Before them, a guard detail came to attention. A trumpet blatted, three rising notes; then with a grating squeal, the door to the great hall swung open. The hinges, Miriam thought distantly, they need to oil the hinges. (The thought gnawed at her despite its irrelevance—glued to the surface of her mind by the meth.)
“Her grace the Princess Royal Helge Thorold-Hjorth, widow of Creon ven Alexis du”—the majordomo’s recitation of her name and rank rolled on and on, taxing Miriam’s basic hochsprache with its allusions and genealogical connections, asserting an outrageous connection between her and the all-but-expired royal family. She swayed slightly, trying to maintain a dignified and expressionless poise, but was unable to stop her eyes flickering from side to side to take in the assembled audience.
It looked like half the surviving fathers of the Clan had come, bringing their sons and wives with them—and their bodyguards, for the rows of benches that rose beneath the windows (formerly full of stained glass; now open to the outside air, the glaziers not yet rounded up to repair them) were backed by a row of guards. Here and there she could pick out a familiar face amidst the sea of strangers, and they were all staring at her, as if they expected her to sprout a second head or start speaking in tongues at any moment. Her stomach clenched: Bile flooded into the back of her mouth. For an instant Miriam trembled on the edge of panic, close to bolting.
Brill began to move forward again. She followed, instinctively putting one foot in front of the other.
“The throne, milady,” the girl behind her hissed, voice pitched for her ear only. “Step to your left, if you please.”
There was another cantonment of benches, dead ahead, walled in with wooden screens—a ladies’ screen, Miriam recognized—and within it, a different gaggle of nobles, their wrists weighted with iron fetters. And there was a raised platform, and a chair with a canopy over it, and other, confusing impressions—
Somehow she found herself on the raised chair, with one of her maids behind each shoulder and the lords Menger and Klaus standing before her. A priest she half recognized (he’d been wearing a pinstriped suit at the last Clan council meeting) was advancing on her, swathed in robes. A subordinate followed him, holding a dazzling lump of metal that might have been a crown in the fevered imaginings of a Gaudí; behind him came another six chanting subordinates and a white calf on a rope which looked at her with confused, long-lashed eyes.
The chanting stopped and the audience rose to their feet. The calf moaned as two of the acolytes shoved it in front of the dais and a third thrust a golden bowl under its throat. There was a moment of reverential silence as the bishop turned and pulled his gilt sickle through the beast’s throat; then the bubbling blood overflowed the basin and splashed across the flagstones to a breaking roar of approval punctuated by stamping feet.
The bishop raised his sickle, then as the assembled nobles quieted their chant, he began to shout a prayer, his voice hoarse and cracked with hope. What’s he saying—Miriam burped again, swallowing acid indigestion—something about sanctification—she was unprepared when he turned to her and, after dipping a hand into the bowl, he stepped towards her and daubed a sticky finger on her forehead. Then the second priest knelt beside him, and the bishop raised the crown above her head.
“It’s the Summer Crown,” he told her in English. “Try not to break it, we want it back after the ceremony.”
When he lowered his arms his sleeves dangled in front of her. The hot smell of fresh blood filled her nostrils as the crowd in the bleachers roared their—approval? Amusement? Miriam closed her eyes. I’m not here. I’m not here. You can’t make me be here. She wished the earth would open and swallow her; the expectations bearing down on her filled her with a hollow terror. Mom, I am so going to kill you.
Then the bishop—it’s Julius, isn’t it? she recalled, dizzily—receded. She opened her eyes.
“Milady!” hissed the lady-in-waiting at her left shoulder. “It’s time to say your words.”
Words? Miriam blinked fuzzily, the oppressive weight of the metal headgear threatening to unbalance her neck. I’m meant to say something, right? Brill had gone over it with her: She’d practiced with Gerta, she’d practiced with a mirror, she’d practiced until she was sure she’d be able to remember them. . . .
“I, the Queen-Widow Helge, by virtue of the power vested in me by Sky Father, do declare this royal court open. . . .” her memory began.
Oh, that, Miriam remembered. She opened her mouth and heard someone begin to recite formal phrases in an alien language. Her voice was steady and authoritative: She sounded like a powerful and dignified ruler. I wonder if they’ll introduce me to her after the performance?
BEGIN TRANSCRIPT
(Cockpit voice recorder):
(Rotor noise in background.)
“Climbing two five to flight level three zero, ground speed 150. GPS check.”
“GPS check, uh, okay.”
“TCAS clear. Ready to engage INS.”
“INS ready, fifty-mile orbit at three zero.”
“Okay. How’s the datalink to that—that—”
“FLIR/DIMT is mapping fine.”
“Right. INS engaged. Racetrack. You boys ready back there?”
“ARMBAND is ready.”
“Ready.”
“Coming up on way point yankee one in fifty seconds, boys. On my mark, activate translation black box.”
“Arming translation circuit . . . okay, she’s ready on your command.”
“Mark.”
“We have translation.”
“Radar altimeter check, please. What’s the state of ARMBAND?”
“Sir, we’ve got two translations left, three hours to bingo time—”
“Tower, mike-mike-papa-four, do you read.”
“Two translations, three hours, check. You gentlemen will doubtless be pleased to know that as we’ve only got fuel for 140 minutes we’ll be going home well before then.”
“Inlet temperature four. External temperature ten and dropping, was fifteen. Cloud cover was six, now four. Holy shit, the ground —it’s completely different—”
“FLIR/DIMT is mapping fine. Uh, INS shows six meter z-axis anomaly. INS red light. INS red light. Looks like he took us with him okay.”
“Tower, mike-mike-papa-four, do you read.”
“INS reset. INS breaker reset. Damn, we’re back to dead reckoning. Speed check.”
“Ground speed 146. Altitude three zero nine zero by radar altimeter. Lots of trees down there, whole lotta trees.”
“Okay, let’s do an INS restart.”
“Captain, confirmed, tower does not respond.”
“FLIR/DIMT lock on north ridge corresponds to INS map waypoint 195604. Restarting. Restarted. Returning to orbit.”
“Tower on crest of ridge via FLIR. Got battlements!”
“Fuel, nine thousand. Throttle back on two, eighty percent. Okay, you’ve got an hour from my mark.”
“Got any candidates on IDAS?”
“Not a whisper. It’s dead down there. Not even cell phone traffic. Why am I getting this itchy feeling between my shoulder blades?”
“Time check: three hours twenty-nine minutes to dawn. Altitude four one hundred, ground speed 145, visibility zero, six on FLIR. Stop worrying about MANPADs, number two.”
“Roger. Waypoint yankee two coming up, turning on zero two zero.”
“I’m still getting nothing, sir. Trying FM.”