too
quiet. "Poul?" he called quietly. "Stanislaw—"
"They won't be answering." Schuller stepped out of the shadows.
Oliver's left hand tightened on the handrail. "What is this?" His right hand was already shoving aside his jacket, reaching for the small of his back—
Schuller shot him. In the confines of the high-ceilinged room the blast of the shotgun was more than a noise, a deafening concussion that launched a screeching flight of frightened birds from the grounds outside. Oliver Hjorth collapsed, eyes staring, his chest flayed open as any victim of the blood-eagle. Schuller racked the pump on his weapon, ejecting the smoking cartridge, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, his face still expressionless. "Fucking aristocratic traitor," he muttered, inspecting the baron's body for any sign of residual life; but there was not so much as a toe-twitch, and the pool of blood was spreading evenly now, no longer spurting but beginning to soak into the rug at the center of the hall. Turning on his heel, Schuller walked slowly towards the front door of the hall; raising his left hand to stare at something cupped within his palm, he vanished. An instant later he reappeared in a linoleum-floored utility room, windowless. Walking over to the telephone, he dialed a number from memory: "Message to the major," he said, swallowing back bile. "Cuckoo Four has hatched three eggs. Cuckoo Four is going home."
There was a moment's delay, and then a woman's voice spoke: "Got that, and good luck. The major says you did well."
"Bye." He hung up, carefully unloaded his shotgun, and deposited it on the workbench. Then, taking a pair of car keys from his pocket, he headed for the carport. It would be a long drive for one man sticking religiously to the speed limit; but if he hurried, he could be back with his unit by sundown. Unlike the baron, Earl-Major Riordan didn't think of his agents as expendable embarrassments.
It took more than a war, a liquidity crisis, or even a revolution to stop the dogs. The morning after his father explained the new arrangement to him—the identity of their new political patron, the reason for backing yen Hjalmar, and the ruling council of elders' plans for the future—James Lee, his hat pulled down as low as his spirits, walked to the track to put some money on the greyhounds.
It was not, of course, entirely safe for a man with Asian features to walk these streets alone; but Lin, his favorite younger brother, was more than eager to get out of the house for a few hours. With smoked glasses and the beard he'd been cultivating of late, James didn't feel too out of place; and in addition to his cane, he had a pistol and a locket on a ribbon around his left wrist.
"Look—I'll put two shillings on Red Leinster in the next race," said Lin, pointing at one of the muzzled and hooded hounds, being led back to the kennels in the wake of a near-miss. "How about you?"
"Huh. Three and six on Bottle Rocket, I think." James glanced around, looking for a tout's man. "And a pint of mild."
"Make that two pints." Lin flashed him a brief grin. "What's gotten into you, brother? I haven't seen you this low since . . ." He trailed off.
James shook his head. Another glance: "Not in English," he said quietly. "Later, maybe."
"Oh." Slightly crestfallen, Lin subsided. But not for long: "Look! There's your bookmaker." He pointed excitedly, at a sharply dressed figure surrounded by a court of supplicants, and not a few stone-faced gentlemen with stout walking sticks—some of them doubtless concealing blades. "Are you going to—"
James shook his head. "Life's a gamble," he said quietly. A moment later his mood lifted. "Yes, I think I shall take a flutter." He worked his way over towards the bookmaker, Lin following along in his wake. A few minutes later, by way of a tap-man who dispensed mild straight into battered pewter pots from the back of a cask-laden dray, he made his way towards the back of the trackside crowd. The audience was abuzz with anticipation as the fresh dogs were led out to the stalls. "Which do you think is more important: filial obedience, or honor?" he asked.
Lin's eyes crossed briefly. "Uh. Beer?" he hazarded.
James shook his head minutely. "Imagine I'm being serious."
"Well, then." Lin took a gulp of the black beer. "This is a trick question, isn't it? Filial obedience, obviously, because that's where your honor comes from, right?"
"Wrong." James took a sip from his own mug. "And yes it
is
a trick question, but not the kind you're expecting. Let me see. Try this one: Why does honor come from filial obedience?"
"Because it does?" Lin rolled his eyes this time, making it clear that he was honoring his elder brother precisely inasmuch as the free beer required. "This is boring—"
"No it isn't," James said, quietly urgent. "Listen. Firstly, we obey because it's the right and traditional thing to do. Secondly, we obey because it is what we shall want for ourselves, when
we
are elders. And thirdly, we obey because the old farts are usually right, and they are making decisions with our family's best interests in mind. They know what they're doing. Except when they
don't.
So let me rephrase: If you found out that the elders were doing something really stupid,
dangerously
stupid, and you couldn't talk them out of it—what would you do?"
A rattling clangor of gates and the shrill of a whistle: The dogs were off, bolting up the track in pursuit of the mechanical hare. "Oh brother." Lin was uncharacteristically quiet. "This isn't theoretical, is it?"
"No." Shouting and hoarse cheering rose on all sides as the crowd urged their hounds on. "They've bet the family's future on a wild black dog. Our future, Lin."
"They wouldn't do that," Lin said automatically. He raised his tankard, drank deeply as the gongs clashed and the crowd roared their approval. "Would they?" He wiped his mouth with the back of a hairless wrist.
"They would, and they did, with the best of intentions." James shook his head. "Huh, there goes my three and six. But looks like you lucked out."
"What have they done?" Lin asked as they queued to collect his winnings—not so much, for he'd bet on a favorite—from the men with clubs.
"Later." James waited vigilantly while his younger brother swapped his ticket for five shillings; the tout's men looked disapprovingly on, but made no move to pick a fight. They headed back to the dray for a refill, then over to the fence near the bleachers to watch. The racing dogs were kenneled, while dogs of another kind were brought out, along with a bear for them to bait in a wire-fenced enclosure in the middle of the track. "You met the enemy heir, Helge, Miriam. What did you think of her?"
Lin shook his head. "She's a crazy woman," he said admiringly. A shadow crossed his face. "I owe her, brother. It shames me to say."
"The elders sent you to kill her, and she ended up saving your life. That's a heavy obligation, isn't it? What if I said the elders have settled on a harebrained scheme to make us safe and rich—but one that will kill her? Where's your honor there, eh?"
"They wouldn't do that!" Lin glanced from side to side. "That would restart the war, wouldn't it?"
"They may not realize what they're doing," James said quietly. "They're entering into an arrangement with one of her enemies, though, a man who she told me had wronged her grievously. Another of the cousins, their feuds are hard to keep track of . . . but what makes this different is that they're
also
talking to a government man." His younger brother's eyes were bulging with disbelief. "I know, I know. I think they've taken leave of their senses, you know the rules—but Dad and Uncle Huan are agreed. They figure the revolution's going to turn into a bloody civil war, and I think they're probably right about that—and they think we need political patronage to survive it. Well, that goes against the old rules, but they're the elders: They