“Okay. How do I look?” asked Miriam.
“Hmm. I think you will pass. Don’t brush your hair until we are out of sight, though. It’s too clean to be seen in daylight, from all those marvelous soaps everyone uses on the other side, and we don’t want to attract attention. Humph. So what shall we do today, my lady?”
“Well, I think we’ll start by eating breakfast and paying the nice man.”
Nice
was not an adjective Miriam would normally use on a hotelier like the one lurking downstairs—back home she’d be more inclined to call the police—but standards of personal service varied wildly in the Gruin-markt. “Let’s hit the road to Hasleholm. As soon as we’re out of sight, I’m going to vanish. You remembered your pistol?”
Brill nodded.
“Okay, then you’re set up. It
should
just be a quiet day’s walk for you. If you run into trouble, first try to get off the road, then shoot—I don’t want you taking any chances, even if there isn’t much of a bandit problem around these parts in winter. Luckily you’re more heavily armed than anyone you could possibly meet except a Clan caravan.”
“Right.” Brill nodded uncertainly. “You’re sure that strange contraption will work?”
Miriam nodded. “Trust me.”
Breakfast below consisted of two chipped wooden bowls of oatmeal porridge, salted, eaten in the kitchen under the watchful (if squinting) eyes of the publican’s wife—which made it harder for Miriam to palm her pills. She made a song and dance of reciting some kind of grace prayer over the bowls. Miriam waited patiently, moving her lips randomly—her mute and incomprehending condition explained by Brill, in her capacity as long-suffering daughter.
Barely half an hour later, Miriam and Brill were on the road again, heading toward the coast, breath steaming in the frigid morning air. It was bitterly dry, like an icy desert. A heavy frost had fallen overnight, but not much snow. Miriam hunched beneath a heavy canvas knapsack that held her bicycle and extra supplies. Brill, too, bore a heavy bag, for Miriam had made two trips through to cache essential supplies before they began this trip. Although they’d come only two miles from Paulette’s house, they were centuries away in the most important way imaginable. Out here, even a minor injury such as a twisted ankle could be a disaster. But tiiey had certain advantages that normally only the Clan and its constituent families would have—from their modern hiking boots to the hefty automatic pistol Brill carried in a holster concealed beneath her Thinsulate-lined cloak.
“This had better work.” Miriam’s teeth chattered slighly as she spoke. “I’m going to feel
really
stupid if it turns out that this locket doesn’t work here, either.”
Brill said pragmatically, “My mother said you could tell if they’re dead. Have you looked at it since we came through?”
“No.” Miriam fumbled in her pouch for it. It clicked open easily and she shut it at once. “Ick. It’ll work, alright, if I don’t spill my guts. It feels
rougher
than the other one.”
Frozen leaf skeletons crunched beneath their boots. The post house was soon out of sight, the road empty and almost untraveled in winter. Bare trees thrust limbs out above them, bleak and barren in the harsh light of morning. “Are we out of sight, yet?” asked Miriam.
“Yes.” Brill stopped walking. “Might as well get an early start.”
Miriam paused beside her. She shuffled her feet. “Don’t wait long. If I don’t return within about five minutes, assume it means everything’s alright. Just keep walking and I’ll join you at the post house. If you hear anyone coming on the road, hide. If I’m late, wait over for one day then buy a horse or mule, head for Fort Lofstrom, and ask to be taken to Angbard. Clear?”
“Clear.” For a moment Brill froze, then she leaned forward and embraced Miriam. “Sky Father protect you,” she whispered.
“And you,” said Miriam, more surprised than anything else. Abruptly she hugged Brill back. “Take care.” Then she pulled away, pulled out the assassin’s locket, and stood in the middle of the road staring into its writhing depths.
* * *
It was twelve o’clock, and all the church bells in Boston were chiming noon.
The strange woman received nothing more than covert glances as she walked along The Mall, eyes flickering to either side. True, she wore a heavy backpack—somewhat singular for a woman—and a most peculiar cap, and her dress was about as far from fashionable as it was possible to be without street urchins harassing her with accusations of vile popery; but she walked with an air of granite determination that boded ill for anyone who got in her way.
Traffic was light but fast, and she seemed self-conscious as she looked both ways repeatedly before crossing the street. An open Jolly-car rumbled past behind her, iron wheels striking sparks from the cobblestones. There was a burst of raucous laughter from the tars within, returning to the North Station for the journey back to the royal dockyards. She dodged nimbly, then reached the safety of the sidewalk.
The pedestrian traffic was thicker near the fish market and the chandlers and other merchant suppliers. The woman glanced at a winter chestnut seller, raised her nose as she sidestepped a senescent pure-collector mumbling over his sack of dogshit, then paused on the corner of The Mall and Jefferson Street, glancing briefly over one shoulder before muttering into her scarf.
“Memo: This is
not
Boston—at least, not the Boston I know. All the street names are wrong and the buildings are stone and brick, not wood or concrete. Traffic drives on the left and the automobiles—there aren’t many—they’ve got chimneys, like steam locomotives. But the signs are in English and the roads are made of cobblestones or asphalt and it
feels
like Boston. Weird, really weird. It’s more like home than Niejwein, anyway.”
She carried on down the street, mumbling into the tie-clip microphone pinned inside her scarf. A brisk wind wheezed down the street, threatening to raise it from her head: She tugged down briskly, holding it in place.
“I see both men and women in public—more men than women. Dress style is—hmm. Victorian doesn’t describe it, exactly. Post-Victorian, maybe? Men wear cravats or scarves over high collars, with collarless double-breasted suits and big greatcoats. Hats all round, lots of hats, but I’m seeing suit jackets with yellow and blue stripes, or even louder schemes.” She strode on, past a baroque fire hydrant featuring cast-iron Chinese dragons poised ready to belch a stream of water. “Women’s costume is all tightly tailored jackets and hems down to the ground. Except some of the younger ones are wearing trousers under knee-length skirts. Sort of Oriental in style.” A woman pedaled past her on a bicycle, back primly upright. The bike was a black bone-shaker. “Hm. For cycling, baggy trousers and something like a Pakistani tunic. Everyone wears a hat or scarf.” She glanced left. “Shop prices marked in the windows. I just passed a cobbler’s with a row of metal lasts and leather samples on display and—
Jesus Christ
—”
She paused and doubled back to stare into the small, grimy windows of the shop she’d nearly passed. A distant buzzing filled her ears. “A mechanical adding machine—electric motor drive, with nixie tubes for a display. That’s a divide key, what, nineteen-thirties tech? Punched cards? Forties? Wish I’d paid more attention in the museum. These guys are a
long
way ahead of the Gruinmarkt. Hey, that looks like an Edison phonograph, but there’s no trumpet and those are tubes at the back. And a speaker.” She stared closer. The price … “price in pounds,
shillings,
and pennies,” she breathed into her microphone.
Miriam paused. A sense of awe stole over her.
This
isn’t
Boston,
she realized.
This is something else again.
A whole new world, one that had vacuum tubes and adding machines and steam cars—a shadow fell across her. She glanced up and the breath caught in her throat.
And airships,
she thought. “Airship!” she muttered. It was glorious, improbably streamlined, the color of old gold in the winter sunshine, engines rattling the window glass as it rumbled overhead, pointing into the wind.
I can really work here,
she realized, excitedly. She paused, looking in the window of a shipping agent, Greenbaum et Pty, “Gateways to the world.”
“’Scuse me, ma’am. Can I help you with anything?”
She looked down, hurriedly. A big, red-faced man with a bushy moustache and a uniform, flat-topped blue helmet
—oops,
she thought. “I hope so,” she said timidly.
Gulp. Try to fake a French accent?
“I am newly arrived in, ah, town. Can you, kind sir, direct me to a decent and fair pawnbroker?”
“Newly arrived?” The cop looked her up and down dubiously, but made no move toward either his billy club or the brass whistle that hung on a chain around his neck. Something about her made up his mind for him. Maybe it was the lack of patching or dirt on her clothes, or the absence of obvious malnutrition. “Well now, a pawnbroker—you’ll not want to be destitute within city limits by nightfall, hear? The poorhouse is near to overflowing this season and you wouldn’t want a run-in with the bench, now, would ye?”
Miriam bobbed her head. “Thank you kindly, sir, but I’ll be well looked after if I can just raise enough money to contact my sister. She and her husband sent for me to help with the children.”
“Well then.” He nodded. “Go down Jefferson here, turn a left into Highgate. That’ll bring you to Holmes Alley.
Don’t
go down the Blackshaft by mistake, it’s an odious rookery and you’ll never find your way out. In Holmes Alley you can find the shop of Erasmus Burgeson, and he’ll set you up nicely.”
“Oh
thank
you,” Miriam gushed, but the cop had already turned away—probably looking for a vagrant to harass.
She hurried along for a block then, remembering the cop’s directions, followed them. More traffic passed on the road and overhead. Tractors pulling four or even six short trailers blocked the street intermittently, and an incongruous yellow pony trap clattered past. Evidently yellow was the interuniverse color of cabs, although Miriam couldn’t guess what Boston’s environmentalists would have made of the coal burners. There were shops here, shops by the dozen, but no department stores, nor supermarkets, or gas-burning cars, or color photographs. The advertisements on the sides of the buildings were painted on, simple slogans like BUY EDISON’S ROSE PETAL SOAP FOR SKIN LIKE FLOWER BLOSSOM. And there were, now she knew what to look for, no beggars.
A bell rang as Miriam pushed through the door of Erasmus Burgeson’s shop, beneath the three gold spheres that denoted his trade. It was dark and dusty, shelves racked high with table settings, silverware, a cabinet full of pistols, other less identifiable stuff—in the other side of the shop, rack after rack of dusty clothing. The cash register, replete with cherubim and gold leaf, told its own story: And as she’d hoped, the counter beside it displayed a glass lid above a velvet cloth layered in jewelry. There didn’t seem to be anybody in the shop. Miriam looked about uneasily, trying to take it all in.
This is what people here consider valuable,
she thought.
Better get a handle on it.
A curtain at the back stirred as a gaunt figure pushed into the room. He shambled behind the counter and turned to stare at her. “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?” he asked, quizzically.
“Uh, no.” Miriam shuffled. “Are you Mr. Burgeson?” she asked.
“The same.” He didn’t smile. Dressed entirely in black, his sleeves and trousers thin as pipe cleaners, all he’d need would be a black stovepipe hat to look like a revenant from the Civil War. “And who would you be?”
“My name is Miriam, uh, Fletcher.” She pursed her lips. “I was told you are a pawnbroker.”
“And what else would I be in a shop like this?” He cocked his head to one side, like a parrot, his huge dark eyes probing at her in the gloom.
“Well. I’m lately come to these shores.” She coughed. “And I am short of money, if not in posessions that might be worth selling. I was hoping you might be able to set me up.”
“Posessions.” Burgeson sat down—perched—on a high, backless wooden stool that raised his knees almost to the level of the counter-top. “It depends what type of posession you have in mind. I can’t buy just any old tat now, can I?”
“Well. To start with, I have a couple of pieces of jewelry.” He nodded encouragingly, so Miriam continued. “But then, I have in mind something more substantial. You see, where I come from I am of not inconsiderable means, and I have not entirely cut myself off from the old country.”
“And what country would that be?” asked Burgeson. “I only ask because of the requirements of the Aliens and Sedition Act,” he added hastily.
“That would be—” Miriam licked her lips. “Scotland.”
“Scotland.” He stared at her. “With an accent like that,” he said with heavy irony. “Well, well, well. Scotland it is. Show me the jewelry.”
“One moment.” Miriam walked forward, peered down at the countertop. “Hmm. These are a bit disappointing. Is this all you deal in?”
“Ma’am.” He hopped down from the stool. “What do you take me for? This is the common stock on public display, where any mountebank might smash and grab. The better class I keep elsewhere.”
“Oh.” She reached into her pouch and fumbled for a moment, then pulled out what she’d been looking for. It was a small wooden box—purchased from a head shop in Cambridge, there being a pronounced shortage of cheap wooden jewelry boxes on the market—containing two pearl earrings. Real pearls. Big ones. “For starters, I’d like you to put a value on these.”
“Hmm.” Burgeson picked the box up, chewing his lower lip. “Excuse me.” He whipped out a magnifying lens and examined them minutely. “I’ll need to test them,” he murmured, “but if these are real pearls, they’re worth a pretty penny. Where did you get them?”
“That is for me to know and you to guess.” She tensed.
“Hah.” He grinned at her cadaverously. “You’d better have a good story next time you try to sell them. I’m not sticking my neck in a noose for your mistress if she decides to send the thief-takers after you.”