoffice," Miriam said. "Declan? This is Miss Hjorth. Olga, meet De-clan McHugh." 
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." Declan was a pale-faced draftsman somewhere in hislate twenties, his face spotted badly by acne. He regarded Olga gravely frombeside bis board: Olga smiled prettily and batted her eyelashes, hamming it up.Behind Declan two other youths kept focused on their blueprints. "Will you be inlater, ma'am?" he asked Miriam. "Had a call from O'Reilly's works regarding thewood cement." 
"I'll be in tomorrow," Miriam replied thoughtfully. "I'm showing Olga aroundbecause she will be in and out over the next few months. She's carryingdocuments for me and talking to people I need to see on my behalf. Is thatclear?" 
"Er, yes." Declan bobbed bis head. "You'll be wanting the shoe-grip blueprintstomorrow?" 
"Yes. If you could run off two copies and see that one gets to Mr. Soames, thatwould be good. We'll need the first castings by Friday." 
"I will do that." He turned back to his drawing board and Miriam withdrew. 
"That," she explained quietly, "is the office. There is the lab, where Roger andMartin work: They're the chemistry team. Around that corner is going to be themetal shop. Soames and Oswald are putting it together right now, and thecarpenter's busy on the kitchen. But it'll be a while before everything is inshape. The floor above us is still half derelict, and I'm going to convert acouple of rooms into paper storage and more drafting offices before we move theoffice work to new premises. Currently I've got eight men working here full-time. We'd better introduce you to all of them." 
She guided Olga into a variety of rooms, rooms full of furnaces, rows of glassjars, a lathe and drill press, gas burners. Men in suits, men in shirts andvests, red-faced or pale, whiskered or clean-shaven: men who stood when sheentered, men who deferred to Miriam as if she was royalty or management orsomething of both. 
Olga shook her head as they came out of the building. "I wouldn't have believedit," she said quietly. "You've done it. 
All of them, followers, all doing your bidding respectfully. How did you manageit?" 
Miriam's cheek twitched. "Money," she murmured. "And being right, but mostly itwas the money. As long as I can keep the money coming and seem to know what I'mtalking about, they're mine. I say, cab! Cab!" She waved an arm up and down anda cabbie reined his nag in and pulled over. 
"Greek Street, if you please," Miriam said, settling into the cab beside Olga. 
Olga glanced at her, amused. "I remember the first time you met a carriage," shesaid. 
"So do I." Miriam pulled a face. "These have a better suspension. And there aretrains for long journeys, and steam cars if you can afford the expense and putup with the unreliability and noise." 
The cab dropped them off at Greek Street, busy with shoppers at this time ofday. Miriam pulled her bonnet down on her head, hiding her hair. "Come on, my dear," she said, in a higher voice than normal, tucking Olga's hand under herarm. "Oh, cab! Cab, I say!" A second cab swooped in and picked them up. "ToHolmes Alley, if you please." 
Miriam checked over her shoulder along the way. "No sign of a tail," shemurmured as the cab pulled up. "Let's go." They were in the door of the pawnshop before Olga could blink, and Miriam whipped the bonnet off and shook herhair out. "Erasmus?" 
"Coming, coming—" A burst of loud wet coughing punctuated his complaint. "Excuseme, please. Ah, Miriam, my friend. How nice of you to visit. And who is this?" 
"Olga, meet Erasmus Burgeson." Miriam indicated the back curtain, which billowedslightly as Erasmus tried to stifle his coughing before entering. "Erasmus, meetmy friend Olga." 
"Charmed, I'm sure," he said, and stepped out from behind the curtain. "Yes,indeed I am charmed, I'm absolutely certain, my dear." He bowed stifly. "To whatdo I owe the honor of this occasion?" 
Miriam turned around and flipped the sign in the door to 
4, then shot the bolt. She moved deeper into the shop. "You got my letter?" 
"It was most welcome." Burgeson nodded. "The fact of its existence, if not itscontent, I should say. But thank you, anyway." 
"I don't think we were observed," Miriam stated, "but I think we'd better leaveby the cellar." 
"You trust her?" Burgeson raised an eyebrow. 
"Implicitly." Miriam met his eyes. "Olga is one of my business associates. Andmy bodyguard. Show him, Olga." 
Olga made her pistol appear. Burgeson's other eyebrow rose. She made itdisappear again. "Hmm," said Burgeson. "A fine pair of Amazon women!" He smiledfaintly. "Nevertheless, I hope you don't need to use that. It's my experiencethat however many guns you bring to a fight, the Crown can always bring more.The trick is to avoid needing them in the first place." 
"This is your agent?" Olga asked Miriam, with interest. 
"Yes, exactly." Miriam turned to Burgeson. "I brought her here because I thinkit may be impossible for me to visit in person in the future. In particular, Iwanted to introduce her to you as an alternative contact against the time whenwe need to be publicly seen in different places at the same time. If youfollow." 
"I see." Burgeson nodded. "Most prudent. Was there anything else?" 
"Yes. The consignment we discussed has arrived. If you let us know where and howyou want it, I'll see it gets to you." 
"It's rather, ah, large." Burgeson looked grim. "You know we have a lot of usefor it, but it's hard to make the money flow so freely without being overseen." 
"That would be bad," Miriam agreed. Olga looked away, then drifted toward theother side of the shop and began rooting through the hanging clothes, keepingone ear on the conversation. "But I can give you a discount for bulk: say, another fifteen percent. Think of it as a contribution to the cause, if youwant." 
"If I want." Burgeson chuckled humorlessly: It tailed off 
in a hoarse croak. "They hanged Oscar yesterday, did you hear?" 
"Oscar?" 
"The free librarian who fenced me the Marx you purchased. Two days beforeInspector Smith searched my domicile." 
"Oh dear." Miriam was silent for a moment. Olga pulled an outfit out to examineit more closely. 
"It wouldn't be so bad if Russell hadn't shot Lord Dal-gleish last year,"Burgeson mused. "You wouldn't know about that. But the revolution, in thathistory book you gave me, the one in the Kingdom of Russ, the description allsounds exceedingly familiar, and most uncomfortably close to the bone. Inparticular, the minister named Stolypin, and the unfortunate end he came to." Hecoughed damply. 
Olga cleared her throat. "Is there somewhere I can try this on?" she asked. 
"In the back," said Burgeson. "Mind the stove on your way through." He pausedfor breath as Olga squeezed past. 
"Is she serious?" he asked Miriam quietly. 
"Serious about me, and my faction." Miriam frowned. "She's not politicized, ifthat's what you're asking about. Sheltered upbringing, too. But she's loyal toher friends and she has nothing to gain from the Emergency here. And she knowshow to shoot." 
"Good." Erasmus nodded gravely. "I wouldn't want you to be placing your life inthe hands of a dizzy child." 
"Placing my—what?" 
"Two strangers. Not constabulary or plainclothes thief-takers, one of themlooking like a Chinee-man. They've been drinking in the wrong establishmentsthis past week, asking questions. Some idiots, the kind who work the wrong sideof the law—not politicals—these idiots have taken their money. Someone hastalked, I'm sure of it. A name, Black-stones, was mentioned, and something abouttonight. I wrote to you but obviously it hasn't arrived." He stared at her."It's a very deep pond you're swimming in." 
"Erasmus." She stared right back. "I am going to make 
this world fit to live in by every means at my disposal. Believe me, a couple ofgangsters playing at cracksman won't stop me." 
The curtain rustled. Olga stepped out, wearing a green two-piece outfit. "How doI look?" she asked, doing a twirl. 
"Alright," said Miriam. "I think. I'm not the right person to ask for fashiontips." 
"You look marvelous, my dear," Erasmus volunteered gallantly. "With just alittle work, a seamstress will have the jacket fitting perfectly. And with someadditional effort, the patching can be made invisible." 
"That's about what I thought." Olga nodded. "I'd rather not, though." Shegrinned impishly. "What do you say?" 
"It's fine," said Miriam. She turned back to Burgeson. "Who leaked the news?"she asked. 
"I want to find out." He looked grim. 
"Write to me, as I did to you, care of this man." She wrote down Roger's addresson a scrap of card. "He works for me and he's trustworthy." 
"Good." Erasmus stared at the card for a moment, lips working, then thrust itinto the elderly cast-iron stove that struggled to heat the shop. "Fifty poundsweight. That's an awful lot." 
"We can move it in chunks, if necessary." 
"It won't be," he said absent-mindedly, as if considering other things. 
"Miriam, dear, you really ought to try this on," called Olga. 
"Oh, really." Miriam rolled her eyes. "Can't you—" 
"Did you ever play at avoiding your chaperone as a child?" Olga asked quietly."If not, do as I say. The same man has walked past the outside window threetimes while we've been inside. We have perhaps five minutes at the outside.Maybe less." 
"Oh." She looked at Olga in surprise. "Okay, give it to me." She turned toBurgeson. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to abuse your hospitality. I hopeyou don't have anything illegal on the premises?" 
"No, not me. Not now." He smiled a sallow smile. "My 
lungs are giving me trouble again, that's why I locked up shop, yes? You'dbetter go into the back." 
Olga threw a heavy pinafore at Miriam. "Quick, take off your jacket, put this onover your dress. That's right. Lose the bonnet." She passed Miriam a straw hat,utterly unsuited to the weather and somewhat tattered. "Come on, take thisovercoat. You don't mind?" She appealed to Burgeson. 
"My dear, it's an education to see two different women so suddenly." He smiledgrimly. "You'd better put your old outfit in this." He passed Miriam a Gladstonebag. 
"But we haven't paid—" 
"The devil will pay if you don't leave through the cellar as fast as you can,"Burgeson hissed urgently, then broke up in a fit of racking coughs. Miriamblinked. He needs antibiotics, she thought absent-mindedly. 
"Good-bye!" she said, then she led Olga—still stuffing her expensive jacket intothe leather case—down the rickety steps into the cellar, just as the doorbellbegan to ring insistently. 
"Come on," she hissed. Glancing round she saw Olga shift the bag to her lefthand. Shadows masked her right. "Come on, this way." 
She led Olga along a narrow tunnel walled with mildewed books, past a row ofpigeonholes, and then an upright piano that had seen better days. She stopped,gestured Olga behind her, then levered the piano away from the wall. A dank holea yard in diameter gaped in the exposed brickwork behind it, dimly lit from theother side. "Get in," she ordered. 
"But—" 
"Do it!" She could already hear footsteps overhead. 
Olga crawled into the hole. "Keep going," Miriam told her, then knelt down andhurried after her. She paused to drag the piano back into position, gruntingwith effort, then stood up. 
"Where are we?" Olga whispered. 
"Not safe yet. Come on." The room was freezing cold, and smelled of damp and oldcoal. She led Olga up the steps at the end and out through the gaping door intoa larger cellar, 
then immediately doubled back. Next to the doorway there was another one, thistime closed. Another two stood opposite. Miriam opened her chosen door andbeckoned Olga inside, then shut it. 
"Where—" 
"Follow me." The room was dark until Miriam pulled out a compact electricflashlight. It was half full of lumber, but there was an empty patch in the wallopposite, leading back parallel to Burgeson's cellar. She ducked into it andfound the next tunnel, set in the wall below the level of the stacked firewood."You see where we're going? Come on." 
The tunnel went on and on, twisting right at one point. Miriam held theflashlight in her mouth, proceeding on hands and knees and trying not to tearher clothes. She was going to look like a particularly grubby housemaid when shesurfaced, she decided. She really hoped Olga was wrong about the visitor, butshe had a nasty hunch that she wouldn't be seeing Burgeson again for some time. 
The tunnel opened up into another cellar, hidden behind a decaying rockinghorse, a broken wardrobe, and a burned bed frame with bare metal springs likeskeletal ribs. Miriam stood up and dusted herself off as best she could, thenmade room for Olga. Olga pulled a face. "Ugh! That was filthy. Are you alright?" 
"Yes," Miriam said quietly. 
"It was the same man," Olga added. "About six and a half feet tall, a big bullwith a bushy moustache. And two more behind him dressed identically in blue.King's men?" 
"Probably. Sounds like Inspector Smith to me. Hmm. Hold this." Miriam passed herthe flashlight and continued to brush dirt and cobwebs out of the pinafore: Ithad started out white, and at best it would be gray by the time she surfaced."Right, I think we're just about ready to surface." 
"Where?" 
"The next street over, in a backyard." Miriam pulled the door open to revealwooden steps leading up toward daylight. "Come on. Put the flashlight away andfor God's sake hide the gun." 
They surfaced between brick walls, a sky the color of a slate roof above them.Miriam unlatched the gate and they slipped out, two hard-faced women, one in amaid's uniform and the other in a green much-patched suit that had seen betterdays. They were a far cry from the dignified widow and her young companion whohad called on Burgeson's emporium twenty minutes earlier. 
"Quick." Miriam guided Olga onto the first tram to pass. It would gosufficiently close to home to do. "Two fourpenny tickets, please." She paid theconductor and sat down, feeling faint. She glanced round the tram, but nobodywas within earshot. "That was too close for comfort," she whispered. 
"What was it?" Olga asked quietly, sitting next to her. 
"We weren't there. They can't prove anything. There's no bullion on Erasmus'spremises, and he's a sick man. Unless we were followed from the works to hisshop..." Miriam stopped. "He said some housebreakers were going to hit on ustonight," she said slowly. "This is not good news." 
"Housebreakers." Olga's face was a mask of grim anticipation. "Do you mean whatI think you intend to say? Blackguards with knives?" 
"Not necessarily. He said two men were asking around a drinking house for bravoswho'd like to take their coin. One of them looked Oriental." 
Olga tensed. "I see," she said quietly. 
"Indeed." Miriam nodded. "I think tonight we're going to see some questionsanswered. Oriental, huh?" She grinned angrily. "Time to play host for the long-lost relatives ..." 
The big stone house was set well back from the curving road, behind a thickhedge and a low stone wall. Its nearest neighbors were fifty yards away, alsoset back and sheltered behind stone walls and hedges. Smoke boiled from twochimneys, and the lights in the central hall burned bright in the darkness, butthere were no servants. On arriving home 
Miriam had packed Jane and her husband Ronald the gardener off to a cheap hotelwith a silver guinea in hand and the promise of a second to come against theirsilence. "I want no questions asked or answered," Miriam said firmly. "D'youunderstand?" 
"Yes'm," said Jane, bobbing her head skeptically. It was 
clear that she harbored dark suspicions about Olga, and was 
wondering if her mistress was perhaps prone to unspeakable 
habits: a suspicion that Miriam was happy to encourage as a 
decoy from the truth. 
"That'll do," Miriam said quietly, watching from the landing as they trudgeddown the road toward the tram stop and the six-fifteen service into town. "Noservants, no witnesses. Right?" 
"Right," Olga echoed. "Are you sure you want me to go through with this?" 
"Yes, I want you to do it. But do it fast, I don't want to be alone longer thannecessary. How are your temporary tattoos?" 
"They're fine. Look, what you told me about Matthias. If Brill's working for—" "She isn't," Miriam said firmly. "If she wanted me dead I'd be dead, okay? Getover it. If she's hiding anything, it's something else—Angbard, probably. Bringher over here and if the bad guys don't show we'll just dig out a bottle of wineand have a late-morning lie-in tomorrow, alright?" 
"Right," Olga said dubiously. Then she headed downstairs, for the kitchen doorand the walk to the spot beside the greenhouse where Miriam had cleared the snowaway. 
Miriam watched her go, more apprehensive than she cared to admit. Alone in thehouse in winter, every creak and rustle seemed like a warning of a thief in thenight. The heating gurgled ominously. Miriam retired to her bedroom and changedinto an outfit she'd brought over on her last trip. The Velcro straps under herarms gave her some trouble, but the boots fitted Well and she felt better forthe bulletproof vest. With her ski mask on hand, revolver loaded and sitting onher hip, and night vision goggles strapped to her fore-
head, she felt even more like an imposter than she did when she was dressed upto the nines to meet the nobs. Just as long as they take me as seriously, shethought tensely. Then she picked up her dictaphone and checked the batteries andtape one last time—fully charged, fully rewound, ready for action. / hope thisworks. 
The house felt dreadfully empty without either the servants or Olga about. I'vegotten used to having other people around, Miriam realized. When did thathappen! 
She walked downstairs slowly, pausing on the landing to listen for signs ofanything amiss. At the bottom she opened the door under the staircase and duckedinside. The silent alarm system was armed. Ronald the gardener had grumbled whenshe told him to bury the induction wire a foot underground, just inside thewalls, but he'd done as she'd told him to when she reminded him who was paying.The control panel—utterly alien to this world—was concealed behind a false panelin the downstairs hall. She turned her walkie-talkie on, clipped the hands-freeearphone into place, and continued her lonely patrol. 
It all depended on Brill, of course. And on Roland, assuming Roland was on thelevel and wasn't one of them playing a fiendishly deep inside game against her.Whoever they were. She was reasonably sure he wasn't—if he was, he'd had severalopportunities to dispose of her without getting caught, and hadn't taken any ofthem—but there was still a question mark hanging over Brill. But whatever gameshe was playing wasn't necessarily hostile, which was why Olga had gone backover to the hunting hide to fetch her. The idea of not being able to trust Olgajust made Miriam's head hurt. You have to start somewhere, haven't you? sheasked herself. If she assumed Olga was on her side and she was wrong, nothingshe did would make any difference. And Olga vouched for Brill. And three of themwould be a damn sight more use than two when the shit hit the fan, as it surelywould, sometime in the small hours. 
The big clock on the landing ticked the seconds away slowly. Miriam wanderedinto the kitchen, opened the door 
on the big cast-iron cooking range set against the interior wall, and shoveledcoal into it. Then she turned the airflow up. It was going to be an extremelycold night, and even though she was warm inside her outdoor gear and flakjacket, Miriam felt the chill in her bones. 
Two men, one of them Chinese-looking, in the wrong pubs. She shook her head,remembering a flowering of blood and a long, curved knife in the darkness. Thefeel of Roland's hands on her bare skin, making her go hot and cold simultaneously. Iris looking at her with a guarded, startled expression, asunmotherly as Angbard's supercillious crustiness. These are some of my favoritethings, butter-pat sized lumps of soft metal glowing luminous in the twilight ofa revolutionary quartermaster's shop: Glock automatics and diamond rings ... 
Miriam shook herself. "Damn, if I wait here I'll doze off for sure." She stoodup, raised the insulating lid on the range, and pushed the kettle onto the hotplate. A cup of coffee would get her going. She picked up her dictaphone andrewound, listening to notes she'd recorded earlier in the day. 
"The family founder had six sons. Five of them had families and the Clan is theresult. The sixth—what happened to him? Angbard said he went west and vanished.Suppose— suppose he did. Reached the western empire, that is, but did so poor,destitute, out of luck. Along the way he lost his talisman, the locket with theknotwork. If he had to re-create it from memory, so he could world-walk, wouldbe succeed? Would I? I know what happens when I look at the knot, but can Iremember exactly what shape it is, well enough to draw it? Let's try." 
Whirr. Click. New memo. "Nope. I just spent ten minutes and what I've drawn doesnothing for me. Hmm. So we know that it's not that easy to re-create frommemory, and I know that if you look at the other symbol you go here, not home.Hmm again." 
Whirr. Click. New memo. "I just looked at both lockets. 
Should have done it earlier, but it's hard to see them without 
, zoning out and crossing over to the other world. The knots— 
in the other one, there's an arc near the top left that threads over the outerloop, not under it, like in the one Iris gave me. So it looks like theassassin's one is, yeah, a corruption of the original design. So maybe the lostfamily hypothesis is correct." 
Whirr. Click. New memo. "Why didn't they keep trying different knots until theyfound one that worked? One that let them make the rendezvous with the other families?" 
Whirr. Click. New memo. "It's a bloodline thing. If you know of only one otheruniverse, and if you know the ability to go there runs in the family, would younecessarily think in terms of multiple worlds? Would you realize you'd mis­remembered the design of the talisman? Or would you just assume—the West Coastmust have looked pretty much the same in both versions, this world and my ownback then—that you'd been abandoned by your elder brothers? Scumbags." 
Whirr. Click. New memo. "Why me? Why Patricia? What was it about her ancestrythat threatened them? As opposed to anyone else in the Clan? Did they just wantto kill her to restart the blood feuds, or was there something else?" 
Whirr. Click. New memo. "What do they want? And can I use them as a lever to getthe Clan to give me what / want?" 
The door around the back of the scullery creaked as it opened. 
Miriam was on her feet instantly, back to the wall beside the cooker, pistol inher right hand. Shit, shit—she froze, breath still, listening. 
"Miriam?" called a familiar voice, "are you there?" 
She lowered her gun. "Yes!" 
Olga shuffled inside, looking about a thousand years older than she had an hourbefore. "Oh, my head," she moaned. "Give me drugs, give me strong medicine, giveme a bone saw!" She drew a finger across her throat, then looked at Miriam."What is that you're wearing?" she asked. 
"Hello." Brilliana piped up behind her. "Can I come in?" She looked arounddubiously. "Are you sure this is another world?" she asked. 
"Yes," Miriam said tersely. "Here. Take two of these now. I'll give you the nexttwo when it's time." She passed the capsules to Olga, who dry-swallowed them andpulled a face. "Get a glass of water." Miriam looked at Brill. "Did you bring—" 
Brill grinned. "This?" she asked, hefting a stubby looking riot gun. 
"Uh, yeah." Miriam froze inside for a moment, then relaxed. She fixed Brill witha beady eye. "You realize an explanation is a bit overdue?" 
"An explan—oh." 
"It doesn't wash, Brill," she said evenly. "I know you're working for someone inClan security. Or were you going to tell me you found that cannon in a cupboardsomewhere?" 
Olga had taken a step back. Miriam could see her right hand flexing. "Why don'tyou go upstairs and get dressed for the party?" Miriam suggested. 
"Ah, if you think so." Olga looked at her dubiously. 
"I do." Miriam kept her eyes on Brill, who stared back unwavering as Olga sweptpast toward the staircase. "Well?" 
"I got word to expect you two days before you arrived in Niejwein," Brilladmitted. "You didn't really expect Angbard to hang you out to dry, did you? Hesaid, and I quote, 'Stick to her like glue, don't let her out of your sight onfamily territory, and especially don't give Baron Hjorth an opportunity to pushher down a stairwell.' So I did as he said," she added, her self-satisfactionevident. 
"Who else was in on it?" Miriam asked. 
"Olga." Brill shrugged. "But not as explicitly. She's not an agent, but... youdidn't think she was an accident, did you? The duke sent you down to Niejweinwith her because he thought you'd be safer that way. And to add to theconfusion. Conspirators and murderers tend to underestimate her because of thegiggling airhead act." She shrugged. 
"So who do you report to?" said Miriam. 
"Angbard. In person." 
"Not Roland?" 
"Roland?" Brill snorted. "Roland's useless at this sort of thing—" 
"So you world-walk? Why did you conceal it from me?" 
"Because Angbard told me to, of course. It wasn't hard: You don't know enoughabout the Clan structure to know who's likely to be outer family and who's goingto have the talent." She took a deep breath. "I used to be a bit of a tear-away.When I was eighteen I tried to join the Marine Corps." She frowned. "I didn'tmake the physical, though, and my mother had a screaming fit when she heard about it. She told Angbard to beat some sense into me and he paid for thebodyguard training and karate while I made up my mind what to do next. Back atcourt, my job—" she swallowed— "if we ever had to bring the hammer down onAlexis, I was tasked with that. Outside the Clan, nobody thinks a lady-in­waiting is a threat, did you know that? But outside the Clan, noble ladiesaren't expected to be able to fight. Anyway, that's why Angbard stuck me on youas a nursemaid. If you ran into anything you couldn't handle ..." 
"Er." The kettle began to hiss. Miriam shook her head, suffering frominformation overload. My lady-in-waiting wants to be a marine? "Want somecoffee?" 
"Yes. Please. Hey, did you know you look just like your Iris when you frown?" 
Miriam stopped dead. "You've seen her?" she demanded. 
"Calm down!" Brilliana held up her hands in surrender. "Yes, I've seen her inthe past couple of days, and she's fine. She just needed to go underground for abit. Same as you, do you understand? I met up with her when you left me inBoston with Paulie and nothing to do. After you shot your mouth off at Angbard,I figured he needed to know what had you so wound up. He takes a keen interestin her well-being, and not just because you threatened to kill him if he didn't.So of course I went over to see her. In fact, I visited every couple of days, tokeep an eye on her. I was there when—" Brill fell silent. 
"It was you with the shotgun," Miriam pushed. 
"Actually, no." Brill looked a little green. "She kept it taped under her chair,the high-backed one in the living room. I just called the Clan cleaners for herafterwards. It 
was during your first trip over here when she, she had the incident. She phonedyour office line, and I was in the office, so I picked up the phone. As you wereover here I went around to sort everything out. I found—" She shuddered. "Ittook a lot of cleaning up. They were Clan security, from the New York office,you know. She was so calm about it." 
"Let me get this straight." Miriam poured the kettle's contents into acafetiere. Her hand was shaking, she noticed distantly. "You're telling me thatIris gunned down a couple of intruders?" 
"Huh?" Brill looked puzzled. "Oh, Iris. That's right. Like 'Miriam.' Listen, shesaid, 'it gets to be a habit after the third assassination attempt. Like killingcockroaches.'" 
"Urk." Miriam sat down hard and waited for the conceptual earthquake to stop.She fixed Brill with the stare she kept in reserve for skewering captains ofindustry she was getting ready to accuse of malfeasance or embezzlement. "Okay,let me get this straight. You are telling me that my mother just happens to keepa sawn-off shotgun under her ' wheelchair for blowing away SWAT teams, a habitwhich she somehow concealed from me during my childhood and upbringing while shewas a political activist and then the wife of a radical bookstore manager—" 
"No!" Brill looked increasingly annoyed. "Don't you get it? This was the firstattempt on her life in over thirty years—" 
Miriam's walkie-talkie bleeped at her urgently. 
"We've got company." Miriam eyed the walkie-talkie as if it might explode. Mymother is an alien, she thought. Must have been in the Weather Underground or 
something. But there was no time to worry about that now. "Is that thing
loaded?" 

"Yes." 
"Right. Then wait here. If anyone comes through the garden door, shoot them. If
anyone comes through the other door, it'll be either me and Olga, or the bad
guys. I'll knock first. Back in a second." 

Miriam dashed for the hall and took the stairs two at a time. "Zone two breach,"
the burglar alarm chirped in her 

ear. Zone two was the east wall of the garden. "Olga?" she called. 
"Here." Olga stepped out onto the landing. Her goggles made her look like a
tall, angular insect—a mantis, perhaps. 

"Come on. We've got visitors." 
"Where do you want to hold out?" 
"In the scullery passage and kitchen—the only direct way in is via the front

window, and there are fun surprises waiting for them in the morning room and
dining room." 
"Right." Olga hurried downstairs, a machine pistol clutched in one hand. 

"Brill," Miriam called, "we're coming in." She remembered to knock. 
Once in the kitchen she passed Brill a walkie-talkie with hands-free kit. "Put
this in a pocket and stick the headphone in. Good. Olga? You too." She hit the
transmit button. "Can you both hear me?" 

Two nods. "Great. We've—" 
"Attention. Zone four breach." 
"—That's the living room. Wait for it, dammit!" 
"Attention. Zone five breach." 
"Dining room," Miriam whispered. "Right. Let's go." 
"Let's—what?" 
She switched her set to a different channel and pressed the transmit button. 
"Attention. Zone four smoke release. Attention. Zone five smoke release. 

Attention. Zone six smoke release." 
"What—" 
"Smoke bombs. Come on, the doors are locked on the hall side and I had the

frames reinforced. We've got them bottled up, unless they've got demolitioncharges. Here." Miriam passed Brill a pair of handcuffs. "Let's go. Remember, wewant to get the ringleader alive—but I don't want either of you to take anyrisks." 
Miriam led them into the octagonal hallway. There was a muffled thump from theday room door, and a sound of coughing. She waved Olga to one side, then prepared to open the door. "Switch your goggles on," she said, and killed thelights. 
Through the goggles the room was a dark and confusing jumble of shapes. Miriamsaw two luminous green shadows moving around her—Brill and Olga. One of themgave her a thumbs-up, while the other of them raised something gun-shaped. "Onmy mark. I'm going to open the door. Three, two, one, mark." Miriam unlocked thedoor and shoved it open. Smoke billowed out, and a coughing figure stumbled intothe darkened hall. Olga's arm rose and fell, resulting in a groan and a crash."I'm in." Miriam stepped over the prone figure and into the smoke-filled room.It was chilly inside, and her feet crackled on broken glass. Bastards, shethought angrily. Something vague and greenish glowed in the smoke at the farcorner, caught between the grand piano and the curtains. "Drop your gun and liedown!" Miriam shouted, then ducked. 
Bang-bang: The thud of bullets hitting masonry behind her was unmistakable.Miriam spat, then knelt and aimed deliberately at the shooter. Can I do this—rage filled her. You tried to kill my mother! She pulled the trigger. There wasa cry, and the green patch stretched up then collapsed. She froze, about toshoot again, then straightened up. 
"Stop! Police!" Whistles shrilled in the garden. "Attention. Zone three breach." 
"That's the south wall! What the fuck?" Miriam whispered. She keyed her walkie­talkie. "Status!" 
"One down." Brill, panting heavily. "Olga's got the guy in the hall on thefloor. They tried to shoot me." 
"Listen." Whistles loud in the garden, flashlight beams just visible through thesmoke. "Into the hall! Brill, can you drag the fucker? Get him upright? You takehim and I'll carry Olga." 
The sound of breaking glass came from the kitchen. Miriam darted back throughthe doorway and nearly ran straight into Olga. 
"Quick!" Olga cried. "I can't do it, my head's still splitting. You'd better—" 
"Shut the fuck up." Miriam pushed her goggles up, grabbed Olga around the waist,and mashed a hand against 
the light switch. She fumbled with her left sleeve, saw the blurry outlineclearly for a moment, tried to focus on it, and tightened her grip on Olgapainfully. "Brill?" 
"Do it!" Brill's voice was edgy with tension and fear. More police whistles thena cry and more gunshots, muffled by the wall. 
Miriam tensed and lifted, felt Olga grab her shoulders, and stared at her wrist.Her knees began to buckle under the weight: Can't keep this up for long, shethought desperately. There was a splintering sound behind her, and the endlessknotwork snake that ate its own tail coiling in the darkness as it reached outto bite her between the eyes. She fell forward into snow and darkness, Olga adead weight in her arms. 
PACING Tt)G CDUSIC 
M' ~^f^^k iriam was freezing. She had vague impres-I I m sions of ice, snow, and a wind coming in ^^-1 --^ off the bay that would chill a furnacein seconds. She stumbled to her feet and whimpered as pain spiked through herforehead. "Ow." Olga sat up. "Miriam, are you alright?" Miriam blinked back afterimages of green shapes moving at the far end of the room. She rememberedher hot determination, followed by a cry of pain. She doubled over abruptly andvomited into the snow, moaning. 
"Where's the hut?" Olga demanded in a panicky voice. "Where's the—" 
"Goggles," Miriam gasped. Another spasm grabbed her 
stomach. 77ms cold could kill us, she thought through the hot 
and cold shudders of a really bad world-walk. "Use your 
goggles." 
"Oh." Olga pulled them down across her eyes. "Oh!" 
"Miriam?" Brill's voice came from behind a tree. "Help!" 
"Aaarh, aarh—" 
Miriam stumbled over, twigs tearing at her face. It was snowing heavily, hugeflakes the size of fingernails twisting in front of her face and stinging whenthey touched her skin. Brill was kneeling on top of something that thrashedaround. "Help me!" she called. 
"Right." Miriam crashed to her knees in front of Brill, her stomach stillprotesting, and fumbled at her belt for another set of restraints. Brill hadhandcuffed the prisoner but he'd begun kicking and she was forced to sit on hislegs, which was not a good position for either of them. "Here." 
"Lay still, damn you—" 
"We're going to have to make him walk. It's that or we carry him," Olgacommented. "How big is he?" 
"Just a kid. Just a goddamn kid." 
"Watch out, he may have friends out here!" 
Miriam stood up and pulled her night-vision goggles back down. Brill and theprisoner showed up as brilliant green flames, Olga a hunched figure a few feetaway. "Come on. To the cabin." Together with Brill she lifted the prisoner tohis feet—still moaning incoherently in what sounded like blind panic—and half-dragged him toward the hunting blind, which was still emitting a dingy greenglow. The heat from the kerosene heater was enough to show it up like a streetlight against the frigid background. 
It took almost ten minutes to get there, during which time the snow began tofall heavily, settling over their tracks. The prisoner, apparently realizingthat the alternative was freezing to death slowly, shut up and began to move hisfeet. Miriam's head felt as if someone was whacking on it with a hammer, and herstomach was still rebelling from its earlier mistreatment. Olga crept forwardand hunted around in the dark, looking for signs of disturbance, but as far asMiriam could see they were alone in the night and darkness. 
The hut was empty but warm as Brill and Miriam lifted the youth through thedoor. With one last effort they heaved him onto a sleeping mat and pulled thedoor shut behind them to keep the warmth in. "Right," said Miriam, her voice 
shaking with exhaustion, "let's see what we've got here." She stood up andswitched on the battery-powered lantern hanging from the roof beam. 
"Please don't—" He lay there shaking and shivering, trying to burrow away intothe corner between the wall and the mattress. 
"It speaks," Brill observed. 
"It does indeed," said Miriam. He was shorter than she was, lightly built withstraight dark hair and a fold to his eyes that made him look slightly Asian. Andhe didn't look more than eighteen years of age. 
"Check him for an amulet," said Miriam. 
"Right, you—got it!" A moment of struggle and Brill straightened up, holding outa fist from which dangled a chain. "Which version is it?" 
Miriam glanced in it, then looked away. "The second variation. For world three."She stuffed it into a pocket along with the other. "You." She looked down at theprisoner. "What's your name?" 
"Lin—Lin." 
"Uh-huh. Do you have any friends out in this storm, Mr. Lin Lin?" Miriam glancedat the door. "Before you answer that, you might want to think about what they'lldo to you if they found us here. Probably shoot first and ask questions later." 
"No." He lay back. "It's Lee." 
"Lin, or Lee?" 
"I'm Lin. I'm a Lee." 
"Good start," said Brill. She stared malevolently at him. "What were you doingbreaking into our house?" 
Lin stared back at her without saying anything. 
"Allow me," Miriam murmured. Her headache was beginning to recede. She fumbledin her jacket, pulled out a worry-ingly depleted strip of tablets, punched oneof them out, and swallowed it dry. It stuck in her throat, bitter and unwanted. 
"Listen, Lin. You invaded my house. That wasn't very clever, and it got at leastone of your friends shot. Now, I have some other friends who'd like to ask yousome ques-
tions, and they won't be as nice about it as I am. In about an hour we're goingto walk to another world, and we're going to take you with us. It's a world yourfamily can't get to, because they don't even know it exists. Once you're there,you are going to be stuck. My friends there will take you to pieces to get theanswers they want, and they will probably kill you afterwards, because they'relike that." 
Miriam stood up. "You have an hour to make up your mind whether you're going totalk to me, or whether you're going to talk to the Clan's interrogators. If youtalk to me, I won't need to hurt you. I may even be able to keep you alive. Thechoice is yours." 
She glanced at Brill. "Keep an eye on him. I'm going to check on Olga." 
As she opened the door she heard the prisoner begin to weep quietly. She closedit behind herself hastily. 
Miriam keyed her walkie-talkie. "Anyone out there? Over." 
"Just me," replied Olga. "Hey, this wireless talkie thing is great, isn't it?" 
"See anyone?" 
"Not a thing. I'm circling about fifty yards out. I can see you on thedoorstep." 
"Right." Miriam waved. "I just read our little housebreaker the riot act." 
"Want me to help hang him?" 
"No." Miriam could still feel the hot wash of rage at the intruder in hersights, and the sense of release as she pulled the trigger. Now that the angerhad cooled, it made her feel queasy. The first time she'd shot someone, thekiller in the orangery, she'd barely felt it. It had just been something she hadto do, like stepping out of the path of an onrushing juggernaut: He'd killedMargit and was coming at her with a knife. But this, die lying in wait and thehot rush of righteous anger, left her with a growing sense of appalled guilt thelonger she thought about it. It was avoidable, wasn 't it ? "Our littlehousebreaker is just a chick. He's crying for momma already. I think he's goingto sing like a bird as soon as we get him to the other side." 
"How are you doing?" asked Olga. "You came through badly." 
"Tell me about it." Miriam shuddered. "The cold seems to be helping my head.I'll be ready to go again in about an hour. Yourself?" 
"I wish." Olga hummed to herself. "I never had that headache pill." 
"Come over here, then," said Miriam. "I've got the stuff." 
"Right." 
They converged on a tree about five yards from the hut. Miriam stripped off aglove and fumbled in her pocket for the strip of beta blockers and the bottle ofibuprofen. "Here. One of each. Wash it down with something, huh?" 
"Surely." Miriam waited in companionable silence while Olga swallowed, thenpulled out a small hip flask and took a shot. 
"What's that?" 
"Spiced hunter's vodka. Fights the cold. Want some?" 
"Better not, thanks." Miriam glanced over her shoulder at the hut. "I'm givinghim an hour. The poor bastard thinks I'm going to give him to Angbard to tortureto death if he doesn't tell me everything I want to know immediately." 
"You aren't going to do that?" Olga's expression was unreadable behind her bulkyheadset. 
"Depends how angry he makes me. There's been too much killing already, and it'sbeen going on for far too long. We're going to have to stop sooner or later, orwe'll run out of relatives." 
"What do you mean, relatives? He's the enemy—" 
"Don't you get it yet?" Miriam said impatiently. "These guys, the strangers whopop out of nowhere and kill— they've got to be blood relatives somewhere down the line. They're world-walkers too, and the only reason they go between thisworld and New Britain, instead of this world and the USA, is because that's thepattern they use. I'm thinking they're descended from that missing branch of thefirst family, the brother who went west and disappeared, right after the founderdied." 
Olga looked puzzled. "You think they're the sixth family?" she asked. 
"I'm not sure, and I don't yet know why they're trying to start up the civil waragain. But don't you think we owe it to ourselves to find out what's going onbefore we hand him over to the thief-takers for hanging?" 
Olga rubbed her head. "This is going to be the most fascinating Clan council inliving memory," she said. 
"Come on." Miriam waved at the hut. "Let's get moving. I think it's time wedragged Roland into this." 
One o'clock in the morning. Ring ring ... "Hello?" Roland's voice was furredwith sleep. 
"Roland? It's me." 
"Miriam, you do pick your times—" 
"Not now. Got a family emergency." 
"Emergency? What kind?" She could hear him waking up by the second. 
"Get a couple of soldiers who you trust, and a safe house. Not Fort Lofstrom orits doppelganger, it needs to be somewhere anonymous but secure on this side. Itmust be on this side. We've got a prisoner to debrief." 
"A prisoner? What kind—" 
"One of the assassins. He's alive, terrified, and spilling his guts to Olgaright this moment." Olga was in the back office with Lin and Miriam'sdictaphone, playing Good Cop. Lin was chattering, positively manic, desperate totell her everything she wanted. Lin wasn't even eighteen. Miram felt ashamed ofherself until she thought about what he'd been involved in. Boy soldiers,bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, recruited to defend their family's honor againstthe children of the hostile elder brothers—elder brothers who had stolen their birthright many generations ago, abandoning them to the nonexistent mercy of thewestern empire. 
"He needs to be kept alive, and that means keeping him away from the securityleak in Angbard's operation. And, uh, your little friend, assuming they're notone and the same 
person. Someone there is working with this guy's people. And here's anotherthing: I want a full DQ Alpha typing run on a blood sample, and I want itcompared to as many members of the Clan—full members—as you can get. I want toknow if he's related, and if so, how far back it goes." 
And I want him out of here before Paulette shows up in the morning, Miriamthought. Paulie was a good friend and true, but some things weren't appropriatefor her to be involved in. Like kidnapping. 
"Okay, I'll sort it. Where do I go?" 
"You come here." Miriam rattled off directions, mentally crossing her fingers."I've got a new amulet for you, one that takes you from the other side to worldthree, my hideaway. Watch out, it is very different, as different from thisworld as you can imagine." 
"Okay—but you'd better be able to explain why if the duke starts askingquestions. I'll roust Xavier and Mort out of bed and be round in an hour.They'll keep their mouths shut. Is there anything else you need?" 
"Yeah." Miriam licked her lips. "Is Angbard over here?" 
"I think so." 
"I've got to call him right away. Then I'm probably going to be gone before youget here. Got to go back to the far side to clean up the mess when the littleprick broke into my house." 
"He broke in—hey! Are you alright?" 
"I'm alive. Olga and Brill can fill you in. Got to go. Stay safe." She rang offbefore she could break down and tell him how much she wanted to see him. Cruel fate... the next number was preprogrammed as well. 
"Hello?" A politely curious voice. 
"This is Helge Lofstrom-Hjorth. Get me Angbard. This is an emergency." 
"Please hold." No messing around this time, Miriam noted. Someone was awake atthe switchboard. 
"Angbard here." He sounded amused rather than tired. "What is it, Miriam? Havingtrouble sleeping?" 
"Perhaps. Listen, the Clan summit on Beltaigne is three 
months away. Is there a procedure for bringing it forward, calling anextraordinary general meeting?" 
"There is, but it's most unusual—nobody has done it in forty years. Are you sureyou want me to do this for you? Without a good reason, there are people whowould take it as a perfect opportunity to accuse you of anything they can thinkof." 
"Yes." Miriam took a deep breath. "Listen. I know you've got my mother." Deadsilence on the phone. She continued: "I don't know why you're holding her, butI'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt—for now. But I need that meeting,and she needs to be there. If she isn't, you're going to be in deep shit. I'mgoing to be there, too, and it has to be now, in a couple of days' time, not intwo months, because we've got a prisoner and if you've not found your leak yetthe prisoner will probably be dead before Beltaigne." 
"A prisoner—" he hissed. 
"You told me about a child of the founder who went west," Miriam said, verydeliberately. "I've found his descendants. They're the ones who tried to killPatricia and who've been after Olga and me. And I figure they may be messed upwith the mole in your security staff. You want to call this emergency meeting,Angbard, you really want to do this." 
"I believe you," he said after a momentary pause, in a tone that said he wishedhe didn't. "How extraordinary." 
"When is it going to be ready?" 
"Hmm." A pause. "Count on it in four days' time, at the Palace Hjorth. Anysooner is out of the question. I'll have to clear down all nonessential mail toget the announcement out in time—this will cost us a lot of goodwill and money.Can you guarantee you'll be there? If not, then I can't speak for whatresolutions will be put forward and voted through by the assembled partners. Youhave enemies." 
"I will be there." She hesitated for a moment. "If I don't make it, it means I'mdead or incapacitated." 
"But you're not, now." 
"Thank Brilliana and Olga," she said. "They were good choices." 
"My Valkyries." He sounded amused. 
"I'll see you in four days' time," Miriam said tersely. "If you need to knowmore, ask Olga, she knows what I'm doing." Then she hung up on him. 
Two days later, Miriam looked up from her office ledger and a stack of officialforms in response to a knock on the office window. "Carry on," she told Declan,who looked up inquiringly from his drafting board. "Who is it?" she demanded. 
"Police, ma'am." 
Miriam stood up to open the door. "You'd better come in." She paused. "Ah,Inspector Smith of the Homeland Defense Bureau. Come to tell me my burglars area matter of national security?" She smiled brightly at him. 
"Ah, well." Smith squeezed into the room and stood with his back to the cupboardbeside the door where she kept the spare stationery. The constable behind himwaited in the hall outside. "It was a most peculiar burglary, wasn't it?" 
"Did you catch any of the thieves?" she asked sharply. 
"You were in New London all along," he said, accusingly. "Staying in the GrangeMouth Hotel. Into which you checked in at four o'clock in the morning the dayafter the incident." 
"Yes, well, as I told the thief-taker's sergeant, I dined in town then caughtthe last train, and my carriage threw a wheel on its way from the railwaystation. And I stayed with it because cabs are thin on the ground at twoo'clock." 
"Humph." Smith looked disappointed, to her delight. Gotcha! She thought. She'dset off from her office in Cambridge at midnight, floored the accelerator allthe way down the near-empty interstate, and somehow managed not to pick up anyspeeding tickets. There were no red-eye flights in New Britain, nor highways youcould drive along at a hundred five miles an hour with one hand on the wheel andthe other clutching an insulated mug of coffee. In fact, the fastest form ofland travel was the train—and as she'd be happy to point out to the inspector,the last train she could 
have caught from Boston to arrive in New London before 4 a.m. had left at eighto'clock the night before. 
It had been a rush. She'd parked illegally in New York— her New York, not theNew London the inspector knew— and changed into her rich widow's weeds in the cramped confines of the car. Then she'd crossed over and banged on a hotel doorin the predawn light. She'd been able to establish an alibi by the skin of herteeth, but only by breaking the New Britain land speed record on a type ofhighway that didn't exist in King John the Fourth's empire ... 
"We haven't identified the Chinee-man who was asking after you," Smith agreed."Nor the unknown assailant who fled—who we are investigating with an eye formurder," he added with relish. 
Miriam sagged slightly. "Horrible, horrible," she said quietly. "Why me?" 
"If you turn up in town flashing money around, you must expect to pick upunsavory customers," Smith said sarcastically. "Especially if you willingly mixwith low-lifes and Levelers." 
"Levelers?" Miriam glared at him. "Who do you have in mind?" 
"I couldn't possibly say." Smith looked smug. "But we'll get them all in theend, you'll see. I'll be going now, but first I'd like to introduce you toOfficer Fitch from the thief-taker's office. I believe he has some more questions to ask about your burglar." 
Fitch's questions were tiresome, but not as tiresome as those of the city'spress—two of whose representatives had already called. Miriam had pointedlyreferred them to her law firm, then refused to say anything until Declan andRoger had escorted them from the premises with dire threats about the law oftrespass. "We will call you if we arrest anyone," Fitch said pompously, "or ifwe recover any stolen property." He closed his notebook with a snap. "Good dayto you, Miss." And with that he clumped out of her office. 
Miriam turned to Declan and rolled her eyes. "I can live without theseinterruptions. How's the self-tightening mechanism coming along?" 
Declan looked a trifle startled, but pointed to a sketch on his drafting board."I'm working on it..." 
Miriam left the office in late afternoon, earlier than usual but still hoursafter she'd ceased being productive. She caught a cab home, feeling mostpeculiar about the whole business—indignant and angry, and sick to her stomachat what she'd done—but not guilty. The morning room was a freezing mess, theglaziers still busily working on the shattered window frames. The elderly onetugged his forelock at her as she politely looked over his shoulder and tut­tutted, trying to project the image of a house-proud lady bearing up under oneof life's little indignities. 
She found Jane in the kitchen. "Is the dining room going to be ready by thisevening?" she asked. 
"No, ma'am." Jane shrugged. "It is a mess. They broke two chairs and scratchedthe dining table!" 
"Well, at least nobody was hurt. Piece of luck, sending you away, wasn't it?"Miriam shook her head. She'd forgotten about the dining room. The windows wereboarded up, but the furniture—"I think I'm going to have to hire a butler,Jane." 
"Oh good," Jane said, startling Miriam. 

"Well, indeed." Miriam left the kitchen and was about to climb the staircasewhen a bell began to jangle from the hall. It was the household telephone. She stalked over and picked up the earpiece, then leaned close to the condenser andsaid, "Hello?" 
"Fletcher residence?" The switchboard operator's voice was tinny but audible."Call from 87492, do you want to accept?" 
"Yes," said Miriam. Who can it be? She wondered. 
"Hello?" asked a laid back, slightly jovial man's voice. "Is Mrs. Fletcheravailable?" 
"Speaking." 
"Oh I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you so soon. Durant here. Are you well, Ihope? I read about your little unpleasantness." 
"I'm quite alright," Miriam managed through gritted teeth. Suddenly her heartwas right up at the base of her 
throat, threatening to fly away. "The burglars damaged some furniture, then theyappear to have fallen out among themselves. It is all most extraordinarilydistressing, and a very good thing for me that I was visiting my sister up inNew London at the weekend. But I'm bearing up." 
"Oh, good for you. I trust the thief-takers are offering you all possibleassistance? If you have any trouble at all I can put in a word with themagistrate-in-chief—" 
"I don't think that'll be necessary, but I'm very grateful," Miriam said warmly."But can we talk about something else, please?" 
"Certainly, certainly. I was telephoning to say—ah, this is such a spontaneous,erratic medium!—that I've been reviewing your proposal carefully. And I'd liketo proceed." 
Miriam blinked, then carefully sat down on the stool next to the telephone. Herhead was swimming. 
"You want to go ahead?" she said. 
"Yes, yes. That's what I said. My chaps have been looking at the brake assemblyyou sent them and they say it's quite remarkable. When the other three areavailable we'll fit them to a Mark IV carriage for testing, but they say they'rein no doubt that it's a vast step forward. However did you come up with it, mayI ask?" 
"Feminine intuition," Miriam stonewalled. Oh wow, she thought. So close tosuccess... "How do you want to proceed?" 
"Well," said Durant, and paused. 
"Royalty basis or outright purchase of rights? Exclusive or nonexclusive?" 
He whistled quietly past the condenser. "I believe a royalty basis would do thejob," he said. "I'll want exclusive rights for the first few years. But I'lltell you what else. I should like to invest in your business if you're open tothe idea. What do you say to that?" 
"I say—" she bit the tip of her tongue carefully, considering: "I think we oughtto discuss this later. I will not say yes, definitely, but in principle I amreceptive to the idea. How large an investment were you thinking of?" 
"Oh, a hundred thousand pounds or so," Sir Durant said airily. Miriam did theconversion in her head, came up with a figure, double-checked it in disbelief.That's thirty million dollars in real money! 
"I want to retain control of my company," she said. 
"That can be arranged." He sounded amused. "May I invite you to dine with me at,let's say, the Brighton's Hanover Room, a week on Friday? We can exchangeletters of interest in the meantime." 
"That would be perfect," Miriam said with feeling. 
They made small talk for a minute, then Durant politely excused himself. Miriamsat on the telephone stool for several minutes in stunned surprise, before shemanaged to get a grip on herself. "He really said it," she realized. "He'sreally going to buy it!" Back home, in another life, this was the kind of storyshe'd have covered for The Weatherman. Bright new three-month-old start-up getsmultimillion-dollar cash injection, signs rights deal with major corporation.I'm not covering the news anymore, I'm making it. She stood up and slowlyclimbed the stairs to her bedroom. Two more days to go, she remembered. / wonderhow Olga and Brill are doing? 
The next morning Miriam telephoned her lawyer. "I'm going to be away for a weekfrom tomorrow," she warned Bates. "In the meantime, I need someone to handle thepayroll and necessary expenditures. Can you recommend a clerk who I can leavethings with?" 
"Certainly." Bates muttered something, then added, "I can have my man Williamssit in for you if you want. Will that do?" 
"Yes, as long as he's reliable." They haggled over a price, then agreed thatWilliams would show up on that afternoon for her to hand him the reins. 
Later in the morning, a post boy knocked on the door. "Parcel for Fletcher?" hepiped to Jane, who accepted it and carried it to Miriam, then waited for her toopen the thing. 
"Curiosity," Miriam said pointedly, "is not what I pay you for." Jane left, andMiriam stared at her retreating back before she reached for a paper knife fromher desk and slit the string. If I've got to have servants around, I need oneswho can keep their mouths shut, she thought gloomily. It wasn't like this withBrill and Kara. The parcel opened up before her to reveal a leatherbound andclearly very old book. Miriam opened the flyleaf. A True and Accurate History ofthe Settlement of New Britain, it said, by some author whose name didn't ringany bells. A card was slipped into the pages. She pulled it out and saw the nameon it, blinked back sudden tears of relief. "You're alright," she mumbled. "Theycouldn't pin anything on you." Suddenly it was immensely important to her toknow that Burgeson was safe and out of the claws of the political police. Asense of warm relief filled her. For a moment, all was right with the world. 
The doorbell rang yet again at lunchtime. "Oh, ma'am, it'll be a salesman," saidJane, hurrying from the kitchen to pass Miriam, who sat alone in the diningroom, toying with a bowl of soup and reading the book Erasmus had sent, herthoughts miles away. "I'll send him—" 
Footsteps. "Miriam?" 
Miriam dropped her spoon in the soup and stood up. "Olga?" 
It was indeed Olga, wearing the green outfit she'd bought from Burgeson by wayof disguise. She smiled broadly as she entered the dining room and Miriam mether halfway in a hug. "Are you alright?" Olga asked. 
"Yes. Have you eaten?" 
"No." Olga rubbed her forehead. 
"Jane, another place setting for my cousin! How good of you to call." As Janehurried to the kitchen, Miriam added, "We can talk upstairs while she's washingup." Louder, "I was just preparing for my trip to New London tomorrow. Are youtied down here, or do you fancy the ride?" 
"That's why I came," said Olga, sitting down and leaning back as the harriedmaid planted a place setting before her. "You didn't think I'd let you go thereall on your own, did 
you, cuz?" Jane rushed out, and Olga winked at Miriam. "You're not getting outof it so easily! What did you say to put the Iron Duke in such a mood?" 
"It's going to be such a party tomorrow night!" Miriam said enthusiastically,then waited for Jane to place a bowl before Olga and withdraw to the scullery.Quietly, "I told him his little shell game was up. Why didn't you tell me?" 
"Tell you what?" Olga paused, blowing on a spoon full of hot broth. 
"That Angbard had planted you on me. As a bodyguard." 
"A what?" Olga shook her head. "This is intelligence of a rare and fantasticnature. Not me, Helge, not me." She grinned. "Who's been spinning you thesetales?" 
"Angbard," said Miriam. She shook her head. "Are you certain you don't work forhim?" 
"Certain?" Olga frowned. "About as certain as I am that the sun rises in theeast. Unless—" She looked annoyed. "— you are telling me that he has been usingme?" 
"I couldn't possibly comment," Miriam said, then changed the subject as fast aspossible. Let's just say Angbard's definition of someone who works for himdoesn't necessarily match up to the definition of an employee in federalemployment law. "I suppose you know about the extraordinary meeting?" 
"I know he's called one." Olga looked at Miriam suspiciously. "That's mostunusual. Is it your fault?" 
"Yup. Did you bring the dictaphone?" 
"The what? Oh, your recording angel? Yes, it is in my bag. Paulie gave it to me,along with these battery things that it eats. Such a sweet child he is," sheadded. "A shame we'll have to hang him." 
"We—" Miriam caught herself. "Who, the Clan? Lin, or Lee, or whatever he'scalled? I don't think that's a good idea." 
"He knows too much about us," Olga pointed out calmly. "Like the fact that we'reoperating here. Even if he's from the lost family, that's not enough to save hislife. They've been trying to kill you, Miriam, they've picking away at us fordecades. They did kill Margit, and I have not forgiven them for that." 
"Lin isn't guilty of that. He's a kid who was drafted into his family's politicsat too early an age, and did what they told him to. The one who killed Margit isdead, and if anyone else deserves to get it in the neck it's the old men whosent a boy to do a man's job. If you think the Clan should execute him, then bythe same yardstick his family had a perfect right to try to murder you. True?" 
"Hunh." Miriam watched a momentary expression of uncertainty cross Olga's face."This merciful mood ill becomes you. Where does it come from?" 
"I told you the other day, there's been too much killing," Miriam repeated."Family A kills a member of Family B, so Family B kills a Family A memberstraight back. The last killing is a justification for the next, and so it goeson, round and about. It's got to stop somewhere, and I'd rather it didn't stopwith the extinction of all the families. Hasn't it occurred to anyone that theutility of world-walking, if you want to gain wealth and power, is proportionalto the square of the number of people who can do it? Network externalities—" 
Olga looked at her blankly. "What are you talking about?" she asked. 
Miriam sighed. "The mobile phones everyone carries in Cambridge. You've seen meusing one, haven't you?" 
"Oh yes!" Olga's eyes sparkled. "Anything that can get Angbard out of bed in themiddle of the night—" 
"Imagine I have a mobile phone with me right now, here on the table." Shepointed to the salt shaker. "How useful is it?" 
"Why, you could call—oh." She looked crestfallen. "It doesn't work?" 
"You can only call someone else who has a phone," Miriam told her. "If you havethe only phone in the world, it might as well be a salt shaker. If I have aphone and you have a phone we can talk to each other, but nobody else. Now, ifeveryone has a phone, all sorts of things are possible. You can't do businesswithout one, you can't even live without one. Lock yourself out of your home?You call a locksmith round to let you in. Want to go to a restaurant? Call yourfriends and tell them where to meet you. And so on. The use-
fulness of a phone relates not to how many people have got them, but to how manylines you can draw between those people. And the Clan's one real talent is—" sheshrugged— "forget cargo, we can't shift as much in a day as a single ox-drawnwagon. The real edge the Clan has got is its ability to transmit messages." 
"Like phones." 
Miriam could almost see the light bulb switch on over her head. "Yes. If we canjust break out of this loop of killing, even if it costs us, if we can juststart trading ... think about it. No more messing around with the two of usrunning errands. No more worries about the amount we can carry. And nobodytrying to kill us, which I'd call a not-insignificant benefit—wouldn't you?" 
"Nice idea," said Olga. "It's surely a shame the other side will kill you ratherthan listen." 
"Isn't that a rather defeatist attitude?" 
"They've been trying to keep the civil war going," Olga pointed out. "Are yousure they did not intrigue it in the first place? A lie here and a cut throatthere, and their fearsome rivals—we families—will kill each other happily. Isn'tthat how it started?" 
"It probably did." Miriam agreed. "So? What's your point? The people who didthat are long since dead. How long are you going to keep slaughtering theirdescendants?" 
"But—" Olga stopped. "You really do want him alive," 1 
she said slowly. 
"Not exactly. What I don't want is him dead, adding to the bad blood between thefamilies. As a corpse he's no use to anyone. Alive, he could be a go-between, oran information source, or a hostage, or something." 
Miriam finished with her soup. "Listen, I have to go to the office, but tomorrowevening I need to be in Niejwein. At the Castle Hjorth. Lin, whoever he is, wasfrom out of town. Chances are we can get there from here without being noticedby anyone in this world, at least anyone but Inspector Smith. This afternoon I'mgoing to the office. I suggest that tomorrow morning we catch the train to NewLondon. That's 
New York in my world. When we get there—how well do you know Niejwein? Outsideof the palaces and houses?" 
"Not so well," Olga admitted. "But it's nothing like as large as these hugemetropoli." 
"Fine. We'll go to the railway terminal, cross over, and walk in bold as brass.There are two of us and we can look after each other. Right?" 
Olga nodded. "We'll be back in my apartment by afternoon. It will be a smalladventure." She put her spoon down. "The council will meet on the morrow, won'tit? I'm not sure whether that's good or bad." 
"It'll have to be good," Miriam assured her. "It can't be anything else." 
exTRAORDiMARY ooeeriMQ 
Two women sat alone in a first-class compartment as the morning train steamedthrough the wintry New England countryside. Puffs of smoke coughed past from theengine, stained dirty orange by the sun that hung low over icy woods and snow-capped farmland. The older woman kept her nose buried in the business pages ofThe London Intelligencer, immune to the rattle of track joints passingunderneath the carriage. The younger woman in contrast started at every strangenoise and stared out at the landscape with eyes eager to squeeze every detailfrom each passing town and village. Church steeples in particular seemed tofascinate her. "There are so many people!" Olga exclaimed quietly. "Thecountryside, it's so packed!" 
"Like home." Miriam stifled a yawn as she read about the outrageous attempts ofa consortium of robber barons from Carolingia to extract a royal monopoly onbituminous path-making, and the trial of a whaler's captain accused of barratry."Like home, ninety years ago." She unbuttoned her 
jacket; the heating in the carriage was efficient but difficult to control. 
"But this place is so rich!" 
Miriam folded her paper. "Gruinmarkt will be this rich too, and within ourlifetimes, if I have my way." 
"But how does it happen! How do you make wealth? Nobody here knows how the otherworld got so rich. Where does it come from?" 
Miriam muttered to herself, "teach a mercantilist dog new tricks ..." She putthe paper aside and sat up to face Olga. "Look. It's a truism that in any landthere is so much gold, and so much iron, and so much timber, and so manyfarmers, isn't it? So that if you trade with a country, anything you take awayisn't there anymore. Your gain is their loss. Right?" 
"Yes." Olga nodded thoughtfully. 
"Well, that's just plain wrong," said Miriam. "That idea used to be calledmercantilism. Discarding it was one of the key steps that distinguishes my worldfrom yours. The essential insight is that human beings create value. A lump ofiron ore isn't as valuable as a handful of nails, because it takes human laborto turn it into nails and nails are more useful. Now, if you have iron ore butno labor, and I have labor but no iron ore, both of us can profit by trade,can't we? I can take your iron ore, make nails, give you some of them inpayment, and we're both better off, because before we had no nails at all. Isn'tthat right?" 
"I think I see." Olga wrinkled her brow. "You're telling me that we don't trade?That the Clan has the wrong idea about how to make money—" 
"Yes, but that's only part of it. The Clan doesn't add value, it simply moves itaround. But another important factor is that a peasant fanner is less good atcreating value than, say, a farmer who knows about crop rotation and soilmaintenance and how to fertilize his fields effectively. And a man who can sitdown all day and make nails is less productive than an engineer who can make amachine that takes in wire feedstock at one end and spits out nails at theother. It's 
more productive to make a machine to make nails, and then run it, than to makethe nails yourself. Educated people can think of ways to make such machines orprovide valuable services—but to get to the wealth, you've got to have aneducated population. Do you see that?" 
"What you're doing, you're taking ideas where they're needed, and teachingpeople with iron ore to make nails and, and do other things, aren't you?" 
"Yes. And while I can't easily take the fruits of that trade home with me, I canmake myself rich over here. Which in turn should serve to give me some leveragewith the Clan, shouldn't it? And there's another thing." She looked pensive. "Ifthe goal is to modernize the Gruinmarkt, the land where the Clan holds so muchpower, it's going to be necessary to import technologies and ideas from a worldthat isn't as far ahead as the United States. There's less of a gap to jumpbetween New Britain and the eastern kingdoms. What I want to do is to developriches in this realm, and use them to finance seed investments in the kingdoms.If the Clan won't let me live away from them, at least I can try to make my lifemore comfortable. No more drafty medieval castles!" 
"Castles." Olga looked wistful for a moment. "You'd build a house like your ownnear Niejwein? Bandits, the southern kingdoms—" 
"No bandits," said Miriam, firmly. "First, we need to improve the efficiency offarming. What I saw looked—no offense—like the way things were done five or sixhundred years ago in Europe. Strip cultivation, communal grazing, no reaping orsowing machines. By making farming more efficient, we can free up hands forindustry. By providing jobs, we can begin to produce more goods—fabric, fuel,housing, ships—and see to the policing of the roads and waterways along whichtrade flows. By making trade safer we make it cheaper, and increase the profits,and by increasing the profits we can free up money to invest in education andproduction." 
Olga shook her head. "I'm dizzy! I'm dizzy!" 
"That's how it happened in England around the industrial 
revolution," Miriam emphasized. "That's how it happened here, from 1890 onwards,a century later than in my world. The interesting thing is that it didn't happenin the Gruin-markt, or in Europe, over there. I've got this nagging feeling thatknowing why it failed is important... still. Given half a chance we'll make ithappen." She leaned toward Olga. "Roland tried to run away and they dragged himback." She took a deep breath. "If they're going to try to drag me away fromcivilization, I'm going to try to bring civilization with me, middle classmorality and all. And men they'll be sorry." 
The train began to slow its headlong charge between rows of red-brick houses. 
"If you go down this path, you'll make enemies," Olga predicted. "Some of themclose to home, but others ... Do you really think the outer families will acceptan erosion of their relative status? Or the king? Or the court? Or the councilof lords? Someone will think they can only lose by it, and they'll fight you forit." 
"They'll accept it if it makes them rich," Miriam said. She glanced at thewindow, sniffed, and buttoned her jacket up. "Damn, it's cold out there." Athought struck her. "Will we be alright on the other side?" 
"We're always at risk," Olga remarked. She paused for a moment. "But, on secondthoughts, I think we are at no more risk than usual." She nudged the bag at herfeet. "As long as we don't linger." 
The train sneaked along a suburban platform and stopped with a hissing of steam;doors slammed and people shouted, distant whistles shrilling counterpoint. "Nextstop?" Miriam suggested tensely. She pulled out a strip of tablets, took one,and offered another to Olga. 
"Thanking you—yes." 
The train pulled away into a deep cutting, its whistle hooting. Buildings oneither side cast deep shadows across the windows, then Miriam found herselfwatching the darkness of a tunnel. "I'm worried about the congress," Miriamadmitted. 
"Hah. Leave that to the duke. Do you think he would have called for it if hedidn't trust you?" 
"If anything goes wrong, if we don't get there, if Brill was lying about mymother being safe—" 
The train began to slow again. "Our stop!" Olga stood up and reached for hercoat. 
They waited at one end of the platform while the huge black and green behemothrumbled away from the station. A handful of tired travelers swirled around them,making for the footbridge that led over the tracks to the main concourse. Miriamnodded at a door. "Into the waiting room." Olga followed her. The room was emptyand cold. "Are you ready?" Miriam asked. "I'll go across first. If I run intotrouble, I'll come right back. If I'm not back inside five minutes, you comeover too." 
Olga discreetly checked her gun. "I've got a better idea. You're too importantto risk first." She pulled out her locket and picked up her bag: "See youshortly!" 
"Wait—" It was too late. Miriam squinted at the fading outline. Funny, shethought, irritated, I've never seen someone else do that. "Damn," she saidquietly, pulling out her own compact and opening it up so that she could joinOlga. "You'd better not have run into anything you can't handle—" 
Ouch. Miriam took a step back and a branch whacked her on the back of the head. 
"Are you alright?" Olga asked anxiously. 
"Ouch. And again, ouch. How about you?" 
"I'm fine, except for my head." Olga looked none the worse for wear. "Where arewe?" 
"I should say we're still some way outside the city limits." Miriam put her bagdown and concentrated on breathing, trying to get the throbbing in her headunder control. "Are you ready for a nice bracing morning constitutional?" 
"Ugh. Mornings should be abolished!" 
"You will hear no arguments from this quarter." Miriam bent down, opened herbag, and removed a cloak from it to cover her alien clothes. "That looks likeclear ground over there. How about we try to pick up a road?" 
"Lead on," sighed Olga. 
* * * 
They'd come out in deciduous woodland, snow lying thick on the ground betweenthe stark, skeletal trees; it took them the best part of an hour to find theirway to a road, and even that was mostly dumb luck. But, once they'd found it,Niejwein was already in sight. And what a sight it was. 
Miriam hadn't appreciated before just how crude, small, and just plain smellythe city was. It stood on a low bluff overlooking what might, in a few hundredyears, mutate into the Port Authority. Stone walls twenty feet high followed thecontours of the ground for miles, bascules sprouting ominously every hundredyards. Long before they reached the walls, she found herself walking beside Olgain a cloud of smelly dust, passing rows of windowless tumbledown shacks. Scoresof poor-looking countryfolk— many in clothes little better than layered rags—drove heavily laden donkeys or small herds of sheep toward the city gates.Miriam noticed that they were picking up a few odd looks, especially from theragged mothers of the barefoot urchins who cast stones across the icy cobbles,but she avoided eye contact and nobody seemed interested in approaching twowomen who knew where they were going. Especially after Olga pointedly allowedthe barrel of her gun to slip from under her cloak, in response to animportuning rascal who attempted to get too close. "Hmm, I see why you alwaystravel by—" Miriam stopped and squinted at the gatehouse. "Tell me that's notwhat I think it is, on the wall," she said. 
"Not what—oh, that." Olga looked at her oddly. "What else would you have them dowith bandits?" 
"Um." Miriam swallowed. "Not that." The city gates were wide open and nobodyseemed to be guarding them. "Is there meant to be anyone on watch?" 
"Invasion comes from the sea, most often." 
"Um." I've got to stop saying that, Miriam told herself. Her feet were beginningto hurt with all the walking, she was picking up dust and dirt, and she wasprofoundly regretting not making use of the dining carriage for breakfast. Orcrossing all the way over, phoning for Paulie to pick them 
up, and driving all die way in die back of an air-conditioned car. "Which way todie castle?" 
"Oh, diat's a way yet." Olga beamed as a wagon laden widi bales of hay clatteredpast. "Isn't it grand? The largest city in die Gruinmarkt!" 
"Yes, I suppose it is," Miriam said hollowly. She'd seen somediing like diisbefore, she realized. Some of the museum reconstructions of medieval life backhome were quite accurate, but nothing quite captured the reek—no, dieoverwhelming stench—of open sewers, of people who bathed twice a year and wore asingle set of clotiies all die time, of houses where the owners bedded down widitheir livestock to share warmth. Did I really say I was going to modernize this?she asked herself, aghast at her own hubris. Why yes, I think I did. Talk aboutjumping in with both feet . . . 
Olga steered her into a wide boulevard without warning. "Look," she said. Hugestone buildings fronted the road at intervals, all the way up to an imposinghill at the far end, upon which squatted a massive stone carbuncle, turrettedand brooding. "You see? There is civilization in Niejwein after all!" 
"That's the palace, isn't it?" 
"It is indeed. And we'll be much better off once we are inside its walls." A hundred yards more and Olga waved Miriam into what at first she mistook for analleyway— before she worked out that it was die drive leading to the HjorthPalace. 
"I didn't realize this—" Miriam stopped, coming to a halt behind Olga. Two menat arms were walking toward diem, hands close to their sword hilts. 
"Chein bet hen! Gehen'sh veg!" 
"Ver she mishtanken shind?" said Olga, drawing herself up and glaring at themicily. 
"Ish interesher'ish nish, when sheshint the Herzogin von Praha—" said one,sneering contemptuously. 
"Stop right there," Miriam said evenly, pulling her right hand inside her cloak."Is Duke Lofstrom in residence?" 
The sneering one stopped and gaped at her. "You ... say, the duke?" he saidslowly in broken English. "I'll teach you—" 
His colleague laid a hand on his arm and muttered something urgent in his ear. 
"Fetch the duke, or one of his aides," Miriam snapped. "I will wait here." 
Olga glanced at her sidelong, then turned her cloak back to reveal her gun andher costume. What she wore would be considered respectable in New London: Overhere it was as exotic as the American outfits the Clan members wore in private. 
"I take you inside," said the more prudent guard, trying to look inoffensive."Gregor, gefen she jemand shnaill'len, als iffoor leifensdauer abhngtfon ihm,"he told his companion. 
Olga grinned humorlessly. "It does," she said. 
A carriage rattled up the drive behind them; meanwhile, booted feet hurriedacross the hall. A man, vaguely familiar from Angbard's retinue, glancedcuriously at Miriam. "Oh great Sky Father, it's her" he muttered in a despairingtone. "Please, come in, come in! You came to see the duke?" 
"Yes, but I think we should freshen up first," said Miriam. "Please send him mycompliments, tell these two idiots to let us in, and we will be with him in halfan hour." 
"Certainly, certainly—" 
Olga took Miriam's hand and led her up the steps while the duke's man was stillwarming up on the hapless guards. A couple more guards, these ones far morealert-looking, fell in behind them. "Your apartment," said Olga. "I took theliberty of moving some of my stuff in. I hope you don't mind?" 
"Not at all." Miriam shrugged, then winced. "I'll need more than half an hour tofreshen up." 
"Well, you'll have to do it fast." Olga rapped on the huge double doors by thetop of the main stairs. "The duke detests being kept waiting." 
"Indeed—Kara!—oof!" 
"My lady!" 
Miriam pushed her back to arm's length. "You've been al-
right?" she asked anxiously. "No murderers lurking in your bedroom?" 
"None, milady!" Kara flushed and let go of her. "Milady! What is that you'rewearing? It's so frumpy! And you, lady Olga? Is this some horrid new fashionfrom Paris that we'll all be wearing in a month? Has somebody been biting yourneck, that you've got to hide it?" 
"I hope not," Miriam said dryly. "Listen." She towed Kara into the empty outeraudience chamber. "We're going to see Angbard in half an hour. Half an hour. Getsomething for me to wear. And warn Olga's maids. We've been on the road half aday." 
"I shall!" She bounced away toward the bedchamber. 
Miriam rubbed her forehead. "Youth and enthusiasm." She made a wry curse of it. 
Her bedroom was as she'd left it four months ago—Olga had taken the Queen'sRoom, for there were four royal rooms in this apartment—and for once Miriamdidn't drive Kara out. "Help me undress," she ordered. "Aah, that's better. Um.Fetch the pot. Then would you mind getting me a basin of hot water? I need toscrub my face." 
Kara, for a wonder, left Miriam alone to wash herself— then doubled the miracleby laying out one of Miriam's trouser suits and retiring to the outer chamber."She's learning," Miriam noted. "Hmm." It felt strange to be dressing for anordinary day in the office world, doubly strange to be doing so with medievalsquallor held at bay outside by guards with swords. "What the hell." She lookedat herself in the mirror. Her hair was past shoulder length, there were worrylines around her eyes that hadn't been there six months ago, and her jacket wasloose at the waist. "Not bad." Then she spotted a couple of white hairs. "Damn. 
Bad." She combed it back hard, held it in place with a couple of pins, andturned her back on the mirror. "Hostile takeover time, kid. Go kill 'em." 
There were no simple chambers for the duke. He'd taken over the royal apartmentin the west wing, occupying half of 
the top floor, and his guards had staked out the entire floor below as asecurity measure. Nor was it possible for Miriam to pay a quiet visit on him.Not without first picking up a retinue of a palace majordomo, a bunch of guardsled by a nervous young officer, and an overexcited teenager. Kara fussed aroundbehind Miriam as she climbed the stairs. "Isn't it exciting?" she squealed. 
"Hush." Miriam cast her eye over the guards with a jaundiced eye. Theircamouflage jackets and submachine guns sounded a jarring note. Strip them fromthe scene and this might merely be some English stately home, taken over for theduration of a rich multinational's general meeting. "Am I always supposed totravel with this much protection?" 
"I wouldn't know," Kara said artlessly. 
"Make a point of finding out, then," Miriam said sharply as she climbed the lastfew steps toward the separate guard detachment outside Angbard's residence. 
Two soldiers came to attention on either side of the door to the royalapartment. Their sergeant strode forward. "Introduce me," Miriam hissed at themajordomo. 
"Ahem! May I present my lady, her excellency the countess Helge Thorold-Hjorth,niece of the duke Angbard of that family, who comes to pay her attendance on theduke?" The man ended on a strangled squeak. 
The sergeant checked his clipboard. "Everything is as expected." He saluted, andMiriam nodded acknowledgment at him. "Ma'am. If you'd like to come this way."His eyes lingered on Kara. "Your lady-in-waiting may attend. The guards—" 
"Very well," said Miriam. She glanced over her shoulder: "Wait here, I'm notexpecting my uncle to try to kill me," she told her retinue. Yet, she addedsilently. The doors swung open and she stepped through into a nearly emptyaudience chamber. The doors slammed shut behind her with a solid thud of latches, and she would have paused to look around but for the sergeant, who wasalready halfway across the huge expanse of hand-woven carpet. 
He paused at the inner door and knocked twice: "Visitor 
six-two," he muttered to a peephole, then stood aside. The inner door openedjust wide enough to admit Miriam and Kara. "If you please, ma'am." 
"Hmm." Miriam entered the room, then stopped dead. "Mother!" 
"Miriam!" Iris smiled at her from her wheelchair, which stood beside the pair ofthrones mounted at one end of the audience room. A pair of crutches leanedagainst one of them. 
Miriam crossed the room quickly and leaned down to hug her mother. "I've missedyou," she said quietly, mind whirling with shock. "I was so worried—" 
"There, there." Iris kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I'm alright, as you cansee." Miriam straightened up. "You look as if you're keeping well!" Then shenoticed Kara's head in the doorway, jaw agape. "Oh dear, another one come tostare at me," she sighed. "I suppose it can't be helped. It'll all be over bythis time tomorrow, anyway, isn't that the case, Angbard?" 
"I would not make any assumptions," said the duke, turning away from the window.His expression was distant. "Helge, Miriam." 
"So, it is true," said Miriam. She glanced at Iris. "He brought you here?" Sherounded on Angbard: "You should be ashamed of yourself!" 
"Nonsense." He looked offended. 
"Don't blame him, Miriam." Iris looked at her strangely. "Drag up a seat, dear.It's a long story." 
Miriam sat down beside her. "Why?" she asked, her thoughts whirling so that shecouldn't make her mind up what word to put next. "What is she doing here then,if you didn't kidnap her?" she asked, looking at Angbard. "I thought it wasagainst all your policies to take people from—" 
"Policies?" Angbard asked, raising his nose. He shrugged dismissively thenlooked at Iris. "Tell her." 
"Nobody kidnapped me," said Iris. "But after a party or parties unknown tried tokill me, I phoned Angbard and asked for help." 
"Uh." Miriam blinked. "You phoned him?" 
"Yes." Iris nodded encouragingly. "Isn't that how you normally get in touch withsomeone?" 
"Well yes, but, but..." Miriam paused. "You had his number," she saidaccusingly. "How?" 
Iris glanced at the duke, as if asking for moral support. He raised his eyebrowsslightly, and half-turned away from Miriam. 
"Urn." Iris froze up, looking embarrassed. 
Miriam stared at her mother. "Oh no. Tell me it isn't true." 
Iris coughed. "I expected you to look at the papers, use the locket or not, thendo the sensible thing and ask me to tell you all about it. I figured you'd befairly safe, your house being in the middle of open woodland on mis side, and itwould make explaining everything a lot easier once you'd had a chance to see foryourself. Otherwise—" She shrugged. "If I'd broken it to you cold you'd havethought I was crazy. I didn't expect you to go running off and getting yourselfshot at!" For a moment she looked angry. "I was so worried!" 
"Ma." She had difficulty swallowing. "You're telling me you knew about. TheClan. All along." 
A patient sigh from the window bay. "She appears to be having some difficulty.If you would allow me—" 
"No!" Iris snapped, then stopped. 
"If you can't, I will," the duke said firmly. He turned back to face Miriam."Your motfier has had my number all along," he explained, scrutinizing her face."The Clan has maintained emergency telephone numbers—a nine-eleven service, ifyou like—for the past fifty years. She only saw fit to call me when you wentmissing." 
"Ma—" Miriam stopped. Glanced at Angbard again. "My mother," she said
thoughtfully. "Not, um, foster-mother, is it?" 
Angbard shook his head slightly, studying her beneath half-hooded eyes. 
Miriam glared at Iris. "Why all the lies, then?" she demanded. 
Iris looked defensive. "It seemed like a good idea at the 
time, is all I can say." She shuffled deeper into her chair. "Miriam?" 

"Yeah?" 
"I know I brought you up not to tell lies. All I can say is, I wish I could have
lived up to that myself. I'm sorry." 

Angbard took a step forward, then moved to stand behind Iris's wheelchair. 

"Don't go too hard on her," he said warningly. "You have no idea what she's—" He
stopped, and shook his head. "No idea," he echoed grimly. 
"So explain," said Miriam. Her gaze slid past Iris to focus on Kara, who was

doing her best imitation of a sheet of wallpaper—wallpaper with a fascinated

expression. "Whoa. Kara, please wait outside. Now." 
Kara skidded across the floor as if her feet were on fire: "I'm going, I'm
going!" she squeaked. 

Miriam stared at Iris. "So why did you do it?" 
Iris sighed. "They'd shot Alfredo, you know." 
She fell silent for a moment. 
"Alfredo?" 
"Your father." 
"Shot him, you said." 
"Yes. And Joan, my maid, they killed her too. I got across but they'd done a

good job on me, too—I nearly bled to death before the ambulance got me to ahospital. And then, and then ..." She trailed off. "I was in Cambridge,unidentified, in a hospital, with no chaperone and no guards. Can you understandthe temptation?" 
Miriam looked sideways: Angbard was watching Iris like a hawk, something likeadmiration in his eyes. Or maybe it was the bitterness of the dutiful brotherwho stuck to his 1 
post? It was hard to tell. 
"How did you meet Morris?" she asked her mother, after 1 a momentary pause. 
"He was a hospital visitor." Iris smiled at the recollection. "Actually he waswriting for an underground newspaper at the time and came to see if I'd beenbeaten up by the pigs. Later he sorted out our birth certificates—mine andyours, that is, including my fake backstory leading out of the country, and the falseadoption papers—when we moved around. Me being a naturalized foreigner wasuseful cover. There was a whole underground railroad going on in those days,left over from when the SDS and the Weather Underground turned bad, and itserved our purpose to use it. Especially as the FBI wasn't actually looking forus." 
"So I—I—" Miriam stopped. "I'm not adopted." 
"Does it make any difference to you?" Iris asked, sounding slightly puzzled."You always said it didn't. That's what you told me." 
"I'm confused," Miriam admitted. Her head was spinning. "You were rich andpowerful. You gave it all up—brought your daughter up to think she was adopted,went underground, lived like a political radical—just to get away from the in-laws?" 
Angbard spoke. "It's her mother's fault," he said grimly. "You met the dowagerduchess, I believe. She has always taken a, ah, utilitarian view of heroffspring. She played Patty like a card in a game of poker, for the higheststakes. The treaty process, re-establishing the braid between the warringfactions. I think she did so partially out of spite, to get your mother out ofthe way, but she is not a simple woman. Nothing she does serves only a singlepurpose." His expression was stony. "But she is untouchable. Unlike whoevertried to ruin her hand by murdering my cousin and her husband." 
Iris shifted around, trying to make herself more comfortable. "Don't troubleyourself on my account. If you ever find Alfredo's body, you'd best not tell mewhere it's buried—I'd have a terrible time getting back into my wheelchair afterI pissed on it." 
"Patricia," his smile was razor-thin, "I usually find that death settles allscores to my complete satisfaction. Just as long as they stay dead." 
"Well, I don't agree. And you weren't married to Alfredo." 
"Mother!" Miriam stared at both of them in shock: Just as she was certain Angbard was serious, she was more than half afraid that her mother was, too. 
"Don't you 'mother' me!" Iris chided her. "I was mooning at the national guardbefore you were out of diapers. I'm just not very mobile these days." Shefrowned and turned to Angbard. "We were speaking of mother," she bit out. 
"I can't keep her out forever," said Angbard, his frightening smile vanishing asrapidly as it had appeared. "You two clearly need more time together, but I havean audience with his majesty in an hour. Miriam, can you fill me in quickly?" 
Miriam took a deep breath. "First, I need to know where Roland is." 
"Roland—" Angbard looked at his watch, his face intent. Then back at Miriam."He's been looking after Patty for the past month," he said, his tone neutral."Right now he's in Boston, minding the shop. You don't need to worry about hisreliability." 
For a moment Miriam felt so dizzy that she had to shut her eyes. She opened themagain when she heard her mother's voice. "Such a suitable young man." She glaredat Iris, who smiled lazily at her. "Don't let them get together, Angbard, orthey'll be over the horizon before you have time to blink." 
"It's not. That." Miriam was having difficulty breathing. "There's a hole inyour security," she said as calmly as she could. "It's at a very high level. Itold Roland to do something about a corpse in an inconvenient place and insteada bunch of high explosives showed up. It turns out that Matthias has beenblackmailing him." She felt dizzy with the significance of the moment. 
"Roland? Are you sure?" Angbard leaned forward. His face was expressionless. 
"Yes. He told me everything." She felt as if she were floating. "Listen, it wason the specific understanding that I would intercede with you to clean it up.Your secretary has been running his own little game and seems to have decidedthat getting a handle on Roland would help him cover his traces." 
"That was a mistake," Angbard said, his voice deceptively casual. His expressionwas immobile, except for his scarred left cheek, which twitched slightly. "Howdid you find out?" 
"It happened in the warehouse my chamber is doppelgan-
gered onto here. Most of this pile is colocated with a bonded warehouse, but onewing sticks out into a real hole-in-the-wall shipping operation." She swallowed,then forced herself to speak. "There was a night watchman. Emphasis on the was."She explained what had happened when she'd first carried Brill through to NewYork. 
"Roland, you say," said Angbard. "He's been blackmailed?" 
"I want your word," Miriam insisted. "No consequences." 
A sharp intake of breath. "Well—" Angbard started to pace. "Did he betray anysecrets?" 
Miriam stood up. "Not as far as I know," she said. 
"And did anyone die as a result of his actions?" 
Miriam paused for a moment before answering: "again, not as far as I know.Certainly not directly. And certainly not as a result of anything he knew he wasdoing." 
"Well, well. Maybe I will not have to kill him." Angbard stopped again, behindIris's chair. "What do you think I should do?" he asked, visibly tense. 
"I think." Miriam chewed her lower lip. "Matthias has tapes. I think you shouldhand the tapes over to me, un-watched. I'll burn them. In front of you both, ifyou want." She paused. "You'll want to remove all his responsibilities forsecurity operations, I guess." 
"This blackmail material," Iris prodded. "These tapes—is it something personal?Or has he been abusing his position in any way?" 
"It's absolutely personal. I can swear to it. Matthias just got the drop onRoland's private life. Nothing illegal; just, uh, sensitive." 
Iris—Patricia, the long-lost countess—stared at her knowingly for a moment, thenturned to look at her half-brother. "Do as she says," she said firmly. 
Angbard nodded, then cast her a sharp look. "We'll see," he said. 
"No, we won't!" Iris snapped. She continued quietly but with emphasis: "If your
secretary has been building up private dossiers on nobles, you're in big
trouble. You need all the friends you can get, bro. Starting by pardoning anyone 

who isn't an active enemy will clear the field. And make damn sure you burn
those tapes without watching them, because for all you know some of them are
fabrications that Matthias concocted just in case you ever stumbled across them.
It's untrustworthy evidence, all of it." She turned to Miriam. "What else have
you dug up?" she demanded. 

"Well." Miriam leaned against a priceless lacquered wooden cabinet and managed
to muster up a tired smile to conceal her gut-deep sense of relief. "I'm pretty
sure Matthias is in league with whoever was running the prisoner." 

"The prisoner," Angbard echoed distantly. By his expression, he was already
wrapped up in calculating the requirements of the coming purge. 

"What prisoner?" asked Iris. 
"Something your daughter's friends dragged in a couple of days ago," Angbard
dropped offhandedly. To Miriam he added, "He's downstairs." 

"Have you worked out who he is, yet?" Miriam interrupted. 
"What, that he's a long-lost cousin? And so are the rest of his family, stranded
with a corrupt icon that takes them to this new world you have opened up for our

trade? Of course. Your suggestion that we do DNA fingerprinting made it
abundantly clear." 
"Cousins? New world?" Iris echoed. "Would one of you please back up a bit and

explain, before I have to beat it out of you with my crutches?" 
Angbard stood up. "No, I don't think so." He grinned mirthlessly. "You kept

Miriam in the dark for nearly a third of a century, I think it's only fair that
we keep you in suspense for a third of a day." 
"So nobody else knows?" Miriam asked Angbard. 
"That's correct." He nodded. "And I'm going to keep it that way, for now." 
"I want to talk to the prisoner," Miriam said hastily. 
"You do?" Angbard turned the full force of his icy stare on her. "Whatever for?" 
"Because—" Miriam struggled for words—"I don't have old grudges. I mean, his

relatives tried to kill me, but... I 
have an idea I want to test. I need to see if he'll talk to me. May I?" 
"Hmm." Angbard looked thoughtful. "You'll have to be quick, if you want to

collect your pound of flesh before we execute him." 
Miriam swallowed bile. "That's not what I have in mind." 
"Oh, really?" He raised an eyebrow. 
"Give me a chance?" she asked. "Please?" 
"If you insist." Angbard waved lazily. "But don't lose the plot." He stared at

her, and for a moment Miriam felt her bones turn to water. "Remember not all 

your relatives are as liberal-minded as I am, or believe that death heals allwounds." 
"I won't," Miriam said automatically. Then she looked at Iris again, a long,appraising inspection. Her mother met her gaze head-on, without blinking. "It'salright," she said distantly. "I'm not going to stop being your daughter. Justas long as you don't stop being my ma. Deal?" 
"Deal." Iris dropped her gaze. "I don't deserve you, kid." 
"Yes, you do." Angbard looked Miriam up and down. "Like mother, like daughter,don't you know what kind of combination that makes?" He chuckled humorlessly."Now, if you will excuse me, Helge, you have made much work for this old man toattend to ..." 
/ should have realized all castles had dungeons, Miriam thought apprehensively.If not for keeping prisoners, then for supplies, ammunition, food, wine cellars—ice. It was freezing cold below ground, and even the crude coal-gas pipes nailedto the brickwork and the lamps hissing and fizzing at irregular intervalscouldn't warm it up much. Miriam followed the guard down a surprisingly widestaircase into a cellar, then up to a barred iron door behind which a guardwaited patiently. Finally he led her into a well-lit room containing nothing buta table and two chairs. 
"What is this?" she asked. 
"I'll bring the prisoner to you, ma'am," the sergeant said 
patiently. "With another guard. The gate at the front won't be unlocked againuntil he's back in his cell." 
"Oh." Miriam sat down, feeling stupid, and waited nervously as the guarddisappeared into the basement tunnels beneath the castle. The dungeon. I put himhere, she thought apprehensively. What must it be like? 
A clattering outside brought her back to herself, and she turned around to watchthe door as it opened. The sergeant came in, followed by another soldier, and, ahunched, thin figure with his arms behind his back and a hood over his head.He's manacled, Miriam realized. 
"One moment." The guards positioned the prisoner against the wall oppositeMiriam's table. The guard knelt, and Miriam heard something click into place—padlocks. "That's it," said the sergeant. He pulled off the prisoner's hood,then he and the other guard withdrew to stand beside the door. 
"Hello, Lin," Miriam said as evenly as she could. "Recognize me?" 
He flinched, clearly terrified, and was brought up short by his chains. Shit,Miriam thought, a sense of horror stealing over her. She peered at him in thedim light. "They've been beating you," she said quietly. The things on thegatehouse walls—no, she didn't want to be involved in this. It was all ahorrible mistake. Multiple contusions, some bleeding and in-flamation around theleft eye. He stared past her left shoulder, shivering fearfully, but didn't sayanything. Miriam resisted the urge to turn around and yell at the guards: Shehad a hopeless feeling that all it would do was earn the kid another beatingwhen she was safely out of the way. 
Her medical training wouldn't let her look away. Up until this moment she'd havesworn she was angry with him: But she hadn't expected them to treat him likethis. Breaking into her house on the orders of someone placed in authority overhim—sure she was angry. But the real guilty parties were a long way away, and if she didn't do something fast, this half-starved kid was going to join the grislycarcasses displayed on the gatehouse wall, for the crime of following orders.And where was the justice in that? 
"I'm not going to hit you," she said. 
He didn't reply: His posture said he didn't believe her. 
"Fuck!" She pulled one of the chairs out from the table, turned it around, and

sat down on it, her arms folded across the back. "I just want some answers.

That's all. Lin of, what did you call yourself?" 
"Lin. Lin Lee. My family is called Lee." He kept glancing past her, as if trying
to conceal his fear: I'm not going to hit you, but my guards— 

"That's good. How old are you?" 

"Fifteen." Fifteen! Holy shit, they're running the children's crusade! A thought
struck her. "Have they been feeding you? Giving you water? Somewhere to sleep?" 
He managed a brief, painful croak: Maybe it was meant to be laughter. 
Miriam looked around. "Well? Have you been feeding him?" 
The sergeant shook himself. "Ma'am?" 
"What food, drink, and medical attention has this child had?" 
He shook his head. "I really couldn't say, ma'am." 
"I see." Miriam's hands tensed on the back of the chair. She turned back to Lin. 

"I didn't order this," she said. "Will you tell me who sent you to my house?" 
She saw him swallow. "If I do that you'll kill me," he said. 
"No, that's not what I've got in mind." 
"Yes you will." He looked at her with bitter certainty in his eyes. "They'll do

it." 
"Like you were going to kill me?" she asked quietly. 
He didn't say anything. 
"You were supposed to find out if I was from the Clan," she said. "Weren't you?

A strange new woman showing up in town and making waves. Is that it? And if Iwas from the Clan, you were supposed to kill me. What was it to be? A bomb in mybedroom? Or a knife in the dark?" 
"Not me," he whispered. "One of the warriors." 
"So why were you there? To spy on me? Are they that short-handed?" 
He looked down at the table, but not before she saw shame in his eyes. 
"Ah." She glanced away for a moment, trying desperately to think of a way out of

the impasse. She was hopelessly aware of the guards standing behind her, waitingpatiently for her to finish with the prisoner. If I leave him here, the Clanwill kill him, she realized, with a kind of hollow dread she hadn't expected tobe able to summon up for a housebreaker. Housebreaker? What his actions said about his family, that was something she could get angry about. "Hell." She madeup her mind. 
"Lin, you're probably right about the Clan. Most of them would see you dead assoon as look at you. There've been too many years of their parents andgrandparents cutting each other's throats. They're suspicious of anything theydon't understand, and you're going to be high on any list of mysteries. But I'lltell you something else." 
She stood up. "You know how to world-walk, don't you?" 
Silence. 
"I said." She stopped. "You ought to know when you can stop holding it in," shesaid tiredly. Thinking back to Angbard, and how she'd managed to face him downover Roland: Don't look too deep. Everything on the surface. The familes allworked that way, didn't they? "Nothing you say ! to me can make yourposition worse. It might make it better, 
| though." 
Silence. 
"World-walking," she said. "We know you can do it, we got the locket youcarried. So why lie?" 
Silence. 
"The Clan can world-walk too, you know," she said quietly. "It isn't acoincidence. Your family are relatives, aren't they? Lost for a long time, andthis shit—the killing, the feuding, the attempts to reopen old wounds—isn't inanyone's interests." 
Silence. 
"Why do they want me dead?" she asked. "Why are you people killing your ownblood relatives?" 
Maybe it was something in her expression—frank curiosity, perhaps—but the youthlooked away at last. The silence stretched out for a long moment, lengthenedtoward a minute, punctuated only by the sound of one of the guards shiftingposition. 
"You betrayed us," he whispered. 
"Uh?" Miriam shook her head. "I don't understand." 
"In the time of the loyal sons," said Lin. "All the others. They abandoned myancestor. The promise of a meeting in the world of the Americans. Reduced topoverty, he took years to gain his freedom, then he spent his entire lifesearching for them. But never did they come." 
"This is all news to me," Miriam said quietly. "He was reduced to poverty?" 
Lin nodded convulsively. "This is the tale of our family," he said, in sing-songtones. "That of the brothers, it was agreed that Lee would go west, to set up atrading post. And he did, but the way was hard and he was reduced to penury, hiscaravan scattered, his goods stolen by savages, abandoned by his servants. Forseven years he labored as a bond servant, before buying his freedom: He losteverything, from his wife to the first talisman of the family. Finally he forgeda new talisman, working from memory, earned his price, and bought himself liberty. He was a very determined man. But when he walked to the place assignedfor meeting, nobody was there to wait for him. Every year, at the appointed dayand hour, he would go there; and never did anyone come. His brothers hadabandoned him, and over the years his descendants learned much of the easternClan. The betrayers, who profited from his estate." 
"Ah," said Miriam, faintly. Oops, a betrayal-for-a-legacy myth. So heaccidentally mangled the knotwork and ended up going to New Britain instead of—she blinked. 
"You've seen my world," she said. "Do you know, that's where the Clan have beengoing all along? Where you go when you world-walk, it's all set up by the, uh,talisman. Your illustrious ancestor re-created it wrong. Sending himself overto, to, New Britain. For all you know, the other brothers thought that yourancestor had abandoned them." 
Lin shrugged. "When are you going to kill me?" he asked. 
"In about ten seconds if you don't shut up about it!" She glared at him. "Don'tyou see? Your family's reasons for feuding with the Clan are bogus. They've beenbogus all along!" 
"So?" He made a movement that might have been a shrug if he hadn't been wearingfetters. "Our elders, now dead, laid these duties upon our shoulders. We mustobey, or dishonor their memory. Only our eldest can change our course. Do youexpect me to betray my family and plead for mercy?" 
"No." Miriam stood up. "But you may not need to beg, Lin. There is a Clanmeeting coming up tomorrow. Some— most—of them will want your head. But I thinkit might be possible to convince them to let you go free, if you agree to dosomething." 
"No!" 
She rolled her eyes. "Really? You don't want to go home and deliver a letter tothis elder of yours? I knew you were young and silly, but this is ridiculous." 
"What kind of letter?" he asked hesitantly. 
"An offer of terms." She paused. "You need it more than we do, I hasten to add.Now we can get into your world—" He flinched—"and there are many more of us, andthere's | the other world you saw, the one the Clan's power is based 
in. Did you see much of America?" His eyes went wide: He'd seen enough. "Fromnow on, in any struggle, we can win. There is no 'maybe' in that statement. Ifthe eldest orders your family to fight it out, they can only lose. But I happento have a use for your family—I want to keep them alive. And you. I'm willing tosettle this thing between us, the generations of blood and murder, if youreldest is willing to accept that declaring war on the Clan was wrong, that hisancestor was not deliberately abandoned, and that ending the war is necessary.So I'm going to do everything I can to convince the committee to send you homewith a cease-fire proposal." 
He stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. 
"Will you carry that message?" she asked. 
He nodded, slowly, watching her with wide eyes. 
"Don't get your hopes up," she warned. She turned to the door. "Take this oneback to his cell," she said. "I want you to make sure he's given food and water.And take good care of him." She leaned toward the sergeant. "There is a chancethat he is going to run an errand for us. I do not want him damaged. Do youunderstand?" 
Something in her eyes made the soldier tense: "Yes, ma'am," he grunted warily."Food and water." His companion pulled the door open, staring at the wall behindher, trying to avoid her gaze. 
"See that you do." 
She came out of the cellars shivering into the evening twilight, and headedupstairs as fast as she could, to get back to a warm fireplace and good company.But it was going to take more than that to get the chill of the dungeon out ofher bones, and out of her dreams. 
PART 5 
MeltDown 
Escape Plans 
He's done what?" demanded Matthias, in a tone of 
rising disbelief. 
The duke's outer office in Fort Lofstrom was home to the duke's secretary, andduring Angbard's lengthy absence it served as a headquarters from which theClan's operations in Massachusetts were coordinated. One of a chain of nine suchcastles up and down the eastern seaboard (in the Gruinmarkt, but also in thefree kingdoms to the north and south), it coordinated the transshipment of Clancargo along the entire eastern continental coast. Half a dozen junior Clanmembers were stationed there at any time, each shuttling back and forth ateight-hour intervals. Every three hours a message packet would arrive fromCambridge, and Matthias would be the first to open it and read any confidentialdispatches. 
This packet had contained a couple of letters, and a terse coded message. It wasthe latter that had whetted Matthias's curiosity, then raised his ire. 
The youth standing in front of his desk looked very frightened, but held hisground. "It came over the wireless just now, sir, an order to shut down. Ablanket order, for the duration of the extraordinary general meeting, sir." Hecleared his throat. "Isn't that unusual?" 
"Hmm." Matthias looked at him hard. "Well, Poul." The lad was barely out of histeens, still afflicted by acne and a bad case of deference to authority—especially the kind of deadly, self-confident authority that Matthias exuded—butfor all that he was brave. "We'll just have to shut down the postal service,won't we?" He allowed his expression to relax infinitesimally, determined not togive the youth any hint of the turmoil he felt. 
"Are those your orders, sir?" Poul asked eagerly. 
"No." Matthias cocked his head. A Clan extraordinary meeting, held withoutwarning ... it didn't smell good. In fact, it smelled extraordinarily bad tohim. Ever since Esau's asshole relatives had started trying to rub out the long-lost countess and another bunch of interlopers had joined in, things had lookeddistinctly unstable. "It sounds to me as if there's something very big goingon," Matthias said slowly. "On that basis, I don't think suspending the post is sufficient. We have assets on the other side who may not have got the warning.I'll need you to make one more crossing to deliver a message, as soon aspossible. Then we shut down. Meanwhile, it will be necessary to secure thefort." 
"Secure the—sir? Do you know what's going on?" 
Matthias fixed the young man with a grim stare. "I have a notion that it's nogood. The civil war, lad, that's what this is about. Pigeons are coming home toroost and promises made thirty years ago are about to be delivered on." Hesnorted. "Idiots," he muttered bitterly. "Wait here. I have to go and get thespecial dispatches out of the duke's office. Then I'll go over what you have todo to deliver them." 
Matthias rose and let himself through the door into the duke's inner study.Everything was as it had been when Angbard departed, a week ago. Matthias closedthe door, then leaned his head against the wall and cursed silently. So close,so damned close! But he couldn't just sit here. Not 
with that bitch about to spill her guts at the meeting. Esau's confession-—thatthe eldest had authorized repeated attempts on Helge's life—had shaken him. He'dhad Helge, Miriam, in his sights: She was a natural fellow traveler for hisplans. He'd been getting positioned to bring her into his orbit until the idiotfanatics started trying to kill her, making her suspicious of everyone andeverything. With no friends but that weakling Roland, she'd been easy meatbefore. But now— 
He read through his illicit decrypt one more time. The original message wasn'taddressed to him, but that had never stopped Matthias in the past; as Angbard'ssecretary he was used to reading the duke's mail—and also mail for other peopleon station that passed through the mail room. People such as Sir Huw Thorns,lieutenant of the guard, who right now was over on the other side, making adelivery run. And he had access to the code books, too. 
ACTION THIS DAY STOP ARREST MATTHIAS VAN HJORTH ANY MEANS NECESSARY STOP CHARGES OF TREASON TO FOLLOW STOP 
Shit. Matthias crumpled the letter in his fist, his face a tight mask of anger.Bitch, he thought. Either his hold on Roland wasn't as strong as he'd believed,or she was more ruthless than he'd thought. But the old man has made a mistake.Poul, the callow messenger, was in the next room. That gave him an edge, if hecould only work out how to use it. 
He went back out to his own office, and opened another desk drawer. He smiled tohimself at the thought of Angbard's reaction should he discover what Matthiaskept in it, the use to which Matthias had put his access to the duke's personalfiles. But right now there wasn't much time for self-indulgent daydreams. WhatMatthias needed was a smokescreen to cover his own disappearance, andsmokescreens didn't come any thicker than this one. 
First, Matthias removed the most recent addition from the safe: an anonymous CD,the enigmatic phrase "deep throat" scrawled on it in a feminine hand. Obtainingit had taken 
him a lot of detective work; only the hints turned up by the duke's backgroundchecks on Miriam had kept him searching until it came to light, buried in hermusic collection. Next, he removed three small stamped, addressed envelopes,each containing a covering letter and a floppy disk. When he left his office aminute later, the drawer was locked and empty of incriminating evidence. And theletters were on the first stage of their journey to Cambridge, Massachusetts, byClan courier. Letters addressed to local FBI and DEA offices. 
The huge ballroom at the back of the Clan's palace could, when the situationdemanded it, be converted into a field hospital—or a boardroom large enough tohold all the voting members of an ancient and prolific business partnership. Itwas only when she saw it filled that Miriam began to grasp the sheer scale ofthe power the Clan wielded in the Gruinmarkt. 
The room was dominated by a table at one end, behind which sat a row of eightchairs: three for administrative officers of the committee, and one for eachhead of one of the families. Rows of green leather-topped benches had beeninstalled facing the table, the ones farther back raised to give their occupantsa view of the front. The huge glass doors that in summer would open onto thegarden were closed, barricaded outside by heavy oak shutters. 
The main entrance to the room was guarded by soldiers in black helmets and bodyarmor, armed with automatic rifles. They stood impassively by as Miriam entered,Kara trailing her. "Ooh, look! It's your uncle!" Kara whispered. 
"Tell me something new. Like, where do I sit?" Angbard occupied one of the threeraised chairs at the middle of the table, a black robe drawn over his suit. Hisexpression was as grim as a hanging judge's. The room was already beginning tofill, men and women in business attire seeking out their benches and quietlyconversing. The only anomalous touch was their attendants, decked out in archaicfinery. 
"Excuse me, where should milady sit?" Kara simpered at a uniformed functionarywho, now that Miriam was getting her bearings, seemed to be one of many who wereunobtrusively directing delegates and partners to one side or another. 
"Thorold-Hjorth—that would be there. Left bench, second row if she is to becalled." 
Miriam drifted toward the indicated position. Like a company's annual generalmeeting, she noted. It was oddly familiar, but in no way comforting. She lookedup at the front table and saw that three of the high seats had already beenfilled—one of them by Oliver Hjorth, who caught her watching and glared at her.The other two held dusty nonentities, elderly men who looked half-asleep alreadyas they leaned heads together to talk. / wish Roland were here, she thoughtuneasily. Or—no, 1 just wish I wasn't facing this alone. Roland would besupportive, but he wouldn't be much use. Would he? 
"May I join you?" Someone asked. Miriam glanced up. 
"Olga? Yeah, sure! Did you have a good night?" 
Olga sat down next to her. "No intruders," she said smugly. "A pity. I wasrather hoping." 
"Hoping?" 
"To test my new M4-Super 90. Ah well. Oh, look, it's Baron Gruinard." Sheindicated one of the dried sticks at "the board table. 
"Is that good or bad?" 
"Depends if he's sitting for the Royal Assizes and you're brought up in front ofhim. At most other times he's rather harmless, but one hears the most frightfulthings when his court is in session." 
"Um." Miriam noticed another familiar figure, an elderly dowager in a blue twin-set and pearls. Her stomach twisted. "I spy a grandmother." 
"Don't make a habit of it." Olga beamed in the direction of the elderly duchess,who spotted Miriam and frowned, horribly. "Isn't she impressive?" 
"Is that meant to be a compliment?" 
The duchess cast Olga a hideous glare and then diverted 
her attention elsewhere, to a balding middle-aged man in a suit who fawned andled her toward the far side of the room. 
"Where's—" 
"Hush," said Olga. Angbard had produced a gavel from somewhere. He rapped it onthe edge of the table peremptorily. 
"We are gathered today for an extraordinary meeting," Angbard announcedconversationally. He frowned and tapped the elderly looking microphone. "We aregathered ... state of emergency." The sound system cut in properly and Miriamfound that she no longer had to make an effort to hear him. "Thirty-two yearsago, Patricia Thorold-Hjorth and Alfredo Wu were attacked on their way to thiscourt. The bodies of Alfredo and his guards were found, but that of Patriciaremained lost. Until very recently it was believed that she and her infantdaughter had perished." 
A quiet ripple of conversation swept the hall. Angbard continued after a briefpause. "Four months ago an unknown woman appeared in the wilds of NetherPaarland. She was apprehended, and a variety of evidence—backed up by geneticfingerprinting, which my advisors tell me is infallible for this purpose—indicated that she was the long-lost infant, Helge Thorold-Hjorth, grown tomajority in the United States." 
The conversational ripple became a cascade. Angbard brought his gavel down againand again. "Silence, I say silence! I will have silence." 
Finally the room was quiet enough for him to continue. "A decision was taken tobring Helge into the Clan. I personally took responsibility for this. Her, ah,induction, was not an immediate success. Upon her arrival here a number ofunexpected events transpired. In particular, it appears that someone wanted herdead—someone who couldn't tell the difference between a thirty-two-year-oldcountess and a twenty-three-year-old chatelaine, traveling together. In theinterests of clarity I must add that nobody in this room is presently undersuspicion." 
Miriam's scalp prickled. Glancing aside she realized that half the eyes in theroom were pointed at her. She sat up and looked back at Angbard. 
"I believe we now have evidence enough to confirm the identity of the partiesbehind the attacks on Patricia and Alfredo, and on Patricia's daughter, Helge.These same parties are accused of fomenting the civil war that split this Claninto opposing factions fifty-seven years ago—" Uproar. Angbard sat back andwaited for almost a minute, then brought his gavel down again—"Silence, please!I intend to I present the witnesses that Clan Security has uncovered before youin due course. The floor will then be opened for motions bearing on the matterat hand." He turned to his neighbor, an elderly gentleman who until this pointappeared to have been half asleep on his throne. "Julius, if you please?..." 
"Aha!" The old scarecrow bolted upright, raised a wobbling hand, and declaimed:"calling the first witness—" He peered at a paper that Angbard slid before him,and muttered—"can't call her, she's dead, dammit!" 
"No, she isn't," retorted Angbard. 
"Oh, alright then. Think I'm senile, do you?" Julius stood up. "Calling PatriciaThorold-Hjorth." 
Half the room were on their feet shouting as the side door behind the tableopened. Miriam had to stand, too, to see over heads to where Brilliana wasentering the room, pushing a wheelchair containing her mother. Who lookedbemused and rather nervous at being the focus of such uproarious attention. 
"Did they take her motorized chair away to stop her running?" Miriam asked Olga. 
"Oh, no—" 
"Order! Order or I shall have the guards—order I say!" 
Slowly order was restored. "That's odd," quavered Julius, "I was sure she wasdead." A ripple of laughter spread. 
"So was I," Iris—Patricia—called from her chair. Brill steered her over to oneside of the table. 
"Why did you run away?" asked Oliver Hjorth, leaning sideways so he could seeher, an unpleasant expression of J impatience on his face. J"What, uns gefen mine mudder en geleg 'hat Gelegenheit, 
mish'su 'em annudern frau-clapper weg tu heiratenV Iris asked dryly. There was ashocked titter from somewhere in the audience: "obviously not. And if you haveto ask that question I also doubt very much that you've ever had a gang ofassassins trying to murder you. A pity, that. You could benefit from theexperience." 
"What's she saying?" Miriam nudged Olga. / really must try to learn thelanguage, she thought despairingly. 
"Your mother is convincingly rude," Olga replied, sotto voce. 
"This is an imposter!" someone called from the floor. Miriam craned her neck; itmight be the dowager duchess, but she couldn't be certain. "I demand to see—" 
"Order!" Angbard whacked his hammer down again. "You will be polite, madam, or Iwill have you escorted out of this room." 
"I apologize to the chair," Iris responded. "However, I assure you I'm noimposter. Mother dearest, by way of proof of my identity, would you like me torepeat what I overheard you telling Erich Wu in the maze at the summer palacegardens at Kvaern when I was six?" 
"You—you!" The old dowager stumbled to her feet, shaking with rage. 
"I believe I can prove my case adequately, with or without blood tests," Irissaid dryly, addressing the gallery. "As any of you who have consulted theregister of proxies must be aware, my mother has a strong motive for refusing toacknowledge me. Unfortunately, as in so many other circumstances, I must disobeyher wishes." 
"Nonsense!" blurted the duchess, an expression of profound horror settling onher face. She sat down quickly. 
"I can attest that she is no imposter," said Angbard. "If anyone requestsindependent verification, this can be arranged. Does any party to this meeting so desire?" He glanced around the room, but no hands went up. "Very well." Herapped on the table again with his gavel. "I intend to bring up the issue ofLady Thorold-Hjorth's absence again, 
but not at this session. Suffice to say, / am convinced of her authenticity. Asyou have just seen, her mother appears to be convinced, too." Spluttering fromthe vicinity of the dowager failed to break his poise. "Now, we have more urgentmatters to consider. My reason for reintroducing Lady Patricia to this body wasto, ah, make it clear where the next matter is coming from." 
"Clear as mud," the elderly Julius remarked to nobody in particular. 
"I'd like to call the next witness before the committee," Angbard continued,unperturbed. "Lady Olga Thorold has been the subject of outrageous attempts uponher person, and has had her lady-in-waiting murdered, very recently— whiletraveling in the company of Lady Helge. All of this has occurred in the past sixmonths. Please approach the table." 
Olga rose and walked to the front of the table. The room was silent. 
"In your own words, would you please tell us about the series of attacks on yourperson, when and where they began, and why they were unsuccessful?" 
Olga cleared her throat. "Last December I was summoned to spend time with DukeLofstrom at his castle. I had for a year before then been petitioning him for anactive role, in the hope that he could find a use for me in the trade. He askedme to escort Helge Thorold-Hjorth, newly arrived and ignorant of our ways, bothto educate her and to ensure that no harm came to her. I do not believe he anticipated subsequent events when we arrived at this house—" She continued toenumerate intrusion after intrusion, outrage by outrage, pausing only wheninterrupted from the floor by a burst of voices demanding further explanation. 
Miriam watched in near-astonishment. "Is everyone here something to do with ClanSecurity?" she asked Kara quietiy. 
"Not me, milady!" Kara's eyes were wide. 
Olga finished by recounting how Miriam had brought her to a new world, and howthey had been assaulted mere, too, 
by strangers. A voice from the floor called out. "Wait! How do you know it wasanother world? Can't it possibly have been another region of 'Merica?" 
"No, it can't," Olga said dismissively. "I've seen America, and I've seen thisother place, and the differences are glaringly obvious. They both sprang fromthe same roots, but clearly they have diverged—in America, the monarchy is nothereditary, is it?" She frowned for a moment. "Did I say something wrong?" 
Uproar. "What's all this nonsense about?" demanded Earl Hjorth, red-faced. "It'sclear as day that this can't be true! If it was, there might be a whole newworld out there!" 
"I believe there is," Olga replied calmly. 
The gavel rose and fell on the resulting babble. "Silence! I now call HelgeThorold-Hjorth, alias Miriam Beckstein. Please approach the table." 
Miriam swallowed as she stood up and walked over. 
"Please describe for the Clan how you come to be here. From the day you firstlearned of your heritage." 
"We'll be here all day—" 
"Nevertheless, if you please." 
"Certainly." Miriam took a deep breath. "It started the day I lost my job with abusiness magazine in Cambridge. I went to visit my mother—" a nod to Iris "—whoasked me to fetch down a box from her attic. The box was full of old papers ..." 
She kept going until she reached her patent filing in New Britain, theenterprise she was setting up, and Olga's shooting. Her throat was dry and theroom was silent. She shook her head. "Can I have a glass of water, please?" sheasked. A tumbler appeared next to her. 
"Thank you. By this time I had some ideas. The people who kept trying to murderIris—sorry, Patricia—and who kept going after me, or getting at Olga by mistake—they had to be relatives. But apart from one attempt, there was never any signof them on the other side, in America that is. I remembered being told about along-lost brother who headed west in the earliest days of the Clan. You know—welearned—that they, too, use a pattern to let them world-walk, 
however they can travel only from here to New Britain, to the place I've justbeen telling you about. 
"What I've pieced together is something like this. A very long time ago one ofthe brothers headed west. He fell on hard times and lost his amulet. In fact, heended up as an indentured slave and took nearly ten years to save the cash tobuy his freedom. Once free, he had to reconstruct the knot design from memory.Either that, or his was deliberately sabotaged by a sibling. Whichever, the knothe painted was different. I can't emphasize that strongly enough; where you gowhen you world-walk depends on the design you use as a key. We now know of twokeys, but there's another fact—die other one, this lost brother's knot, doesn'twork in America. Our America. The one we go to. 
"Anyway, he crossed over repeatedly, because it had been arranged that atregular intervals he should check for his brothers. They evidently intended tosend a trade caravan to meet him, somewhere in Northern California perhaps. Buthe never found his business partners waiting for him, because they wereelsewhere, traveling to another world where, presumably, they interpreted hisabsence as a sign that he'd died. He was cut off completely, and put it down tobetrayal." 
"Preposterous!" Someone in the front row snorted, prompting Angbard to bringdown the gavel again. Miriam took the opportunity to help herself to a glass ofwater. 
"This brother, Lee, had a family. His family was less numerous, less able toprovide for themselves, than the Clan. Just as the ability was lost to yourancestors for a generation or two, so it was with his descendants—and it tooklonger before some first cousins or cousins married and had an infant withrenewed ability. They prospered much as you have, but more slowly. The NewBritish don't have a lot of time for Chinese merchants, and as a smaller familythey had far fewer active world-walkers to rely on. 
"Now, the Lees only found the Clan again when the family Wu moved west, lessthan a century ago. The Lees reacted—well, I think it was out of fear, but theybasically conducted the campaign of assassinations that kicked off the 
feud. Everyone in the Clan knew that the murders could only have been carriedout by world-walkers, so the attacks on the western families were blamed—understandably—on their cousins back east." 
She paused. The level of conversation breaking out in the benches madecontinuing futile. Angbard raised his gavel but she held up a hand. "Anyquestions?" she asked. 
"Yes! What's this business—" 
"—How did you travel—" 
"—We going to put up with these lies?" 
Bang. Miriam jumped as Angbard brought down the gavel. "One at a time," hesnapped. "Helge, if you please. You have the floor." 
"The new world, where the other family—the Lees—go, is like the one I grew upin, but less well developed. There are a number of reasons for this, butessentially it boils down to the apparent fact that it diverged historicallyfrom my own about two hundred and fifty years ago. If you want evidence of itsexistence I have witnesses, Lady Olga and Brilliana d'Ost, and video recordings.I can even take you over there, if you are willing to accept my directions—remember, it is a very different country from the United States, and if youdon't bear that in mind you can get into trouble very easily. But let meemphasize this. I believe anyone who is sitting in this room now can go therequite easily, by simply using a Lee family talisman instead of a Clan one. Youcan verify this for yourselves. I repeat: It appears that if you have theability to world-walk, you can go to different worlds simply by using adifferent kind of talisman. 
"New Britain only had an industrial revolution a century ago. I've established atoehold over there, by setting up an identity and filing some basic engineeringpatents on the automobile. They'll be big in about five to ten years. Mybusiness plan was to leverage inventions from the U.S.A. that haven't beendeveloped over there, rather than trading in physical commodities or providingtransportation. But by doing this, I attracted the Lee family's attention. Theyworked out soon enough that I'd acquired one of their lock-
ets and was setting up on their territory. As Olga told you, they attempted toblack-bag my house and we were waiting for them." She glanced at Angbard forapproval. He nodded to her, so she went on. "We took a prisoner, alive. He wasin possession of an amulet and he's indisputably a world-walker, but he's not ofthe Clan. I asked for some medical tests. Ah, my lord?" 
The duke cleared his throat. "Blood tests confirm that the prisoner is a verydistant relative. And a world-walker. It appears that there are six families,after all." 
Now he resorted to his hammer again, in earnest—but to no avail. After fiveminutes, when things began to quieten down, Angbard signaled for the sergeant atarms to bring order to the hall. "Order!" he shouted. "We will recess for onehour, to take refreshments. Then the meeting will resume." He rose, scowlingominously at the assembled Clan shareholders. "What you've heard so far is thebackground. There is more to come." 
Morning on the day shift in Boston. The office phones were already ringing asMike Fleming swiped his badge and walked in past security. 
"Hi, Mike!" Pete Garfinkle, his officemate, waved on his way back from thecoffee machine. 
" 'Lo." Mike was never at his best, early in the morning. Winter blues, one ofhis ex-girlfriends had called it in a forgiving moment. (Blues so deep they were ultraviolet, the same girlfriend had said as she was moving out—blues so deepshe'd gotten radiation burns.) "Anything in?" 
"What? On the—" Pete waved a finger. 
"Office. Okay, give me five minutes." 
Mike wandered along to the vending machine, passing a couple of suits from thepublic liaison office, and collected a mug of coffee. Traffic was bad thismorning, really bad. And he hadn't shaved properly either. It was only nine buthe already had a five o'clock shadow, adding to his bearish appearance. Don'tmess with me. 
Pete was already nose-deep in paperwork that had come in the morning mail whenMike finally made it to his desk. Pete was a morning guy, always frazzled by sixo'clock— when Mike was just hitting his stride. "Tell me the news," Mikegrunted. "Anything happening?" 
"On the Hernandez case? Judge Judy has it on her docket." Pete grinnedhumorlessly. 
"Judge Judy couldn't find his ass with a submarine's periscope and a map." Mikepulled a face, put his mug of coffee down, and rubbed his eyes. The urge to yawnwas nearly irresistible. "Judge Judy is about the least likely to sign a no-knock—" 
"Yeah, yeah, I know all about your pissing match with hi-zonner Stephen Jude.Can it, Mike, he works for Justice, it's his job to gum up the works. No pointtaking it personal." 
"Huh. That fucker Julio needs to go down, though. I mean, the goddamn Pope knowswhat he's at! What the hell else do we need to convince the DA he's got a case?" 
"Fifty keys of crack and a blow job from the voters." Pete leaned his chairperilously far back—the office was so cramped that a sideswipe would riskdemolishing piles of banker's boxes—and snorted. "Relax, dude. We'll get him." 
"Huh. Give me that." Mike held out a huge hand and Pete dumped a pile of mailinto it. "Ack." Mike carefully put it down on his desk, then picked up hiscoffee and took a sip. "Bilge water." 
"One of these days you'd better try and kick the habit," Pete said mildly. "Itcan't be doing your kidneys any good." 
"Listen, I run on coffee," Mike insisted. "Lessee—" 
He thumbed rapidly through the internal mail, sorting administrative memos fromformal letters—some branches still ran on paper, their intranets unconnected tothe outside world—and a couple of real, honest, postal envelopes. He stackedthem in three neat piles and switched on his PC. While he waited for it to boothe opened the two letters from outside. One of them was junk, random spam sentto him by name and offering cheap loans. The other— 
"Holy shitl" 
Pete started, nearly going over backwards in his chair. "Hey! You want to keep alid—" 
"Holy shit!" 
Pete turned around. Mike was on his feet, a letter clutched in both hands and anexpression of awe on his face. "What?" Pete asked mildly. 
"Got to get this to forensics," Mike muttered, carefully putting the letter downon his desk, then carefully peering inside the envelope. A little plastic baggiewith something brown in it— 
"Evidence?" asked Pete, interestedly: "Hey, I thought that was external?" 
"You're not kidding!" Mike put it down as delicately as if it was made of fineglass. "Anonymous tip-offs 'R' us!" 
"Explain." 
"This letter." Mike pointed. "It's fingering the Phantom." 
"You're sure about that?" Pete looked disbelieving. Mike nodded. "Jesus, Mike,you need to learn some new swear words, holy shit doesn't cut it! Show me thatthing—" 
"Whoa!" Mike carefully lifted the envelope. "Witness. You and me, we're goingdown to the lab to see what's in this baggie. If it's what the letter says, andit checks out, it's a sample from that batch of H that hit New York four monthsago. You know? The really big one that coincided with that OD spike, pushed theprice down so low they were buying it by the ounce? From the Phantom network?" 
"So?" Pete looked interested. "Somebody held onto a sample." 
"Somebody just sent us a fucking tip-off that there's an address in Belmontthat's the local end of the distribution chain. Wholesale, Pete. Name, rank, andserial number. Dates—we need to check the goddamn dates. Pete, this is an insidejob. Someone on the inside of the Phantom wants to come in from the cold andthey're establishing their bona fides." 
"We've had falsies before. Anonymous bastards." 
"Yeah, but this one's got a sample, and a bunch of supple-mentaries. Frommemory, I think it checks out—at least, 
there's not anything obviously wrong with it at first glance. I want it dustedfor fingerprints and DNA samples before we go any further. What do you think?" 
Pete whistled. "If it checks out, and the dates match, I figure we can get theboss to come along with us and go lean on Judge Judy. A break on the Phantomwould be just too cool." 
"My thoughts exactly." Mike grinned ferociously. "How well do you think we canresource this one?" 
"If it's the Phantom? Blank check time. Jesus, Mike, if this is the Phantom, Ithink we've just had the biggest break in this office in about the last twentyyears. It's going to be all over Time Magazine if this goes down!" 
In the hallway outside the boardroom, the palace staff had busied themselvessetting up a huge buffet. Cold cuts from a dozen game animals formed intricatesculptures of meat depicting their animate origins. Jellied larks vied withsugar-pickled fruit from the far reaches of the West Coast, and exoticdelicacies imported at vast expense formed pyramids atop a row of silverplatters the size of small dining tables. Hand-made Belgian truffles competedfor the attention of the aristocracy with caviar-topped crackers and brightlycolored packets of M&Ms. 
Despite the huge expanse of food, most of the Clan shareholders had other thingsin mind. Though waiters with trays laden with wine glasses circulated freely—andwith jugs of imported coffee and tea—the main appetite they exhibited seemed tobe for speech. And speech with one or two people in particular. 
"Just keep them away from me, please," Miriam said plaintively, leaning close toOlga. "They'll be all over me." 
"You can't avoid them!" Olga insisted, taking her arm and steering her towardthe open doors onto the reception area. "Do you want them to think you'reafraid?" she hissed in Miriam's ear. "They're like rats that eat their own youngif they smell weakness in the litter." 
"It's not that—I've got to go." Miriam pulled back and 
steered Olga in turn, toward the door at the back of the boardroom where she'dseen Angbard pushing her mother's wheelchair, ahead of the crush. Kara, her eyeswide, stuck close behind Miriam. 
"Where are you going?" asked Olga. 
"Follow." Miriam pushed on. 
"Eh, I say! Young woman!" 
A man Miriam didn't recognize, bulky and gray-haired, was blocking her way.Evidently he wanted to buttonhole her. She smiled blandly. "If you don't mind,sir, there'll be time to talk later. But I urgently need to have words with—"She gestured as she slid past him, leaving Kara to soothe ruffled feathers, andshoved the door open. 
"Ma!" 
It was a small side room, sparsely furnished by Clan standards. Iris lookedaround as she heard Miriam. Angbard looked round, too, as did a cadaverous-looking fellow with long white hair who had been hunched slightly, on thereceiving end of some admonition. 
"Helge," Angbard began, in a warning tone of voice. 
"Mother!" Miriam glared at Iris, momentarily oblivious. 
"Hiya, kid." Iris grinned tiredly. "Allow me to introduce you to another of yourrelatives. Henryk? I'd like to present my daughter." Iris winked at Angbard:"Cut her a little slack, alright?" 
The man who'd been listening to Angbard tilted his head on one shoulder."Charmed," he said politely. 
The duke coughed into a handkerchief and cast Miriam a grim look. "You should becirculating," he grumbled. 
"Henryk was always my favorite uncle," Iris said, glancing at the duke. "I mean,there had to be one of them, didn't there?" 
Miriam paused uncomfortably, unwilling to meet Angbard's gaze. Meanwhile, Henryklooked her up and down. "I see," she said after a moment. "Well, that's allright then, isn't it?" 
"Helge." Angbard refused to be ignored. "You should be out front. Mixing withthe guests." He frowned at her. "You 
know how much stock they put in appearances." Harrumph. "This is their firstsight of you. Do you want them to think you're a puppet? Conspiring with thebench?" 
"I am conspiring with you," she pointed out. "And anyway, they'd eat me alive.You obviously haven't done enough press conferences. You don't throw the bait inthe water if you want to pull it out intact later, do you? You've got to keepthese things under control." 
Angbard's frown intensified. "This isn't a press conference; this is a beautyshow," he said. "If you do not go out there and make the right moves they willassume that you cannot. And if you can't, what are you good for? I arranged thissession at your request. The least you can do is not make a mess of it." 
'There's going to be a vote later on," Iris commented. "Miriam, if they thinkyou're avoiding them it'll give the reactionary bastards a chance to convincethe others that you're a fraud, and that won't go in your favor, will it?" 
Miriam sighed. "That's what I like about you, Ma, family solidarity." 
"She's right, you know," Henryk spoke up. "Motions will go forward. They mayaccept your claim of title, but not your business proposals. Not if names theyknow and understand oppose it, and you are not seen to confront them." 
"But they'll—" Miriam began. 
"I have a better idea!" Olga announced brightly. "Why don't you both go forth tocharm the turbulent beast?" She beamed at them both. "That way they won't knowwho to confront! Like the ass that starved between two overflowing mangers." 
Iris glanced sidelong at Miriam. Was it worry? Miriam couldn't decide. "Thatwould never do," she said apologetically. "I couldn't—" 
"Oh yes you can, Patricia," Angbard said with a cold gleam in his eye. 
"But if I go out there Mother will make a scene! And then—" 
Miriam caught herself staring at Iris in exasperation, 
sensing an echo of a deeper family history she'd grown up I shielded from. "The dowager will make a scene, will she?" I Miriam asked, a dangerousnote in her voice: "Why i shouldn't she? She hasn't seen you fordecades. Thought you 
were dead, probably. You didn't get along with her when you 
were young, but so what? Maybe you'll both find the anger doesn't matteranymore. Why not try it?" She caught Angbard's eye. Her uncle, normally stony-faced, looked positively anesthetized, as if to stifle an image-destroyingoutburst of laughter. 
"You don't know the old bat," Iris warned grimly. 
"She hasn't changed," Angbard commented. "If anything, she's become even moreset in her ways." Harrumph. He hid his face in his handkerchief again. 
"She's been getting worse ever since she adopted that young whipper-snapperOliver as her confidante," Henryk mumbled vaguely. "Give me Alfredo any day, we'd have straightened him out in time-—" He didn't seem to notice Iris's facetightening. 
"Ma," Miriam said warningly. 
"Alright! That's enough." Iris pushed herself upright in her wheelchair, anexpression of grim determination on her face. "Miriam, purely for the sake offamily solidarity, you push. You, young lady, what's your name—" 
"Olga," Miriam offered. 
"—I know that, dammit! Olga, open the doors and keep the idiots from pushing meover and letting my darling daughter sneak away. Angbard—" 
"I'll start the session again in half an hour," he said, shaking his head. "Justremember." He turned a cool eye on Miriam, all trace of levity gone: "It cost mea lot to set this up for you. Don't make a mess of it."I 
i 
GOING POSTAL 
Down in the post office in the basement of Fort Lofstrom, two men waitednervously for their superior to arrive. Both of them were young— one was barelyout of his teens—and they dressed like law firm clerks or trainee accountants."Is this for real?" the younger one kept asking, nervously. "I mean, has itreally happened? Why does nobody tell us anything? Shit, this sucks!" 
"Shut up and wait," said the elder, leaning against a wall furnished withindustrial shelving racks, holding a range of brightly colored plastic boxeslabeled by destination. "Haven't you learned anything?" 
"But the meeting! I mean, what's going on? Have the old guys finally decided tostop us going over—" 
"I said, shut the fuck up." The older courier glared at the kid with all theworld-weary cynicism of his twenty-six years. Spots, tufts of straggly beardhair—Sky Father, why do I get to nurse the babies? "Listen, nothing is going togo wrong." 
He nudged the briefcase at his feet. Inside its very expensive aluminium shellwas a layer of plastic foam. Inside the plastic foam nestled a bizarrelyinsectile-looking H&K submachine gun. The kid didn't need to know that, though."When the boss man gets here, we do a straight delivery run then lock down thehouse. You stay with the boss and do what he says. / get the fun job of tellingthe postmen to drop everything and yelling at the holiday heads to execute theircover plans. Then we arrest anyone who tries to drop by. Get it? The whole thingwill be over in forty-eight hours, it's just a routine security lockdown." 
"Yes, Martijn." The kid shook his head, puzzled. "But there hasn't been anextraordinary meeting in my lifetime! And this is an emergency lockdown, isn'tit? Shutting down everything, telling all our people on the other side to gohide, that sucks. What's going on?" 
The courier looked away. Hurry up and get the nonsense out of your system, hethought. "What do you think they're doing?" he asked. 
"It's obvious: They envy us, don't they? The old dudes. Staying over, fittingin. You know I'm going back to college in a couple of weeks, did I tell youabout the shit my uncle Stani's been handing out about that? I've got agirlfriend and a Miata and a place of my own and he's giving me shit because henever had that stuff. What do you need to learn reading for if you've gotscribes? he told me. And you know what? Some of them, if they could stop usgoing back—" 
The door opened, stemming his tirade in full flood. The older courierstraightened up; the young one just flushed, his mouth running down in afrightened stammer. "Uh, yessir, uh, going back, uh—" 
"Shut up," Matthias said coldly. 
One more squeak and the kid fell silent. Matthias nodded at Martijn, the olderone. "You ready?" he asked. 
"Yes, my lord." 
"Very well." Matthias didn't smile, but some of the tension went out of hisshoulders. He wore a leather flying jacket and jeans, with gloves on his handsand a day pack 
slung over one arm. "Kid. You are going to carry me across. Ready?" 
"Uh." Gulp. "Yessir. Yes. Sir." 
"Hah." Matthias glanced at the older one. "Go on, then." M He advanced on theyouth. "I'm heavier than any load you're 1 used to. You will need to have yourkey ready in one hand. j When you are ready, speak, and I'll climb on your back.Try 1 not to break."m 
"Yessir!" 1 
A minute later they were in another post room. This one % was slightly smaller,its shelves less full, and a row of wheeled suitcases were parked on theopposite wall inside an area painted with yellow stripes. The kid collapsed tohis knees, gasping for breath while Matthias looked around for the oldercourier. "Martijn. You have your orders?" 
"Yes. My lord." 
"Execute them." 
Matthias removed a briefcase from the rack on one wall then walked toward the exit from the room. He unlocked it then waved Martijn and the younger courierthrough. Once they were in me elevator to the upper floors, Matthias shut thedoor—then turned on his heel and headed for the emergency stairs to the garage. 
The silver-blue BMW convertible was waiting for him, just as he'd ordered.Finally, Matthias cracked a smile, thin-lipped and humorless. There was barelyroom for the briefcase in the trunk, and his day pack went on the passengerseat. He fired up the engine as he hit the "door open" button on the dash,accelerating up the ramp and into the daylight beyond. 
"Fifteen minutes," he whispered to himself as he merged with the traffic on theCambridge turnpike. "Give me fifteen minutes!" 
The time passed rapidly. Waiting at an intersection, Matthias pulled out a cheapanonymous mobile phone and speed-dialed a number. It rang three times before theperson at the other end answered. 
"Who is this?" they asked. 
'This is Judas. Listen, I will say this once. The address you want is ..." herattled through the details of the location he'd just left. "Got that?" 
"Yes. Who are you and—" 
Matthias casually flipped the phone out of the half-open window then acceleratedaway. Moments later, an eighteen-wheeler reduced it to plastic shrapnel. 
"Fuck you very much," he muttered, a savage joy in his eyes. "You can't fire me:I quit!" 
It wasn't until he was nearly at the airport with his wallet full of bearerbonds and a briefcase full of Clan secrets that he began to think about what todo next. 
A ghastly silence fell across the grand hall as Miriam stepped out of thedoorway. She took a deep breath and smiled as brightly as she could. "Don't mindme!" she said. 
"That's right," Iris whispered, "mind me, you back-stabbing faux-aristocraticbastards!" 
"Mother!" she hissed, keeping a straight face only with considerable effort. 
"Oligarchic parasites. Hah." Louder: "Steer left, if you please, can't you tellleft from right? That's better. Now, who do I have to bribe to get a glass ofPinot Noir around here?" 
Iris's chatter seemed to break an invisible curtain of suspense. Conversationsstarted up again around the room, and a pair of anxious liveried servantshurried forward, bearing trays with glasses. 
Iris hooked a glass of red wine with a slightly wobbly hand and took asuspicious sniff. "It'll pass," she declared. "Help yourself while you're atit," she told Miriam. "Don't just stand there like a rabbit in the headlights." 
"Um. Are you sure it's wise to drink?" 
"I've always had difficulty coping with my relatives sober. But yes, I take yourpoint." Iris took a moderate sip. "I won't let the side down." 
"Okay, Mom." Miriam took a glass. She looked up just in time to see Kara acrossthe room, looking frightened, stand-" 
ing beside an unfamiliar man in late middle age. "Hmm. Looks like the rats aredeserting or something. Olga?" 
Beside her and following her gaze, Olga had tensed. "That's Peffer Hjorth.What's she doing talking to him, the minx?" 
"Peffer Hjorth?" 
"The baron's uncle. Outer family, not a member." 
Iris whistled tunelessly. "Well, well, well. One of yours?" she asked Miriam. 
"I thought so." Miriam took a sip of wine. Her mouth felt bitter, ashy. 
"Lady Helge, what a story! Fascinating! And your mother—why, Patricia? It's beensuch a long time!" 
She looked around, found Iris craning her neck, too. "Turn me, please, Miriam—"Iris was looking up and down: "Mors Hjalmar! Long time indeed. How are youdoing?" 
The plumpish man with a neatly trimmed beard and hair just covering his collar—like a middle-aged hippy uncomfortably squeezed into a dark suit for a funeralor court appearance—grinned happily. "I'm doing well, Patricia, well!" Hisexpression sank slightly. "I was doing better before this blew up, I think. Theymostly ignore me." He rubbed his left cheek thoughtfully. "Which is no badthing." He looked at Olga, askance. "And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?" 
"This is Lady Olga Thorold," Iris offered. 
"And you are of the same party as these, ah, elusive Thorold-Hjorths?" 
"Indeed I am!" Olga said tightly. 
"Oh. Well, then." He shrugged. "I mean no offense, but it's sometimes hard totell who's helping who, don't you know?" 
"Lady Olga has only our best interests at heart," Miriam replied. "You knew mymother?" 
Iris had been looking up at Mors all this time, her mouth open slightly, as ifsurprised to see him. Now she shook her head. "Thirty years," she muttereddarkly. "And they haven't murdered you yet?" Suddenly she smiled. "Maybe there'shope for me after all." 
"Do you know what she means?" Miriam asked Olga, puzzled. 
"I, ahem, led an eccentric life many years ago," said Mors. 
Iris shook her head. "Mors was the first of our generation to actually demand—and get—a proper education. Yale Law j School, but they made him signaway his right of seniority, if 
I remember rightly. Wasn't that so?" she asked. 
"Approximately." Mors smiled slighdy. "It took them a few years to realize thatthe Clan badly needed its own attorney on the other side." His smile broadenedby inches. 
"What?" Iris looked almost appalled. "No, I can't see it." 
"So don't." He looked slightly uncomfortable. "Is it true?" His eyes were fixedon Iris. 
"If she says it's true, it's true," Iris insisted, jerking her head slightly inMiriam's direction. "A credit to the family." She pulled a face. "Not thatthat's what I wanted, but—" 
"—We don't always get what we want," Mors finished for her, nodding. "I think Isee." He looked thoughtful. Then he looked at Miriam. "If you need any legaladvice, here's my i card," he said. 
"Thank you," said Miriam, pocketing it. "But I think I may need a different kindof help right now." All too damned true, she thought, seeing what was bearingdown on them. Nemesis had two heads and four arms, and both heads wore haughtyexpressions of utmost disdain, carefully tempered for maximum intransigence. 
"Well, if it isn't the runaway," snorted head number one, Baron Hjorth, with anegligent glance in Miriam's direction. 
"Imposter, you mean," croaked head number two, glaring at her like a Valkyriefingering her knife and wondering who to feed to the ravens next. 
"Hello, mother." Iris smiled, a peculiar expression that Miriam had seen onlyonce or twice before and which filled her with an urgent desire to duck andcover. "Been keeping well, I see?" 
"I'll just be off," Mors started nervously—then stopped as Iris clamped a handon his wrist. In any case, the gathering cloud of onlookers made a discreetescape impossible. There was only one conversation worth eavesdropping in thisreception, and this was it." 
"I was just catching up on old times with Mors," Iris cooed sweetly, her eyesnever leaving the dowager's face. "He was telling me all about your retirement." 
Ooh, nasty. Miriam forced herself to smile, glanced sideways, and saw Olgaglaring at head number one. The baron somehow failed to turn to stone, but hishauteur seemed to melt slightly. "Hello, Oliver," said Miriam. "I'm glad to seeyou're willing to talk to me instead of sneaking into my boudoir when I'm notabout." 
"I have never—" he began pompously. 
"—Stow it!" snapped Iris. "And you, mother—" she waved a finger at her mother,who was gathering herself up like a serpent readying to strike—"I gather you'vebeen encouraging this odious person, have you?" 
"Who I encourage or not is none of your business!" Hildegarde hissed. "You're adisgrace to family and Clan, you whore. I should have turned you out the day Igave birth to you. As for your bastard—" 
"—I believe I understand, now." Miriam nodded, outwardly cordially, at BaronHjorth. Startled, he pretended to ignore her words: "Your little plan to getback the Clan shares ceded to trust when my mother vanished—I got in the way,didn't I? But not to worry. An insecure apartment, a fortune-seeking commonerturned rapist, and an unlocked door on the roof would see to that. Wouldn't it?"If not a couple of goons with automatic weapons, she added mentally. Just by wayof insurance. 
The duchess gasped. "I don't know what you're talking about!" 
"Quite possibly you don't," Miriam agreed. She jabbed a finger: "He does, don'tyou, you vile little turd?" 
Baron Oliver had turned beet-red with her first accusation. Now he began toshake. "I have never conspired to blemish the virtue of a Clan lady!" heinsisted. The duchess glared at him. "And if you allege otherwise—" 
"Put up or shut up, I'd say," Iris said flatly. "Mors, wouldn't you say that anyaccusations along those lines would require an indictment? Before the committee,perhaps?" 
"Mmm, possibly." Mors struck a thoughtful pose, seeming to forget his earlierenthusiasm to be elsewhere. "Were there witnesses? Unimpeachable ones?" 
"I don't think any charges against the baron could be made to stick," Miriamsaid slowly, watching him. He watched her right back, unblinking. "And you willnote that I made no allegation of involvement in a conspiracy to commit rape onyour part," she added to Hjorth. Or to send gunmen round to Olga's rooms."Although I might change my mind if you supplied the cause." She smiled. 
"You bitch," he snarled. 
"Just remember where I got it from." She nodded at her grandmother, who,speechless with rage, hung on Hjorth's arm like an overripe apple, ruddy-facedand swollen with wasps. "We really must get together for a family reunion one ofthese days," she added. "I'm sure you've got a lot of poison recipes to sharewith me." 
"I'd stop, if I were you," Iris observed with clinical interest. "If you pushher any further the only reunion you'll get is over her coffin." 
"You treacherous little minx! ..." Hildegarde was shaking with fury. 
"So it's treachery now, is it? Because I had higher standards than you anddidn't want to marry my way to the top of the dung heap?" Iris threw back ather. 
"Children," Miriam sighed. She caught Olga's eye. 
"I didn't notice you making an effort to find any suitable alternatives!" theduchess snapped. "And it got the Wu and Hjorth factions to stop murdering eachother. Would you rather the feuding had continued? We'd both be dead a dozentimes over by now!" She was breathing deeply. "You've got no sense of duty," shesaid bitterly. 
"The feuding, in case you've been asleep, was caused by forces outside ourcontrol," Iris retorted. "You gained precisely nothing, except for a wife-beating son-in-law. Your granddaughter, now, has actually done something usefulfor the first time in living memory in this Clan of parasites. She's actuallyuncovered some of the reasons why we've 
been messed up for so long. The least you could do is apologize to her!" 
"There's nothing to apologize for," Hildegarde said stiffly. But Miriam saw hergrip on Hjorth's arm tighten. 
"Don't worry, my dear," Oliver Hjorth muttered in her ear: "You're quite rightabout them." He cast a poisonous stare at Miriam. "Especially that one." 
"You—" Miriam was brought up short by Olga's hand on her shoulder. 
"Don't," Olga said urgently. "He wants you to react." 
For the first time, Hjorth smiled. "She's right, you know," he said. "On thatnote, I shall bid you adieu, ladies. If I may conduct you back to civilizedconversation, madam?" he added to the dowager. 
Iris stared bleaky at the receding back of her mother. "I swear she'll outliveus all," Iris muttered. Then she glanced at Miriam. 'There's no justice in thisworld, is there, kid?" 
"What was she talking about?" Miriam asked slowly. "The treachery thing." 
"An old disagreement," said Iris. She sounded old and tired. "A bit like pickingat scabs. Most families have got the odd skeleton in the closet. We've got awhole damn graveyard in every wardrobe, practicing their line dancing. Don'tsweat it." 
"But—" Miriam stopped. She remembered her wine glass and took a mouthful. Herhand was shaking so badly that she nearly spilled it. 
"You won," Olga said thoughtfully. 
"Huh?" 
"She's right. You went eyeball to eyeball with the baron, and he blinked.They'll know you've got balls now. That counts for everything here. And I—" Irisstopped. 
"You got your mother on the defensive," said Miriam. "Didn't you?" 
"I'm not sure," Iris said uncertainly. "Old iron-face must be rusting. Eitherthat, or there's a deep game I don't know about. She never used to concedeanything." 
"Iron-face?" 
"What we called her. Me and your aunt Elsa." 
"I have an aunt, too?" 
"Had. She died. Olga, if you don't mind taking over my chair? Miriam seems to behaving trouble." 
"Died—" 
"You didn't think I had it in for the old bat just because of how she treatedme, did you?" 
"Oh." Miriam bolted back the rest of her wine glass, sensing the depths she wastreading water over. "I think I need another glass now." 
"Better drink it quick, then. Things are about to get interesting again." 
There was a low bed with a futon mattress on it. It occupied most of a compactbedroom on the third floor of an inconspicuous building in downtown Boston. Thebed was occupied, even though it was late morning; Roland had been awake formost of the night, working on the next month's courier schedule, worrying andreassigning bodies from a discontinued security operation. In fact, he'ddeliberately worked an eighteen-hour shift just to tire himself out so that hecould sleep. The worries wouldn't go away. What if they find her incompetent?was one of them. Another was, What if the old man finds out about us? In the endhe'd slugged back a glass of bourbon and a five-milligram tab of diazepam,stripped, and climbed into bed to wait for the pharmaceutical knockout. 
Which was why, when the raid began, Roland was unconscious: dead to the world,sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, twitching slightly beneath the thincotton sheet. 
A faint bang shuddered through the walls and floor. Roland grunted and rolledover slowly, still half-asleep. Outside his door, a shrill alarm went off."Huh?" He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes to clear the fog of night, andslapped vaguely at the bedside light switch. 
The phone began to shrill. "Uh." He picked up the handset, fumbling it slightly:"Roland here. What is it?" 
"We're under attack! Some guys just tried to smash in the front door and therooftop—" 
The lights flickered and the phone died. Somewhere in the building the emergencygenerator cut in, too slowly to keep the telephone switch powered. "Shit."Roland put the handset down and hastily dragged on trousers and sweater. Hepulled his pistol out of the bedside drawer, glanced at the drawn curtains,decided not to risk moving them, and opened the door. 
A young Clan member was waiting for him, frantic with worry. "Wh-what are wegoing to do, boss?" he demanded, jumping up and down. 
"Slow down." Roland looked around. "Who else is here?" 
"Just me!" 
"On site, I mean," he corrected. He shook his head again, trying to clear theValium haze. At least he could world-walk away, he realized. He never removedhis locket, even in the shower. "Is the door holding?" 
"The door, the door—" The kid stopped shaking. "Yessir. Yessir. The door?" 
"Okay, I tell you what I want you to do." Roland put a hand on the kid'sshoulder, trying to calm him. He was vibrating like an overrevved engine. "Calmdown. Don't panic. That's first. You have a tattoo, yes?" 
"Y-yessir." 
"Okay. We are going to go below then, and—when did you last walk?" 
"Uh, uh, hour ago! We brought the lord secretary over—" 
'The secretary?" Roland stopped dead. "Shit. Tell me you didn't." The kid'sexpression was all the confirmation Roland needed. 
"Wh-what's wrong?" 
"Maybe nothing," Roland said absently. Shit, shit, he thought. Matthias. It wasa gut-deep certainty, icy cold, that Matthias was behind this. Whatever wasgoing on. "Follow me. Quickly!" Roland grabbed his jacket on the way out andrummaged in one pocket for a strip of pills. With his hair uncombed and twoday's growth of beard, he probably looked 
a mess, but he didn't have time to fix that now. He dry-swallowed, pulling aface. "Go down the stairs all the way to the bottom, fast. When you get to theparcel room, pick up all the consignments in bin eleven that you can grab andcross over immediately. If men with guns get the drop on you, either crossimmediately or surrender and let them take you, then cross as soon as you can,blind. Don't try to resist; you're not trained." 
"You, sir?" The kid's eyes were wide. 
"Me neither." Roland shrugged, tried a grin, gave up. "C'mon. We've got to getword out." 
He clattered down the concrete emergency stairwell taking the steps two at atime, stopping at the ground floor. He motioned the kid on down. "Send word assoon as you get through," he called. Then he stopped, his heart hammering. 
"Sir?" He looked up. It was Sullivan, one of the outer family guards who livedon the premises. 
"What's going on?" he demanded. "Tell me!" 
A hollow boom rattled through the corridor and Sullivan winced. "We're onskeleton strength," he said. "They're trying to batter down the door!" The frontdoor was armored like a bank vault, and the walls were reinforced. A normal ramwouldn't work, it would take explosives or cutting tools to get through it. 
"Who?" Roland demanded. 
"Cops." 
"How many we got here?" 
"Nine." 
"I just sent the kid away. Walkers?" 
Sullivan just looked at him. 
"Shit." Roland shook his head, dumbfounded. "There's nobodyT 
"Martijn and young Poul came in with the lord secretary this morning. They'rethe only walkers who've come over since Marissa and Ivar finished their shiftlast night. And I can't find Martijn or his lordship's proxy." 
"Oh." Everything became clear to Roland. "How long can we hold out?" 
"Against the feds?" Sullivan shrugged. "We're buttoned up tight; it'll take themtime to bring in explosives and cutting gear, and shields. At least, it will ifwe risk shooting back." 
"The escape tunnel—" 
"—Someone sealed it at the other end. I don't think it would help, anyway." 
"Let's hit the control room." Roland started walking again. "Have I got thisstraight? We're under siege and I'm the only walker who knows. The lordsecretary came over, but he went missing before the siege began. So did hisnumber-one sidekick. The outer rooms are shuttered and locked down and we've gotsupplies, power, and ammo, but no way out because somebody's blown the escapetunnel. Is that it?" 
"Pretty much so," Sullivan agreed. He looked at Roland tensely. "What are yougoing to do?" 
"What am I going to do?" Roland paused in the office doorway. "Shit, what can Ido?" He opened the door and went in. The control room had desks with computermonitors around the wall. CCTV screens showed every approach to the building.Everything looked normal, except for the lack of vehicular traffic and theparked vans on every corner. And the van parked right up against the front door.Obviously the ram crew had used it for cover. 
"We have half a ton of post in transit at any one time," Roland thought aloud."There's about fifty kilos of confidential memos, documents, shit like that— enough to flame out the entire East Coast circuit." There was a knock on thedoor. Sullivan waved in the man outside, one of the colorless back-officeauditors the Clan employed to keep an eye on things. "We've got another quarterof a ton of produce in transshipment. It was due out of here next week. That'senough to bankroll our ops for a year, too." 
Sullivan looked pissed. "Is that your priority?" he demanded. 
"No." Roland waved him down. "My priority is number one, getting all of us outof here, and number two; not letting 
that fucker Matthias take down our entire operation." Sullivan subsided, leaningback against the door frame with a skeptical expression. "It's going to takeeighteen walks to pull everyone out—more than I could do in a week. And aboutthe same to pull out the goods." Roland pulled out a chair and sat. "We can'tdrive away or use the tunnel. How long for them to get in? Six hours? Twelve?" 
"I think it'll be more like three, unless we start shooting," Sullivan opined. 
"Shooting—" Roland froze. "You want me to authorize you to shoot at FBI or DEAagents. Other than in self-defense." 
"It's the only way," said the auditor, looking a little green. 
"Huh. I'll table it." Roland unfrozen, drummed his fingers on the nearest desk."I really don't like that option, it's too much like sticking your dick in ahornet's nest. They can always point more guns at us than we can point back atthem. Has anyone phoned the scram number?" 
"Huh?" Sullivan looked puzzled. "Bill?" 
"Tried it five minutes ago, sir," the auditor said with gloomy satisfaction."Got a number-unavailable tone." 
"I am beginning to get the picture. Have you tried your cell phone?" 
"They've got a jammer. And snipers on the rooftops." 
"Shit." / am going to have to make a decision, Roland thought. And it had betterbe one I can live with, he realized sickly. 
"Someone needs to walk over and yell like hell," Roland said slowly. Sullivantensed. "But, I'm working on the assumption that this is deliberate. Thatbastard Matthias, I've been watching him." It was easy to say this, now. "I sentthe kid, what's his name?" 
"Poul," Bill offered. 
"I sent him over alone." Roland's eyes went wide. "Shit." 
"What are you thinking?" Sullivan leaned forward. 
"My working assumption right now is that Matthias has betrayed the Clan. This isall preplanned. He rigged this raid to cover his escape. So he isn't going towant any random courier walking into Fort Lofstrom and raising the alarm, ishe?" 
Sullivan's eyes narrowed as Roland stood up. "You and I," he announced, tryingto keep his voice from shaking, "are going to cross over together. I know whatyou've been thinking. Listen, Matthias will have left some kind of surprise.It's going to be a mess. Your job is to keep me alive long enough to get out of the fort. Then there's a, a back route. One I can use to get word to the Clan,later today. It'll take me about six or seven hours to get from Fort Lofstrom toNiejwein, and the same again to come back with a bunch of help—every damncourier I can round up. I'm assuming Matthias sent everyone away from the fortbefore pulling this stunt. Can you hold out for twenty-four hours? Go into thesub-basement storm shelter with all the merchandise and blow the supports, bringthe building down on top of you?" He addressed the last question to Bill, theauditor. 
"I think so," Bill said dubiously. 
"Right. Then you're going to have to do that." Roland met his eyes. "We can'tafford for the feds to lay hands on you. And whatever you think I'm thinking, Ifigure you're too valuable to write off. Any family member, inner or outer, isnot expendable in my book. Sullivan, think you can handle that?" 
Sullivan grinned humorlessly at him. "I'll do my best." He nodded at theauditor: "He'll be back. Trust me on this." 
The extraordinary meeting resumed with an argument. "The floor is open formotions," quavered the ancient Julius. "Do I hear—" 
"I have a motion!" Miriam raised her hand. 
"Objection!" snapped Baron Hjorth. 
"I think you'll find she already has the floor," Angbard bit out. "Let her speakfirst, then have your say." 
"Firstly, I'd like to move that my venture into New Britain be recognized as aClan subsidiary," Miriam said, carefully trying to keep a still face. It wasbitterly disappointing to risk ceding control, but as Olga had pointed out, theClan took a very dim view of members striking out on their own. "As part of thismotion I'd like to resolve that the issue of this 
sixth family be dealt with by participants in this subsidiary, because clearlythey're the members most directly affected by the situation." 
"Objection!" Shouted someone at the back of the hall. "Clan feud takesprecedence!" 
"Are you saying the Clan can afford to lose more people?" asked Miriam. 
"Damn the blood! What about our dead? This calls for revenge!" Ayes backed himup: Miriam forced herself to think fast, knowing that if she let the hecklinggather pace she could very easily lose control of the meeting. 
"It seems to me that the lost family is sorely depleted," she began. "They hadto send a child to supervise an adult's job. You know, as I know, that theefficiency of a postal service like the one responsible for the Clan's wealth isnot just a function of how many world-walkers we have. It's also a function ofthe number of routes we can send packages over. They're small, and isolated, andthey're not as numerous as we are. However, rooting them out in the name of afeud will uncover old wounds and risk depleting our numbers for no gain. I'mgoing to stick my neck out and assert that the next few years are going to befar more dangerous for the Clan than most of you yet realize." 
"Point of order!" It was Baron Hjorth again. "This is rubbish. She's trying tofrighten us. Won't you—" 
"Shut up" grated Angbard. "Let her finish a sentence, damn your eyes." 
Miriam waited a moment. "Thank you," she said. "Factors to think about. Firstly,a new world. This is going to be important because it opens up new opportunitiesfor trade and development, as I've already demonstrated. Secondly, the state ofthe Clan's current business. I don't know how to approach this subtly so Iwon't: You're in big trouble. 
"To be perfectly blunt, your current business model is obsolescent. You can keepit running for another two to five years, but then it'll go into a nosedive. Inten years, it'll be dead. And I'm not just talking about heroin and cocaineshipments. I mean everything. 
"You'll have noticed how hard it has become to launder the proceeds of narcoticstraffic on the other side in the past few years. With the current anti-terroristclampdown and the beefing up of police powers, life isn't going to get anyeasier. Things are changing very fast indeed. 
"The Clan used to be involved in different types of commerce: gold smuggling,gemstones, anything valuable and lightweight. But those businesses rely onanonymity, and like I said, the anti-terrorist clampdown is making anonymitymuch harder to sustain. Let me emphasize this, the traditional business modelsdon't work anymore because they all rely on the same underlying assumption thatyou can be anonymous. 
"Many of you probably aren't aware of the importance of electronic commerce, ore-commerce. I've been working with specialists covering the development of thefield. What you need to know is that goods and services are going to be sold,increasingly, online. This isn't an attempt to sell you shares in some fly-by­night dot-com; it's just a statement of fact—communications speed is moreimportant than geographical location, and selling online lets small specialistoutfits sell to anyone On the planet. But with the shift to online selling, youcan expect cash money to become obsolete. High-denomination euro banknotesalready come with a chip, to allow transactions to be traced. How long do youthink it'll be before the greenbacks you rely on stop being anonymous? 
"The fat times will be over—and if you've spent all your resources pursuing ablood feud, you're going to be screwed. No money on the other side means noimports. No imports mean no toys, antibiotics, digital watches, whatever to buythe compliance of the landowners. No guns to shoot them with, either. If you tryto ignore reality you will be screwed by factors outside your control. 
"But this isn't inevitable. If you act now, you can open up new lines of revenueand new subsidiaries. Take ancient patents from my world, the world you're usedto using as a toy chest, and set up companies around them in the new 
world, in New Britain. Take the money you raise in New Britain and import booksand tools here. Set up universities and schools. Build, using your power andyour money to establish factories and towns and laboratories over here. In acouple of generations, you can pull Gruinmarkt out of the mire and start anindustrial revolution that will make you a true world power, whether or not youdepend on the family talent. 
"You can change the world—if you choose to start now, by changing the way youthink about your business." 
There was total silence in the hall. A puzzled silence, admittedly, but silence—and one or two nodding heads. Just let them keep listening, Miriam thoughtdesperately. Then voices began to pipe up. 
"I never heard such a—" "—What would you have us put our money into?" 
"—Hear, hear!" 
"—Gather that educating the peasants is common over—" 
"Silence," Angbard demanded testily. "The chair has a question." 
"Uh. I'm ready." Feeling tensely nervous, Miriam crossed her fingers behind herback. 
"Describe the business you established in the new world. What did you take withyou to start it? And what is it worth?" 
"Ah, that's an interesting one." Miriam forced herself to keep a straight face,although the wave of relief she felt at Angbard's leading question nearly madeher go weak at the knees. "Exchange rate irregularities—or rather, the lack ofthem—make it hard to establish a true currency conversion rate, and I'm stilllooking for a means of repatriating value from the new world to the UnitedStates, but I'd have to say that expenditure to date is on the order of sixhundred thousand dollars. The business in New Britain is still working towardits first contract, but that contract should be worth on the order of fiftythousand pounds. Uh, near as I can pin it down, one pound is equivalent toroughly two to three hundred dollars. So we're looking at a return on investmentof 
three hundred percent in six months, and that's from a cold start." 
A buzz of conversation rippled through the hall, and Angbard made no move toquell it. The figures Miriam had come up with sounded like venture capitalistnirvana— especially with a recession raging in the other world, and NASDAQ inthe dumps. "That's by selling a product that's been obsolete for thirty years inthe U.S.," Miriam added. "I've got another five up my sleeve, waiting for thisfirst deal to provide seedcorn capital for reinvestment. In the absence of majordisruptive factors—" like a war with the hidden family, she added mentally "—Ifigure we can be turning over ten to a hundred million pounds within ten tofifteen years. That would make us the equivalent of IBM or General Motors,simply by recycling ideas that haven't been invented yet over there." 
The buzz of conversation grew louder. "I've done some more spreadsheet work,"Miriam added, now more confident. "If we do this, we'll push the New Britisheconomic growth rate up by one or two percent per annum over its long-termaverage. We could do the same, though, importing intermediate technologies fromthere to here. There's no point trying to train nuclear engineers or buildairports in the Gruinmarkt, not with a medieval level of infrastructure, and alot of the technologies up for sale in the U.S. are simply too far ahead to usehere. Those of you who've wired up your estates will know what I'm talkingabout. But we can import tools and ideas and even teachers from New Britain, anddeliver a real push to the economy over here. Within thirty years you could betraveling to your estates by railway, your farmers could be producing threetimes as much food, and your ships could dominate the Atlantic trade routes." 
Angbard rapped his gavel on the wooden block in front of him for attention. "Thechair thanks Countess Helge," he said formally. "Are there any more questionsfrom the floor?" 
A new speaker stood up: a smooth-looking managerial type who smiled at Miriam ina friendly manner from the 
bench behind her grandmother. "I'd like to congratulate my cousin on hersuccessful start-up," he began. "It's a remarkable achievement to come into a new world and set up a business, from scratch, with no background." Oh shit,Miriam thought uneasily. Who is this guy, and when's he going to drop thehammer? "And I agree completely with everything she says. But clearly, herefforts could be aided by an infusion of support and experience. If we accepther motion to transfer the new business to the Clan as a subsidiary enterprise,it can clearly benefit from sound management—" 
"Which it already has," Miriam snapped, finally getting his drift. "If you wouldlike to discuss employment opportunities—" and a pound of flesh in return forkeeping out of my way, you carpetbagger "—that's all very well— but this is notthe time and place for it. We have an immediate problem, which is relations withthe sixth family. I'll repeat my proposal; that the new business venture berecognized as a Clan business, that membership in it be open to the Clan, andthat handling the lost family be considered the responsibility of this business.Can we put this to a vote?" 
Oliver Hjorth made to interrupt, but Angbard caught his hand and whisperedsomething in his ear. His eyes narrowed and he shut up. 
"I don't see why we can't settle it now," muttered Julius. "Show of hands! Ayes!Count them, damn your eyes. Nays!" He brought his own hammer down briskly. 'TheAyes have it," he announced. He turned to Miriam. "It's yours." 
Is that it? Miriam wondered dumbly, feeling as if something vast and elusive hadpassed her by in an eyeblink while her attention was elsewhere. 
"Next motion," said Angbard. "Some of you have been misinformed that I announcedthat I was designating Helge as my heir. I wish to clarify the issue: I did notdo so. However, I do intend to change my designated successor—to PatriciaThorold-Hjorth, my half-sister. Can anyone dispute my right to do so?" He lookedaround the room furiously. "No?" He nudged Julius. "See it minuted so." 
Miriam felt as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders—but not for long."A new motion," said Oliver Hjorth. He frowned at Miriam. "The behavior of thislong-lost niece gives me some cause for concern," he began. "I am aware that shehas been raised in strange and barbarous lands, and allowances must be made; butI fear she may do herself an injury if allowed to wander around at random. Asher recent history of narrow scrapes shows, she's clearly accident-prone anderratic. I therefore move that she be declared incompetent to sit as a member ofthe Clan, and that a suitable guardian be appointed—Baroness Hildegarde—" 
"Objection!" Miriam turned to see Olga standing up. "Baron Hjorth, throughnegligence, failed to see to the subject's security during her residence here,notionally under his protection. He is not fit to make determinations bearing onher safety." 
Oliver rounded on her in fury. "You little minx! I'll have you thrown out on thestreet for—" 
Bang! The gavel again. "Objection sustained," Julius quavered. 
Oliver glared at him. "Your time will come," he growled, and subsided into grimsilence. 
"I am an adult," Miriam said quietly. "I am divorced, I have created and manageda Clan subsidiary, and I am not prepared to surrender responsibility for my ownsecurity." She looked around the hall. "If you try to railroad me out of the NewLondon operation, you'll find some nasty surprises in the title deeds." Shestared at Oliver: "or you can sit back and wait for the profits to roll in. It'syour choice." 
"I withdraw my motion," Oliver growled quietly. Only his eyes told Miriam thathe resented every word of it. There'd be a reckoning, they seemed to say. 
"Check your gun." 
"I don't need to." 
"I said, check it. Listen. I told Poul to go for help. Think he'll have madeit?" 
"I don't see why not." Sullivan looked dubious, but he ejected the magazine andworked the slide on his gun, then reloaded and safed it. 
"Matthias believes in belt and braces." For a moment, Roland looked ill. "Ithink he'll have left a surprise or two for us." 
"So?" Sullivan nodded. "You ready?" 
"Ready?" Roland winced, then flipped his locket open. "Yes. Come on. On my back—Sky Father, you're heavy! Now—" 
Roland's vision dimmed and his head hammered like a drum. His knees began togive way and he fell forward, feet slipping on the damp floor. Sullivan rolledoff him with a shout of dismay. "What's—" 
Roland fell flat, whimpering slightiy as one knee cracked hard on the concrete.Red, everything seemed to be red with bits of white embedded in it, like anexplosion in an abattoir. He rolled over, sliding slightly, smelling somethingrevolting and sweet as the noise of Sullivan being violently sick reached hisears. 
The pounding headache subsided. Roland sat up, dismayed, staring at the wallbehind him. It was chipped and battered, stained as if someone had thrown a tinof blackish paint at it. The smell. Roland leaned forward and squeezed his eyesshut. The blackness stayed with him, behind his eyelids. "Belt and braces." 
Sullivan stopped heaving. The stench refused to clear. Roland opened his eyesagain. The post room in the basement of Fort Lofstrom had been painted withblood and bits of flesh and bone, as if a live pig or sheep had been fed througha wood chipper. There were small gobbets of stuff everywhere. On his hands,sticking to his trousers where he'd fallen down. He pulled a hunk of somethingred with hairs sprouting from it off the back of his hand. The furniture wasshredded, and the door hung from its hinges as if an angry bull had kicked it. 
"Belt and braces," Roland repeated hoarsely. "Shit." 
Sullivan straightened up. "You sent Poul into this," he said flatly. He wipedhis mouth with the back of one hand. 
"Shit." Roland shook his head. A pair of legs, still wearing trousers, stillattached at the hips, had rolled under the big oak table in the middle of theroom. A horrified sense of realization settled over him. "Why hasn't someone—" 
"Because they are all fucking dead," Sullivan hissed, moving to the side of thedoor and bringing his gun up. "Shut up!" 
Silence. The stink of blocked sewers and slaughterhouse blood and recent vomitfilled Roland's nostrils. His skull pounded, bright diamond-flashes of lightflickering in his left eye as the edges of his visual field threatened tocollapse. He'd walked too soon after taking the beta blocker, and now he wasgoing to pay the price. "Matthias planted a claymore mine on a wire at least once before," he said quietly. "Well, someone did—and my guess is Matthias.Sloppy work, using the same trick over. Think there'll be another one, or willhe have used something else?" 
"Shut up" Sullivan darted around the corner and stopped, his back visible:Roland cringed, but there was no explosion. "Yeah. Looks like it was an M18A1,we keep about a dozen in the armory. This here's the clacker. Bastard." 
"See any more?" Roland shuffled forward slowly, still woozy and in pain from thetoo-hasty transfer. 
"No, but—wait." Sullivan came back into the devastated post room and lookedaround twitchily, ignoring Roland. 
"What are you after?" 
"Some kind of pole. Lightweight. And a flashlight." 
"Let me." Roland shambled over to the curtain-covered sigil and yanked hard onthe curtain. The curtain rail bent and he grabbed it, pulled it away from thewall. "Will this do?" he asked, carefully not looking at the knotwork design onthe wall behind it. 
"Yeah." Sullivan took the rod and went back out into the corridor, advancinglike an arthritic sloth. "Fuck me, that was bad." 
A thought struck Roland. "Are there any explosives in the armory, apart from themines? And detonators?" 
"Are you kidding?" Sullivan barked something that in bet-
ter times might have been a laugh. "About a hundred kilos of C4, for starters!And gunpowder. Shitloads of it. Some of his farms, they've been, well,productive. Matthias took a serious interest in blowing things up, you know?" 
"Gunpowder." Roland digested the unpleasant possibilities this news opened up."The fort should be locked down. Where is everybody?" 
"Like I said, dead or gone." Sullivan looked around at him. "What are you goingto—" 
Roland pushed past him. "Follow me." 
"Hey wait! There might be mines—" 
"There won't be." Roland dashed down the corridor. There was a servant's staircase at the end. He took the steps 0 two at a time, until he was gaspingfor breath. "He dismissed the help. Good of him." The staircase surfaced in thescullery, and the door was shut. "If I'm right, he's put the whole damn fort ona time fuse. It could blow any minute." 
"A bomb? There could be more than one, couldn't there?" 3 
Roland opened the door half an inch, running a finger up and down the crack tomake sure there were no wires. "It's clear." 
"If you do that too fast—" 
"Come on!" Through the scullery and up another short flight of steps, round acorner, then into the main ground-floor hallway. The fort was eerily empty, cold and desolate. Roland didn't bother with the main door, but instead opened anarched window beside it and scrambled through. "Stables!" 
Matthias might have sent the servants away, but he sure as hell hadn't thoughtabout the livestock. Sullivan and Roland saddled up a pair of mares, and theguard worked one of the big gates open while Roland waited, clutching a blanket. around his shoulders. "You go get help," Sullivan panted up at Roland. "I'llgo see if the armory is wired. I might be able to stop it." 
"But you'll—" J 
"Shut the fuck up and listen for once! If you get help, I you'll need a safepost room to walk through, won't you? 1 I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing itfor the others. Go get 1 
the gods-damned Clan and get back here as fast as you can. I'll see it's safefor you." 
Roland paused for a moment. 'Take my keys," he said, and tossed them to theguard. "They're a master set—only place they won't get you into is the old man'soffice." Sullivan took the keys, then watched until Roland disappeared aroundthe first bend in the road before he turned and headed back into the compoundthoughtfully. He hadn't expected it to be this easy: He hadn't even had to hintabout the place being booby-trapped. Now all he needed was time to complete theboss's business, and a lift home, then he could claim his reward. 
The meeting was winding down in a haze of fatigue, recriminatory posturing, andmotions to hear trivial complaints. Miriam slumped back in her seat tiredly.Please, let this be over, she thought, watching Iris from die other side of theroom. If she was aching and bored, her mother must be feeling k ten times worse. 
Baron Horst of Lorsburg had the floor, and was using it for all it was worth."While the provisions of article eighteen of the constitution are still valid,I'd like to raise a concern about paragraph six," he droned, in the emolienttones of a lay preacher trying to get across the good message without boring hisflock into catatonia in the process. "The issue of voting partners failing toattend to bills of—" 
He was interrupted by a tremendous banging on the outer door. "What's that?"demanded Julius the ancient. "Sergeant! Have silence outside the room!" 
The sergeant-at-arms marched over to the door, yanked it open, prepared toberate whoever was outside—but instead took a step back. 
Roland lurched into the room. He was dressed for the road in a battered graycoat and a hat pulled down over his face: His expression was deadily. Miriam hadanother surprise coming: Brill was right behind him. "Permission to approach theDean of Security?" he rasped. 
"Approach," Angbard called. "And explain yourself. Assuming the news is fit forpublic hearing." 
Roland glanced round the room. "Don't see why not." He passed Miriam without anyindication that he'd seen her. "Big problem," he announced tersely, and Miriamswallowed her anger as she realized he was exhausted and out of breath, walkingpainfully, as if his clothes chafed. 
"We've been betrayed. Fort Lofstrom is cut off, here and on the other side.What's worse is, they've got the February shipment from Panama sitting in Bostonalong with the post, and someone has told the Feds—there's a DEA stakeout in progress." He nodded at Angbard. "Looks like our traitor has identified himself.Bad news is, he got away and he's decided to take down the entire Massachusettsend. I only just got out by the skin of my teeth. We've got nine outer familymembers trapped on the other side with a SWAT team on their doorstep. To makematters worse, there are booby traps in Fort Lofstrom—at least one bomb. We lostPoul, Poul of Hjalmar. He walked into a claymore mine." 
"Order! Order!" Angbard leaned down and stared at Roland. "Let's get thisstraight. Fort Lofstrom on this side has been barred to us. On the other side,its doppelganger is under siege. There is a huge consignment sitting over there,and family members who lack the talent to extricate themselves. Is that broadlycorrect?" 
"Yeah." Roland slumped against the table. "I world-walked into the Fort. Bloodall over the walls of the post room. Sullivan got me a horse and, and I rodeover to a place Miriam told me about. Used the spare locket she gave me, the oneshe took from the enemy." The room was in uproar, half the Clan on their feet."Lady Brilliana got me on a train in the new world, from Boston to New London.That's how I got here so fast. The shit hit the fan yesterday. By now, we'reeither looking at a pile of rubble on the other side with our people trappedunder it and the FBI digging toward them, or something worse." He rubbed hishead carefully, as if unsure whether it was still there. "I had to make threecrossings in the past twelve hours." 
"Security summit, clear the room!" called the sergeant-at-arms. "By your leave,sir," he told Julius apologetically. 
"Can we get in from the far side? From New Britain?" asked Miriam. 
Angbard stared at her. "You know more about that than we would, I think," hesaid. "Your opinion?" 
"Hmm." Miriam thought for a moment. "You're sure it was Matthias?" she askedRoland. 
Roland nodded wordlessly. "Sir?" He looked up at Angbard, tiredly. 
"Yes," Angbard said darkly. "I've been keeping an eye on him. I've had mysuspicions for a while now." He paused, looking as if he'd tasted somethingunpleasant. "Obviously I haven't been watching him closely enough. That's not amistake I'm going to repeat." He glanced at Miriam. "Do you have anything toadd?" he demanded. 
"I don't know, but I don't believe in coincidences, and the way the hiddenfamilies kept going after me—" she glanced at Baron Hjorth, who stared back ather for a moment, then looked away. "I think it's clear who he was in the payof." She shrugged. "It doesn't change my position. I think you should releaseLin, send the kid home with a message offering a cease-fire. If they accept, itmeans your Keeper of the Secrets is cut off with no retreat and no friends. Ifthey refuse, we're no worse off. It might make mem think we're weak, but thatcan only be an advantage right now." 
"I'll think about it," Angbard said coolly. "But right now it's not a priority.What would you suggest doing about Boston? If you have any ideas, that is." 
"Uh." She paused. "Two or three crossings a day: If we do more we'll be in nocondition for anything, and this needs to be fixed quick. I think we'll have tocross over to New London, won't we? If Olga and I and a bunch of others go,it'll take us a bit longer to get to Boston by steam train, but from there it'sone hop into Fort Lofstrom by the back door. Faster than going by stagecoach, anyway. We'll have to carry some extras, who'll need to go over into thebasement 
under siege and pull in our people before the FBI and DEA dig through to them.Think that would work?" 
"I think it's our only chance." Roland looked worried. He seemed to be avoidingeye contact with her. 
"Do it," said Iris, unexpectedly. "It's your future." She met Miriam's gaze."I'll be alright." 
"I know you will." Miriam walked toward her. "Please be here when I get back,"she said. "We've got a lot of talking to do." 
Brill cleared her throat. "I'm coming," she said calmly. 
"You can't—oh." Miriam turned back to Angbard. "She can come." 
"She'll have to. How many copies of the lost family's sign have you got?" 
"More than you thought, bro," Iris butted in. She reached into a pocket andpulled out a battered-looking locket. "I took this off the one who killed myhusband and maid and tried to cut your throat," she told Miriam. She grinned,hu-morlessly. "It never occurred to me to look inside it until you tipped meoff. Not that I'm in any condition to use it." 
"Ah. Then we've got—" Miriam did a quick stock-take. Hers, Brill's, Olga's, theone she'd given Roland, now this one. Plus the smudged and fading temporarytattoos she and Olga wore. "Only five reliable ones. Any more?" 
Iris snorted. "Here." She pulled out a bunch of glossy photographs. "What thehell did you think Polaroid cameras were invented for?" Miriam gaped. "Closeyour mouth, kid, you'll catch a fly," Iris added. 
"Get some muscle," Miriam told Roland. "Ones who can world-walk with us. We'llneed guns and medicine. And clothing that can pass at a distance in New Londonor on the train—" She paused. "And a plan of the Fort Lofstrom dop-pelganger,and a compass and map of the area. We can pick one up in New London and findwhere its doppelganger location is, and then someone to get us in—" anotherpause. "Why are you all looking at me like that?" she asked. 
* * * 
Another day, another first-class compartment—this one crammed with seven bodies,plus another seven in the compartment behind them—with the window open to letthe heat out. "How conspicuous are we going to be?" asked the guy with thetoothbrush moustache. 
"Just as long as you don't stop, Morgan," said Miriam. "Your suit's all wrong,your coat isn't a fashion item, and— hell, your hat isn't right either. They'llprobably take you for a foreigner." The train clattered over points as it beganto slow. 
"She's not kidding," said Brill. "It's not like Boston at all, under thesurface." 
"Be over soon," said Roland, staring out the window at the passing countryside."It all looks like something out of a history book—" "May you live in interesting times," muttered Olga, raising a startled glancefrom Brill. 
"Miriam's been corrupting you." 
"You say that like it's a bad thing." 
"Ladies, ladies!" They turned and glared as one at Roland. "Is this our stop?"he asked plaintively. He looked decidedly off-color. Miriam decided to forgivehim—her own headache wasn't getting any better, and four trips in thirty-sixhours was more than anyone should ever have to make, even with beta blockers andpain killers. 
"Not yet." Miriam refolded the map she'd bought at the station near whereNiejwein would be in this world. 
"Let me see that." Ivor, short and squat, leaned over. "Ah." A stubby fingerfollowed the line into town. "This is Cam-bridgeport, in Cambridge. The Fort wasbuilt on a bluff overlooking the river almost exactly here. That's—" 
"Blackshaft. A rookery," said Miriam. "Next to Holmes Alley." She bit herknuckle. "What happens if you try to world-walk somewhere where you'd come outunderground?" 
"You get a headache." Roland looked at her curiously. "Why?" 
"Nothing," she said, watching him sidelong. 
Brill caught her eye. "Nothing." She snorted. "It's that revolutionary friend ofyours, isn't it?" 
"Well." Miriam sighed. "I suppose so." 
> "What's this?" asked Ivor. 
"Miriam's got dodgy friends," said Olga. "Why is it that we only seem to dobusiness with criminals?" 
"I don't think he's a criminal; the law disagrees with me, but the law is anass," said Miriam. "Anyway, he's got access to cellars. Lots of cellars andbackyards running into the rookery. I think we can go down there, then try tocross over. If we can't, we can't. If we succeed we'll be somewhere in thebasement levels. How'd that work out?" 
"Angbard gave me some of his keys." Roland patted his pocket. "We can give it atry. The only thing worrying me is the time it's taking." 
Liar, thought Miriam, watching him in side-profile. You and me, when this isover, we 're going to need to clear the air between us. She focused on the lineof his jaw and for some reason her heart tried to skip a beat. See if we cancatch some quality time together with nobody trying to kill me or blackmail you.For a moment she felt a deep stab of longing. We've got a lot to talk about.Haven't we? But not right now, in the middle of a compartment full of Clancouriers, serious-faced and wound up for action. 
The train slowed, slid into a suburban station, and paused. Then it was offagain, for its final destination—the royal station, five minutes down the line."Go tell the others, we want the next stop," said Miriam. "Remember, follow mylead and try not to say anything. It's not far, but we look like a mob, and aweird one at that. If we hang around we'll pick up unwanted attention." 
Olga raised an eyebrow. "If you say so." 
"I do." The train hissed and shuddered as it lurched toward the platform. "Hatson and spirits up. This shouldn't take long." 
The walk to the pawnbroker's shop seemed to take forever, a frightening eternityof hanging on Roland's arm— steering discreetly and trying to look carefree,while keeping an eye open for the others—but Miriam made it, m somehow. "This is it?" he asked dubiously. 
"Yeah. Remember he's a friend." Miriam opened the shop door, shoved him gentlybetween the shoulder blades, turned to catch Morgan and Brill's eyes, then wentinside. 
"Hello? Can I help—" 
"I'm sure you can." Miriam smiled sweetly at the man behind the counter—astranger she'd never seen before in her life. "Is Inspector Smith here?" 
"No." He straightened up. "But I can get him if you want." 
"That won't be necessary." Miriam drew her pistol. "Lie down. Hands behind yourback." She stepped forward. "Come on, tie him!" she snapped at Roland. 
"If you say so." The doorbell jangled and he glanced up at her as Olga and thetwo other guards entered the shop, followed rapidly by Brill and Ivor, and thenthe rest of the group. With fourteen youngish Clan members inside, it wasuncomfortably packed. "What are you going to do with him?" asked Olga. 
"Take him with us, stash him in Fort Lofstrom. Got a better idea?" 
"You're making a big mistake," the man on the floor said quietly. 
"You're a constable," said Miriam. "Aren't you? Where's Burgeson?" He didn't sayanything. "Right," she said grimly, lifting the counter and walking behind it. /hope he's alright, she thought distantly. Another spell in His Majesty'sconcentration camps will kill him, for sure. "You two, carry this guy along. Therest of you, follow me." 
They trooped down the steep wooden steps in the back of the shop, along an alleyhemmed in with pigeonholes filled with sad relics, individually tagged and datedwith their owners' hopes and fears. Miriam looked round. "This will do," shesaid. "I'm going to try the crossing. If I succeed and there's trouble, I'llcome right back. If I'm not back in five minutes, the rest of you come over.Roland, carry Brill. You, carry Olga. Brill, Olga, you carry us over to the farside, to world two: I don't want anybody making two successive crossings withouta rest between. Be ready for trouble." 
She took her coat off. Beneam it she wore her hiking gear 
and a bulky bulletproof vest from the Clan's Niejwein armory. It looked out ofplace here, but might be a lifesaver on the other side. She barely noticed thecaptive policeman's eyes go wide as he watched the cellar full of strangersstrip down to combat fatigues and body armor. "Are you sure about this?" askedRoland as she picked up her shoulder bag again. 
"I'm sure." Miriam grimaced. "Time to go." 
"You'll never get away with this," the secret policeman mumbled as she pulledout her locket and, taking a deep breath, focused on it. 
Everything went black and a spike of pain seemed to split her skull. Buriedalive! she thought, appalled—then reached out a hand in front of her. No, justin the dark. She took another breath, smelling mildew, and swallowed back bilethat threatened to climb her throat. Her heart pounded. The flashlight— 
She fumbled for a moment over the compact LED flashlight, then managed to getenough light to see by. She was in a cellar alright, a dusty and ancient winestore with bottle racks to either side. "Phew," she said aloud. She took asecond or two to let her racing heart slow down toward normal, then marchedtoward the door at the end of the tunnel. 
The light switches worked, and the cellar flooded with illumination—bright aftera minute of flashlight. "Do I wait?" she asked herself. "Like hell. We've gotpeople to rescue." She turned the handle and cautiously entered the passage thatled to the servants' stairs. 
Her head ached furiously. It had been aching for days now, it seemed, and shefelt worse than sick. If she stood up fast, or moved suddenly, her vision wentdark. I can't do this again, she thought to herself, leaning against thecorridor wall. It'll kill me. 
Two hops in a day—one from Niejwein to New London, then another into FortLofstrom's dingy cellars. If she made a return trip to Boston now, she was sureshe'd pop an artery. Cerebral hemorrhage, what a way to go. Half of the otherswere piggybacking, staying fresh as long as possible. 
For her sins she'd carried Brill through on the first trip. Now she was payingthe price in aching muscles and a borderline migraine. 
"Matthias," she said aloud, with a flash of rage. Bastard thought he could useme, did he? Well, she'd see about that. Once the crisis was under control, andonce she'd repossessed Paulie's stolen CD-ROM. She was certain Matthias had it,and there were only two things to do with it that made sense. Send it to theFBI, or leave it on Angbard's desk, along with the photos of her and Roland—apotentially lethal embarrassment if Angbard interpreted it as a plot by thelovers to elope and blackmail the Clan into silence. Miriam's money was on thelatter. Once the immediate business was sorted, she fully intended to givePaulie a discreet request and a bunch of cash: enough to hire some privatedetectives. There were ways and means of finding people who didn't want to befound, when your resources and patience were unlimited, and she was willing tobet that a spider like Matthias wouldn't be able to camouflage himself as wellas he thought once he left the center of his web. She'd spend whatever it tookto find him, and then he'd be sorry. 
After a couple of minutes she sighed, then pushed herself upright. She dry-swallowed a painkiller, which stuck uncomfortably in her throat. She was light-headed, but not too light-headed to find her way up to the basement level.Passing the scullery, she ducked inside to grab a glass of water to help thepill go down. Something caught her eye: The door to the cold store lay ajar. Shelooked inside. 
"Oh shit. Oh shit." She breathed fast as she leaned over the top of the pile—three, maybe four corpses sprawling and stiff, not yet livid—and saw the crueledges of bullet wounds. "Shit." She pushed herself upright and looked to theentrance. "Cameras—" 
Matthias has a little helper, she realized. How many people did he kill? A greathouse like this, you couldn't send all of the servants away—but murdering theskeleton staff bespoke a degree of extreme ruthlessness. Angbard hadn't beensuspicious enough of his own deputy: He'd let Matthias pick and choose staff assignments. Now it looked like she was going to be stuckpaying the price. 
"Matthias always has a backup plan," she muttered to herself. "If I was a sickspider sitting at the center of a web, waiting to sting my employer, what wouldI do?" 
She opened the door cautiously. "Roland was afraid of bombs—" She stopped.Where? "The armory is where you store explosives. It's built to contain a blast.But if Matthias had an accomplice the explosive might be human—-" 
She panted, taking in shallow breaths. Stop that. Matthias blackmailed people.How many? And what could he make them do—wait for the Clan rescue expedition toshow up, then bring the house down on them ? 
The pantry was empty, a door standing ajar on the kitchen and servants'stairwell at the end of the hallway. Miriam hit the stairs. It corkscrewedupstairs dizzyingly, halls branching off it toward each wing of the familyaccommodation. She climbed it carefully, revolver in hand, cautiously scanningthe steps ahead for signs of a tripwire. Hoping that the dead servants meantthat there'd be no eyes left to watch the video screens. Second floor, eastwing, through the security doors on the left, she repeated to herself, hopingthat the surveillance, if it existed at all, would prove to be habit-blind. 
The east wing corridor was as silent as a crypt, as empty as the passages of ahigh-class hotel in the small hours of the morning while the guests sleep. Anyguests here were liable to be dead in their beds. Miriam came out of theservant's stairwell and darted down the side of the corridor, crouchinginstinctively. She paused at the solid wooden doors at one side of the passageand swiped the card-key she'd borrowed from Roland through the scanner at oneside. When she heard the latch click, she pushed one door open with a toe andstepped through. This is the security zone? It looked like more rooms, openingoff a short corridor—offices, maybe, and Angbard's outer office door rightahead. 
She paused before the door. Her heart was pounding. You. She looked at it.Someone was inside. Whoever killed the ser-
vants. A ticking human bomb. Growing anger made her feel dizzy. She carefullymoved to one side and raised her gun. 
"I really wouldn't do that," said a sad voice right behind her left ear. "Putthe gun down and turn around slowly." 
She froze, then dropped the pistol and turned around. "Why?" she asked. 
A nondescript man leaned against the wall behind her. He was unshaven, andalthough he was wearing a suit— standard for a courier—his tie was loose. Helooked tired, but also content. "It's about time," he said. 
His gun, Miriam realized. It was pointed at her stomach. She couldn't identifyit. Bizarrely complex, it sprouted handles and magazines and telescopic sightsseemingly at random. It looked like a movie prop, but something, in his mannersaid he had complete confidence in it. The sights glowed red, a dot trackingacross her chest. 
"It's about time," she echoed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 
The gunman grinned humorlessly. "The boss told me a lot about you. You're thenew countess, aren't you? He's got tapes, you know. And a disk." 
She moved toward him, froze as the gun came up to point at her head. "You wereresponsible for what's in the cellar—" 
"No, actually." He shook his head. "Not me. He's... Matthias likes to hunt. Hestalks wild animals. Stalks his enemies, too, looking for a weak point to bringthem down." He looked worried for a moment, then he grinned. "He showed me thetapes he took of you. Looking for a weak spot." 
Her vision hazed over for a moment, turning black with a mixture of rage and theworst headache she'd ever experienced. "What do you fucking want?" she demanded. 
"Simple. I'm the rear guard. Your arrival means the Clan rescue party is on itsway, doesn't it?" She didn't say anything, but his grin widened just the same."Knew it. You're my ride out of here, y'know? Little pony. We'll just be leavingby the back steps, then blow the house down. And I'll ride out on you. There's ameeting spot, ready and surveyed and waiting for me. Nice pony." 
"Listen," she said, trying to focus through her blinding headache, "have youactually done anything for Matthias? Killed anyone? Planted any bombs?" 
The gunman stopped smiling. "Shut the fuck up. Now" he snarled. "Kneel! Move!" 
Miriam knelt slowly. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Her headpounded and her stomach, even though it was empty, seemed about to make a bidfor freedom through her mouth. "Whatever he paid you—" she began. 
" 'S'not money. Fucking Clan bitch. It's who we are. Got it, yet?" 
"You and Matthias?" 
"That's right." He kicked the gun away. "Keep your hands on the floor. Leanforward. Slowly put your wrists together in front. I'll kill you if you fuckup." He carefully kept the gun on her as he pulled a looped cable tie out of aback pocket. "Nice pony, we're going to go riding together. Over to Boston, andthen maybe out west to the ranch to see some of my friends. You won't like itthere, though." 
"Shoot me and you won't get away alive," she heard someone say in the distance,through a throbbing cloud bank of darkness. 
"What the fuck." He yanked the cable tie tight around her wrists. "You think Igive a shit about that, you bitch? Live fast, die young." He grabbed her hairand pulled, and she screamed. "Leave a pretty corpse." 
Miriam tried to stand: Her legs had turned to jelly somewhere along the line.This is crazy, she thought vaguely. Can't let him blow up the fort with everyoneunder it, or on the other side—She leaned drunkenly, almost falling over. 
"Stand, bitch!" Someone was slapping someone else's face. Suddenly there was ahand under her armpit. "Fuck, what's wrong with you?" 
"Three jumps, two hours," she slurred drunkenly. 
"Crap." A door opened and he shoved her forwards. "Fucking get over it or I'llstart on your fingernails. You think your head hurts, you don't know shit." 
"What do you want?" she mumbled. 
"Freedom." He pushed her toward the low leather-topped sofa opposite Matthias'sdesk. "Freedom to travel. Freedom to live away from this fucking pesthole. A million bucks and the wind in my hair. The boss looks after his own. Drop thefort and deliver you and I've got it made. Loads of money." 
He pushed her down onto the sofa. "Now you and me are going to sit tight untilyour friends are over on the other side." He waved at the CCTV monitor onMatthias's workstation. "Then I set a timer and we leave by the back door." Hecleared his throat. "Meantime, there's something I've been wondering. Do yougive good head?" he inquired, leaning over her. 
Something flickered at the edge of Miriam's vision. She focused past hisshoulder, saw the door open and Roland standing there with a leveled pistol. Thegunman turned, and something made a noise like a sewing machine, awfully loudly.Hot metal rain, cartridge cases falling. A scream. Miriam kicked out, catchinghim on one leg. Then the back of his head vanished in a red mist, and hecollapsed on top of her. 
"Oh Miriam, you really are no good at this!" trilled Olga, "but thank you fordrawing his attention! That creep, he makes me so angry. .." Then her voicechanged: "Dear Lightning Child! What's happened to Roland?" 
"I—" Miriam tried to sit up, but something was pinning her down. Everything wasgray. "Where is he?" 
"Oh dear." Olga knelt in the doorway, beside something. Someone. "Are youwounded?" she asked urgently, standing up and coming toward Miriam. "It was hisidea to follow you-—" 
Miriam finally sat up, shoving the deadweight aside. Strangely, her stomachwasn't rebelling. "Get. Others. Go across and finish off. I'll look after him."Somehow she found herself on the other side of the room, cradling Roland. "He'llbe alright." 
"But he's—" 
She blinked, and forced herself to focus as Olga leaned over her, face white."He'll be alright in a minute," Miriam 
heard herself explain. "Scalp wounds are always bloody, aren't they?" Somewherea door opened and she heard Olga explaining something to someone in urgenttones, something about shock. "Aren't they?" she asked, still confused butfrightened by Olga's tone. She tried to rub her sore eyes, rendered clumsy byher tied hands, but they were covered in blood. Then Brill rolled up her sleeveand slid a needle into her arm. 
"What a mess," Brill told someone else, before the blessed darkness stifled her screams. 
epiLogue 
m ourteen of them, you say?" said Inspector Smith, ~A_^ raising aneyebrow. 
P "Yessir. Nine coves and five queans all went 
into the shop 
mob-handed, like." 
"Fourteen." The other eyebrow rose to join it. "Jobson never reported back." 
'There's no sign of blood, sir, or even a struggle," the inspector's visitorsaid apologetically. "And they wasn't in the premises when me and my squad wentin, ten minutes later. Weren't in the basement, neither. Nor any of the tunnelswe've explored." 
"Fourteen," Smith said with a tone of increasing disbelief. 
"Sir, we took fingerprints." The visitor sounded annoyed. "None of them exceptthe Fletcher woman are in our files, and her prints were old. But we had a spookwatching as they went in. The count is reliable: fourteen in and none of themcame out again! It's a very rum do, I'll agree, but un-
less you have reason to suspect that a crime has been committed—" 
"I have, dammit! Where's Jobson?" Smith stood up, visibly annoyed. "Are youtelling me that one of my agents has disappeared and the people responsiblearen't to be found? Because if so, that sounds like a pretty bad sign to me,too." 
"I'll stand by it, sir." The regular thief-taker stood firm. "We took the entireblock apart, brick by brick. You had the pawnbroker in custody at the time, needI remind you? And his lawyer muttering about habeas corpus all the while. Thereis, I repeat, no evidence of anything—except fourteen disappearing personsunknown, and a constable of the Defense Bureau who's nowhere to be seen. Whichis not entirely unprecedented, I hope you'll concede." 
"Bah!" The inspector snorted. "Did you take the cellar walls apart?" His eyegleamed, as if he expected to hear word of an anarchist cell crouched beneathevery block. 
"We used Mister Moore's new sound-echo apparatus." The thief-taker stood up."There are no hollow chambers, sir. You can have my hat and my badge if youuncover any, as I stand by my word." 
"Bah. Get out." Smith glared at the superintendent of thief-takers. "I have acall to make." He waited for the door to bang shut behind the other man beforehe added, "Sir Roderick is going to be very annoyed. But I'll make sure thatdamned woman gets her comeuppance soon enough ..." 
Weeks passed: days of pain, days of loss, days of mourning. Finally, an eveningclear of snow beneath the winter skies over New London found Miriam standing inthe foyer of the Brighton Hotel, dressed to the nines in black, smiling at theguests with a sweet solicitude she hardly felt. "Hello, Lord Macy! And Hello toyou too, Mrs. Macy! How have you been? Well, I trust?" The line seemed tostretch around the block, although the red carpet stopped at the curb—many ofthe visitors were making a point of showing up in new Otto 
cars, the ones the Durant Motor Company was fitting with the new safety brakes. 
"Hello, my dear lady! You're looking fine." 
Her smile relaxed a bit, losing its grim determination. "I think I am, indeed,"she admitted. "And yourself? Is this to your satisfaction?" 
"I think—" Sir Durant raised one eyebrow—"it will do, yes." He grinned, faintlyamused. "It's your party: Best enjoy it as much as you can. Or are you going tostand by your widowhood forever and a day?" He tipped his hat to her and ambledinside, to the dining room that Miriam's money had taken over for a night ofglittering celebration, and she managed to keep on smiling, holding the lineagainst desolation and guilt. The party was indeed glittering, packed with the high and the mighty of the New London motor trade, and their wives and sons anddaughters, and half the board of trade to boot. 
Miriam sighed quietly as the carpet emptied and the doors stopped revolving fora moment. "Busy, isn't it?" Brill remarked cheerfully behind her. 
"I'll say." Miriam turned to face her. "You're looking beautiful tonight," shemimicked, and pulled a face. "Anyone would think I was selling them pin-upcalendars, not brake shoes." 
Brill grinned at her cheekily. "Oh, I don't know," she began. "If you put out acalendar with yourself on it, that might improve sales—" She held out a fullglass of something sparkling. 
"Here, give me that. It's not suitable for young ladies!" Miriam took it andraised it. "To ... something or other." Her daringly bare shoulders slumpedtiredly. "Success." 
Brill raised the other glass: "Success. Hey, this isn't bad." She took a bigmouthful, then wiped her lips with the back of one lace glove. "Do you thinkthey're enjoying it?" 
"They will." Miriam looked at the dining room doors, then back at the front: Itwas almost time for the meal to begin. "Or else," she added bitterly. 
"You haven't seen Lady Olga yet?" asked Brill. 
"No—" Miriam caught her eye. "Why?" 
"Oh, nothing. It was meant to be her surprise, that's all. I shan't give itaway." Brill did her best impression of an innocent at large, nose in the airand glass in hand. "Success," she muttered. "Most women would be after true loveor a rich husband, but this one wants to own skyscrapers." 
"True love and a helmet will stop bullets," Miriam said bitterly. 
"You weren't to know." Brill looked at her askance. "Was it really true love?" 
"How the fuck should I know?" Miriam drained her glass in one gulp, so that shewouldn't have to explain. Was it? she wondered, confused. Damn it, he should behere, now. We had so much to talk about. 
"Owning skyscrapers makes the need for a rich husband irrelevant," Brill pointedout. "And anyway, you're still young. True love is bound to—" She stopped.Another car was pulling up outside, and a small crowd of partygoers was climbingout. 
"Here, take this," Miriam said, passing her her empty glass. "Got to be thehostess again." 
"That's okay, don't mind me." Brill took a step back as Miriam straightened herback and tried to bend her face into a welcoming mask once more. Only anotherfive minutes. 
The door opened. "Olga!" she exclaimed. 
"My dear!" Olga swept forward and insisted on planting a kiss on her cheek. "Ibrought you a present!" 
"Huh?" Miriam looked past her. The door was still revolving—slowly, for theoccupant seemed to be having some trouble. Finally he shuffled out and slowlyadvanced. "Uncle, you aren't supposed to be out—" 
"Miriam." He stopped in front of her, looking faintly amused. His costume was,as ever, impeccable, even though he must have found it passing strange. "Ithought I should come and see the new business that the prodigal has built forus." His smile slipped. "And to apologize for nursing that viper. I understandhe cost you more than money can ever repay." 
"Oh hell." She frowned at him. Easy for you to be gracious, now Roland's deadand you don't have to worry about your precious braids anymore—But somehow theharsh thought didn't have any fire behind them. She crossed the six feet betweenthem. "Uncle." He did his best to return the hug, although he winced somewhat.She leaned her chin on his shoulder. "I'm pleased to see you. I think." 
"It was all her idea," he said, jerking his chin over his shoulder. 
"Her? Why—mother!" 
The revolving door ejected another late guest who seemed to be walking with aslight limp. Bundled in a voluminous gown and leaning heavily on a cane, sheglowered truculently about the hall for a moment, then spotted Miriam andbeamed. 
"Hello, dear! You're looking every inch the princess tonight." 
"Hah." Miriam walked forward and kissed her mother on the forehead. "Wait till you meet my disreputable friends." 
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, dear. We've got a family tradition to uphold,haven't we?" 
"Indeed." A thought struck Miriam. "Where are you staying tonight? I've got asuite here. Olga, if you don't mind—" 
"I do mind," said Olga. "If you want me to give up the guest room, I demand theimperial suite here!" 
"But you know that's booked—" Miriam began, then the doors revolved again andher eyes widened. "What are you doing here?" 
"Is that any way to greet a friend?" Paulette grinned widely as she lookedaround. "Hey, plush! I thought this was going to be all horse manure and steamengines!" 
"This is Brill's fault," Olga confided. "When she heard about the party, shebegan plotting—" 
"Yeah!" Paulie agreed enthusiastically. "We couldn't let you keep the limelightall to yourself. Say, is that really a gaslight chandelier? Isn't that amazing?" 
"Children, you'll be late for dinner!" Brill interrupted. "Take it up some othertime, huh? I don't want to miss Sir 
Brakepad's speech. Isn't he cute?" She gently moved them in the direction of thedining room, steering Angbard discreetly. Miriam followed behind, arm in armwith her mother, and for the first time in months she dared to hope that theworst was behind her.