Olga was of the opinion that it was better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission; and in any event, the warm welcome in question was one with a short expiry date-shorter than ever, now that she'd learned what that thrice-cursed bastard idiot Matthias had told the DEA, or whoever they were. And what Otto had been doing was the icing on a very unpalatable cake. To his credit, he'd actually volunteered the information. "Baron Henryk never put his faith in intangibles," he'd explained. "He wanted to see these mythical nuclear weapons. He wanted to own them. He argued about it with the duke, but then the duke changed his mind-one suspects Matthias forged his signature on the letter-and so the baron set me to oversee Matthias on organizing the theft. It was meant to be a harmless shell game, and additional leverage in council. Nobody had looked at them for more than eight years! How were we to know Matthias would sell his story to the outlanders?"

"Guh. Uh. Pa. Pat. Uh." He was clearly trying to say something. Alerted, Olga leaned closer.

"Please, I ask you, try to speak slowly. Is it a person?"

"Uh!"

"Patricia?" It was the obvious name: his half sister, mother of Helge, the wayward wildcat orphan and loose cannon who called herself Miriam.

"Yuh."

"Oh! Good. Do you want to see her?" That could be difficult. Like most of the Clan's elders who were familiar with American culture, she'd vanished into a deep cover identity when the shit hit the fan, and trying to bring her over could draw attention to her.

"Nuh."

"Alright." Olga racked her mind for options. "Do you have a message for her? Or about her? Hang on, if it's a message for her, blink once? About her, twice?"

One blink.

Olga sat up, heart hammering. He's still inside there. A hot flush of relief washed over her: The idea that Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, had lost his mind had been too terrible to voice, or even think. Paralyzed, deathly sick, but still the will to control went on… "Can you spell it out? One for no, two for yes?"

Blink-blink.

"Milady, he looks very weak to me-" The first-aider sounded worried.

"He's the best judge of his condition," she said sharply. "And if he has a message of such import, he must give it. Have you pen and paper?"

"Uh, yes, milady."

"Then take a note."

It took half an hour, but they extracted two sentences from the duke before the corpsman's entreaties began to sway Olga. False starts and mistakes made it a frustrating process-but his words dispelled any remaining fear she had for his mind. Finally, she sighed and stood up. "I'll see it gets to her," she reassured the duke. "Tomorrow, we'll get you to a proper hospital bed. I must go now." She bowed and stepped back, then took the sheet of paper from the corpsman's pad. "You heard nothing," she warned him. "This must go no further. And the duke needs to rest now."

"Milady." He bowed as she left the room and hurried towards the improvised communications center downstairs.

Carl, Earl of Wu by Hjrorth-and the commander of the small army currently encamped in the castle-looked up as she entered. By a miracle, Oliver, Earl Hjorth, was absent. "What news?"

"Nothing bad." She hurried to his side at the map table. "He's sleeping now," she continued quietly, "but he's very weak. The good news is, he has his senses. He gave me a message to relay to Patricia Thorold-Hjorth by any means necessary."

"He's talking?…" Carl's fist clenched.

"Do not hope for too much. It took much work to say this much." She passed him the note. "Please, send this by way of Earl Riordan. There is no way of knowing how long it will take to reach her, and I fear it may be urgent. I'd advise keeping it from Earl Oliver."

"Alright." Carl took the piece of paper and stared at it. "What does it mean?"

"You'll find out," Olga assured him. "In good time."

TELL PATRICIA GIVE CLINIC RECORDS TO HELGE. GET HELGE IN FRONT OF COUNCIL. MY WORD, HER PLAN B ONLY WAY FORWARD NOW.

Downtown Boston, in summer: humid and warm and smelly with truck exhaust fumes, rumbling and roaring from the nearby turnpike. A well-dressed woman in late middle age driving an electric wheelchair along the sidewalk, chatting to a young woman walking beside her-a daughter, perhaps, or carer. The security guard glanced away from his screen, uninterested. He didn't notice them stop and turn abruptly to enter the lobby of the office suite he was supposed to be monitoring. Not that it would have made any difference. They didn't look like the sort of people he was supposed to keep out, and their faces didn't feature on any watch list of undesirables. Not that he'd have been able to keep them out, even if they did.

The woman in the wheelchair hummed towards the receptionist's station. "Iris Beckstein, to see Dr. Darling. He's expecting me." She smiled at the secretary: the self-assured smile of the financially secure.

"Sure, sign in here…"

The receptionist's lack of interest was convenient, Iris noted; possibly the doctor had encouraged it, although if so, his overreliance on other security precautions was risky. Iris signed, and nodded, and waited while her companion signed. False names, one and all, but the false name she was using would be a red flag to the people who would, in due course, check the visitor book.

"This way, dear," Iris told her companion, then scooted towards the elevators. Mhara nodded and followed obediently, keeping her mouth shut. Despite having a good understanding of the tongue, she'd spent little enough time in America that her accent was still heavy. Most folks would mistake her for an Eastern European immigrant, but Iris didn't feel like taking risks around this office-especially in view of the contents of her bag. As the doors slid shut, Iris reached for the fourth floor button. "On my word-but not a moment sooner," she said in hochsprache, the under-used words heavy in her mouth.

"Yes, milady."

"You are about to be exposed to some of our most perilous secrets. If they confuse or dismay you, you may speak to me about them in private-but they must go no further."

They ascended the rest of the way in silence. The lift was unusually slow, and Iris spent the time trying to relax. Adrenaline makes fools of us all, she reminded herself, then blinked irritably as the elevator doors opened. Ah, well.

The office suite was surprisingly quiet for this time of day, a few people moving between card-key-locked doors clutching mugs and papers. Iris rolled along the corridor, following memorized directions, until she found the correct door. She reached up with a card, swiped it, and pushed through as the lock clicked open.

"Hey, you can't come in-"

"Cover," she said in hochsprache. "Hello, Griben. Sit down, please." The door clicked shut behind Mhara as she felt the weight of an empty leather shoulder bag land on one of her chair's handles.

Griben yen Hjalmar, plump and goateed, in a brown three-piece suit, sat down slowly, keeping his hands clearly visible. His face was expressionless. The other man sitting in the swivel chair behind the desk was frozen in surprise. "And Dr. Darling. What a pleasant surprise."

"Mrs. Beckstein? What's the"-Darling swallowed convulsively-"what's going on?"

Iris smiled crookedly. "Griben, what a coincidence. I was just thinking about looking you up. What brings you here? Thinking about cleaning up some loose ends?"

Dr. Darling-lean, middle-aged, the picture of a successful gynecologist-was looking between ven Hjalmar, Iris, and the muzzle of Mhara's silenced Glock in slack-jawed surmise. "You-you-"

"I'd like to thank you both for the little number you played on my daughter. It wasn't quite what I had in mind when I suggested the arrangement."