“It was your time in the north, wasn’t it?” The statement slipped out before Miriam could stop it.
Erasmus stared at her. “Yes, it was,” he said quietly.
She licked her lips. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say that.”
“Yes you did.” He glanced sidelong at the other occupants of the room: no one was paying them any obvious attention. “But it’s all right, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t mean to pry.” The waiter was returning, bearing two plates. She leaned back while he deftly slid her entree in front of her. When he’d gone, she looked back at Burgeson. “But I’d be crazy not to be curious. Months ago, when I said I didn’t care what your connections were…I didn’t expect things to go this way.”
He shrugged, then picked up his knife and fork. “Neither did I,” he said shortly. “You are curious as to the nature of what you’ve gotten yourself into?”
She took a sip of wine, then began to methodically slice into the overcooked lamb chops on her plate. “This probably isn’t the right place for this conversation.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
He wasn’t making this easy. “So. Tomorrow…train back home? Then what?”
“It’ll be a flying visit. Overnight, perhaps.” He shoveled a potato onto his fork, holding it in place with a fatty piece of mutton: “I need to pick up my post, make arrangements for the shop, and notify the Polis.” His cheek twitched. “I’ve reserved a suite on the night mail express, leaving tomorrow evening. It joins up with the Northern Continental at Dunedin, we won’t have to change carriages.”
“A suite?” She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that expensive?”
Erasmus paused, another forkful of food halfway to his mouth: “Of course it is! But the extra expense, on top of a transcontinental ticket, is minor.” He grimaced. “You expect travel to be cheaper than it is. It can be—if you don’t mind sleeping on a blanket roll with the steerage for a week.”
“Yes, but…” Miriam paused for long enough to eat some more food: “I’m sorry. So we’re going straight through Dunedin and stopping in Fort Petrograd? How many days away?”
“We’ll stop halfway for a few hours. The Northern Continental runs from Florida up to New London, cuts northwest to Dunedin, stops to take on extra carriages, nonstop to New Glasgow where it stops to split up, then down the coast to Fort Petrograd. We should arrive in just under four days. If we were really going the long way, we could change onto the Southern Continental at Western Station, keep going south to Mexico City, then cross the Isthmus of Panama and keep going all the way to Land’s End on the Cape. But that’s a horrendous journey, seven thousand miles or more, and the lines aren’t fast—it takes nearly three weeks.”
“Hang on. The Cape—you mean, you have trains that run all the way to the bottom of South America?”
“Of course. Don’t your people, where you come from?”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. “I’d better write that letter to Roger right now and mail it this evening.”
“That would be prudent.” Burgeson lowered his knife and fork, having swept his plate clean. “You’ll probably want to go through my bookcases before we embark, too—it’s going to be a long ride.”
After the final cup of coffee, Burgeson sighed. “Let us go upstairs,” he suggested.
“Okay—yes.” Miriam managed to stand up. She was, she realized, exhausted, even though the night was still young. “I’m tired.”
“Really?” Erasmus led the way to the elevator. “Maybe you should avail yourself of the bathroom, then catch an early night. I have some business to attend to in town. I promise to let myself in quietly.”
He slid the elevator gate open and as she stepped inside she noticed the heavily built doorman just inside the entrance. “If it’s safe, that works for me.”
“Why would it be unsafe? To a hotel like this, any whiff of insecurity for the guests is pure poison.”
“Good.”
Back in the room, Miriam jotted down a quick note to her sometime chief research assistant, using hotel stationery. “Can you get this posted tonight?” she asked Erasmus. “I’m going to have that bath now…”
The bathroom turned out to be down the corridor from the bedroom, the bath a contraption of cold porcelain fed by gleaming copper pipework. There was, however, hot water in unlimited quantities—something that Miriam had missed for so long that its availability came as an almost incomprehensible luxury.
The things we take for granted, she thought, relaxing into the tub: the comforts of a middle-class existence in New Britain seemed exotic and advanced after months of detention in a Clan holding in Niejwein. I could fit in here. She tried the thought on for size. Okay, so domestic radios are the size of a photocopier, and there’s no Internet, and they use trains where we’d use airliners. So what? They’ve got hot and cold running water, and gas and electricity. Indoor plumbing. The chambers Baron Henryk had confined her to had a closet with a drafty hole in a wooden seat. I could live here. The thought was tempting for a moment—until she remembered the thin, pinched faces in the soup queue, the outstretched upturned hats. Erasmus’s hacking cough, now banished by medicines that she’d brought over from Boston—her own Boston. No antibiotics: back before they’d been discovered, a quarter to a third of the population had died of bacterial diseases. She sighed, lying back carefully to avoid soaking her brittle-bleached hair. It’s better than the Clan, but still…
She tried to gather her scattered thoughts. New Britain wasn’t some kind of nostalgic throwback to a gaslight age: it was dirty, smelly, polluted, and intermittently dangerous. Clothing was expensive and conservative because foreign sweatshops weren’t readily available: the cost of transporting their produce was too high even in peacetime—and with a war time blockade in force, things were even worse. Politics was dangerous, in ways she’d barely begun to understand: there was participatory democracy for a price, for a very limited franchise of rich land-owning men who thought themselves the guardians of the people and the rulers of the populace, shepherding the masses they did not consider to be responsible enough for self-determination.
It wasn’t only women’s rights that were a problem here—and that was bad enough, as she’d discovered: women here had fewer civil rights than they had in Iran, in her own world; at least in Iran women could vote—but here, anyone who wasn’t a member of the first thousand families was second-class, unable to move to a new city without a permit from the Polis, a subject rather than a citizen. “Fomenting democratic agitation” was an actual on-the-books felony that could get you sent to a labor camp in the far north. Outright chattel slavery might not be a problem—it seemed to have fizzled away in the late nineteenth century—but the level of casual racism she’d witnessed was jarring and unpleasant.
I just want to go home. If only I knew where home is!
The water was growing cold. Miriam finished her ablutions, then returned to the hotel room. It was close and humid in the summer heat, so she raised the sash window, dropping the gauze insect screen behind it. Erasmus can let himself in, she thought, crawling between the sheets. How late will he—she dozed off.
She awakened to daylight, and Erasmus’s voice, sounding heartlessly cheerful as he opened the shutters: “Rise and shine! And good morning to you, Miriam! I hope you slept well. You’ll be pleased to know that your letter made the final collection: it’ll have been delivered already. I’ll be about my business up the corridor while you make yourself decent. How about some breakfast before we travel?”
“Ow, you cruel, heartless man!” She struggled to sit up, covering her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s half-past six, and we need to be on the train at ten to eight.”
“Ouch. Okay, I’m awake already!” She squinted into the light. Burgeson was fully dressed, if a bit rumpled-looking. “The chaise was a bit cramped?”
“I’ve slept worse.” He picked up a leather toilet bag. “If you’ll excuse me? I’ll k
nock before I come in.”
He disappeared into the corridor, leaving Miriam feeling unaccountably disappointed. Damn it, it’s unnatural to be that cheerful in the morning! Still, she was thoroughly awake. Kicking the covers back, she sat up and stretched. Her clothing lay where she’d left it the evening before. By the time Erasmus knocked again she was prodding her hair back into shape in front of the dressing-table mirror. “Come in,” she called.
“Oh good.” Erasmus nodded approvingly. “I’ve changed my mind about breakfast: I think we ought to catch the morning express. How does that sound to you? I’m sure we can eat perfectly well in the dining car.”
She turned to stare at him. “I’d rather not hurry,” she began, then thought better of it. “Is there a problem?” Her pulse accelerated.
“Possibly.” He didn’t look unduly worried, but Miriam was not reassured. “I’d rather not stay around to find out.”
“In that case.” Miriam picked up the valise and began stuffing sundries into it. “Let’s get moving.” The skin in the small of her back itched. “Are we being watched?”
“Possibly. And then again, it might just be routine. Let me help you.” Erasmus passed her hat down from the coat rack, then gathered up her two shopping bags. “The sooner we’re out of town the better. There’s a train at ten to seven, and we can just catch it if we make haste.”
Downstairs, the hotel was already moving. “Room ninety-two,” Erasmus muttered to the clerk on the desk, sliding a banknote across: “I’m in a hurry.”
The clerk peered at the note then nodded. “That will be fine, sir.” Without waiting, Erasmus made for the front door, forcing Miriam to take quick steps to keep up with him. “Quickly,” he muttered from the side of his mouth. “Keep your eyes open.”
The sidewalk in front of the hotel was merely warm, this early in the morning. A newspaper boy loitered opposite, by the Post Office: early-morning commuters were about. Miriam glanced in the hotel windows as she followed Erasmus along the dusty pavement. A flicker of a newspaper caught her eye, and she looked ahead in time to see a man in a peak-brimmed hat crossing the road, looking back towards them. Shit. She’d seen this pattern before—a front and back tail, boxing in a surveillance subject. “Are we likely to be robbed in the street?” she asked Erasmus’s retreating back.
He stopped dead, and she nearly ran into him: “No, of course not.” He didn’t meet her eyes, looking past her. “I see what you see,” he added in a low, conversational tone. “So. Change of plan—again.” He offered her his arm. “Let’s take this nice and easy.”
Miriam took his arm, holding him close to her side. “What are we going to do?” she muttered.
“We’re going to deliberately get on the wrong train.” He steered her around a pillar box, then into the entrance to the station concourse, and simultaneously passed her a stubby cardboard ticket. “We want to be on the ten to seven for Boston, on platform six. But we’re going to get on the eight o’clock to Newport, on platform eight, opposite platform six, and we’re going to get on right at the front.”
Miriam nodded. “Then what?”
“It’s sixteen minutes to seven.” He smiled and waved his ticket at the uniformed fellow at the end of the platform: Miriam followed his example. “At twelve minutes to the hour, we cross over to the right train. If we’re stopped or if you miss it, remember your cover, we just got on the wrong train by mistake. All right? Let’s go…”
Miriam took a deep breath. This doesn’t sound good, she realized, her pulse pounding in her ears as an irrational fear made her guts clench. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, instead keeping hold of Burgeson’s arm until he steered her towards a railway carriage that seemed to consist of a row of small compartments, each with its own doors and a running-board to allow access to the platform. As she reached the train, she glanced sideways along the platform. The same two men she’d seen on the street were walking towards her: as she watched, one of them peeled off toward the carriage behind. It’s a box tail all right. She forced herself to unfreeze and climbed into the empty eight-seat compartment, and Erasmus’s arms.
“Hey!”
“This is the hard bit.” He steered her behind him, then pulled the door to and swiftly dropped the heavy leather shutters across the windows of the small compartment. Then he walked to the door on the other side of the carriage and opened it. “I’ll lower you.”
“I can climb down myself, thanks.” Miriam looked over the edge. It was a good five feet down to the track bed. “Damn.” She lowered herself over the dusty footplate. “Got the bags?”
“Right behind you.”
The track bed was covered in cinders and damp, unpleasant patches. She patted her clothes down and reached up to take the luggage Erasmus passed her. A second later he stood beside her, breathing hard. “Are you all right?”
“A touch of—of—you know.” He wheezed twice, then coughed, horribly. “All right now. Move.” He pointed her across the empty tracks, towards a flight of crumbling brick steps leading up the side of the platform. “Go on.”
She hurried across the tracks then up the steps. She glanced back at Erasmus: he seemed to be in no hurry, but at least he was moving. Shit, why now? This was about the worst possible moment for his chest to start causing trouble. She looked round, taking stock of the situation. The crowd on the platform was thinning, people bustling towards open doors as if in a hurry to avoid a rain storm. A plump man in a tricorn hat was marching up the platform, brandishing a red flag. Nobody was watching her climb the steps from the empty track bed. Come on, Erasmus! She took a step towards the train, then another, and picked up her pace. A few seconds later, an open door loomed before her. She pulled herself up and over the threshold. “Is this compartment reserved?” she asked, flustered: “My husband—”
A whistle shrilled. She looked round, and down. Erasmus stood on the platform below her, panting, clearly out of breath. “No reservations,” grumbled a fat man in a violently clashing check jacket. He shook his newspaper ostentatiously and made a great show of shifting over a couple of inches.
Miriam reached down and took Erasmus’s hand. It felt like twigs bound in leather, light enough that her heave carried him halfway up the steps in one fluid movement. She stepped backwards and sat down, and he smiled at her briefly then tugged the door closed. The whistle shrilled again as the train lurched and began to pull away. “I didn’t think we were going to make it,” she said.
Burgeson took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. “Neither did I,” he admitted wheezily, glancing back along the platform towards the two running figures that had just lurched into view. “Neither did I…”
8
Breakthroughs
It’s all very simple, Huw tried to reassure himself. It’ll take us somewhere new, or it won’t. True, the Wu family knotwork worked fine, as a key for travel between the worlds of the Gruinmarkt and New Britain. But the limited, haphazard attempts to use it in the United States had all failed so far. Huw had a theory to explain that: Miriam was in the wrong place when she’d tried to world-walk.
You couldn’t world-walk if there was a solid object in your position in the destination world. That was why doppelgangering worked, why if you wanted protection against assassins for your castle in the Gruinmarkt you needed to secure the equivalent territory in the United States—or in any other world where the same geographical location was up for grabs. That explained why the Wu family had been able to successfully murder a handful of Clan heads over the years, triggering and fueling the vicious civil war that had decimated the Clan between the nineteen-forties and the late nineteen-seventies. And their lack of the pattern required to world-walk to the United States explained why, in the long run, the Wu family had fallen so far behind their Clan cousins.
“There are a bunch of ways the knotwork might work,” he’d tried to explain to the duke. “The fact that two different knots let us travel between two different worlds is interesting. A
nd they’re similar, which implies they’re variations on a common theme. But does the knotwork specify two endpoints, in which case all a given knot can do is let you shuttle between two worlds, A and B—or does it define a vector relationship in a higher space? One that’s quantized, and commutative, so if you start in universe A you always shuttle from A to B and back again, but if you transport it to C you can then use it to go between C and a new world, call it D?”
The duke had just blinked at him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I understand. How will I explain this to the committee?”
Huw had to give it some thought. “Imagine an infinite chessboard. Each square on the board is a world. Now pick a piece—a knight, for example. You can move to another square, or reverse your move and go back to where you started from. That’s what I mean by a quantized commutative transformation—you can only move in multiples of a single knight’s move, your knight can’t simply slide one square to the left or right, it’s constrained. Now imagine our clan knotwork is a knight—and the Wu family’s design is, um, a special kind of rook that can move exactly three squares in a straight line. You use the knight, then the rook: to get back to where you started you have to reverse your rook’s move, then reverse the knight’s move. But because they’re different types of move, they don’t go to the same places—and if you combine them, you can discover new places to go. An infinite number of new places.”
“That is a very interesting theory. Test it. Find out if it’s true. Then report to me.” He raised a warning finger: “Try not to get yourself killed in the process.”
The pizza crusts were cold and half the soda was drunk. It was mid-afternoon, and the house was cooling down now that the air-conditioning had been on for a while. Huw sat in the front room, staring at the laptop screen. According to the geo graph i cal database, the ground underfoot was about as stable as it came. There were no nearby rivers, no obvious escarpments with debris to slide down and block the approaches. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize what the area around the house might look like in a land bare of human habitation. “You guys ready yet?” he called.
The Merchants' War: Book Four of the Merchant Princes Page 17
