“Your Majesty.” He bowed deeply, but without flourish.
“Otto.” The golden boy’s face was calm, but his eyes were stony. “Your tent, please. We will have words.” The guards behind him sported strange black weapons, machine-pistols looted or stolen from the clan’s dead.
“Yes, sire.” He gestured towards the tent. “If you would follow me?”
“Certainly,” Egon said, easily enough, but Otto had a hard time pretending to ignore the two guards who preceded them, or the two who took up stations beside the tent.
Inside the tent, the young king turned to face Otto. “What happened?” he asked. “In your own words.”
“They counterattacked too early.” Otto frowned. “We took the castle as planned. But we’d only been there for half a day when a witch—flying beneath a wing like a bat’s—flew overhead. My men shot at him, but he got away. High up, high as an eagle. I redoubled my efforts to prepare the grounds, but only two hours later there was an explosion, then witch-troops everywhere. They came from inside the palace, as your majesty predicted, but they arrived before we were ready for them. Seven hours, I reckon, from our entry to their arrival.”
“Seven hours . . .” Egon stared at Otto measuringly, although Otto couldn’t guess whether it might be for a medal or a noose. “This flying witch. Describe what you saw.”
Otto felt himself burst into chilly perspiration. “It made a buzzing noise, as of bees, only louder. . . .” He described the ultralight haltingly, its arrival from the southwest and subsequent departure after overflying the castle.
“And three hours later they arrived in force,” Egon said musingly. “What of your force did you recover?”
The next ten minutes were the hardest examination of Otto’s life, as he explained the precise disposition of his withdrawal. “In the end, we lost two of the machine guns, and we have but four gun barrels left. We have also expended all but four belts of ammunition,” he finished. “Of men, eighteen dead and twenty-three wounded. The defensive positions are nearly complete, although I do not propose to defend them past dawn tomorrow—too much risk of the witches infiltrating our lines. My men are at your disposal, sire.”
Egon glanced at the rough map of the surrounding area on Otto’s camp chair. “Flying spies. Some sort of artillery—that’s a new twist.” He nodded to himself. “They are still bottled up in there?”
“Yes, sire.” Otto nodded back, reflexively. “I’ve detailed my men to tell me at once if the witches stop replying to our probing fire. But so far they’re sitting tight. It’s almost as if they can’t simply walk away.”
For the first time, the young king’s poker face relaxed. “Well.” His lips quirked. “You’ve done no worse than aught of our commanders might. And that flying witch—yes.” He nodded briskly. “Bravely done, Baron Neuhalle.” Then he smiled, and Otto’s blood ran cold at the look in the royal eyes. “Something you might not know about the witches is that they have to use their magic sparingly—should they walk through the paths of the dead too frequently, they fall ill and die. By your own word it is barely a day since they retook the palace. Normally that would be enough time to allow them to escape, but I have intelligence that suggests to me a new possibility. Your men did succeed in dropping the culvert and poisoning the well, I trust?” Unsure where this was leading, Otto nodded. “Good.” The king clapped his hands. “Krentz. Fetch Sir Geraunt and Baron Rolfuss.”
“Sire.” One of the bodyguards bowed, then ducked through the tent door; the other visibly tensed, watching Otto alertly.
“Your Majesty?” Otto tried not to let his own tension show.
“We’re going to take them.” Egon’s eyes twinkled. “Because, you see, they are not only under siege here. They may be able to walk through the realm of the dead, but the dead, I am informed, have taken a dislike to them. They won’t be able to escape this time. All that remains to be established is how we may dig them out of that castle. And my other intelligence suggests a solution.”
The house squatting behind the densely tree-clad hillside had seen better years, that much was clear: its wooden decking needed a fresh coat of paint, the shingled roof was silver and cracked behind the eaves, and the chain-link fence that surrounded the acre lot was rusted. But the padlock holding the gate closed was well-oiled, and as she followed Brill and her team of bright young adventurers up the front steps, Miriam spotted the discreet black dome of a CCTV camera lurking in the shadows of the verandah. That, at least, looked to be new and well-maintained.
“It’s a safe house,” Brill explained as she pushed buttons on an alarm system that was far fancier—and newer—than the building it was attached to. “We own a bunch of them, lease them out for short stays via a local Realtor, so there’s a lot of turnover. There’s always one free when we need it, and it doesn’t look suspicious. We actually make money on the deaclass="underline" We can buy the properties with spare capital and they’re mostly going up.”
Miriam glanced around as they entered the front hall. Dust tickled her nostrils; the husk of a dead beetle lay, legs upturned, in the middle of the floor. She wrinkled her nose. “What’s the plan?”
“Oh, I just phoned the Realtor and told them I was a friend of the owner and we were taking it for two weeks.” She held up a key. “There’s some emergency gear stashed in the cellar, behind a false wall. Other than that, it’s clean—the emergency gear’s the kind of stuff a survival nut would have, nothing to attract special attention. The only real trouble we’ve ever had with these safe houses was when one of them was accidentally let to a meth dealer. We cleared them out good. The Sheriff’s department like us.” She said it with such evident satisfaction that Miriam shivered. For a meth dealer, setting up a clandestine lab in a Clan safe house was a bit like a fox setting up house in a grizzly’s den. “You may want to take the front bedroom, milady. I’ll get the air and hot water working and everyone else settled in, then we can talk.”
Three hours later, Miriam felt a lot more human. Air conditioning! Proper showers! Toilets with lids and a handle you turned to flush, rather than yanking on a chain! It was almost like being home again. Brill had even, somehow, managed to find the time to scare up some clothes that fit her, so she didn’t look totally weird. Well, Brill had been her lady-in-waiting for some months; as one of the jobs she did for the thin white duke—Miriam’s uncle—knowing her measurements wasn’t that odd. It was a shame she’d bleached her hair blond while she’d been on the run, Miriam told herself; the colors Brill had picked didn’t match her new look, and besides, her roots were starting to show.
But I’m home. So, what now?
She sat on the edge of the bed, one leg of a very new pair of jeans dangling, and stared at the window. So unlike the stony castle casement she’d spent weeks staring at in a state of desperation, under house arrest and facing a forced political marriage as a lesser evil to paying the price of her earlier mistakes, but it was still a window in a house guarded by the Clan’s traditions and rules. The formal betrothal had gone adrift in a sea of flame and gunfire, as crown prince Egon took exception to the idea of a Clan heiress marrying his younger (and retarded) brother; then she’d been running through the confusing political underworld of New Britain, too fast to think. But now—