Two of the guards were yanking the captives to their feet. They seemed slow to move, disoriented. The guards were brutally efficient, dragging them forward toward the main door. The talkative one bent over a lump on the floor and did something. “Hurry!” Then he followed the others out hastily.
Shit. That’s got to be a bomb. As soon as he was out, Miriam scurried forward. It was green, it had shoulder straps, and there was some kind of timer on top of it. One of Matthias’s leftover toys. Why am I not surprised? If I move it—She froze, indecisive. What if there’s a trembler switch? She glanced at the door they’d left through. I’ve got to get out of here!
Miriam ducked into the next servant’s passage, darting along it. She reached the outer receiving chamber with the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, worth a fortune in this place, just about the time the men in black were leaving it. Creeping forward, she looked out across a scene of devastation. Beyond the shattered windows lay what seemed to be half the palace guard. They lay in windrows, many of them still clutching their broken pikestaffs. Another gout of thunder and a lick of flame told her why: across the ha-ha at the end of the terrace, a group of figures moved urgently about their business, manhandling an archaic-looking cannon back into position to bear on the west wing of the palace. More isolated gunfire banged across the garden, the flat bursts of the black powder weapons sounding like a Fourth of July party.
Jesus, it’s a full-scale coup, she thought, just as another distinctive figure stumbled around the front of the building.
“Creon!” she called out, forgetting that she was trying to hide. He was out in front, while she was at the back of the reception room, in near-darkness. He probably couldn’t hear her anyway. Her heart lurched. What’s he doing? Who the hell knows what he thinks he’s doing? Right now he was silhouetted against the twilight outside, but in a moment—
Creon loped away from the front of the palace, toward the gun crew. He seemed to be waving his arms
“Creon! No!” she yelled. Too late. One of the pikemen beside the cannon saw him, pointed: another soldier raised an ominously modern weapon, a rifle. They’re protecting their artillery, she realized blankly. Probably realize there’ll be no more modern ammunition when—Creon dropped like a stone.
Miriam shook herself, like a dog awakening from a deep sleep. Appalled, she took a step forward.
Someone grabbed at her from behind. He missed her, snagging her veil instead. She spun round and lashed out hard with her left fist, all the anger and frustration of the past days boiling up inside her. Then she doubled over in pain as her assailant punched her in the stomach.
“Aushlaant’ bisch—”
She gasped for air, looking up. He had a dagger in his hand, and an expression on his face that made her elbows and knees turn to jelly. He’s going to—
The back of the man’s head vanished in a red spray, and he dropped like a stone.
“Fuck!” she screamed, finally getting her breath back.
“Miriam?” Hesitantly. I know that voice, she thought dizzily. “Are you all right?”
“No,” she managed to choke. Putting one arm out she tried to lever herself up.
“Let me help—”
“No.” She managed to half sit up, then discovered her corset wouldn’t let her. “Yes.” What the fuck are you doing here? she wondered.
A hand under her left armpit gave her the support she needed. Her right hip hurt and her back and stomach felt bruised. She stood gasping for a minute, then turned and stared, too tired and bewildered to feel any surprise. He was wearing hiking gear and what looked like an army-surplus camo jacket under a merchant’s robe, obviously picked up on his way here. It was simply the final ironic joke to cap a whole day of petty horrors. “Tell me what you’re doing here,” she said, trying to keep her tone level. Think of the devil and he’ll drop by to say hello . . .
“I don’t know,” he said shakily. “It wasn’t meant to go like this. I was just sent here to have a quiet chat with you, gunfights weren’t on the agenda.” He stared at the body and swallowed.
“The agenda,” she said tartly, forcing herself to ignore it. “Are you still working for the DEA? Would this happen to be their idea?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m still a DEA agent, yes. In a manner of speaking. But there are chain-of-command issues.” He shook his head. “Any idea why that guy was trying to kill you?”
She felt an inane giggle trying to work its way up her throat, stifled it ruthlessly. Three years older, three years wiser. The last time she’d seen Mike she’d told him to scratch her name out of his address book. She’d been half-convinced he was a psychopath. Now she’d met some real psychopaths and she wasn’t so sure. “People just sort of keep trying to kill me around here. It seems to be the national sport.”
“Poor Miriam.” His tone was mock-sympathetic, but when she looked at him sharply his expression was anything but light. “I was sent here to have a little talk with you. Our intelligence was that this was a royal garden party: do they always blow the place up for kicks?”
“No. But the king was supposed to be announcing a royal wedding.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “The groom’s brother seems to have taken exception.”
“If this is their idea of a wedding party, I’d hate to see a divorce. Who’re the happy couple?”
“That’s the groom, over here.” She nodded at the window, at the darkness and flames beyond. “This was meant to be my engagement.” That’s right, oversimplify the situation for him, she mocked herself. “Only it seems to have turned into the excuse for a coup. I reckon this bastard was one of Egon’s thugs.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s all right,” she said numbly. “It was an arranged marriage. They like to deal with uppity women by marrying them off.” She stared at him fixedly. I can’t believe I’m standing in a burning palace talking to Mike Fleming! “So this is DEA business, right? I guess Matthias spilled his guts in return for protection?”
“DEA—Matthias—” He stared at her tensely. A thought struck Miriam: hoping he wouldn’t notice, she clasped her hands together in front of her, trying to unobtrusively unfasten one cuff.
“How well did you know Matt?” Mike asked.
“He tried to kill me, and murdered my—” She bit her tongue. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ll bet.”
The sleeve was coming loose. She looked him in the eye. “Well?”
“Are you happy here?” he asked cautiously. “Because you don’t look it . . .”
“Am I—” The laugh from hell was back, trying to get out again. “The fuck I am! If you can get me away from here—” Her voice broke. “Please, Mike! Can you?” She hated the tremor of desperation but she couldn’t stop it. “I’m going mad!”
“I—I—oh shit.”
Her heart fell. “What is it?”
“I.” His voice was small. “I don’t think I can.”
“Why not?”
“We’re moving in over here,” he said, in a voice that sounded like he was trying to figure out how to give her some bad news. “We need world-walkers.”