“I know what this looks like.” She was still gripping the wineglass tightly, she realized, tightly enough to stop her hands shaking. “I am not going to flip. I’ve been here before, a long time ago.”
“But”—Huw peered at her—”you’re doing fine, so far.”
“It’s a control thing.” Miriam forced herself to let go of the glass. “You never know, I might not be pregnant. I need a test kit. And then I need some space to think, to get my head around this.” She paused. “Were you serious about that offer?”
Huw hesitated for a few seconds before answering. “All the plans anyone’s making—they all rely on your active participation. We need you to trust us. Therefore”—he shrugged uncomfortably—“having made that offer I’m bound by it; if I forswear myself you’ll never trust me, or any of us, ever again. And we, my faction, need you to show us what to do. That’s more important than any crazy plan Henryk hatched to manipulate the succession. We need your trust. And that’s something that can only be bought with our own.”
Three o’clock in the morning.
The occasional crack of heavy-caliber gunfire, punctuated by the boom of a black-powder cannon, split the nighttime quiet outside the castle walls. Nobody was getting much sleep, least of all the guards who hunkered down in the courtyard around the central keep, night-vision goggles active, waiting for a sign.
The sign, when it came, was a mere flickering in the shadows near the dynamited well house. Two of the guards spotted it at once, lowered their guns, and darted out across the open ground towards it. Their target bent over, emptying his stomach on the hard-packed cobblestones. “This way, sir! We need to get under cover.”
The traveler nodded weakly, straightening up. “Take. This.” He held out a shoulder bag. “I’ll mark the spot. It’s crowded around there.” His clothing was unfamiliar, but not his face; the sergeant nodded and took his bag.
“You sit down and wait, then. We’ll be along presently.” He glanced at the sky: So far the enemy forces hadn’t tried lobbing shells into the courtyard at random, but it was only a matter of time before they got bored with sniping at window casements. “Try to stay close to the wall.”
He dashed back towards the keep, not bothering to jink—they held the walls so far, Lightning Child be praised—going flat-out with the shoulder bag clenched in both hands.
Carl was waiting in the grand hall with his staff. By lamplight, his face was heavily lined. He seemed, to the sergeant’s eye, to have aged a decade in the past two days. “Let’s see that,” he suggested.
“Sir.”
The guard up-ended the bag’s contents in the middle of the table with a thin clatter of plastic. Carl picked one of the cards up and carefully angled it for a glance. He drew breath sharply. “What do you think?”
Oliver Hjorth took the card and squinted at it. “Yes, this looks like the right thing.” He glanced at the guard. “You recognized the courier.”
“It’s Morgan du Hjalmar, somewhat the worse for wear.”
The baron thought for a moment. “He’ll be wanting a ride back over, won’t he.”
Carl nodded. “See to it,” he told the sergeant, then glanced sideways at Helmut Anders, his lieutenant. “Get everyone moving out. The recon lance first, as planned, then if the insertion is cold the, the casualty and his party”—he couldn’t bring himself to refer to the duke by name—“followed by everyone else. My lord Hjorth, if you’d care to accompany my headquarters staff . . . Let’s get a move on, people!”
The crowd gathered around the table scattered, except for the core of officers and Helmut, who carefully removed his helmet and scooped the laminated plastic cards into it, being careful to avert his eyes. He moved to stand by the door, waiting for the clatter and clump of boots as the recon lance descended the grand staircase, weapons ready.
“Take a card, move on out, Morgan over by the well house will show you the transit spot,” he told them, holding the helmet before him. “You know what to do.”
“Secure the area!” Erik grinned at Helmut, his enthusiasm evidently barely dampened by the disaster on the rooftop two days ago.
“They’re supposed to be friendly,” Helmut chided him. “So use your discretion.”
“Aye!” Erik took a card and stepped forward. “Come on, you guys. Party’s this way.”
Olga watched from the back of the hall as the recon lance marched towards the well house and an appointment with an uncertain world. Better them than me, she told herself. There were any number of things that could go wrong. They might have the wrong knotwork, a subtle flaw in the design, and go . . . somewhere. Or the long-lost cousins of the hidden family might decide to use this opportunity to settle their old score against the eastern families. Any number of nasty little possibilities lay in that particular direction. Morgan’s appearance suggested otherwise, but Olga had no great faith in his abilities, especially after what Helge—Miriam—had told her about the way he’d run her works in New Britain into the ground. Whatever can go wrong, probably has already gone wrong, and there’s no point worrying about it. She tried the thought for size and decided it was an ill-fit for her anxiety. There’s nothing to be done but wait and see. . . .
Minutes passed, then there was another flicker in the shadows, out in the courtyard. A brief pause, then a figure trotted back towards the great hall.
“Sir! The area was as described, and Cornet du Thorold sends word that he has secured the perimeter.” The soldier looked slightly pale, but otherwise in good shape—he’d made his first transit on a comrade’s back, specifically so he’d be able to make a quick return dash. “To my eye it’s looking good. There are four covered trucks waiting, and eight men, not obviously armed, with your cousin Leonhard.”
“Good.” Captain Wu nodded. Then he glanced Olga’s way. “Your cue, milady.”
“Indeed.” Olga turned back to the side chamber where her small team was waiting. They’d brought the duke downstairs earlier. Now he lay on a stretcher, eyes closed, breathing so slowly that she had to watch him closely to be sure he was still alive. “Come on,” she told Irma, Gerd, Martyn, and the four soldiers she’d roped in. “Let’s get him to safety.”
The slow march out to the moonlit well house, matching her pace to the stretcher beside her, the smooth touch of the laminated card between her fingers: Olga felt herself winding tight as a watch spring. The gun slung across her shoulder was a familiar presence, but for once it was oppressive: If she found herself using it in the next few minutes, then the duke’s life—and by extension, the stable governance of the Clan—would be in mortal jeopardy. This has to work. Because if it doesn’t . . .
Seconds spun down into focused moments. Olga found herself crouching astride a heavily built trooper. “Are we ready?” she asked, as the soldiers raised their cards and shone pocket flashlights on them. “Because—”
The world lurched—
“Oh,” she said, and slid down her porter’s back as he staggered.
There were floodlights. And walls of wood, and between the walls, four large trucks of unfamiliar design, and soldiers. Familiar soldiers, thank Sky Father, in defensive positions near the gates to the compound. “What is this place?” she demanded.
“Lumberyard,” said Leonhard Wu, beside her shoulder.
Olga suppressed an unladylike urge to punch him. Leonhard always left her feeling slightly dirty: something about the way his gaze always lingered for just a few seconds too long. “Nice to see you, too,” she replied. Whose lumberyard, she left unasked. The security implications were likely to prove disquieting, and right now she had a single task to focus on—