“Well, I don’t give a shit whether I look good or bad to the Clan.” Miriam stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What about my mother?” she asked.

“Your mother? Isn’t she alright?” He looked surprised. “Is she—”

“I went over there this morning. She phoned last night while I was away. Something about going on a long journey. Today there is a new back door in her kitchen, and a dead man’s body in the Dumpster behind her house, and not a sign of her to be found. I told Angbard that if anything happened to her, heads would roll, and I meant it.”

Roland sat down heavily in the room’s armchair. “Your mother?” His face was pale. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Miriam pursed her lips. “Would Angbard tell you if he was going to order her abducted?”

“Abducted—” Roland began to look worried. “Someone was shot on her doorstep?”

“You’re catching on. Someone was shot with a sawed-off shotgun. And she sure as hell didn’t stuff him into a Dumpster and repair the kitchen door before leaving, or mop up the blood stains. In case you didn’t know, she’s got multiple sclerosis. She’s in a wheelchair right now, and even when the disease is in remission she walks with crutches.”

Miriam watched him go through the stages of surprise, denial, anger, and alarm with gloomy satisfaction. “That doesn’t make sense!” he insisted. “Angbard put her under a protective watch! If someone had gotten through to her I would know about it!”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself.”

“But it can’t be!” He was vehement.

“Listen, I know a shotgun wound when I see one, Roland. I stuck my finger in it and waggled it about. You know something? It was sawed-off, either that or he was shot from at least fifty feet away, and I figure that would have attracted some attention. It makes a hell of a mess. Which ward is Olga in? I have got to go and see her. What the hell is Angbard playing at?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “He’s not exactly been confiding in me lately.” Roland’s frown deepened.

Miriam took a deep breath. “I went over to my house,” she said quietly.

“Oh?” Roland looked slightly stunned, but it wasn’t the expression of a would-be murderer confronted by a surprisingly animated victim: He looked much the way she felt.

“Someone searched it efficiently. They left an, uh, surprise. Behind the front door. I’m not sure what kind except that it’s probably explosive and it’s wired to the handle. Only reason I’m here is I forgot my keys and had to use the back way in.”

“Oh shit—” He stood up, his hand going to his pocket instinctively. “You’re alright?”

“Not for want of somebody trying,” she said dryly. “Seems to me that we have a pattern. First, someone tries to kill me or mess with Olga. They then try harder to kill me and succeed in killing Olga’s chaperone. I shoot one killer and leave, taking Brill with me. Olga moves into my room at the palace and someone shoots her. Meanwhile, people who should know where I’ve gone don’t, and my mother vanishes, and everywhere I’m likely to go on this side starts I         sprouting bombs. Can you tell me what kind of fucking pattern I am seeing here, Roland? Can you?”

“Someone is out to get you,” he said through gritted teeth. “More than one conspiracy, by the sound of it. And they’re getting Olga by mistake. Repeatedly. For some reason. And they’re lying to me, too. And Angbard is treating me as a potential security leak, keeping me in the dark and feeding me shit.”

“Right.” She nodded jerkily. “So what are we going to do about it?” She watched him like a hawk.

“I think—” He came to some decision, because he took a step toward her. “I think you’d better come with me. I’m going to take you to Angbard in person and we’ll sort out this out in person—he’s over here now, taking personal control. We can accommodate you at Fort Lofstrom, a fully doppelgängered apartment, round-the-clock guards—”

She pushed his hand away. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so?” He looked surprised.

“I can look after myself, thank you,” she said coolly. “I’m making arrangements. I’ll get this sorted out by Beltaigne. One last question. Do you have any idea who might be trying to kill me?”

“Lots of suspects with motives, but no evidence.” Puzzlement and worry mingled in his expression. For a moment he looked as if he was about to say something more, then he shook his head.

“Well then, that means I win because I do know roughly who’s trying to kill me,” she said, gloomily triumphant. “And I’m going to flush them from cover. Your clue is this: They’re not part of the Clan, and a doppelgängered house on the other side is no defense—but they can’t get at me while I’m here.”

“Miriam,” he rolled his eyes. “You’re being paranoid. I’ll get your mother’s house checked out immediately, but you’ll be a lot safer if we put a dozen armed bodyguards around you—”

“Safer from what? Safe from some blood feud that was ancient before I was born? Or safe from the idiots who think they’re going to inherit my mother’s estate if I can be declared incompetent next May, in front of a Clan council? Get real, Roland, the Clan is nearly as big a threat to my freedom as the world-walking assholes who shot Olga and booby-trapped the warehouse!”

“Booby-trapped—” his eyes widened.

“Yeah, a claymore mine on a tripwire in the doorway. And nobody cleared up the night watchman’s body. Do you begin to get it?” She began to back away toward the door. “Someone set up the bomb, someone inside Angbard’s security operation! And,” she continued in a low voice, “you were in the right places at the right times.”

Roland looked angry. “Miriam, you can’t mean that!” He paced across the room restlessly. “Come on, look, let me sort everything out and it’ll be okay, won’t it? I’ll vet your guards—”

“Roland.” She shook her head, angry with him, angry with herself for wanting to give in and take him up on an offer that meant far more and went far further than words could express: “I’m gone. If you know where I’m going, the bad guys will find out—if you aren’t one of them.” She kept her hand in her pocket, just in case, but the idea of shooting him filled her with a numinous sense of horror.

He looked appalled. “Can’t we just… ?”

“Just what?” she cried.  “Kiss and make up? Jesus, Roland, don’t be naive!”                                                           

“Shit.” He stared at her. “You really mean it.”

“I am going to walk out the door in a minute,” she said tensely, hating herself for her own determination, “and we are not going to see each other again until next May, probably. At least, not in the next few days or weeks. We both need time out. I need to get my head together and see if I can flush the bastards who’re trying to kill me. You need to think about who you are and who I am and where we’re going before we take this any further—and you need to find whoever’s wormed their way into Angbard’s confidence and whoever shot Olga.”

“I don’t care about Olga! I care about you!” he snapped.

“That is part of the problem I’ve got with you right now,” she said coldly, and headed for the door.

A thought occurred to her as she pulled the door open. “Roland?”

“Yes?” He sounded coldly angry.

“Tomorrow I’m going to get lost again, probably until Beltaigne. Keep checking your voice mail—there’s no need to hold this room any longer.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said quietly. She shut the door behind her and departed, her heart infinitely heavier than it had been when she arrived.

Ring ring. There was a breeze blowing, and the park was bitterly cold: Miriam sat hunched at one end of a bench.

“Hello? Lofstrom Associates, how may I help you?”

“This is Miriam. I want to talk to Angbard.”