“Blackshaft. A rookery,” said Miriam. “Next to Holmes Alley.” She bit her knuckle. “What happens if you try to world-walk somewhere where you’d come out underground?”

“You get a headache.” Roland looked at her curiously. “Why?”

“Nothing,” she said, watching him sidelong.

Brill caught her eye. “Nothing.” She snorted. “It’s that revolutionary friend of yours, isn’t it?”

 “Well.” Miriam sighed. “I suppose so.”

 “What’s this?” asked Ivor.

“Miriam’s got dodgy friends,” said Olga. “Why is it that we only seem to do business with criminals?”

“I don’t think he’s a criminal; the law disagrees with me, but the law is an ass,” said Miriam. “Anyway, he’s got access to cellars. Lots of cellars and backyards running into the rookery. I think we can go down there, then try to cross over. If we can’t, we can’t. If we succeed we’ll be somewhere in the basement levels. How’d that work out?”

“Angbard gave me some of his keys.” Roland patted his pocket. “We can give it a try. The only thing worrying me is the time it’s taking.”

Liar, thought Miriam, watching him in side-profile. You and me, when this is over, we’re going to need to clear the air between us. She focused on the line of his jaw and for some reason her heart tried to skip a beat. See if we can catch some quality time together with nobody trying to kill me or blackmail you. For a moment she felt a deep stab of longing. We’ve got a lot to talk about. Haven’t we? But not right now, in the middle of a compartment full of Clan couriers, serious-faced and wound up for action.

The train slowed, slid into a suburban station, and paused. Then it was off again, for its final destination—the royal station, five minutes down the line. “Go tell the others, we want the next stop,” said Miriam. “Remember, follow my lead and try not to say anything. It’s not far, but we look like a mob, and a weird one at that. If we hang around we’ll pick up unwanted attention.”

Olga raised an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

“I do.” The train hissed and shuddered as it lurched toward the platform. “Hats on and spirits up. This shouldn’t take long.”

The walk to the pawnbroker’s shop seemed to take forever, a frightening eternity of hanging on Roland’s arm—steering discreetly  and trying  to  look carefree,  while keeping an eye open for the others—but Miriam made it, somehow.

“This is it?” he asked dubiously.

“Yeah. Remember he’s a friend.” Miriam opened the shop door, shoved him gently between the shoulder blades, turned to catch Morgan and Brill’s eyes, then went inside.

“Hello? Can I help—”

“I’m sure you can.” Miriam smiled sweetly at the man behind the counter—a stranger she’d never seen before in her life. “Is Inspector Smith here?”

“No.” He straightened up. “But I can get him if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Miriam drew her pistol. “Lie down. Hands behind your back.” She stepped forward. “Come on, tie him!” she snapped at Roland.

“If you say so.” The doorbell jangled and he glanced up at her as Olga and the two other guards entered the shop, followed rapidly by Brill and Ivor, and then the rest of the group. With fourteen youngish Clan members inside, it was uncomfortably packed. “What are you going to do with him?” asked Olga.

“Take him with us, stash him in Fort Lofstrom. Got a better idea?”

“You’re making a big mistake,” the man on the floor said quietly.

“You’re a constable,” said Miriam. “Aren’t you? Where’s Burgeson?” He didn’t say anything. “Right,” she said grimly, lifting the counter and walking behind it. I hope he’s alright, she thought distantly. Another spell in His Majesty’s concentration camps will kill him, for sure. “You two, carry this guy along. The rest of you, follow me.”

They trooped down the steep wooden steps in the back of the shop, along an alley hemmed in with pigeonholes filled with sad relics, individually tagged and dated with their owners’ hopes and fears. Miriam looked round. “This will do,” she said. “I’m going to try the crossing. If I succeed and there’s trouble, I’ll come right back. If I’m not back in five minutes, the rest of you come over. Roland, carry Brill. You, carry Olga. Brill, Olga, you carry us over to the far side, to world two: I don’t want anybody making two successive crossings without a rest between. Be ready for trouble.”

She took her coat off. Beneath it she wore her hiking gear and a bulky bulletproof vest from the Clan’s Niejwein armory. It looked out of place here, but might be a lifesaver on the other side. She barely noticed the captive policeman’s eyes go wide as he watched the cellar full of strangers strip down to combat fatigues and body armor.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Roland as she picked up her shoulder bag again.

“I’m sure.” Miriam grimaced. “Time to go.”

“You’ll never get away with this,” the secret policeman mumbled as she pulled out her locket and, taking a deep breath, focused on it.

Everything went black and a spike of pain seemed to split her skull. Buried alive! she thought, appalled—then reached out a hand in front of her. No, just in the dark. She took another breath, smelling mildew, and swallowed back bile that threatened to climb her throat. Her heart pounded. The flashlight—

She fumbled for a moment over the compact LED flashlight, then managed to get enough light to see by. She was in a cellar alright, a dusty and ancient wine store with bottle racks to either side. “Phew,” she said aloud. She took a second or two to let her racing heart slow down toward normal, then marched toward the door at the end of the tunnel.

The light switches worked, and the cellar flooded with illumination—bright after a minute of flashlight. “Do I wait?” she asked herself. “Like hell. We’ve got people to rescue.” She turned the handle and cautiously entered the passage that led to the servants’ stairs.

Her head ached furiously. It had been aching for days now, it seemed, and she felt worse than sick. If she stood up fast, or moved suddenly, her vision went dark. I can’t do this again, she thought to herself, leaning against the corridor wall. It’ll kill me.

Two hops in a day—one from Niejwein to New London, then another into Fort Lofstrom’s dingy cellars. If she made a return trip to Boston now, she was sure she’d pop an artery. Cerebral hemorrhage, what a way to go. Half of the others were piggybacking, staying fresh as long as possible.

For her sins she’d carried Brill through on the first trip. Now she was paying the price in aching muscles and a borderline migraine.

“Matthias,” she said aloud, with a flash of rage. Bastard thought he could use me, did he? Well, she’d see about that. Once the crisis was under control, and once she’d repossessed Paulie’s stolen CD-ROM. She was certain Matthias had it, and there were only two things to do with it that made sense. Send it to the FBI, or leave it on Angbard’s desk, along with the photos of her and Roland—a potentially lethal embarrassment if Angbard interpreted it as a plot by the lovers to elope and blackmail the Clan into silence. Miriam’s money was on the latter. Once the immediate business was sorted, she fully intended to give Paulie a discreet request and a bunch of cash: enough to hire some private detectives. There were ways and means of finding people who didn’t want to be found, when your resources and patience were unlimited, and she was willing to bet that a spider like Matthias wouldn’t be able to camouflage himself as well as he thought once he left the center of his web. She’d spend whatever it took to find him, and then he’d be sorry.

After a couple of minutes she sighed, then pushed herself upright. She dry-swallowed a painkiller, which stuck uncomfortably in her throat. She was light-headed, but not too light-headed to find her way up to the basement level. Passing the scullery, she ducked inside to grab a glass of water to help the pill go down. Something caught her eye: The door to the cold store lay ajar. She looked inside.