“Huh? How can you tell?” asked Yul.
“The radius of curvature. Look at it, if you’re on foot it’s as straight as an arrow. But imagine you’re driving along it at forty, fifty miles per hour. See how it’s slightly banked around that ridge ahead?” He pointed towards a rise in the ground, just visible through the trees.
They continued in silence for a couple of minutes. “You’re assuming—” Yul began to say, then stopped, freezing in his tracks right in front of a tree that had thrust through the asphalt. “Shit.”
“What?” Huw almost walked into his back.
“Cover,” Yul whispered, gesturing towards the side of the track. “It’s probably empty, but…”
“What?” Huw ducked to the side of the road—followed by Elena—then crept forward to peer past Yul’s shoulder.
“There,” said Hulius, raising one hand to point. It took a moment for Huw to recognize the curving flank of a mushroom-pale dome, lightly streaked with green debris. “You were looking for company, weren’t you? I’ve got a bad feeling about this…”
It wasn’t the first time Miriam had hidden in the woods, nursing a splitting headache and a festering sense of injustice, but familiarity didn’t make it easier: and this time she’d had an added source of anxiety as she crossed over, hoping like hell that the Clan hadn’t seen fit to doppelganger her business by building a defensive site in the same location in their own world. But she needn’t have worried. The trees grew thick and undisturbed, and she’d made sure that the site was well inland from the line the coast had followed before landfill in both her Boston and the strangely different New British version had extended it.
She’d taken a risk, of course. Boston and Cambridge occupied much the same sites in New Britain as in her own Massachusetts, but in the Gruinmarkt that area was largely untamed, covered by deciduous forest and the isolated tracts and clearings of scattered village estates. She’d never thought to check the lay of the land colocated with her workshop, despite having staked out her house: for all she knew, she might world-walk right into the great hall of some hedge lord. But it seemed unlikely—Angbard hadn’t chosen the site of his fortified retreat for accessibility—so the worst risk she expected was a twisted ankle or a drop into a gully.
Instead Miriam stumbled and nearly walked face-first into a beech tree, then stopped and looked around. “Ow.” She massaged her forehead. This was bad: she suddenly felt hot and queasy, and her vision threatened to play tricks on her. Damn, I don’t need a migraine right now. She sat down against the tree trunk, her heart hammering with the release of tension. A flash of triumph: I got away with it! Well, not quite. She’d still have to cross back over and meet up with Erasmus. But there were hours to go, yet…
The nausea got worse abruptly, peaking in a rush that cramped her stomach. She doubled over to her right and vomited, whimpering with pain. The spasms seemed to go on for hours, leaving her gasping for breath as she retched herself dry. Eventually, by the time she was too exhausted to stand up, the cramps began to ease. She sat up and leaned back against the tree, pulled her suitcase close, and shivered uncontrollably. “I wonder what brought that on?” She mumbled under her breath. Then in an effort to distract herself, she opened the case.
The contents of the hidden drawer were mostly plastic and base metal, but they gleamed at her eyes with more promise than a chest full of rubies and diamonds. A small Sony notebook PC and its accessories, a power supply and CD drive. With shaking hands she opened the computer’s lid and pushed the power button. The screen flickered, and LEDs flashed, then it shut down again. “Oh, of course.” The battery had run down in the months of enforced inactivity. Well, no need to worry: New Britain had alternating current electricity, and the little transformer was designed for international use, rugged enough to eat their bizarre mixture of frequency and voltage without melting. (Even though she’d had a devil of a time at first, establishing how the local units of measurement translated into terms she was vaguely familiar with.)
Closing the suitcase, she felt the tension drain from her shoulders. I can go home, she told herself. Any time I want to. All she had to do was walk twenty-five paces north, cross over again at the prearranged time, and then find an electric light socket to plug the computer into. “Huh.” She glanced at her watch, surprised to discover that fifty minutes had already passed. She’d arranged to reappear in three hours, the fastest crossing she felt confident she could manage without medication. But that was before the cramps and the migraine had hit her. She stood up clumsily, brushed down her clothes, and oriented herself using the small compass she’d found among Burgeson’s stock. “Okay, here goes nothing.”
Another tree, another two hours: this time in the right place for the return trip to the side alley behind the workshop. Miriam settled down to wait. What do I really want to do? she asked herself. It was a hard question to answer. Before the massacre at the betrothal ceremony—already nearly a week ago—she’d had the grim luxury of certainty. But now…I could buy my way back into the game, she realized. The Idiot’s dead so the betrothal makes no sense anymore. Henryk’s probably dead, too. And I’ve got valuable information, if I can get Angbard’s ear. Mike’s presence changed everything. Hitherto, all the Clan’s strategic planning and internecine plotting had made the key assumption that they were inviolable in their own estates, masters of their own world. But if the U.S. government could send spies, then the implications were likely to shake the Clan to its foundations. They’ve been looking for the Clan for years, she realized. But now they’d found the narcoterrorists—one world’s feudal baron is another world’s drug lord—the whole elaborate game of charades that Clan security played was over. The other player could kick over the card table any time they wanted. You can doppelganger a castle against world-walkers, but you can’t stop them crossing over outside your walls and planting a backpack nuke. In an endgame between the Clan and the CIA or its world-walking equivalent, there could be only one winner.
“So they can’t win a confrontation. But if they lose…” She blinked. They had Iris, Patricia, her mask-wearing mother. Could I let her go? The thought was painful. And then there were others, the ones she could count as friends. Olga, Brill, poor innocent kids like Kara. Even James Lee. She could cut and run, but she’d be leaving them to—no, that’s not right. She shook her head. Where did this unwelcome sense of responsibility come from? Damn it, I haven’t gone native! But it was too late to protest: they’d tied her into their lives, and if she just walked out on them, much less walked willingly into the arms of enemies who’d happily see them all dead or buried so deep in jail they’d never see daylight, she’d be personally responsible for the betrayal.