Her thoughts drifted back towards the sketchily described horrors unfolding down south, and her stomach clenched again. By the time she finished, she found she had regained a modicum of calm.
They don't know what's going to happen,
she realized.
But I do.
Miriam had been living in Boston through the crazy days that followed 9/11. And she'd seen the glassy-eyed lockstep to the drumbeat of war that followed, seen the way everybody rallied to the flag. In the past few weeks and months, a tenuous skepticism had been taking hold, but nothing could be better calculated to extinguish it than a terrorist outrage to dwarf the fall of the Twin Towers. The only question was how long it would take the US military to gear up for an invasion, and she had an uneasy feeling that they were already living on borrowed time.
"Milady?" It was Brill.
"I'm better. For now." Miriam waved off her offered hand and took a deep breath of rain-cleansed air. "I'm going to lie down. But. I need to know how bad it is, what the bastards have done. And as soon as Riordan and Olga have a free minute I need to talk to them."
“But they're going to be—" Brill stopped. "What do you need to distract them with?"
"The evacuation plan," Miriam said bluntly.
"What plan—"
"The one we need to draw up
right now
to get everyone across to New Britain. Because if we don't"—she raised her head, stared across the seared fields towards the tree line at the edge of the cleared area—"we're dead, or worse. I know what my people—sorry, the Americans—are capable of. We don't stand a chance if we stay here. One way or another, the Clan is finished with the Gruinmarkt; this whole stupid cockamamie scheme to put a baby on the throne is pointless now. The only question is which direction we run."
A steady stream of couriers, security staff, and refugees trickled into the farmstead over the hours following Miriam's evacuation. By midafternoon, Earl Riordan had sent out levies to round up labor from the nearest villages, and by sunset a large temporary camp was taking shape, patrolled by guards with assault rifles. The farm itself was receiving a makeover in the shape of a temporary royal residence: However humble it might be by comparison with the palaces of Niejwein, it was far better than the tents and improvised bivouacs of the soldiers.
Despite her ongoing nausea, Miriam followed Riordan and Olga and their staff when they moved into a pavilion beside the farmhouse. "You should be lying down, taking things easy," Brilliana said, halfheartedly trying to divert her.
"The hell with that." Miriam glared at her. "These are my people, aren't they? I need to be here."
And I need to know . . .
The sense of dread gnawing at her guts was beyond awful.
In late afternoon, despite the apparent defection of most of the Clan postal office's lords to the traitors' side—at least, it was hard to put any other interpretation on their total failure to comply with the executive head of Clan Security's increasingly heated orders to report—they managed to establish a solid radio network with the other security sites in the Gruinmarkt; and the New York office was still sufficiently functional to arrange a three-hourly courier run with digital video tapes from the Anglischprache world's news feeds. Shortwave and FM didn't have the bandwidth to play back video, but the headlines off the wire services were more than enough to make Miriam sick to her stomach and leave Brilliana and Sir Alasdair anxious for her health.
REUTERS: THIRD ATOMIC WEAPON FAILS TO DETONATE AT PENTAGON
AP: FLIGHTS, STOCK MARKET TRADING SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY
REUTERS: VICE PRESIDENT SWORN IN AS WHITE HOUSE CONFIRMED DESTROYED: PRESIDENT WAS "AT HOME"
UPI: IRAN CONDEMNS "FOOLISH AND ILL-ADVISED" ATTACK
REUTERS: SADR LEADS NIGHTTIME DEMONSTRATION IN BAGHDAD: MILLION PROTESTORS IN FIR-DOS SQUARE
AP: PRESIDENT TO ADDRESS NATION
But there was even more important news.
At first there was nothing more than a knot of turmoil around the table where Olga and three clerical assistants were coordinating intelligence reports and updating the list of known survivors and victims of the coup attempt. "I don't believe it," said Sir Alasdair, making his way back towards Miriam. "It can't be a coincidence!" His expression was glazed, distant.
"What's happened?" Brill, who had been leaning over a clipboard crossing off the names of couriers who had made too many crossings for the day, looked up at the tone in Miriam's voice.
"The duke," said Sir Alasdair. He cleared his throat. "I am very sorry, my lady. Your uncle. The latest report from the clinic says. Urn. He went into cardiac arrest this morning."
"This
morning?"
Miriam caught Brilliana staring at her. She clutched the arm of her folding director's chair. "Can't be. Can't possibly be. Are they
sure?"
She swallowed. Angbard, the thin white duke: For over thirty years he'd been the guiding will behind the Clan Security operation, the hand that held the reins binding the disparate squabbling families together. Since his stroke two months ago his duties had been carved up and assigned to Olga and Riordan, but not without question or challenge: The Clan Council was not eager to see any individual ever again wield that much power. "He's dead?" She heard her voice rising and raised a hand to cover her mouth.
"If it's a coincidence I'll eat this table. I'm sorry, my lady," Sir Alasdair added, "but it can't possibly be an accident. Not with a revolt in progress and, and the other news. From the Americans."
"Brill, I'm sorry—" Miriam's voice broke. Angbard hadn't
felt
like an uncle to her—more like a scary Mafia godfather who, for no obvious reason, had taken a liking to her—but he'd been a huge influence on Brilliana.
And Olga,
Miriam reminded herself.
Shit.
"Is there any word on who killed him? Because when we find them—"
"It wasn't a killing, according to the clinic," Sir Alasdair reminded her. "Although it beggars belief to suppose it a coincidence, for now it must needs be but one more insult to avenge at our convenience. One of our doctors was in attendance, Dr. ven Hjalmar—"
"Shit.
Shit."
Miriam clenched her fist. Brill was watching her, a dangerous light in her eyes.
Sir Alasdair paused. "Is there a problem?" he asked.
"Dr. ven Hjalmar is a wanted man," Brilliana said, her tone colorless.
"Very," Miriam Miriam added, her voice cracking. "Sir Alasdair. Should you or your men find Dr. yen Hjalmar .. I will sleep better for knowing that he's dead."
Sir Alasdair nodded. "I'm sure that can be arranged." He paused. "Is there a reason?"
Brilliana cleared her throat. "A necessary and sufficient one that need not concern you further. Oh, and his murder of Duke Angbard should be sufficient, should it not?"
"Ah—really?" Sir Alasdair's eyebrow rose. "Well, if you say so—" He noticed Miriam's expression. "You're sure?"
"Very sure," she said flatly.
"In that case, I'll put the order out. By your leave." Sir Alasdair beat a hasty retreat.
Miriam glanced at Brill, trying to gather her wits. "Come on, I want to find out what's happening."
The card indexes, divided by faction members and known status, were growing in size and complexity—and a third list had joined the first two: known fatalities. Earl Riordan was deep in conversation with one of his lieutenants as Miriam approached him—"Then tomorrow morning, we shall relocate to Koudrivier House. Assign two lances to establish a security cordon and a third for courier and doppelganger duties. The rest of your men I want—my lady?" He straightened up. "What can I do for you?"