The next time she woke up was both better and worse. She had a pounding headache and her mouth felt as if a family of small rodents had set up home on her tongue—but she was in a bed, and fully conscious, the soft valium blanket no longer pressing down on her. Instead, she was alert—and completely aware of just how stunningly stupid she’d been.
In her careful list of what might have gone wrong, she’d overlooked option three: the entire clinic was a front for Angbard’s organization, in which case it was no surprise at all that it was doppelgangered. And Darling had known she was a hoaxer as soon as she opened her mouth, because none of the IVF scheme details had been registered with the relevant FDA supervisory committees. Nobody outside the clan had ever heard of W* heterozygotes. So . . .
She groaned and tried to roll over, away from the too-bright sunlight that was hurting her eyelids, only to be brought up short by a metal bracelet locked around her left wrist. Shit. She opened her eyes to see a whitewashed concrete wall inches away from her nose. I’m a prisoner.
The realization was crushing, and with it came a sense of total despair at her own stupidity. I told Paulie to take care and not go barging in, why couldn’t I listen to my own advice? She pushed herself upright and looked around, taking stock of her situation.
She was lying on a narrow cot in a room about five feet wide and maybe eight feet long. Next to the end of the bed, a stainless-steel sink was bolted to the wall. At the foot of the bed she could see a similarly grim-looking commode next to the door. The bed had a foam pillow and a sheet, and that was it. They’d dressed her in a hospital gown, taken her clothes, and handcuffed her to a ring in the wall by a length of chain. There was a window set high up in one wall, through which the morning—or afternoon—sunlight slid, and a naked bulb recessed in the ceiling, but she couldn’t see a light switch. There was no mirror over the washbasin, no handle on the inside of the door, and absolutely no sign to betray where she was. But she already knew roughly what this place had to be, and where. It was a doppelganger cell in one of the Clan’s surviving safe houses. An oubliette. People could vanish in here, never be seen again. For all she knew, maybe that was the idea—there’d be a sealed room on the other side, air full of carbon monoxide or some other silent killer so that if she somehow unchained herself and tried to world-walk . . .
Miriam shook her head, desperately trying to dispel the bubbling panic. I do not need this now, she told herself faintly. I mustn’t go to pieces. But telling herself didn’t help much. In fact, it seemed to make things worse. She’d stuck her nose into Angbard’s business, and she’d have to be a blind fool to imagine that Angbard would just slap her lightly across the wrist and say “Don’t do it again.” Angbard’s authority was based on the simple, drastic fact that everybody knew that you didn’t cross the duke. Roland had been terrified of him, Baron Oliver and her grandmother the dowager had given Angbard a wide berth, focusing instead on weaklings among his associates—the only person she’d known to openly cross Angbard was Matthias, and he’d just vanished. Quite possibly she was going to find out where he’d gone. If not—she cringed. It wasn’t as if she could try to bluff that it was just a stupid, sophomoric prank, an attempt to get his attention. Angbard wasn’t an idiot, and more important, he didn’t think she was. Which meant that he was bound to take her seriously. And the last thing she wanted was for Angbard to get it into his head that she was looking for—not to use any euphemisms—blackmail material. She glanced at her wrist, halfway desperate enough to try and world-walk anyway, risking the doppelganger room. Then she gave an involuntary moan of despair. Her temporary tattoo was gone.
There must have been a hidden camera or spy hole somewhere in the walls, because she didn’t have to wait long. Maybe half an hour after she awakened, the door rattled and slammed open. Miriam flinched away but was brought up short by the chain. Two guys in business suits stared at her from the doorway like leashed hounds watching a rabbit. Behind them stood an older man with a dry, sallow face and an expression like a hungry ferret: “We can do this two ways, easy or hard. Easy is, you sit in this wheelchair and don’t say nothing. You don’t want hard.”
“Do you know who I am?” asked Miriam.
One of the hounds glanced at the ferret for approval: receiving it, he stepped forward and punched her in the solar plexus. She writhed on the bed, trying to suck in enough air to scream, while the ferret watched her. “We know just who you are,” he said after a minute, so quietly that she nearly missed his words beneath the noise of her own racking gasps. “Boys, get her into the chair. She’ll be easy now—won’t you?”
There was a wheelchair waiting in the corridor and they got her into it in short order, transferring the handcuff and discreetly tucking it under her robe. Miriam didn’t pay much attention to the ride. Her chest was on fire, she’d lost bladder control when the guard punched her, and she felt too frightened and humiliated to risk meeting anyone’s eyes.
They wheeled her to an elevator, then along another hallway, and she caught a brief glimpse of daylight before they pushed her up a ramp into the back of an ambulance, all stainless-steel fittings and emergency kits strapped to the walls. Ferret clambered in with her, and after they secured the chair to the floor both hounds climbed out. They shut the doors, and a short time later the ambulance moved off. Miriam stared at the ferret and licked her lips. “Can I talk now?”
“No.” She flinched in anticipation but he didn’t hit her. The ambulance turned a corner and accelerated, then the driver goosed the siren.
Ferret caught her looking at him. “Always talking,” he said tiredly. “Do you want anything?”
Miriam stared. “Do I want anything?” She shook her head. “Got a towel?”
He reached out and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box, dumping them in her lap with an expression of mild distaste. “When we get where we’re going I’m going to wheel you out in that chair and take you to a transfer station. You will use the sigil there to follow me across. You won’t speak to anyone, under any circumstances. You will be given clothes, then you will follow me to a room where somebody important will give you orders. You will do exactly what they tell you to do. If you do not obey their orders I will hurt you or kill you, because that’s my job. Do you understand?”
The siren cut in again. Miriam stared at him some more: then she nodded, frightened beyond words. This quiet, middle-aged man terrified her. Something about him suggested that if he thought he should kill her he wouldn’t hesitate for a second—and he’d sleep soundly in his bed afterward.
The ferret looked satisfied. He shook his head, then leaned back. His suit coat fell open far enough that Miriam could see his handgun. She licked her lips: if she’d been a comic-book heroine, she supposed she would lean forward and make a grab for it. But she wasn’t a superhero. Comic-book Miriam lived in the land of make-believe, and it was real-world Miriam who’d somehow have to get out of this mess intact. Comic-book Miriam wouldn’t let herself get trapped, beaten, and cowed in the back of an ambulance with a fifty-something goodfella, on her way to an appointment with someone who had the power to have her killed. She wouldn’t have pissed herself the first time one of the hounds punched her, or ignored Paulie and Erasmus, or gone in to see Dr. Darling without backup, or tried to get to see Baron Henryk without preparation . . . I’m a fuckup, she thought miserably. I’m not safe to be allowed out on my own.
The ambulance braked hard, turned, and slowed to a stop. “Remember what I said. And no yakking.” The doors opened, revealing an underground car park and both hounds—this time one of them cradled a short-barreled Steyr AUG. Definitely Clan Security, Miriam registered, her knees going weak with dread. They’ve got me dead to rights, except that as far as Security were concerned, nobody had any rights: the Clan had been in a state of perpetual warfare since long before she was born, and even before that they’d taken a very medieval approach to dealing with dissent.
The garage was pretty clearly part of a Clan tra
nsshipment station, just like the others she’d seen: carefully designed to look like corporate offices from the outside, but equipped as a trans-dimensional fortress / post office once you got past the discreetly armored doors. The Clan had an almost Roman approach to standardizing the design of their bases. As the ferret directed her toward the stairs at the back of the vehicle park Miriam looked around, sickly certain that she wouldn’t be seeing its like again—not for a long, long time. They’d taken her locket, emphasizing the point by scrubbing her temporary tattoo. Escape was not an option they had in mind for her.
As it turned out, they weren’t going to leave her any options at all. The ferret and his helpers rolled her out of the ambulance, still in the chair, and wheeled her over to an elevator at the back of the garage. She glanced over her shoulder: from the inside, the garage doors looked huge and intimidating, reinforced against the risk of a police raid. They rode in silence down to a sub-basement level, then the guards wheeled her down a short dusty passage to a room walled in pigeonholes. The room was dominated by an open area marked out with yellow tape on the floor, in front of what looked like a window bay covered by a green baize curtain. “When the curtain opens, use the sigil,” said the ferret, wheeling her into position. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“But I’m in a chair—” Miriam began to rise, but a hand pushed down on her shoulder.
“You’re electrically insulated. Rubber tires.”
Miriam sat down again. Electrically insulated? she wondered. Her office chair, the one she’d first world-walked in while sitting at home, had plastic castors for feet—
The curtain opened on stomach-churning disorder. Miriam glanced round. The hound was waiting. She looked back and let her mind go blank. A moment later she was facing a closed red curtain, her head pounding as if someone were hammering a railroad spike through it. Her already-sore guts knotted in pain. She glanced round again.
“Don’t even think it,” the ferret murmured as he wheeled her out of the transfer zone. “Remember what I told you.”
Another corridor rolled past, this time featuring a tiled floor and wooden panels on the walls. It was narrow and gloomy, illuminated by weak electric bulbs. A great Clan house, but which one? She shifted in the wheelchair, wincing against the headache that was clogging her thoughts. Whoever they were, just maintaining an electrical system was a sign of wealth and influence. And they were somewhere near New York, near the capital city Niejwein, in other words. Her guts were close to cramping with dread. Clan Security had its own infrastructure, separate from the Clan Trade Committee’s postal service. Whoever she was being taken to see, they weren’t low down the pecking order. Baron Henryk, perhaps—or possibly the duke himself. Or—
The ferret stopped beside a door and knocked twice. Someone unseen opened it from the inside. “Consignment delivered,” the ferret told the worried-looking maidservant in the entrance, as he unlocked the handcuff securing her to the wheelchair with a flourish of a key ring she hadn’t even noticed him holding. “Stand up,” he told Miriam. To the servant: “You’ve got ten minutes. Then I want her back, ready or not.”
Miriam pushed herself upright, wincing as she was assailed by various aches and pains. She took a stumbling step forward and the maid caught her arm. “This way, please you,” she said haltingly, her accent thick enough to cut with a knife. Miriam nodded as the ferret disappeared and another servant closed the door behind her. “We are, please you, to disrobe—”
They had clothing waiting for her, a bodice and shift. Day wear for Niejwein. Miriam let them lace her up without speaking. Her hair was a mess, but they had a plain linen cap to cover it up. If they were just going to kill me out of hand they wouldn’t bother with this, Miriam told herself, and desperately tried to believe it.
Ten minutes later there was another rap on the door. One of the maids went to answer it. There was a whispered exchange of hochsprache, then the ferret stepped inside and looked her up and down. “She’ll do,” he said tersely. “You. This way.”
The ferret led her up the corridor to a narrow servant’s staircase, then along a landing to a thick oak door. It opened without a knock. “Go through,” said the ferret. “He’s waiting for you.” He gave her a light shove in the small of the back; unbalanced, Miriam lurched forward into the light.
The room was large, high-ceilinged, and cold in the way that only a room in a palace heated by open fires can be cold. High windows drizzled sunlight across about an acre of handwoven, richly embroidered carpet. There was no furniture except for a writing desk and a chair against one wall, situated directly beneath a dusty oil painting of a man in a leather coat standing beside a heavily laden pony.
Miriam took a couple of steps toward the middle of the room before she realized who was sitting behind the desk, poring over a note. She stopped dead, her heart flip-flopping in panic. “Great-uncle, I—”
“Shut up.” It was Baron Henryk, the head of the royal secret police, not kindly, casual Uncle Henryk, who faced Miriam from behind the desk. Uncle Henryk was amusing and friendly. Baron Henryk looked anything but friendly. “Do you know what this is?” He brandished the sheet of paper at her.
Miriam shook her head.
“It’s an execution warrant,” said Henryk, pushing a pair of reading glasses up his nose. “Stand over here, where I can see you.” He jotted something on the sheet of paper, then folded it once and moved it to an out-tray. “Not the full-dress public variety, more what the Americans’ CIA would call a termination expedient order. Your uncle runs them past me as partly a courtesy to the Crown—as a duke he has the right of high justice, should he choose to use it—but also as a measure of prudence.” Reflectively: “It’s a little hard to undo afterward if it turns out you switched someone off by mistake.”
“You, you approve execution warrants for the Clan?”
“Don’t you tell me you didn’t suspect something of the kind.” Henryk stared at her for a moment, then looked at the next note on his in-tray and frowned. “Hmm.” He picked up a different pen and scrawled a red slash across the page, folded it, and put it in the out-tray. “I don’t think so.” He put the pen down as carefully as if it were a loaded gun, then looked back at Miriam. “I’m not ready to give up on you yet.”
Miriam took a deep breath. “What—who—was that?”
“It could have been you.” His lips quirked. “We can’t protect you forever, you know.” He carefully drew a black velvet cloth across the papers and turned round to face her. “Especially if you keep putting your head through every snare you come across.”
“Why am I here?” She wanted to ask, How much do you think I know? But right now that might be a very bad idea indeed. Possibly she knew more than Henryk realized, and if that was the case, admitting it could be a fatal mistake.
“You’re here because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. I’m here because I’m trying to control the damage.” He took his reading glasses off and folded them carefully, then placed them on top of the black cloth. “Let’s get this straight. We know you learned about something you aren’t supposed to know about. That’s . . . not good. Then you compounded it by getting involved—and getting involved personally! You could have been identified. The next step might have been full public disclosure, with who knows what consequences. Helge, that is not acceptable. Before, before all this started, you came to me complaining that you were being treated as if you were under arrest. This time, make no mistake, you are under arrest.”
She tried to stay silent, but it was too hard. “What are you going to do with me?”
Baron Henryk didn’t reply at first. Instead, he looked up at the windows for a while, as if inspecting the quality of the plasterwork of the surrounds. “Interfering with the Clan post is a capital offense,” he said, pushing back his chair. He stood up heavily and crossed the carpet to the far side of the room, limping slightly. Miriam stood as if rooted to the spot. “Just so that you understand how serious the situation is,
I was not exaggerating when I said that execution warrant might be yours.” Henryk turned and squinted at her across the room from between fingers held in a frame, like a cinematographer assessing a camera angle. “Hmm.”
Miriam shivered involuntarily and took a step toward him. “Then why—”
“Because you are still useful to us,” Henryk said calmly. “Stop, stand still.” He walked across to the other corner of the room, looked at her from between crossed fingers. “That’s good. As I was saying, you made a habit of sticking your nose into affairs where it has no business. Luckily this time we found out before it became common knowledge—otherwise I would have had to approve a great deal more death warrants in order to cover up your misbehavior, and your mother would never forgive me.” He made the rectangle again.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking of taking your portrait; be still.” He squinted and shifted a little. “It’s a hobby of mine, plate-glass daguerreotyping.” He lowered his hands and limped back toward his desk. “The Queen Mother approves of you.”
Miriam took another deep breath, distressed. “What’s that got to do with things?”
“It suggests a way out of the dilemma.” Henryk stopped, just out of arm’s reach, and watched her. “Interfering with the post, Helge, isn’t the only capital offense. Making the head of Clan Security look like an idiot—that is a capital offense, albeit a more subtle one for which the punishment is never made public. As for jeopardizing relations between the Clan and the Crown, that is really serious. Lese-majeste, possibly treason. Not that you’re guilty of the latter two, not yet, but I wouldn’t put it past you, given how you’ve got the crown prince’s nose out of joint already.” He chuckled quietly. “We can’t afford to give you any more rope to play with, Helge, or you will succeed in hanging yourself. I’m afraid this is where the buck stops.” He walked back to his desk and unfolded the black cloth, swearing mildly as he spilled his spectacles. “ ‘Deferred pending overriding necessity,’ Helge, that’s all the slack I can buy you.” He held up the folded paper. “So here’s what is going to happen.
The Clan Corporate: Book Three of The Merchant Princes Page 22
