Finally, she took the locket from under her pillow, and copied the design onto the envelope, making a neat sketch of it in place of a postage stamp—taking pains to cover each side of the knotwork as she drew the other half, so that she couldn’t accidentally visualize the whole.
And then she waited.
Dunedin was the best part of a thousand miles from New London, a good nine hundred from Boston—the nearest city in her own world to it was Joliet. In this world, with no Chicago, Dunedin had grown into a huge metropolis, the continental hub where railroad and canal freight met on the southern coast of the great lakes. There was a Clan post office in Joliet, and a small fort in the unmapped forests of the world the Clan came from—a no-man’s-land six hundred miles west of the territory claimed by the eastern marcher kingdoms—and now a post office in Dunedin too, a small house in the suburbs where respectable-looking men came and went erratically. Miriam had been there before, had even committed the address to memory for her courier runs: an anonymous villa in a leafy suburb. But the train would only pause for half an hour to change locomotives; she wouldn’t have time to deliver it herself.
Eventually she heard shuffling and muttering from the other side of the door—and then a tentative knock. “Who is it?” she called.
“Breakfast time.” It was Erasmus. “Are you decent?”
“Sure.” She pulled on her shoes and stood up, opening the through door. The folding bunk was stowed: Erasmus looked to have been up for some time. He smiled, tentatively. “The steward will bring us our breakfast here, if you like. Did you sleep well?”
Miriam yawned. “About as well as can be expected.” She steeled herself: “I need to post a letter when we get to Dunedin.”
“You do?”
She nodded. The chair opposite the bench seat was empty, so she sat in it. “It’s to, to one of my relatives who I have reason to trust, asking if it’s safe for me to make contact.”
“Ah.” Erasmus nodded slowly. “You didn’t mention where you are or where you’re going?”
“Do I look stupid?” She shrugged. “I told Brill to be somewhere in a week’s time, and I’d make contact. She wasn’t at the royal reception so she’s probably still alive, and if she gets the letter at all she’s in a position to act on it. In any event, I don’t expect the letter to reach her immediately, it’ll take at least a couple of days.”
“That would be—ah.” He nodded. “Yes, I remember her. A very formidable young woman.”
“Right.” Miriam managed a smile. “If she shows up in Boston in a week’s time, you’ll know what it means. If she tells me it’s safe to come in from the cold, then and only then I’ll be able to talk to my relatives. So. What do you think?”
“I think you ought to send that letter.” Erasmus nodded again. “What will you do if a different relative shows up looking for you?”
“That’s when I have to go to ground.” She twitched: “I’ve got to try. Otherwise I’ll end up spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, always keeping an eye open for assassins.”
“Who doesn’t?” he said ironically, then reached up and pulled the bell rope. “The steward will post the letter for you. Now let’s get some breakfast…”
Surprise Party
Despite the summer heat, the grand dining hall in the castle harbored something of a damp chill. Perhaps it was the memory of all the spilled blood that had run like water down the years: despite the eighty-degree afternoon outside, the atmosphere in the hall made Eorl Riordan shiver.
“Erik, Carl, Rudi. Your thoughts?”
Carl cleared his throat. Unlike the other two, he was attired in local style, although his chain shirt would have won few plaudits at a Renaissance Faire on the other side. Machine-woven titanium links backing a Kevlar breastplate and U.S. Army–pattern helmet—the whole ensemble painted in something not unlike urban camo pattern—would send entirely the wrong, functional message. Even without the P90 submachine gun strapped to his chest, and the sword at his hip.
“I think he’d be stupid to invest us. The fort’s built well, nobody’s ever taken it in the past three hundred years, and it has a commanding view of the river and land approaches. Even with cannon, it’ll take him a while to breach the outer curtains. I’ve inspected the outer works and Villem was right—we’ve got a clear field of beaten fire over the six hundred yards around the apron. If he had American artillery, maybe, or if we give him time to emplace bombards behind the ridge line—but a frontal investment would be a fruitless waste of lives. And the pretender may be many things, but I will not insult his victims by calling him stupid.”
“What about treachery?” asked Erik. A younger ClanSec courtier of the goatee-and-dreadlocks variety, his dress was GAP-casual except for the Glock, the saber, and the bulky walkie-talkie hanging from his belt.
Eorl Riordan looked disapproving. “That’s only one of the possibilities.” He held up a hand and began counting off fingers. “One, the pretender really is stupid, or has taken leave of his senses. Two, it’s a tactical diversion, planned to tie us up defending a strategic necessity while he does something else. Three, treachery. Four, weapons or tactics we haven’t anticipated. Five…two or more of the above. My assessment of the Pretender is the same as yours, Sieur Carclass="underline" He’s crazy like a rat. I forgot to bring a sixth finger, so kindly use your imaginations—but I think he is playing a game with the duke’s intelligence, and he wants us here for some reason that will not rebound to our benefit. So. Let’s set up a surprise, shall we? Rudi, how are the scouts doing?”
“Nothing to report.” Rudi was another of the younger generation, wiry and gangling in hoodie and cutoffs. “They’re checking in regularly but we’ve only got twelve of them between here and Isjlemeer: he could march an army between them and we might never know. I can’t give you what you want unless you let me use Butterfly, whatever the duke thinks of it.” He grinned, knowingly.
Riordan snorted. “You and your kite. You know about the duke’s…feelings?”
“Yep.” Rudi just stood there, hands in pockets. Riordan, about to take him to task, noticed the oversized watch on Rudi’s skinny left arm and paused. “It’s too late to get started today but, weather permitting, I could give you what you want tomorrow.”
It was a tempting offer. Riordan considered it. Normally he’d have been down on the ass of a junior officer who suggested such a thing like a mountain lion, but he’d been given a very specific job to get done, and Rudi wasn’t wrong. He made a quick executive decision. “You can do your thing tomorrow on my authority, if we haven’t made contact first. The duke will forget to be angry if you get results. But.” He shook a finger at Rudi: “There will be consequences if you make an exhibition of your craft. Do you understand?”
“Uh, yes, sir. There won’t be any problems. Apart from the weather, and, worst case, we’ve still got the scouts.”
“Go get it ready,” Riordan said tersely. Rudi nodded, almost bowing, and scurried out of the room in the direction of the stables. Riordan didn’t need telepathy to know what was going through his mind: the duke had almost hit the roof back when Rudi had first admitted to smuggling his obsession across, one component at a time, and it had been all Riordan and Roland had been able to do to talk Angbard out of burning the machine and giving the lad a severe flogging. It wasn’t Rudi’s fault that forty years ago a premature attempt to introduce aviation to the Gruinmarkt had triggered a witchcraft panic—superstitious peasants and “dragons” were a volatile combination—but his pigheaded persistence in trying to get his ultralight off the ground flew in the face of established security doctrine. Riordan glanced at Carl. “Yes, I know. But I don’t think it can make the situation any worse at this point, and it might do some good. Now, the defensive works. We’ve got a couple of hours to go until sunset. Think your men will be expecting a surprise inspection…?”