First, Matthias removed the most recent addition from the safe: an anonymous CD, the enigmatic phrase “deep throat” scrawled on it in a feminine hand. Obtaining it had taken him a lot of detective work; only the hints turned up by the duke’s background checks on Miriam had kept him searching until it came to light, buried in her music collection. Next, he removed three small stamped, addressed envelopes, each containing a covering letter and a floppy disk. When he left his office a minute later, the drawer was locked and empty of incriminating evidence. And the letters were on the first stage of their journey to Cambridge, Massachusetts, by Clan courier. Letters addressed to local FBI and DEA offices.

The huge ballroom at the back of the Clan’s palace could, when the situation demanded it, be converted into a field hospital—or a boardroom large enough to hold all the voting members of an ancient and prolific business partnership. It was only when she saw it filled that Miriam began to grasp the sheer scale of the power the Clan wielded in the Gruinmarkt.

The room was dominated by a table at one end, behind which sat a row of eight chairs: three for administrative officers of the committee, and one for each head of one of the families. Rows of green leather-topped benches had been installed facing the table, the ones farther back raised to give their occupants a view of the front. The huge glass doors that in summer would open onto the garden were closed, barricaded outside by heavy oak shutters.

The main entrance to the room was guarded by soldiers in black helmets and body armor, armed with automatic rifles. They stood impassively by as Miriam entered, Kara trailing her. “Ooh, look! It’s your uncle!” Kara whispered.

“Tell me something new. Like, where do I sit?” Angbard occupied one of the three raised chairs at the middle of the table, a black robe drawn over his suit. His expression was as grim as a hanging judge’s. The room was already beginning to fill, men and women in business attire seeking out their benches and quietly conversing. The only anomalous touch was their attendants, decked out in archaic finery.

“Excuse me, where should milady sit?” Kara simpered at a uniformed functionary who, now that Miriam was getting her bearings, seemed to be one of many who were unobtrusively directing delegates and partners to one side or another.

“Thorold-Hjorth—that would be there. Left bench, second row if she is to be called.”

Miriam drifted toward the indicated position. Like a company’s annual general meeting, she noted. It was oddly familiar, but in no way comforting. She looked up at the front table and saw that three of the high seats had already been filled—one of them by Oliver Hjorth, who caught her watching and glared at her. The other two held dusty nonentities, elderly men who looked half-asleep already as they leaned heads together to talk. I wish Roland were here, she thought uneasily. Or—no, I just wish I wasn’t facing this alone. Roland would be supportive, but he wouldn’t be much use. Would he?

“May I join you?” someone asked. Miriam glanced up.

“Olga? Yeah, sure! Did you have a good night?”

Olga sat down next to her. “No intruders,” she said smugly. “A pity. I was rather hoping.”

“Hoping?”

“To test my new M4-Super 90. Ah well. Oh, look, it’s Baron Gruinard.” She indicated one of the dried sticks at the board table.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Depends if he’s sitting for the Royal Assizes and you’re brought up in front of him. At most other times he’s rather harmless, but one hears the most frightful things when his court is in session.”

“Um.” Miriam noticed another familiar figure, an elderly dowager in a blue twin-set and pearls. Her stomach twisted. “I spy a grandmother.”

“Don’t make a habit of it.” Olga beamed in the direction of the elderly duchess, who spotted Miriam and frowned, horribly. “Isn’t she impressive?”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?”

The duchess cast Olga a hideous glare and then diverted her attention elsewhere, to a balding middle-aged man in a suit who fawned and led her toward the far side of the room.

“Where’s—”

“Hush,” said Olga. Angbard had produced a gavel from somewhere. He rapped it on the edge of the table peremptorily.

“We are gathered today for an extraordinary meeting,” Angbard announced conversationally. He frowned and tapped the elderly looking microphone. “We are gathered … state of emergency.” The sound system cut in properly and Miriam found that she no longer had to make an effort to hear him. “Thirty-two years ago, Patricia Thorold-Hjorth and Alfredo Wu were attacked on their way to this court. The bodies of Alfredo and his guards were found, but that of Patricia remained lost. Until very recently it was believed that she and her infant daughter had perished.”

A quiet ripple of conversation swept the hall. Angbard continued after a brief pause. “Four months ago an unknown woman appeared in the wilds of Nether Paarland. She was apprehended, and a variety of evidence—backed up by genetic fingerprinting, which my advisors tell me is infallible for this purpose—indicated that she was the long-lost infant, Helge Thorold-Hjorth, grown to majority in the United States.”

The conversational ripple became a cascade. Angbard brought his gavel down again and again. “Silence, I say silence! I will have silence.”

Finally the room was quiet enough for him to continue. “A decision was taken to bring Helge into the Clan. I personally took responsibility for this. Her, ah, induction, was not an immediate success. Upon her arrival here a number of unexpected events transpired. In particular, it appears that someone wanted her dead—someone who couldn’t tell the difference between a thirty-two-year-old countess and a twenty-three-year-old chatelaine, traveling together. In the interests of clarity I must add that nobody in this room is presently under suspicion.”

Miriam’s scalp prickled. Glancing aside she realized that half the eyes in the room were pointed at her. She sat up and looked back at Angbard.

“I believe we now have evidence enough to confirm the identity of the parties behind the attacks on Patricia and Alfredo, and on Patricia’s daughter, Helge. These same parties are accused of fomenting the civil war that split this Clan into opposing factions fifty-seven years ago—” Uproar. Angbard sat back and waited for almost a minute, then brought his gavel down again—”Silence, please! I intend to I present the witnesses that Clan Security has uncovered before you in due course. The floor will then be opened for motions bearing on the matter at hand.” He turned to his neighbor, an elderly gentleman who until this point appeared to have been half asleep on his throne. “Julius, if you please?…”

“Aha!” The old scarecrow bolted upright, raised a wobbling hand, and declaimed: “Calling the first witness—” He peered at a paper that Angbard slid before him, and muttered—Can’t call her, she’s dead, dammit!”

“No, she isn’t,” retorted Angbard.

“Oh, alright then. Think I’m senile, do you?” Julius stood up. “Calling Patricia Thorold-Hjorth.”

Half the room were on their feet shouting as the side door behind the table opened. Miriam had to stand, too, to see over heads to where Brilliana was entering the room, pushing a wheelchair containing her mother. Who looked bemused and rather nervous at being the focus of such uproarious attention.

“Did they take her motorized chair away to stop her running?” Miriam asked Olga.

“Oh, no—”

“Order! Order or I shall have the guards—order I say!”

Slowly order was restored. “That’s odd,” quavered Julius, “I was sure she was dead.” A ripple of laughter spread.

“So was I,” Iris—Patricia—called from her chair. Brill steered her over to one side of the table.