It all depended on Brill, of course. And on Roland, assuming Roland was on the level and wasn’t one of them playing a fiendishly deep inside game against her. Whoever they were. She was reasonably sure he wasn’t—if he was, he’d had several opportunities to dispose of her without getting caught, and hadn’t taken any of them—but there was still a question mark hanging over Brill. But whatever game she was playing wasn’t necessarily hostile, which was why Olga had gone back over to the hunting hide to fetch her. The idea of not being able to trust Olga just made Miriam’s head hurt. You have to start somewhere, haven’t you? she asked herself. If she assumed Olga was on her side and she was wrong, nothing she did would make any difference. And Olga vouched for Brill. And three of them would be a damn sight more use than two when the shit hit the fan, as it surely would, sometime in the small hours.
The big clock on the landing ticked the seconds away slowly. Miriam wandered into the kitchen, opened the door on the big cast-iron cooking range set against the interior wall, and shoveled coal into it. Then she turned the airflow up. It was going to be an extremely cold night, and even though she was warm inside her outdoor gear and flak jacket, Miriam felt the chill in her bones.
Two men, one of them Chinese-looking, in the wrong pubs. She shook her head, remembering a flowering of blood and a long, curved knife in the darkness. The feel of Roland’s hands on her bare skin, making her go hot and cold simultaneously. Iris looking at her with a guarded, startled expression, as unmotherly as Angbard’s supercillious crustiness. These are some of my favorite things, butter-pat sized lumps of soft metal glowing luminous in the twilight of a revolutionary quartermaster’s shop: Glock automatics and diamond rings…
Miriam shook herself. “Damn, if I wait here I’ll doze off for sure.” She stood up, raised the insulating lid on the range, and pushed the kettle onto the hot plate. A cup of coffee would get her going. She picked up her dictaphone and rewound, listening to notes she’d recorded earlier in the day.
“The family founder had six sons. Five of them had families and the Clan is the result. The sixth—what happened to him? Angbard said he went west and vanished. Suppose—suppose he did. Reached the western empire, that is, but did so poor, destitute, out of luck. Along the way he lost his talisman, the locket with the knotwork. If he had to re-create it from memory, so he could world-walk, would be succeed? Would I? I know what happens when I look at the knot, but can I remember exactly what shape it is, well enough to draw it? Let’s try.”
Whirr. Click. New memo. “Nope. I just spent ten minutes and what I’ve drawn does nothing for me. Hmm. So we know that it’s not that easy to recreate from memory, and I know that if you look at the other symbol you go here, not home. Hmm again.”
Whirr. Click. New memo. “I just looked at both lockets. Should have done it earlier, but it’s hard to see them without zoning out and crossing over to the other world. The knots—in the other one, there’s an arc near the top left that threads over the outer loop, not under it, like in the one Iris gave me. So it looks like the assassin’s one is, yeah, a corruption of the original design. So maybe the lost family hypothesis is correct.”
Whirr. Click. New memo. “Why didn’t they keep trying different knots until they found one that worked? One that let them make the rendezvous with the other families?”
Whirr. Click. New memo. “It’s a bloodline thing. If you know of only one other universe, and if you know the ability to go there runs in the family, would you necessarily think in terms of multiple worlds? Would you realize you’d mis-remembered the design of the talisman? Or would you just assume—the West Coast must have looked pretty much the same in both versions, this world and my own back then—that you’d been abandoned by your elder brothers? Scumbags.”
Whirr. Click. New memo. “Why me? Why Patricia? What was it about her ancestry that threatened them? As opposed to anyone else in the Clan? Did they just want to kill her to restart the blood feuds, or was there something else?”
Whirr. Click. New memo. “What do they want? And can I use them as a lever to get the Clan to give me what I want?”
The door around the back of the scullery creaked as it opened.
Miriam was on her feet instantly, back to the wall beside the cooker, pistol in her right hand. Shit, shit—she froze, breath still, listening.
“Miriam?” called a familiar voice, “are you there?”
She lowered her gun. “Yes!”
Olga shuffled inside, looking about a thousand years older than she had an hour before. “Oh, my head,” she moaned. “Give me drugs, give me strong medicine, give me a bone saw!” She drew a finger across her throat, then looked at Miriam. “What is that you’re wearing?” she asked.
“Hello.” Brilliana piped up behind her. “Can I come in?” She looked around dubiously. “Are you sure this is another world?” she asked.
“Yes,” Miriam said tersely. “Here. Take two of these now. I’ll give you the next two when it’s time.” She passed the capsules to Olga, who dry-swallowed them and pulled a face. “Get a glass of water.” Miriam looked at Brill. “Did you bring—”
Brill grinned. “This?” she asked, hefting a stubby looking riot gun.
“Uh, yeah.” Miriam froze inside for a moment, then relaxed. She fixed Brill with a beady eye. “You realize an explanation is a bit overdue?”
“An explan—oh.”
“It doesn’t wash, Brill,” she said evenly. “I know you’re working for someone in Clan security. Or were you going to tell me you found that cannon in a cupboard somewhere?”
Olga had taken a step back. Miriam could see her right hand flexing. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed for the party?” Miriam suggested.
“Ah, if you think so.” Olga looked at her dubiously.
“I do.” Miriam kept her eyes on Brill, who stared back unwavering as Olga swept past toward the staircase. “Well?”
“I got word to expect you two days before you arrived in Niejwein,” Brill admitted. “You didn’t really expect Angbard to hang you out to dry, did you? He said, and I quote, ‘Stick to her like glue, don’t let her out of your sight on family territory, and especially don’t give Baron Hjorth an opportunity to push her down a stairwell.’ So I did as he said,” she added, her self-satisfaction evident.
“Who else was in on it?” Miriam asked.
“Olga.” Brill shrugged. “But not as explicitly. She’s not an agent, but…you didn’t think she was an accident, did you? The duke sent you down to Niejwein with her because he thought you’d be safer that way. And to add to the confusion. Conspirators and murderers tend to underestimate her because of the giggling airhead act.” She shrugged.
“So who do you report to?” said Miriam.
“Angbard. In person.”
“Not Roland?”
“Roland?” Brill snorted. “Roland’s useless at this sort of thing—”
“So you world-walk? Why did you conceal it from me?”