Another tedious, uneven magical mystery tour: another bland mansion with walled grounds, somewhere else in the city. Miriam straightened her back as the ferret and his guards waited. “This way,” he indicated, nodding toward a narrow passageway. “You will wait at the back, behind the wooden screen. You will say nothing during the ceremony. Observe, do not interfere or it will be the worse for you. I will fetch you from the reception afterward.”
“Worse?” she asked—rhetorically, for she had a very good idea what he meant. “All right.” She stuck her nose in the air and marched down the corridor as though her guards didn’t exist, as if she were attending this function of her own accord, and the occasion were a happy one.
The passage led to a small chapel, located near the back of the building in the oldest construction. The walls were of undressed stone, woodwork blackened with age. Her first surprise was that it was tiny, barely larger than her reception room. Her second surprise was the altar, and the brightly painted statues behind it. She’d have taken them for saints, but the iconography was wrong—no trinity here, but a confusing family tree of bickering authorities, a heavenly bureaucracy with responsibility for everything from births, marriages, and deaths to law enforcement, tax returns, and the afterlife. The post-migration Norse-descended tribes who had eventually settled the eastern seaboard of North America in this world had adopted the Church of Rome, but the Church of Rome hadn’t adopted Christianity, or Judaism, or anything remotely monotheistic. The Church here was a formalization and outgrowth of the older Roman pantheon, echoes of which had survived in the Catholic hierarchy of saints, the names and roles of the gods updated for more recent usage with a smattering of Norse add-ons. But no blood-eagles, Miriam thought, as she walked past the pews of menfolk to take her place behind the wooden latticework screen at the back, behind the women of the two households.
There were only about ten women present, and about twice that number of men; they were mostly servants and bodyguards, as far as Miriam could tell. A couple of heads turned as she walked in, including one formidable-looking lady. “Wer ind’she?”
“Excuse me, I am Helge. Kara asks me to, to come,” she managed in her halting hochsprache.
“Ah.” The woman frowned. She wasn’t much older than Miriam, but her attitude and the deference the others showed her suggested she was important. And there was a family resemblance. Mother? Aunt? Miriam dipped her head. The frown vanished. “I am . . . please? You are here,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Countess Frea. My daughter . . .” She shrugged, reaching the limits of her linguistic ability, and muttered something apologetic-sounding in hochsprache, too fast for Miriam to catch.
Miriam smiled and nodded. Some of the younger women were whispering, but then one of them moved aside and gestured to her. A seat at the back. Yes, well. Miriam accepted it silently, annoyed that her grasp of the language was insufficient to tell whether she was being snubbed or honored. I’ve been depending on Kara too much. And Brill, she told herself. Wherever she’s gotten to. Brilliana’s other duties made guessing at her whereabouts much less easy than dealing with Kara.
Another knot of women arrived, with much bowing and nodding and kissing of cheeks on both sides: an old lady with her daughters—both older than Kara’s mother, Frea—and their attendants. A brief introduction: Miriam bobbed her head and was happy enough to be ignored. At the front a couple of priests in odd vestments had begun chanting something in what might have been a mutant dialect of Latin, filtered through many generations of hochsprache-speaking colonials. A young lad swung an incense censer, spilling fumes across the altar as they continued. To Miriam’s uneducated eye (she’d been raised by her mother and her agnostic Jewish foster-father, and churchgoing hadn’t been on the agenda) it looked vaguely Catholic—until a third priest emerged from the not-a-vestry at the back, clutching an indignant white chicken and a silver knife. At which point Miriam was grateful for her place at the rear, which meant nobody was in a position to notice the way she closed her eyes until the squawking and gurgling stopped. It wasn’t that she was particularly squeamish herself, but she found the idea of killing an animal in cold blood as part of a religious ritual rather disturbing. I got the impression from Olga that they didn’t do that anymore, she pondered. What else did I get wrong?
Things speeded up after the sacrifice, which the priests dedicated to the Lady of Domestic Harmony, the Lord of the Household, and sundry other parties of the hearth who were contractually obliged to bless familial alliances, as far as Miriam could tell, or who at least had to be bought off in order for the whole enterprise not to end in a messy annulment some hours later. Two men walked up to the altar, neither of them particularly young: Frea’s eyes lingered on the older one, making Miriam suspect he might be a relative. Kara’s father? The priests asked him a whole bunch of questions, the answers to which seemed to boil down to “Yes, she’s my daughter to give away.” The other man waited patiently. Miriam couldn’t see him clearly because of the screen, but she had an impression that he was in his thirties, balding, and stockily built. And there was a sword at his belt. A sword? In church? I don’t understand these people . . . Now it was his turn to answer questions. They sounded a lot like “How much are you willing to pay for this guy’s daughter?” to Miriam, but she was barely catching one word in four. It could have been anything from “Will you take her as your wife and love her and cherish her?” to “That’ll be three pounds of silver and sixteen goats, and make sure you keep her away from the wine.” The questioning went on and on, until Miriam’s eyes began to glaze over with a curious mixture of boredom and anxiety.
Some sort of resolution seemed to be reached. One of the priests turned and marched into the back room. A few seconds later he reappeared, followed by a subdued-looking Kara. They didn’t go in for frothy white wedding dresses and veils, it seemed. Kara was wearing a rich gown, but nothing significantly different from what she might have worn for any other public event. The bald guy with the sword asked her something, and she nodded: and a moment later the other priest offered them both a cup containing some kind of fluid. I hope that’s wine, Miriam thought with a sinking feeling as they sipped from it. She couldn’t see the chicken anymore. Somehow I don’t think these guys hold with abstractions like transubstantiation.
Conversation started up on the bench ahead of her almost immediately. “It’s done,” or “That’s that,” if she understood it correctly. Two of the younger maids (daughters? nieces? servants?) stood up, and one of them giggled quietly. Up front, the men were already rising and filing out of the side door. “You will with us, come?” asked the old woman in front of Miriam, and it took her a moment to realize she was being spoken to.
“Yes,” she said uncertainly.
“Good.” The old lady reached out and grabbed Miriam’s wrist, leaning on it as she levered herself up off the wooden bench. “You’ve got strong bones,” she said, and cackled quietly.
“I have?”
“Your babies will need that.” She let go of Miriam’s arm, oblivious to her expression. “Come.”
There didn’t seem to be any alternative. They filed upstairs, into a chilly ballroom where servants with trays circulated, keeping everyone sufficiently lubricated with wine to ensure a smooth occasion. Miriam ended up with her back to a wall, observing the knots of chattering women, the puff-chested clump of young men, the elders circulating and talking to one another. The menfolk mostly had swords, which took her aback slightly. It wasn’t something she’d seen in a social setting before—but then, too many of her social encounters had been in the royal court, or with other senior members of the nobility present. Carrying ironwork in the presence of the monarch was a faux pas of the kind that could get you executed. I’ve been sheltered, she decided. Or I just had too small and too skewed a sample to see much of how things really work here.
Kara and the bald guy had been installed on two stools on a raised platform, and had much larger cups than anyone else. M
iriam tried to establish eye contact, but the bride was so focused on the floorboards that it would probably take a two-by-four to get her attention. A happy occasion indeed, she thought ironically, and drained her glass. How long until I can get away from this?
A hand clutching a bottle appeared in front of her and tilted it over her glass. “A drop more, perhaps?”
“Um.” Startled, Miriam looked sideways. “Yes, please.” He was in his late twenties, as far as she could tell, and he looked as if he had southeast Asian ancestry, which made him stand out in this crowd as effectively as if he’d had green skin and eyes on stalks. He was dressed like most of the men hereabouts, in loose-cut trousers and a tunic, but unlike the others he didn’t have a sword, or even a dagger, on his belt. “Do I know you?”
“I think not.” His English was oddly accented, but it wasn’t a hochsprache accent—there was something familiar about it. “Allow me to introduce myself? I am James, second son of Ang, of family Lee.” He looked slightly amused at her reaction. “I see you have heard of me.”
“I met your brother,” she said before she could stop herself. “Do you know who I am?”
He nodded, and she tensed, scanning the room for the ferret, his guards, anyone—because the circumstances under which she’d met his brother were anything but friendly. Damn, where are they? Why now? Her pulse roared in her ears, and she took a deep breath, ready to yell for help: but then he chuckled and slopped a bolus of wine into her glass. “You convinced the thin white duke to send him back to us alive,” said Lee. He raised his own glass to her. “I would thank you for that.”
Miriam felt her knees go weak with relief. “It was the sensible thing to do,” she said. The roaring subsided. She took a sip of wine to cover her confusion, and after a moment she felt calm enough to ask, “Why are you here?”
“Here? At this happy occasion in particular, or this primitive city in general?” He seemed amused by her question. “I have the honor of being a hostage against my brother’s safe return and the blood treaty between our families.” Was it really amusement, or was it ironic detachment? Miriam blinked: she was finding James Lee remarkably difficult to read, but at least now she could place his accent. Lee’s family had struck out for the west coast two centuries ago. In the process they’d gotten lost, detached from the Clan, world-walking to the alien timeline of New Britain rather than the United States. His accent was New British—a form of American English, surely, but one that had evolved differently from the vernacular of her own home. “I cannot travel far.” He nodded toward a couple of unexceptional fellows standing near the door. “But they let me out to mingle with society. I know Leon.” Another nod at the balding middle-aged groom, now chatting animatedly to Kara’s father from his throne at the far end of the room. “We play cards regularly, whist and black knave and other games.” He raised his glass. “And so, to your very good health!”
Miriam raised her own glass: “And to yours.” She eyed him speculatively. He was, she began to realize, a bit of a hunk—and with brains, too. What that implied was interesting: he was a hostage, sure, but might he also be something more? A spy, perhaps?
“Are you here because of, of her?” asked Lee, glancing at the platform.
“Yes.” Miriam nodded. “She was my lady-in-waiting. Before this happened.”
“Hmph.” He studied her face closely. “You say that as if it came as a surprise to you, milady.”
“It did.” Damn, I shouldn’t be giving this much away! “I wasn’t asked my opinion, shall we say.” It was probably the wine, on an empty stomach, she realized. She was feeling wobbly enough as it was, and the sense of isolation was creeping up on her again.
“I’d heard a rumor that you were out of favor.”
He was fishing, but he sounded almost sympathetic. Miriam looked at him sharply. Handsome is as handsome does, she reminded herself. “A rumor?”
“There’s a, a grapevine.” He shrugged. “I’m not the only guest of the families who is gathered to their bosom with all the kind solicitude due an asp”—he snorted—“and people will talk, after all! One rumor made play of a scandal between you and a youngblood of the duke’s faction who, regrettably, died some months ago in an incident nobody will discuss: according to others, you kicked up a fuss sufficient to wake the dead, rattling skeletons in their closets until other parties felt the need to remove you from the game board to the toy box, if you will pardon the mixed metaphor.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the truth is both less scandalous and more sympathetic than any of the rumors would have it.”
“Really.” She smiled tightly and took a full mouthful of wine. “As a matter of fact both the rumors are more or less true, in outline at least. I’m pleased you’re polite enough not to raise the third one: it would be interesting to compare notes on the climate in New Britain some day, but right now I suspect we’d only upset our minders.”
Now it was Lee’s turn to look unhappy. “I want you to know that I did not approve of the attempts on your life,” he said rapidly. “It was unnecessary and stupid and—”
“Purely traditional.” Miriam finished her wine and pushed her glass at him. “Right. And you’re young and sensible and know how your hidebound grandparents ought to be running the family if they weren’t stuck in the past?”
He gave her an ironic smile as he refilled both their glasses. “Exactly. Oh dear, this bottle appears to be empty, I wonder how that happened?” He made a minute gesture and a servant came sidling up to replace it: How does he do that? Miriam wondered.
“Let me guess.” Her nose was beginning to prickle, a sure sign that she’d had enough and that she needed to be watching her tongue, but right now she didn’t care about discretion. Right now she felt like letting her hair down, and damn the consequences for another day. Besides, Lee was handsome and smart and a good listener, a rare combination in this benighted backwater. “You’d been kicking shins a little too hard, so the honorable head of the family sent you here when he needed a hostage to exchange with Angbard. Right?”
James Lee sighed. “You have such an interesting idiom—and so forthright. To the bone. Yes, that is exactly it. And yourself . . . ?”
Miriam frowned. “I don’t fit in here,” she said quietly. “They want to shut me in a box. Y’know, where I come from, women don’t take that. Not second-class citizens, not at all. I grew up in Boston, the Boston of the United States. Able to look after myself. It’s different to the world you know: women have the vote, can own property, have legal equality, run businesses—” She took a deep breath, feeling the bleak depression poised, ready to come crashing down on her again. “You can guess how well I fit in here.”
“Hmm.” His glass was empty. Miriam watched as he refilled it. “It occurs to me that we shall both be drunk before this is over.”
“I can think of less appropriate company to get drunk in.” She shrugged, slightly unbalanced by everything. A discordance of strings sought their tune from a balcony set back above the doorway, musicians with acoustic instruments preparing to play something not unlike a baroque chamber piece. “And in the morning we’ll both be sober and Kara will still be married to some fellow she hadn’t even met yesterday.” She glanced around, wishing there was somewhere she could spit to get the nasty taste out of her mouth.
“This is a problem for you?”
“It’s not so much a problem as a warning.” She took a step backward and leaned against the wall. She felt tired. “The bastards are going to marry me off,” she heard herself explaining. “This is so embarrassing. Where I grew up you just don’t do that to people. Especially not to your daughter. But Mom’s got her—reasons—and I suppose the duke thinks he’s got his, and I, I made a couple of mistakes.” Fucking stupid ones, she thought despairingly. It could be worse; if I wasn’t lucky enough to be a privileged rich bitch and the duke’s niece to boot, they’d probably have killed me, but instead they’re just going to nail me down and use me as a pawn in their political ch
ess game. Oops. She put a hand to her mouth. Did I say any of that aloud? Lee was watching her sympathetically.
“We could elope together,” he offered, his expression hinting that this suggestion was not intended to be taken entirely seriously.
“I don’t think so.” She forced a grin. You’re cute but you’re no Roland. Roland I’d have eloped with in a split second. Damn him for getting himself killed . . . “But thanks for the offer.”
“Oh, it was nothing. If there’s anything I can do, all you need is to ask.”
“Oh, a copy of the family knotwork would do fine,” she said, and hiccoughed.
“Is that all?” He shook his head. “They’d chase you down if you went anywhere in the three known worlds.”
“Three known worlds?” Her glass was empty again. Couples were whirling in slow stately circles around the dance floor, and she had a vague idea that she might be able to join them if she was just a bit more sober: her lessons had covered this one—
“Vary the knotwork, vary the destination.” James shrugged. “Once that much became clear, two of our youngsters tried it. The first couple of times, they got headaches and stayed where they were. On the second attempt one of them vanished, then came back a few hours later with a story about a desert of ice. On the third attempt, they both vanished, and stayed missing.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding!”
He took her glass and placed it on the floor, alongside his own, by the skirting board. Then he straightened up again. “No.”
“What did they find?”
He offered her his hand. “Will you dance? People will gossip less . . .”
“Sure.” She took it. He led her onto the floor. In deference to the oldsters the tempo was slow, and she managed to follow him without too much stumbling. “I’m crap at this. Not enough practice when drunk.”
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