Target.
She stopped, halfway from pillared bay to dancing floor, as if struck in the head by a two-by-four.
“Milady Miriam? What is it?” Brilliana was tugging at her sleeve.
“Shush. I’m thinking.”
Target.
Thirty-two years ago someone had pursued and murdered her mother, while she was en route to this very court to pay attendance to the king—probably Alexis’s father. During the civil war between the families, before the Clan peace was installed. Her mother’s marriage had been the peace settlement that cemented one corner of the arrangement.
Since she’d come here, someone had tried to kill her at least twice.
Miriam thought furiously.
These people hold long grudges. Are the incidents connected?
If so, it could be more than Baron Hjorth’s financial machinations. Or Matthias’s mysterious factions. Or even the dowager grandmother, Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth.
Someone ignorant of her past. Of course! If they’d known about her before, or on the other side, she’d have been pushed under a subway train or run over by a car or shot in a random drive-by incident long before she’d discovered the way back.
How common is it to conceal an heir?
she wondered.
“Mistress, you’ve got to come.”
“What is it?” Something about Brilliana’s insistent nudging attracted Miriam’s attention.
It’s not me, it’s something to do with who I am,
she realized vaguely, groping for the light.
I’m so important to these people that they can’t conceive of me not joining in their game. It would be like the vice president refusing to talk to the Senate. Even if I don’t do anything, tell them I want to be left alone, that would be seen as some kind of deep political game.
“What’s happening?” she asked distractedly.
“It’s Kara,” Brill insisted. “We’ve got a problem.”
“I’m here,” she said, shaking her head, dazed by her insight.
I’ve got to be a politician, whether I like it or not…
“What is it now?”
As it happened, Kara was somewhat the worse for wear, not to say steaming drunk. A young Sir Nobody-in-Particular had been plying her with wine, evidently fortified by freezing—her speech was slurred and incoherent and her hair mussed—quite possibly with intent to climb into her clothing with her. He hadn’t got far, perhaps because Kara was more enthusiastic than discreet, but it wasn’t for want of trying. Though Kara protested her innocence, Miriam detected more than a minor note of concern on Brill’s part. “Look, I think there’s a good reason for going home,” Miriam told the two of them. “Can you get into the carriage?” she questioned Kara.
“Course I can,” Kara slurred. “N’body does ’t better!”
“Right.” Miriam glanced at Brilliana. “Let’s get her home.”
“Do you want to stay, mistress?” Brilliana looked at her doubtfully.
“I want—” Miriam stopped. “What I want doesn’t seem likely to make any difference here,” she said bleakly, feeling the weight of the world descend on her shoulders.
Angbard named me his heir because he wanted me to attract whatever faction tried to kill my mother,
she thought.
Hildegarde takes against me because I can’t bring back, or be, her daughter, and now I’ve got these two ingénues to look out for.
Not to mention Roland. Roland, who might be—
“Got a message,” announced Kara as they were halfway to the door.
“A message? How nice,” Miriam said dryly.
“For th’ mistress,” Kara added. Then she focused on Miriam. “Oh!”
From between her breasts, she produced a thin scrap of paper. Miriam stuffed it in her hand-warmer and took Kara by the arm. “Come on home, you,” she insisted.
The carriage was literally freezing. Icicles dangled from the steps as they climbed in, and the leather seats crackled as they sat down. “Home,” Brilliana told the driver. With a shake of the reins, he set the horses to walking, their breath steaming in the frigid air. “That was exciting!” she said. “Shame you spoiled it,” she chided Kara. “What were you arguing about with those gentles?” she asked Miriam timidly. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“I was being put in my place by my grandmother, I think,” Miriam muttered. Hands in her warmer, she fumbled for the blister-pack of beta-blocker tablets. She briefly brought a hand out and dry-swallowed one, along with an ibuprofen. She had a feeling she’d be needing them soon. “What do you know about the history of my family, Brill?” she asked.
“What, about your parents? Or your father? Families or braids?”
Miriam shut her eyes. “The civil war,” she murmured. “Who started it?”
“Why—” Brilliana frowned. “The civil war? ’Tis clear enough: Wu and Hjorth formed a compact of trade, east coast to west, at the expense of the Clan; Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen, and Hjalmar returned the compliment, sending Andru Arnesen west to represent them in Chang-Shi, and he was murdered on his arrival there by a man who vanished into thin air. Clearly it was an attempt to prevent the Clan of four from competing, so they took equivalent measures against the gang of two. What made it worse was that some hidden members of each braid seemed to want to keep the feud burning. Every time it looked as if the elders were going to settle things up, a new outrage would take place—Duchess Lofstrom abused and murdered, Count Thorold-Arnesen’s steading raided and set alight.”
“That’s—” Miriam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a Hjahnar, right?”
“Yes?” Brilliana nodded. “Why? What does it mean?”
“Just thinking,” Miriam said.
Left-over grudges, a faction that didn’t want the war to stop, to stop eating the Clan’s guts out.
She hit a brick wall.
It’s as if someone from outside had stepped in, intervened to set cousins against each other…
She sat up.
“Weren’t there originally seven sons of Angmar the Sly?”
“Urn, yes?” Brill looked puzzled.
“But one was lost, in the early days?”
Brill nodded. “That was Markus, or something. The first to head west to make his fortune.”
“Aha.” Miriam nodded.
“Why?”
“Just thinking.”
Hypothesis: There is
another
family, outside the Clan. The Clan don’t know about them. They’re not numerous, and they ‘re in the same import/export trade. Won’t they see the Clan as a threat? But why? Why couldn’t they simply marry back into the braids?
She shook her head.
I should have tried those experiments with the photograph of the locket.
The carriage drew up at the door of the Thorold Palace, and Miriam and Brilliana managed to get Kara out without any untoward incidents. Then Kara responded to the cold air by stumbling to the side of the ornate portico, bending over as far as she could, and vomiting in an ornamental planter.
“Ugh,” said Brilliana. She glanced sidelong at Miriam. “This should not have happened.”
“At least the plants were dead first,” Miriam reassured her. “Come on. Let’s get her inside.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Brill took a deep breath. “Euen of Arnesen plied her with fortified wine while she was out with my sight. I should have seen it, but was myself besieged when not following your lead.” She frowned. “This was deliberate.”
“You expect me to be surprised?” Miriam shook her head. “Come on. Let’s get her up to our rooms and see she doesn’t—” a flashback to Matthias’s warning—“
embarrass
us further.”
Brill helped steer Kara upstairs, and Miriam ensured that she was sat upright on a chaise lounge, awake and complaining with a cup of tea, before she retreated to her bedroom. She started to remove her cloak then remembered the hand-warmer, and the message Kara had passed her. She unrolled it and read.
I have urgent news concerning the assassin who has been stalking you. Meet me in the orangery at midnight.
Your obedient servant, Earl Roland Lofstrom
“Shit,”
she mumbled under her breath. “Brill!”
“Yes, Miriam?”
“Help me undress, will you?”
“What, right now? Are you going to bed?”
“Not immediately,” Miriam said grimly. “Our assassin seems to have gotten tired of trying to sneak up on me and is trying to reel me in like a fish. Only he’s made a big mistake.” She turned to present her back. “Unlace me. I’ve got places to go, and it’d be a shame to get blood on this gown.”
* * *
Black jeans, combat boots, turtleneck, and leather jacket: a gun in her pocket and a locket in her left hand. Miriam breathed deeply, feeling naked despite everything. She felt as if the only thing she was wearing was a target between her shoulder blades.
Across the room Brilliana looked worried. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” she asked again. “Do you want me to come? I am trained using a pistol—”
“I’ll be fine. But I may have to world-walk in a hurry.”
I won’t be fine,
Miriam corrected herself silently:
But if I don’t deal with this trouble sooner or later, they’ll kill me. Won’t they?
And the one thing an assassin wouldn’t be expecting would be for her—not one of the Clan-raised hotheads born with her hands on a pistol, but a reasonable, civilized journalist from a world where that sort of thing just didn’t happen—to turn on them. She hoped.
Miriam hitched her day sack into place and checked her right pocket again, the one with the gun and a handful of spare cartridges. She didn’t feel fine: There were butterflies in her stomach. “If there’s a problem, I’ll stay the night on the other side, safely out of the way. But I need to
know
. I want you to wait half an hour, then take Kara around to Olga and sit things out with her there. With your gun, and Olga, and her own guards, in a properly doppelgängered area, you should be safe. But I don’t want her tripping and falling downstairs before we learn who gave her that note. D’you understand? Matthias promised to sort me out some guards tomorrow, but I don’t trust him. If he’s in on this—or just being watched—there’ll be an attempt on my life tonight. Except this time I think they got sloppy, expecting me to turn up for it like it’s an appointment. So I’m going to avoid it entirely.”
“I understand.” Brill stood up. “Good luck,” she said.
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Miriam took two steps toward the door, then pulled out her locket.
Dizziness, mild nausea, a headache that clamped around her head like a vice. She looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed in the warehouse attic, other than the dim light getting dimmer and the bad smell from somewhere nearby. It was getting worse, and it reminded her of something. “Hmm.”
Miriam ducked behind a wall of wooden crates, her head pounding. She pulled the pistol out, slightly nervous at first. It was a self-cocking revolver, reliable and infinitely reassuring in the gloom.
Stay away from guns,
the training course had emphasized. But that was then, back where she was a journalist and the world made sense to rational people. But
if they’re trying to kill you, you have to kill them first,
was another, older lesson from the firearms instructor her father had sent her to. And here and now, it seemed to make more sense.
Carefully, very slowly, she inched forward over the edge of the mezzanine floor and looked down. The ground floor of the warehouse was a maze of wooden cases and boxes. The mobile home that constituted the site office was blocked up in the middle of it. There was no sign of anybody about, none of the comforting noises of habitation.
Miriam rose to a crouch and scurried down the stairs as quietly as she could. She ducked below the stairs, then from shadow to shadow toward the door.
There was a final open stretch between the site office and the exit. Instead of crossing it, Miriam tiptoed around the wall of the parked trailer, wrinkling her nose at a faint, foul smell.
The site office door was open and the light inside was on. Holding her gun behind her, she stood up rapidly and climbed the three steps to the door of the trailer. Then she looked inside.
“Fuck!”
The stench was far worse in here, and the watchman seemed to be smiling at her. Smiling? She turned away blindly, sticking her head out of the door, and took deep breaths, desperately trying to get her stomach back under control.
Cultivate your professional detachment,
she told herself, echoing a half-forgotten professor’s admonition from med school. Reflexes left over from anatomy classes kicked in. She turned back to the thing that had surprised her and began to make observations, rattled to her core but still able to function. She’d seen worse in emergency rooms, after all.
It was the old guy she’d met with the clipboard, and he was past any resuscitation attempt. Someone had used an extremely sharp knife to sever his carotid artery and trachea, and continued to slice halfway through his spine from behind. There was dried blood everywhere, huge black puddles of it splashed over walls and floor and the paper-strewn desk, curdling in great thick viscous lumps—the source of only some of the smell, for he’d voided his bowels at the same time. He was still lying on top of his tumbled chair, his skin waxy and—she reached out to touch—cold.
At least twelve hours,
she thought, gingerly trying to lift an arm still locked in rigor mortis,
but probably no longer
. Would the intense cold retard the processes of decay? Yes, a little bit.
That would put it before my last trip over here, but after I saw Paulette.
“Goodfellas,” she whispered under her breath: It came out as an angry curse. During her night with Roland, someone had entered the warehouse, casually murdered the old man, climbed the stairs—breaking the hair—and then, what?
Brought the attacker who’d gone up on the roof and tried to attack Olga? Then he came back later, crossed over to the other side, and emptied a pistol into the dummy made of pillows lying in her bed? Gone away?
Correlation does not imply causality,
she reminded herself and giggled, shocked at herself and increasingly angry.