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 alreadygone 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.
One of the men looked vaguely familiar. "Lady, ah, Thorold Hjorth? You are a friend of, of Helge?"
She blinked. "Yes. You are… ah, Sir James." She bobbed her head. "I see you made it back home."
"Indeed." He smiled faintly. "And how may I serve you?"
"Let's walk."
"Certainly."
James Lee had been dangerously smooth, she remembered, so smooth you could almost forget that his uncle and ancestors had waged a quiet war of assassination against her parents and grandparents, almost as soon as they'd concluded-erroneously that their patriarch had been abandoned by his eastern brothers. James was friendly, affable, polished, and a much better diplomat than anyone had expected when, as part of the settlement between the families, he'd been sent to stay in Niejwein as a guest-or hostage. Which makes him dangerous, she reminded herself. "I have a little problem," she said quietly.
"A problem?" He raised an eyebrow as they neared the rear of the truck where Irma and Gerd, with Leonhard's unwilling help, were lifting the duke into the covered load bed.
"A passenger who is somewhat… sick. We need dropping off elsewhere from the rest of Carl's men, to make a crossing to the United States where he can receive urgent medical care."
"If he's so sick, why-" James paused. "Oh. Who is he?"
"I don't think you want to know. Officially."
James paused in midstride. "There have been signals," he said. "Huge disturbances, civil strife in Gruinmarkt. We have eyes and ears; we cannot help but notice that things are not going according to your plans."
Olga nodded politely, trying not to give anything away. "Your point, sir?"
"You are imposing on us for a big favor," he pointed out. "Six months ago our elders were at daggers' drawn. Some of them are still not sure that sheathing them was a good idea. We have our own external security problems, especially here, and escorting your soldiers through our territory is bound to attract unwanted attention. I'm sorry to have to say this so bluntly, but I need something to give my elders, lest they conclude that you have nothing to offer them."
"I see." Olga kept her smile bland as she frantically considered and discarded options. Shoot his men and steal their vehicles was, regrettably, not viable; without native guides to the roads of Irongate they'd risk getting hopelessly lost, and in any case the hidden family's elders wouldn't have sent James without an insurance policy. Offer him something later would send entirely the wrong signal, make her look as weak as the debtor turning out his purse before a loan shark's collection agents. Her every instinct screamed no at the idea of showing him the duke in his current state, but on the other hand…
"Let me put it to you that your elders' interests are served by the continued stability of our existing leadership," she pointed out. "If one of our… leaders… had experienced an unfortunate mishap, perhaps in the course of world-walking, it would hardly enhance your security to keep him from reaching medical treatment."