‘Well, you might want to think back to what you said about smuggling,’ Miriam pointed out. ‘I don’t want to be involved in that shit. And I’m worried as hell about the string we were pulling on the other week. Have you had any other incidents?’
‘Incidents?’ Paulie looked angry. ‘You could say that. Somebody burgled my apartment the day before yesterday.’
‘Oh shit.’ Miriam stopped dead. ‘I’m so sorry. Was it bad?’
‘It could have been. Only I was out at the time. The cops said it looked very professional. They cut the phone line and drilled the lock out on the landing, then went in and turned the whole place over. Took my computer and every disk they could find. Ransacked the bookcases, went through my underwear – and left my spare credit card and emergency bankroll alone. They weren’t after money, Miriam. What do you think?’
‘What do I think?’ Miriam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Paulette waited for her. ‘Well, you’re still alive,’ she said slowly.
‘Alive – ’ Paulette stared at her.
‘Paulie, these guys play hardball. They leave booby traps. You go into a place they’ve black-bagged and you open the door and it blows up in your face – or there’s a guy waiting for you with a gun and he can leave the scene just by looking at a wrist tattoo. I figure either I’m wrong and the shit Joe Dixon’s involved in isn’t to do with the Clan, or they don’t rate you as a threat – just sent some hired muscle to frighten you, rather than the real thing.’
‘I am so relieved. Not.’
‘Do be. I mean that seriously. If you’re still alive, it means they don’t think you’re a threat. They didn’t find the disk, so that’s probably an end of it. If you want to get the hell out of this now, just say. I’ll find the CD and burn it and you’re out of the frame.’
Paulette began walking again. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ she said tensely. Then she stopped and turned to face Miriam. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I was hoping you could help me.’ Miriam paused for a moment, then continued: ‘Did you get the job?’
‘As a paralegal?’ Paulette shrugged. ‘I didn’t get that one, but I’ve got another interview this afternoon.’
‘Well, how would you like another job? Starting today?’
‘Doing what?’ Paulette asked cautiously.
‘Being my self-propelled totally legal insurance policy,’ said Miriam. ‘I need someone who can work for me on this side when I’m locked up being Princess Buttercup in a palace with toilets consisting of a drafty hole in the wall. You’re clean, they didn’t pin anything on you, and now that we know who the hell we’re up against, we can make sure that you stay that way. What I’ve got in mind for the job will mostly involve handling non-stolen, non-illegal goods that I want to sell, keeping records, paying taxes, and making like a legitimate import/export business. But it’ll also involve planting some records, very explicit records, in places where the families can’t get their hands on them without getting caught.’ Miriam stopped again, thinking. ‘I can pay,’ she added. ‘I’m supposed to be very rich now.’
Paulette grinned. ‘Would this be something to do with you bearing a grudge against the asshole who fired us both?’
‘Could be.’ Miriam thrust her hands deep in her pockets and tried to look innocent.
‘When does it start and what does it pay?’
‘It started fifteen minutes ago, and if you want to discuss pay and conditions, let’s go find a Starbucks and talk over a coffee . . .’
*
Miriam became increasingly depressed on the train back to New York. It was late in the year, and darkness was already falling as the train raced through the bleak New England countryside. Soon the snow would be falling thick and deep, burying the bare branches beneath a layer of deadening numbness. She popped out one of the atenolol tablets that Roland had given her along with a couple of Tylenol, swallowing them with the aid of a Coke from the bar. She felt like autumn, too: The train was carrying her south toward a bleak world where she’d be enveloped in the snow of – well, maybe it was stretching the metaphor past breaking point.
Forty-four hours, and I’ll be seeing Roland again, she thought. Forty-four hours? She brightened for a moment, then lapsed into even deeper gloom. Forty-four hours, forty of which would be spent in the company of . . . of . . .
She hailed a taxi from the station concourse, feeling slightly lightheaded and numb, as if she hadn’t eaten. It took her to the block where she’d found the door. It looked a whole hell of a lot less welcoming after dark and closing time, and she hunched her shoulders as she stalked down the street, homing in on the alleyway by means of the green-lit display of her GPS compass.
When she reached the alley, she balked – it was black and threatening. But then, remembering who and what she was, she reached into her pocket and wrapped her right hand around the snub-nosed pistol she’d carried all day. They can arrest you, but they can’t hold you, she reminded herself with a flicker of reckless glee. What must it be like to grow up with the talent on the other side, then to come over to this world and realize that you could do absolutely anything at all and melt away into the night undetected? She shivered.
As it happened, the alleyway was empty, a faint glow leaking from under the warehouse doorway. She opened it and walked past the cabin. Nobody hailed her. She followed the GPS compass until its directions hit zero and she saw the metal emergency staircase.
At the top of the steps she took a moment to look around. There was no sign of any burglar alarms, nothing to stop anyone coming in off the street. I don’t like the look of this, she thought. Thirty feet farther on there was a sturdy brick wall. I can’t be sure, but it looks like most of the palace would be on the other side of that. Right? It was weird, but she didn’t have time to examine it right now. Putting her GPS compass away, she hauled out the locket from the chain around her neck that she wore under her sweater. She focused on the image and felt –
‘Mistress! Oh my – ’ she stumbled, black shadows pulling at the edges of her vision, and felt hands on her day pack, her shoulders, pulling her toward a richly cushioned ottoman – ‘You startled us! What is that you’re wearing? Oh, you’re so cold!’
The black shadows began to fade, and she had a feeling like a headache starting a long way away. The huge fireplace in one side of the main room – a fireplace big enough to park her car in – was blazing with flames and light, pumping out heat. Kara helped her stand upright, a hand under one shoulder. ‘You gave us such a fright!’ she scolded.
‘I’m back now. Is there anything to drink? Without alcohol in it?’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Brilliana, the more practical of the two. ‘Would my lady care for a pot of tea?’
‘That would be fine.’ Miriam felt herself closer to fainting than throwing up. Yes, the beta-blockers seem to work, she thought. ‘Drop the “my lady” – just call me Miriam. You didn’t tell anybody to search for me, did you?’
‘No, my – Miriam.’ This from Kara. ‘I wanted to, but – ’
‘It’s all right.’ Miriam closed her eyes, then opened them again, to be confronted by a teenager with braided brown hair and a worried expression wearing a brown Dior suit and a blouse the color of old amber. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said, trying to exude confidence. ‘I’ll be fine when I’ve had some tea. This always happens. Did anything unusual happen while I was gone?’
‘We’ve been busy making the servants unpack your wardrobe and travelling possessions!’ Kara said enthusiastically. ‘And Lady Olga sent you an invitation to walk with her in the orangery, tomorrow morning! Nobody is entertaining tonight, but there’s another public reception in Prince Creon’s name tomorrow and you have been invited!’ Miriam nodded wearily, wishing Kara wouldn’t end every sentence with an exclamation. She half-expected the girl to break out in squeals of excitement. ‘And Sfetlana has been so excited!’
‘About what?’
‘She’s had a proposal of marriage! L
ady Olga bore it! Isn’t that exciting?’
‘What is that you’re wearing?’ asked Brilliana, returning from the fireplace with a silver teapot held carefully in her hands; for the first time Miriam noticed the spindly table beside the ottoman, the chairs positioned around it, the cups and saucers of expensive china. It appeared that ladies-in-waiting led a higher-maintenance lifestyle than regular servants.
‘Something suited to the weather,’ Miriam muttered. Brilliana was wearing a little black dress that would have passed unnoticed at any cocktail party from the 1960s through the 1990s. In a cold, sparsely furnished castle, there was something curiously surreal about it. ‘Listen, that’s a fire and a half. Is there any chance of using it to heat a lot of water? Like, enough for a bath? I want to get clean, then find something to eat.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Afterward you can choose something for me to wear tomorrow when I go to talk with Lady Olga. And for the reception in the evening as well, I guess. But right now, I’d kill for a chance to wash my hair.’
FIREWALL
There was a bathtub in her suite. The huge claw-footed cast-iron behemoth lived in a room she hadn’t seen before, on the far side of the huge fireplace. There were even servants to fill it: three maids and a grumpy squint-eyed lad who seemed to have only half his wits about him. His job appeared to be to lurk in corners whenever anybody forgot to send him packing for another load of Pennsylvania coal.
Readying the bath involved a lot of running around and boiling coppers on the fireplace. While everybody else was occupied, Miriam pulled on her overcoat and went exploring, picking up Brilliana as a combination of tour guide and chaperone. She’d been half-asleep from exhaustion when she first arrived – and even more dead to the world after the reception at the palace. Only now was she able to take in her surroundings fully. She didn’t much like what she was seeing. ‘This palace,’ she said, ‘tell me about it.’
‘This wing? This is the New Tower.’ Brilliana followed a pace behind her. ‘It’s only two or three hundred years old.’
Miriam looked up at the roof of the reception room they’d walked into. The plasterwork formed a dizzyingly intricate layering of scalloped borders and sculpted bouquets of fruit and flowers, leaping over hidden beams and twisting playfully around the huge hook from which a giant chandelier hung. The doors and window casements were not built to a human scale, and the benches positioned against each wall looked lost and lonely.
‘Who does it belong to?’ asked Miriam.
‘Why, the Clan.’ Brilliana looked at her oddly. ‘Oh, that’s right.’ She nodded. ‘The families and the braids. You understand them?’
‘Not entirely,’ Miriam admitted.
‘Hmm, I had thought as much.’ Brilliana paced toward the far door, then paused. ‘Have you seen the morning room yet?’
‘No.’ Miriam followed her.
‘Our ancestor Angbard the Sly walked the worlds and accrued a huge fortune. His children lacked the ability, and there were five sons, sons who married and had families, and another six daughters. In that generation some kin married their cousins directly, as was done in those days to forestall dower loss, and the talent was rediscovered. Which was a good thing, because they had fallen upon hard times and were reduced to common merchants. Since then we have kept the bloodline alive by marrying first cousins across alternate generations: Three families are tied together in a braid, two in each generation, to ensure the alliances are kept close. The kin with the talent are shareholders in the Clan, to which all belong. Those who lack the talent but whose children or grandchildren might have it are outer family members, without the shares.’ She waited at the door for Miriam, then lifted the heavy bolt with two hands and pulled it open.
‘That’s amazing,’ Miriam said, peering into the vast gloomy recess.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ replied Brilliana, squeezing through the half-open doorway as Miriam held it ajar for her. Miriam followed. ‘These murals were painted by The Eye himself, it is said.’ Miriam blinked at dusty splendor, a red wool carpet and walls forming scenes disturbingly similar to – and yet different from – the traditional devotional paintings of the great houses of Europe. (Here a one-eyed god hung from a tree, his hands outstretched to give the benefit of his wisdom to the kneeling child-kings of Rome. There a prophet posed before a cave mouth within which lurked something unspeakable.) ‘This palace is held by the Clan in common trust. It is used by those family members who do not have houses in the capital. Each family owns one fifth of it – one tower – and Baron Oliver Hjorth occupies the High Tower, presiding over all, responsible for maintenance. I think he’s angry because the High Tower was burned to a shell eight years ago, and the cost of rebuilding it has proven ruinous,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘Very interesting,’ murmured Miriam, thinking: Yes, it’s about fifty feet long. This part of the palace was clearly doppelgängered, if the wall she’d seen in the warehouse was where she thought it was. Which meant that her own corner was far less secure than Angbard had implied. ‘Why was I accommodated here?’
‘Why, because Baron Oliver refused you as a guest!’ Brilliana said, a tight little smile on her face. Miriam puzzled for a moment, then recognized it as the nearest thing to anger she’d seen from the girl. ‘It is unconscionable of him, vindictive!’
‘I’m getting used to it.’ Miriam looked around the huge, dusty audience chamber then shivered from the chill leaching through its stones. The shutters were closed and oil lamps burned dimly in the chandelier, but despite all that, it was as cold as a refrigerator. ‘What does he have against me, again?’
‘Your braid. Your mother married his elder brother. You should inherit the Thorold-Hjorth shares. You should, in fact, inherit the tower he has spent so long restoring. Duke Angbard has made it a personal project to bring Oliver to his knees for many years, and perhaps he thinks to use you to provoke the baron into an unforgivable display of disloyalty.’
‘Oh shi – ’ Miriam turned to face the younger woman. ‘And you?’ she demanded.
‘Me?’ Brilliana raised a slim hand to cover her mouth, as if concealing a laugh. ‘I’m in disgrace, most recently for calling Padrig, Baron Oliver’s youngest, a pimple-faced toad! My mother sent me away, first to the duke, then to the baron’s table, thinking his would be a good household for a young maid to grow up in.’ For a moment, a flicker of nearly revealed anger lit up her face like lightning. ‘Hoping he’d take a horsewhip to me, more like.’
‘Aha.’ Miriam nodded. ‘And so, when I arrived . . .’
‘You’re a countess,’ Brilliana insisted. ‘Travelling without companions! It’s a joke, a position of contempt! Ser Hjorth sent me to dwell with you in this drafty decaying pile with a leaking roof – as a punishment to me and an insult to you. He thinks himself a most funny man, to lay the glove against a cheek that does not even understand the intent behind the insult.’
‘Let’s carry on.’ Miriam surprised herself by reaching out and taking Brilliana’s arm, but the younger woman merely smiled and walked by her side as she headed toward a small undecorated side door. ‘What did you do to offend the baron?’
‘I wanted to go across to the other side,’ Brilliana said matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve seen the education and polish, and the source of everything bright in the world. I know I have not the talent myself, but surely someone can take me there? Is that too much to ask? I’ve a mother who saw miracles in her youth: carriages that fly and ships that sail against the wind, roads as wide as the Royal Mile and as long as a country, cabinets that show you events from afar. Why should I not have this, but for an accident of birth?’ The anger was running close to the surface, and Miriam could feel it through her arm.
She paused next to the small door and looked Brilliana in the eye. ‘Believe me, if I could gift you with my talent I would, and thank you for taking it from me,’ she said.
‘Oh! But that’s not what I meant – ’ Brilliana’s cheeks colored.
Miriam smiled crooke
dly. ‘Did your mother by any chance send you away because you pestered her to take you over to the other side one time too often? And did Oliver banish you here for the same reason?’
‘Yes,’ Brilliana admitted. ‘A lady is someone who never knowingly causes pain to others,’ she said quietly. ‘But what about causing pain to one’s self?’
‘I think – ’ Miriam looked at her, as if for the first time: twenty-two years old, skin like milk, and blonde hair, blue eyes, a puzzled, slightly angry expression, a couple of small craterlike scars marring the line of her otherwise perfect jaw. Wearing a slim black dress and a scarf around her hair, a silver necklace set with pearls around her neck, she looked too tense to fit in here. Like a coiled spring. But give her a jacket and briefcase and nobody would look twice at her in a busy downtown rush hour. ‘I think you have too low an opinion of yourself, Brill,’ she said slowly. ‘What’s through this door, do you know?’
‘It’ll be the way up to the roof.’ She frowned, puzzled. ‘Locked, of course.’
‘Of course.’ This door had a more modern keyhole and lock. But when Miriam twisted the handle and tugged, it opened, admitting a frigid blast of damp air.
‘I think you’re right about it leading to the roof,’ Miriam said, ‘but I’d like to know just where the unlocked doors lead. Do you follow me?’
‘Brr.’ Brilliana shivered.
‘Wait here,’ Miriam instructed. She entered the doorway. Stone steps spiraled tightly up into blackness. She ascended, guided by touch as much as by vision. This must be higher than the doppel-gänger warehouse’s roof, she guessed. Cold wind smacked her in the face at the top. She turned and looked out across the steeply pitched roof, past machicolations, across gardens spread far below. And then the town, narrow streets and pitched roofs utterly unlike anything she’d see back home stretching away on all sides, dimly lit by lamplight. What do they burn? she wondered. Above the entire scene, riding high atop a tattered carpet of fast-moving white clouds, hung the gibbous moon. Someone had been up here recently, she realized. It was freezing cold, wet, and dark. Clambering about on the roof held no appeal, so she turned and carefully descended back into the relative warmth of the moth-eaten outer reception room.
The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) Page 21
