Instead she pulled out her wallet and a piece of paper and began writing.
Brilliana leaned forward. ‘He’s doing it again,’ she murmured. ‘I think there’s something in his jacket. Under his arm. He looks uncomfortable.’
‘Right.’ Miriam nodded, then shoved the piece of paper across the table at Brill. There was a pair of fifty-dollar bills and a train ticket concealed under it. ‘Here is what we’re going to do. In a minute, you’re going to stand up while he isn’t looking and walk to the other end of this carriage – behind you, over there, where the doors are. If – ’ she swallowed – ‘if things go wrong, don’t try anything heroic. Just get off the train as soon as it stops, hide in the crowd, make damn sure he doesn’t see you. There’ll be another train through in an hour. Your ticket is valid for travel on it, and you want to get off at South Station. Go out of the station, tell a cab driver you want to go to this address, and pay with one of these notes, the way you saw me do it. He’ll give you change. It’s a small house; the number is on the front of the door. Go up to it and tell the woman who lives there that I sent you and I’m in trouble. Then give her this.’ Miriam pushed another piece of paper across the table at her. ‘After a day, tell Paulette to use the special number I gave her. That’s all. Think you can do that?’
Brill nodded mutely. ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked quietly.
Miriam took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to do what we in the trade refer to as a hostile interview,’ she said. ‘What was his name, again?’
*
‘Hello, Edsger. Don’t move. This would not be a good place to get help for a sucking chest wound.’
He tensed and she smiled, bright and feral, like a mongoose confronting a sleepy cobra.
‘What – ’
‘I said don’t move. That includes your mouth. Not very good, is it, letting your mark turn on you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘I think you do. And I think it’s slack of you, nodding off just because you’re on the iron road and no world-walkers can sneak up from behind.’ She smiled wider, seeing his unnerved expression. ‘First, some ground rules. We are going to have a little conversation, then we will go our separate ways, and nobody needs to get hurt. But first, to make that possible, you will start by slowly bending forward and sliding that pistol of yours out into the shopping bag under the table.’
The courier leaned forward. Miriam leaned with him, keeping her pistol jammed up against his ribs through her jacket. ‘Slowly,’ she hissed.
‘I’m slow.’ He opened his jacket and slid a big Browning automatic out of the holster under his left armpit – two-fingered. Miriam tensed, but he followed through by dropping it into the open bag.
‘And your cell phone,’ she said. ‘Now, kick it under the table. Gently.’ He gave it a half-hearted shove with one foot.
‘Put your hands between your knees and lean back slowly,’ she ordered.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, complying.
‘First, you’re going to tell me who you’re delivering that case to at the other end,’ she said. ‘Ordinary postal service – or Angbard himself?’
‘I can’t – ’
She shoved the gun up against him, hard. ‘You fucking can,’ she snarled, slightly unhinged: ‘Because if you don’t tell me, you are going to read about the contents of that case on the front page of The New York Times , are you hearing me?’
‘It goes to Matthias.’
‘Angbard’s secretary, right.’ She felt him tense again. ‘That was the correct answer,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, I want you to do something else for me. I’ve got a message for Angbard, for his ears only, do you understand? It’s not for Matthias, it’s not for Roland, it’s not for any of the other lord-lieutenants he’s got hanging around. Remember, I’ve got your number. If anyone other than Angbard gets this message, I will find out and I will tell him and he will kill you. What’s going to happen next is: The train’s stopping in a couple of minutes. You will stand up, take your case – not the bag with your phone – and get off the train, because I will be following you. You will then stand beside the train door where I can see you until it’s ready to move off, and you will stay there while it moves off because if you don’t stand that way I will shoot you. If you want to know why I’m so trigger-happy, you can ask Angbard yourself – after you’ve delivered his dispatches.’
‘You must be – ’ his eyes widened.
‘Don’t say my name.’
He nodded.
‘You’re going to be an hour late into Boston – an hour later than you would have been, anyway. Don’t bother trying to organize a search for me because I won’t be there. Instead, go to the Fort Lofstrom doppelgänger house, make your delivery to Matthias as usual, say you missed the train or something, then ask to see the old man and tell him about meeting me here.’
‘What?’ He looked puzzled. ‘I thought you had a message.’
‘You are the message.’ She grinned humorlessly. ‘And you’ve got to be alive to deliver it, so as long as you do what I say you get to live. We’re slowing up: Do as I tell you and it’ll all be over soon.’
He shook his head very slowly. ‘He was right about you,’ he said. But when she asked him who he meant, he just stared at her.
*
There was an old building on Central Avenue, with windows soundproofed against the roar of turbofans. Whenever the wind was from the southwest and inbound flights were diverted across the city, the airliners would rattle the panes. But perhaps there were other reasons for the soundproofing.
Two men sat in a second-floor office, Matthias leaning back behind a desk and Roland perched uncomfortably close to the edge of a sofa in front of it.
‘Consignment F-12 is on schedule,’ said Matthias. ‘It says so right here on the manifest. Isn’t that right?’ He fixed Roland with a cold stare.
‘I inspected it myself,’ said Roland. Despite his stiff posture and the superficial appearance of unease, he sounded self-confident. ‘Contractor Wolfe has the right attitude: businesslike attention to detail. They vet their workers thoroughly.’
‘Well.’ Matthias leaned across his desk. ‘It’s a pity the cargo is laid over in Svarlberg while a storm blows itself out, isn’t it?’
‘Damn.’ Roland looked annoyed. ‘That’s recent, I take it?’
‘Two days ago. I did a spot inspection myself. Impressed Vincenze to carry me across for the past week. I think you’d better warn Wolfe that F-12 is going to be at least four days late, possibly as much as seven.’
‘Damn.’ A nod. ‘Okay, I’ll do that. Usual disclaimers?’
‘It’s in the warranty fine print.’ Neither of them cracked a smile. The Clan provided its own underwriting service – one that more than made up for the usurious transport charges it levied. The customer code-named Wolfe would damn well swallow the four- to seven-day delay and smile, because the cargo would arrive, one way or another, which was more than could be said for most of the Clan’s competitors. If it didn’t, the Clan would pay up in full, at face value, no question. ‘We have a reputation to guard.’
‘I’ll get onto it.’ Roland pulled out a small notebook and scribbled a cryptic entry in it. He caught Matthias staring. ‘No names, no pack drill.’ He tucked the notebook away carefully.
‘It’s good to know you can keep a secret.’
‘Huh?’
‘There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.’ He didn’t smile. ‘Look at this.’ Reaching into a desk drawer, Matthias pulled out a slim file binder and slid it across the desk. Roland rose and collected it, sat down, opened it, and tensed, frowning.
‘Page one. Our prodigal dresses for dinner. Nice ass, by the way.’
A glare from the sofa. If looks could kill, Matthias would be ashes blowing on the wind.
‘Turn over. That’s her, leaving her room, shot from behind. Someone ought to tell her she oughtn’t to leave security camera fo
otage lying around like that, someone might steal it. Turn over.’ Reluctantly, he turned over. ‘That’s her, in the passageway to a room in – ’ Matthias coughed discreetly into his fist. ‘And over, and oh dear, there seems to be a camera behind the bathroom mirror, doesn’t there? I wonder how that got there. And now if you turn over, you’ll see that – ’
Roland slammed the folder shut with an inarticulate growl, then slapped it down on the desk. ‘What’s your point?’ he demanded, shaking with anger. ‘What the fuck do you want! Spying on me – ’
‘Sit down,’ snapped Matthias.
Roland sat, shoulders hunched.
‘You’ve put me on the spot, did you know that? I could show this to Angbard, you realize. In fact, I should show it to him. I’ve got a duty to show it to him. But I haven’t – yet. I could show it to Lady Olga, too, but I think neither you nor she would care about that unless I embarrassed her publicly. Which would raise too many questions. What in Lightning Child’s name were you thinking of, Roland?’
‘Don’t.’ Roland hunched forward, eyes narrowed in pain.
‘If Angbard sees this, he will rip you a new asshole. To be fair, he might rip her a new asshole too, but she’s better positioned to survive the experience. You – ’ he shook his head. ‘I see a long future for you as Clan ambassador to a tribe of hairy-assed savages. For as long as any Clan ambassador lasts in one of those posts.’
‘You haven’t told him, though.’ Roland stared at the floor in front of the desk, trying to hide his suspicions. Surely Matthias wouldn’t be telling him this if he was just going to go straight to the duke?
‘Well, no.’ His interrogator fell silent for a while. ‘I’m not a robot, you know. Loyal servant, yes – but I have my own ambitions.’
‘Ambitions?’ Roland looked up, his expression strained.
‘The Clan doesn’t offer an ideal career track for such as I.’ He shrugged. ‘I expect you to understand that better than most of them.’
Roland licked his lips. ‘What do you want?’ he asked quietly. ‘What are you after?’
‘I’m after the status quo ante.’ He picked up the file and slid it into a desk drawer. ‘Your little servant lass made waves where she shouldn’t have. I want her out of the picture: I hasten to add, this doesn’t mean dead, it just means invisible.’
‘You want her to disappear.’ For an instant, an expression of hope flickered across Roland’s face.
‘Possibly.’ He nodded. ‘I think you’d like that – if you went with her. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Damn you, three years was all I had . . . !’
‘If you do as I say, then the folder and its contents – and all the other copies – will vanish. And the Clan won’t be able to touch you ever again. Either of you. What do you say?’
Roland licked his lips. ‘I thought this was blackmail.’
‘What makes you think it isn’t?’
PART SIX
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 time of the royal spasm. Standing at the far end of the table, before the red velvet curtains that sealed off the windows and the chill of the winter afternoon beyond, Sir Roderick leaned forward slightly, clutching his papers to his bony chest and wobbling back and forth as he recited. His colorless manners matched his startling lack of skin and hair pigmentation: He kept his eyes downcast as he regurgitated a seemingly endless stream of reports from the various heads of police, correspondents of intelligence, and freelance informers who kept his office abreast of news.
‘I beg your pardon.’ A valet flourished a clean linen handkerchief before the royal nose. John Frederick blinked, his expression pained. ‘Ah-choo!’ Although not 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 with the smell of beeswax furniture polish, and a faint oily overlay from the quietly fizzing gas lamps. ‘Sire?’
‘A moment.’ John Frederick, by grace of God king-emperor of New Britain and ruler of the territories and dependencies thereof, took a fresh handkerchief and waved off his equerry while anxious faces watched him from all sides. He breathed 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, we will return to you shortly. Lord Douglass, this matter of indiscipline among the masses troubles me. If the effects of the poor grain harvest last year are not mitigated in the summer, as your honorable colleague forecasts’ – a nod at Lord Scotia, minister for rural affairs – ‘then there will be fertile soil for the ranters 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 his reply. ‘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?’ At the royal nod, he leaned sideways. ‘Sir Roderick, may I ask you to rapidly summarize the domestic situation?’
‘By your leave, your majesty?’ Sir Roderick cleared his throat, then addressed the room. ‘Your majesty, my right honorable friends, the domestic condition is currently under control, but there are an increasing number of reports of nonconformist ranters in the provinces. In the past month alone the royal police have apprehended no less than two cells of Levelers, and uncovered three illicit printers – one in Massachusetts, one in your majesty’s western New Provinces, and one in New London itself.’ A whisper ran around the table: It was an open secret that the cellar press in the capital could print whatever they liked with only loose control, except for the most blatantly slanderous rumors and Leveler sedition. For there to be raids, the situation must be far worse than normal. ‘This ignores the usual rumbling in the colonies and dominions. Finally, police operations uncovered a plot to blow up the Western Summer Palace at Monterey – I would prefer not to discuss this in open cabinet until we have resolved the situation. Someone or something is stirring up Leveler activists, and there have been rumors of French livres greasing the wheels of treason. Certainly it takes money to run subversive presses or buy explosives, and it must be coming from somewhere.’
Sir Roderick sat down, and Lord Douglass rose. ‘Your majesty, I would say that if adventures are contemplated overseas, and if this should coincide with a rise in the price of bread, the introduction of new taxes and duties, and an outburst of Leveler ranting, I should not like to face the consequences without the continental reserves at Fort Victoria ready to entrain for either coast, not to mention securing the loyalty of the local regiments in each parliamentary district.’
‘Well, then.’ The king frowned, his forehead wrinkling as if to withstand another 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 me that if we can snip this odious weed in the bud, as it were, and demonstrate to the 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 for special affairs. ‘Sir Roderick, if you please, can you see to it?’
‘Of course, my lord.’ The minister inclined his head toward his monarch. ‘As soon as we have something more than rumor and suspicion, I will place it before your 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 meeting continued and in every way beside the sneezing fit it seemed a perfectly normal session of the Imperial
Intelligence Oversight Committee, held before His Imperial Majesty John the Fourth, king of New Britain and dominions, in the Brunswick Palace on Manhattan 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 away in space and perhaps two thousand years away from the court of King John in terms of historical divergence, another meeting was taking place.
‘A shoot-out.’ The duke’s tone of voice, normally icily deliberate, rose slightly as he abandoned his chair and began to pace the confines of his office. He paused beneath a pair of steel broadswords 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 to happen.’ He looked up at the swords. ‘Who was supposed to be in charge of her guard?’
The duke’s secretary – his keeper of secrets – cleared his throat. ‘Oliver, Baron Hjorth, is of course responsible for the well-being of all beneath his roof. In accordance with your orders I requested that he see to Lady Helge’s security.’ A moment’s pause to let the implication sink in. ‘Whether he complied with your orders bears investigation.’
The duke stopped pacing, standing in front of the broad picture windows that looked out across the valley below the castle. Heavily forested and seemingly empty of human habitation, the river valley ran all the way to the coast, marking the northern border of the sprawling kingdom of Gruinmarkt from the Nordmarkt neighbors to the north. ‘And the Lady Olga?’
The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) Page 31
