Brilliana adroitly changed the subject. “Would it please you to volunteer for an additional corvée? I can whisper to the duke that it would do you well to walk outside this pit of vipers.”
“If you think he’d go for that,” said Miriam.
“He will, if he believes you are being schemed around.” She frowned. “One other thing I would suggest.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“That you invite your mother to dine with you in private. As soon as possible.” Brill paused. “If she refuses, that will tell you everything you need to know.”
“If she refuses—” Miriam stopped dead. “That’s ridiculous!” she burst out. “I know she’s been grumpy since being forced out of isolation, but she already said she didn’t blame me. I haven’t done anything to offend her, she’s my mother! Why wouldn’t she come to visit me?”
“She might not, if she is being blackmailed.” Brill stood up. “Which would fit the other facts of your situation, milady. There’s enough of it about.” Her tone was crisp. “Meanwhile, shall we retire to the morning room? You must tell me all about your encounter with her majesty.”
Letters were written and invitations issued. But as events turned, Miriam did not get the chance to talk to her mother in private—or to dine with the baron—over the next few days. The evening of Brill’s arrival, two summonses arrived for her: an invitation to a private entertainment at the royal court, hand-scribed in gold ink on vellum by a second secretary of the honorable lord registrar of nobles, and a formal request for her services, signed by the lord high second chamberlain of the Clan Trade Committee.
Of the two, the court summons was more perplexing. “This is a dinner invitation,” Brill explained, holding the parchment at arm’s length between two fingertips. “The closed company. It is open to the royal household and their closest hangers-on and friends, only about sixty people, and there will be a private performance by, oh, some entertainers.” A theatrical troupe, or a chamber orchestra, or, if the royal family were feeling particularly avant garde, a diesel generator, a VCR, and a movie.
“Will the Crown Prince be there?” Miriam asked tensely.
“I don’t know. Possibly not; he hunts a lot in summer. But you need to attend this. To decline the invitation would require a most serious indisposition.” Brill looked nervous. “It does not wait upon your disposition, thus attendance is mandatory. I can come along, should you require me.”
“I’d be scared to attend without you,” Miriam admitted. “How large a retinue can I take?”
“Oh, to escort you there, as many as you like—but inside? One or two, at the most. And”—Brill glanced askance at the doorway—“Kara would be delighted to go, but might prove less than reliable.” Kara was running some errand or other, arranging an evening meal or scaring up some more servants or perhaps simply taking time by herself.
“Uh-huh. And this other?” Miriam held up the other invitation.
“I was not expecting it so promptly.” Brill’s brow wrinkled. “You would, perhaps, like to return to Boston from time to time?” She smiled: “I believe it is probably the baron’s little joke on you, to ensure that you see as much of it as you want, with a sore head, in a borrowed cellar.”
“Uh. Right.” Miriam grimaced. “But the royal—”
“She wants to see you,” Brill said firmly. “What else could it be? You don’t ignore the Queen Mother’s whim, milady, not unless you are willing to risk the next one being delivered by a company of dragonards.”
“Ah. I see.” Miriam peered at the letter. “When is it for?”
“Next Sun’s Day Eve . . . good. There will be plenty of time to attire you appropriately and prepare you for the company.” Brill frowned minutely. “But the second chamberlain desires you to present yourself before him tomorrow. Perhaps I should look to your preparations for the royal court while you attend to your corvée?”
Miriam took a deep breath then nodded. “Do that. Mistress Tanzig has held custody of my wardrobe in your absence, Kara managed to sort me out with the use of one of the livery coaches, and if I’m away you can prepare written notes for me while I’m gone.” She looked at the window pensively. “I wonder where he wants me to go?”
I should have known better, Miriam thought ruefully, as she watched smoke belch across the railway station platform from the shunting locomotive. The breeze blowing under the open cast-iron arches picked up the smuts and dragged them across the early afternoon sky. She held her hat on with one hand and her heavy carpetbag with another as she looked along the platform, hunting for her carriage.
“It’s—harrumph! A postal problem we have, indeed,” Lord Brunvig had said, clearing his throat, a trifle embarrassed. “Every route is in chaos and every identity must be vetted. We have lost couriers,” the old buffer had said, in tones of horror. (As well he might, for if a Clan courier went missing in Massachusetts he or she should very well be able to make their own way home eventually unless the worst had happened.) “So. We need a fallback,” he had added, quietly dignified. “Would you mind awfully . . . ?”
The Clan had plenty of quiet, disciplined men (and some women) who knew the Amtrak timetable inside out and had clean driving licenses, but precious few who had spent time in New Britain—and they weren’t about to trust the hidden family with the crown jewels of their shipping service. It took time to acculturate new couriers to the point where they could be turned loose in a strange country with a high-value cargo and expected to reliably deliver it to a destination that might change from day to day, reflecting the realities of where it was safe to make a delivery on the other side of the wall of worlds. Which was why Miriam—a high lady of the Clan, a duchess’s eldest child—found herself standing on a suburban railway platform on the outskirts of New London in a gray shalwar suit and shoulder cape, her broad-brimmed hat clasped to her head, tapping her heels as the small shunting engine huffed and panted, shoving a string of three carriages up to the platform. And all because I already knew to read a gazetteer, she thought whimsically.
Not that there was much to be whimsical about, she reflected as she waited for the first-class carriage to screech to a halt in front of her. New Britain was in the grip of a spy fever as intense as the paranoia about terrorism currently gripping the United States, aggravated by the existence of genuine sub rosa revolutionary organizations, some of whom would deal with the devil himself if it would advance their agenda. Things were, in some ways, much simpler here. The machinery of government was autocratic, and the world was polarized between two great superpowers much as it had been during the Cold War. But political simplicity and the absence of sophisticated surveillance technology didn’t mean Miriam was safe. What the Constabulary (the special security police, not the common or garden-variety thief-takers) lacked in bugging devices they more than made up for in informers and spies. Her papers were as good as the Clan’s fish-eyed forgers could make them, and she was confident she knew her way. But if a nosy thief-taker or weasel-eyed constable decided to finger her, they’d be straight through her bag, and while she wasn’t sure what it contained she was certain that it would prove incriminating. If that happened she’d have to world-walk at the drop of a hat—and hope she could make her own way home from wherever she came out. The quid pro quo was itself triviaclass="underline" a chance to spend some time in New Britain, a chance to replace the paranoia of court life in Niejwein with a different source of stress.