But Angbard had planned on being around to coordinate the recruitment of the new world-walkers. He hadn't expected Matthias's defection, or the exposure of the clinics to hostile inspection, and he hadn't anticipated the reaction of the Auld Bitches, the gaggle of grandmothers whose carefully arranged marriages kept the traditional Clan structure afloat. Their tame gynecologist, Dr. ven Hjalmar, was a stalwart of the conservative club. He'd been the one who, at Baron Henryk's bidding, had arranged for Helge's involuntary pregnancy. He'd also acquired the breeding program records for his faction and, most recently, taken pains to ensure that Angbard would never again threaten their prestige as gatekeepers of the family trade. And now the surviving members of the Clan's conservative clique—the ones who hadn't been massacred by Prince Egon at the ill-fated betrothal feast—were cleaning up.
On that July morning, approximately one in every hundred world-walkers died.
In his private chambers in the Ostrood House, Baron Julius Arnesen was shot dead by Sir Gavaign Thorold.
Lord Mors Hjalmar, his eldest son Euen, and wife Gretyl were blown up by a satchel charge of PETN delivered by a courier who, not being a member of the clique responsible, also died in the blast—neither the first nor the last collateral casualty.
There were other, less successful assassination attempts. The young soldier detailed to slay Sir Helmut Anders had second thoughts and, rather than carrying out his orders, broke down and confessed them to his commander. The assault team targeting Earl-Major Riordan arrived at the wrong safe house owing to faulty intelligence, and by the time they located the correct headquarters building it had already been evacuated. And the poison-pen letter addressed to Lady Patricia Thorold-Hjorth—lightly spritzed in dimethyl mercury, a potent neurotoxin—never left the postal office, owing to an unusual shortage of world-walkers arriving to discharge their corvée duties that day.
In fact, nearly two-thirds of those targeted for assassination survived, and nearly a third of the would-be assassins were captured, were killed, or failed to carry out their missions. As coup d'etat attempts went, this one might best be described as a halfhearted clusterfuck. The conservative faction had been on the back foot since the betrothal-night massacre, many of their most effective members slain; what remained was the rump of the postal committee (cleaving to the last to the trade that had brought them wealth and power), the scheming grandmothers and their young cat's-paws, and a bedraggled handful who had fallen upon hard times or whose status was in some other way threatened by the new order.
Only one element of the conspiracy ran reliably to completion. Unfortunately, it was Plan Blue.
* * *
In a humid marsh on the banks of a broad river, there stood a scaffold by the grace of the earl of Dankfurt. The scaffold lacked many of the appurtenances of such—no dangling carrion or cast-iron basket of bones to add to the not inconsiderable stench of the swamp—but it provided a stout and very carefully surveyed platform. Here in the Sudtmarkt most maps were hand-scribed in ink on vellum, and accurate to the nearest league. But this platform bore stripe-painted measuring sticks at each corner, and had been carefully pinned down by theodolites born by world-walkers. Its position and altitude were known to within a foot, making it the most accurately placed location in the entire kingdom.
Five men stood on the scaffold beside a cheap wheelbarrow that held an olive-drab cylinder the size of a beer keg. Two of them wore US army fatigues, in the new desert pattern that had come in with the Iraq war: outer-family world-walkers both, young and more tenuously attached to the Clan than most. The other three were clad in fashions that had never been a feature of that time line. "Are you clear on the schedule?" demanded one fellow, a thin-haired, thin-faced man whom Miriam had once likened to a ferret.
"Sir." The shorter of the two uniformed men bowed his neck formally.
"Tell us, please," said one of the other fellows, resting his hand on the pommel of his small-sword.
"At T minus eight minutes, Erik takes his place on the barrow. I then cross over. Emergence is scheduled for level two, visitors' car park block delta three. There will be cameras but no internal guard patrols inside the car park—active security is on the perimeter and at the doors."
The ferret-faced man nodded. "Kurt?"
The tall, sandy-haired soldier nodded. "I dismount. We have sixty seconds to clear down any witnesses. Then we wheel the barrow to the stairwell. By T minus six the payload is to be emplaced in the place of the red fire extinguisher, which we will place in the barrow. We are then to proceed back to our arrival point, whereupon Jurgen will take his place in the barrow and I will bring us home no later than T minus five."
"What provisions for failure have you made?" asked the fellow with the small-sword.
"Not much," the Ferret admitted. "Jurgen?"
Jurgen shrugged. "We shoot any witnesses, of course." He tapped one trouser pocket, which was cut away to reveal the butt of a silenced pistol peeping out of a leg holster. The uniforms weren't very authentic—but then, they only had to mislead witnesses for a few seconds. "If we can't cross back because of a surveyor's error, we turn the barrow upside down and Kurt stands on it. I ride him. Yes?"
The Ferret nodded to his companion. "My lord earl, there we are. Simple, sweet, with minimal room for things to go wrong."
The earl nodded thoughtfully. His eyes flickered between the two soldiers. Did they suspect that the thumbwheel on the payload's timer-controller had been modified to detonate six minutes earlier than the indicated time? Probably not, else they wouldn't be standing here. "If we'd been able to survey inside this, this five-sided structure . . ."
"Indeed. Unfortunately, my lord Hjorth, it is the most important administrative headquarters of their military, and it was attacked by their enemies only two years ago. The visitors' car park is as close as we could get. The payload"—the Ferret patted the stubby metal cylinder—"is sufficient to the job."
"Well, then." Earl Oliver Hjorth managed a strained smile. "I salute your bravery. Good men!"
Jurgen's cheek quirked. "I'm certain that there will be no trouble, my lord."
"Everyone in the witch-kingdom expects to see fire extinguishers in stairwells," added the Ferret, not bothering to explain that the keg-sized payload looked utterly unlike a fire extinguisher. "And it won't be there long enough for anyone to tamper with it." Strapped to the detonation controller, it weighed nearly ninety kilos; there was a reason for the carefully surveyed crossing point, the wheelbarrow, and the two strong-backed and incurious couriers.
"Good," the earl said briskly. He pulled out a pocket watch and inspected the dial. "Fifty-six minutes, I see. Is that the time? Well, I must be going now." He nodded at the Ferret. "I expect to see you in Dankfurt by evening."
"And the men, sir," prompted the Ferret.
"Oh yes. And you." Hjorth glanced at the uniformed couriers. "Yes, we shall find a suitable reward for you. I must be going."
With that, he turned and clambered down the ladder, followed by his bodyguard. Together, they squelched towards the rowboat that waited at the water's edge. It would carry them to the other side, and thence to the carriage waiting to race him away down the post road, so that he would be a couple of leagues distant before the clocks counted down to zero.
Just in case something went wrong at the last moment. You could never be too sure, with these devices.