. You wiped out an entire army. Only trouble is,
it was the wrong one
. You handed the tinkers victory on a plate—they’re busy mopping up right now, chasing down the last stragglers. They’ve even got some kind of half-cocked claim to the throne lined up, and you killed the only legitimate heir! Did you know that? You’ve just killed off all their enemies, and let them know into the bargain that it’s war to the knife.”
(Silence.)
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Jesus.”
“The phrase they use hereabouts is ‘God-on-a-stick’; but, yes, I echo the sentiment.”
“Can you just confirm all that, please?”
“Certainly. When you blew up the Hjalmar Palace the royalist army that was fighting the tinkers had just occupied it. They had evacuated it a couple of hours earlier. Among the casualties was the crown prince—”
“Hang on. You said the Clan had evacuated the structure. Are you certain of that?”
(Snort.) “If they hadn’t, then how come their soldiers are dispersed all around the capital? Oh, they’re not stupid—they got the message, you won’t catch them all concentrating in a strong-point again. Why?”
“But how? How did they withdraw?”
“The usual way—they world-walked. Or so I infer. They certainly didn’t fight their way through the pretender’s siege works: Individually they outgunned his army, but quantity’s got a quality all of its own, as they say.”
(Silence.)
“Are you still there?”
“Yes. Just thinking.”
“Well, think faster. I don’t have long here.”
(Slowly.) “If the nar—If the Clan forces exfiltrated by world-walking, how did they do it? We had the whole area blanketed.”
“You did? Well, they must have just gone through another world, then.”
“Another”—(pause)—“you’re shitting me.”
“Huh?”
“Other world, unquote.”
“Yes. So?”
“You mean there are more?”
“What?”
“How many worlds, MYRIAD?
How many fucking worlds?”
“Eh, don’t get sharp with me, asshole! I can always put the phone down!”
(Heavy breathing.) “I need to know.” (Pause.) “I’m sorry. This is—this upsets everything.”
“I thought you knew this shit. Do I have to baby you?”
“Knew—ah, shit. Look, this stuff is new to us. How many worlds are there?”
“How should I know? Last week, there was ours, there was yours, there was the other one the homicidal cousins come from—”
“Homicidal cousins?”
“Long story. Anyway, word just in says they’ve discovered a fourth, and there’s a team actively looking for more. For all I know there are factions or conspiracies who’ve already gotten there, who’ve got their own private bolt-holes well stocked for a long siege; but it used to be that everybody only knew about two. I’m guessing that cat’s out of the bag, and . . . nobody knows. Could be, four’s the total. But are you willing to bet on that?”
“Oh Jesus. WARBUCKS is going to shit a supertanker.”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Didn’t your other informants tell you?”
“No.” (Pause.) “How do they get to these other worlds?”
“Fuck knows. I think there’s something about using a different symbol, or maybe it’s just where they start out from. I really don’t—” (Pause.)
“Hello?”
“Someone’s coming, got to clear down now. I’ll call later.”
(Click.)
“Wait—”
(Dial tone.)
END RECORDING
An attorney’s office in Providence was an unlikely setting to look for a government-in-exile, but it suited Iris just fine. The boy’s smart, she decided. Smart and discreet were interchangeable in this context: Nobody would bat an eyelid at an attorney receiving numerous visitors, some of them shady, some at odd times of day. It was the next best thing to a crack house as an interchange for anonymous visitors, with the added advantage of being less likely to attract attention in its own right.
This would be harder than dealing with Dr. Darling.
“I’ll walk,” she told Mhara as her young companion opened the minivan door for her. Bad idea to look weak.
“Yes, milady . . .”
Something about her tone of voice caught Iris’s attention. “Yes?” she said sharply.
“By your pardon, milady, but will you be expecting me to . . . you know?”
Iris sighed. “Absolutely not,” she said, in a more gentle tone of voice. “I’m here to talk, not to clean up loose ends; you don’t need to worry about conflict of interests. You can leave your kit in the trunk if you want.”
“Thank you, milady.” Mhara sounded relieved; but, Iris noticed, she made no move to jettison her shoulder bag. “That won’t be necessary.”
Iris made her way slowly past the unmanned reception desk towards the elevator beyond. Looking up, she noticed the CCTV camera and paused, giving it time for a good look at her. Then she shuffled forward and pressed and held the call button.
“Iris Beckstein,” she said. “His lordship is expecting me.”
The lift doors opened. Iris gave Mhara an ironic little smile. “After you,” she said.
“Thank you milady.” Mhara held the lift open for her—redundantly—looking slightly puzzled. “Why is there no security?” she asked as the doors closed.
“You didn’t notice, did you?” Iris asked. Mhara shook her head. “This used to be a level two safe house, before they let it out for commercial rent ten years ago. They recommissioned it a few months ago, at a guess, after that bastard Matthias went over the wall. If we weren’t expected, the doors wouldn’t have opened. And if we’d tried to force the issue”—she raised her walking stick ironically—“the sprinkler system isn’t for putting out fires.”
“Ugh.” Mhara looked at the ceiling, her eyes widening as she noticed the black Perspex hemispheres in two corners.
Naïve, but give her time . . . Iris waited, trying to prepare herself for the coming confrontation.
The elevator car stopped and the doors slid open. “After you.”
Iris gestured towards the door opposite, then shuffled after Mhara. A moment later, the door opened. “Your ladyship?” The polite young man in a suit that didn’t quite conceal his shoulder holster held the door open. “They’re waiting for you in the boardroom.”
“Really?” Iris smiled tightly. “Mhara, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside.”
“Certainly, milady—”
“I can see to her comfort.”
“You will.” Cutting their chatter dead, Iris picked up her pace and hobbled past him, leaning heavily on her stick. It would be the second door on the left, if they’d followed the standard layout. . . .
The boardroom was small, dominated by a huge meeting table surrounded by chairs designed to keep their occupants from falling asleep prematurely. The door’s reinforced frame, and the shuttered box on one wall—a discreet cabinet that might equally hide a projection screen or an expensive plasma TV as anything more exotic—were the only obvious signs to distinguish it from a meeting room in any other law firm’s office. Iris opened the door with some difficulty and slipped through it with a sigh of relief as a very different polite young man held it open, scowling. “You’re late, aunt,” he said.
“Heavy traffic on the interstate.” She gestured at an empty chair. “If you don’t mind, Oliver?” Then she nodded at the room’s other occupants. “Ah, Captain. Or should that be Major? I gather congratulations are in order. Julius, was it your idea?”