"It's not true," Miriam confirmed, stroking her hair. "Be still. I didn't write to your father." I'll bet someone else did, though. "Isn't this a bit sudden? I mean, don't these things take time to arrange? Who's the lucky man, anyway?" You haven't been sneaking a boyfriend, have you? she wanted to ask, but that seemed a little blunt given Kara's delicate state of mind.

"It's sudden." Kara sniffled against her shoulder for a while. "I've never met the man," she wailed quietly.

"What, never?"

"Ouch! No, never!" Miriam forced herself to relax her grip as Kara continued. "He's called Raph ven Wu, second son of Paulus ven Wu, and he's ten years older than me and I've never met him and what if I hate him? It's all about money. Granma says not to worry and it will all work out-"

"Your grandmother talked to you?"

"Yes, Granma Elise is really kind and she says he's a well-mannered knight who she has known since he was a babe and who is honorable and will see to my welfare-but he's terribly old! He's almost thirty. And I'm afraid, I'm afraid-" Her lower lip was quivering again. "Granma says it will be all right but I just don't know. And the wedding's to be tomorrow, in the Halle Temple of Our Lady of the Dead, and I want you to come. Will you be there?" She held on to Miriam like a drowning woman clutching at a life raft.

"You didn't say how you found me," Miriam prodded gently.

"Oh, I petitioned Baron Henryk! He said you were staying here and I could see you if I wanted. He even said I should invite you to witness at my wedding. Will you come? Please?"

Oh, so that's what it's about. To Miriam the message couldn't have been clearer. And she had no doubt at all that it was a message, and that she was the intended recipient. She looked out of the window, turning her head so that Kara wouldn't see her expression. "I'll come if they let me," she said, surprising herself with the mildness of her tone.

"Of course they'll let you!" Kara said fiercely. "Why wouldn't they? Are you in trouble, milady?"

"You could say that." Miriam thought about it for a moment. "But probably no worse than yours."

Afterward, Erasmus Burgeson always wondered why he hadn't seen it coming.

It was a humid evening, and he'd sat on the open top deck of the streetcar as it rattled toward the hotel downtown where he was to meet his contact. He breathed deeply, relishing the faint smoky tang of the air now that his sore old lungs had stopped troubling him: I wonder where Miriam is? he idly thought, opening and refolding his morning news sheet. She'd changed his life with that last visit and those jars of wonder pills. Probably off somewhere engaging in strange new ventures in exotic worlds far more advanced than this one, he told himself. Democracies, places ruled by the will of the people rather than the whim of a nearsighted tyrant. He sighed and focused on the foreign affairs pages.

Nader Demands Rights to Peshawar Province. The Persian situation was clearly deteriorating, with the Shah's greedy eyes fastened on the southern provinces of French Indoostan. Of course, the idiot in New London wouldn't be able to let something like that slip past him: Government Offers to Intercede with Court of St. Peter. As if the French would listen to British representations on behalf of a megalomaniac widely seen as one of John Frederick's cat's-paws… Prussian Ambassador Wins Duel. Well, yes-diplomatic immunity meant never having to back out of a fight if you could portray it as an affair of honor. Burgeson sniffed. Bloody-handed aristocrats. The streetcar bell dinged as it rattled across a set of points and turned a wide corner.

Erasmus folded the paper neatly and stood up. Nothing to do with the price of bread, he thought cynically as he descended the tight circular staircase at the rear of the car. The price of bread was up almost four-twelfths over its price at this time last year, and there had been food riots in Texico when the corn flour handed out by the poor boards had proven to be moldy. Fourteen dead, nearly sixty injured when the cavalry went in after the magistrates read the riot act. The streetcar stopped and Erasmus followed a couple of hopeful hedonists out onto the crowded pavement outside. The place was normally busy, but tonight it was positively fizzing. There was something unusual in the air. He took another deep breath. Not having his chest rattle painfully was like being young again: he felt lively and full of energy. And the night was also young.

The Cardiff Hotel-named for Lord Cardiff of Virginia, not the French provincial capital of Wales-was brightly lit with electricals, broad float-glass doors open to the world. A green-and-white-striped canopy overhung the pavement, and a pianist was busy banging both keyboards on his upright instrument for all he was worth, the brass-capped hammers setting up a pounding military beat. Burgeson stepped inside and made his way to the back of the bar, searching for the right booth. A hand waved, just visible above the crowd: he nodded and joined his fellow conspirator.

"Nice evening," Farnsworth said nervously.

"Indeed." Erasmus eyed the other man's mug: clearly he was in need of the Dutch courage. "Can I get you something?"

"I'm sure-ah." A table-runner appeared. "Have you any of the hemp porter?" Farnsworth enquired. "And a drop of laudanum."

"I'll have the house ale," said Erasmus, trying not to raise an eyebrow. Surely it's a bit early for laudanum? Unless Farnsworth really was upset about something.

When the table-runner had left, Farnsworth raised his tankard and drained it. "That's better. I'm sorry, Rudolf."

Burgeson leaned forward, tensely. "What for?"

"The news-" Farnsworth waved his hand helplessly. "I have no images, you understand."

Burgeson tried to calm his racing heart. He felt light-headed, slightly breathless: "Is that all? There's no reason to apologize for that, my friend."

Farnsworth shook his head. "Bad news," he croaked.

The table-runner returned with their drinks. Farnsworth buried his snout in his mug. Erasmus, trying to rein in his impatience, scanned the throng. It was loud, too loud for even their neighbors in the next booth to overhear them, and there were no obvious signs of informers. "What is it, then?"

"Prince James is-it's not good."

"Ah." Erasmus relaxed a little. Not that he was pleased by news of the crown prince's suffering-no matter that the eight-year-old was due to grow up to be tyrant of New Britain, he was still just a bairn and could not be held responsible for his parents' misdeeds-but if it was just more trivial court gossip it meant the sky hadn't fallen in yet. "So how is he?"

"The announcement will be made in about two hours' time. I have to be back at the palace by midnight to plan his majesty's wardrobe for the funeral."

"The-" Erasmus stopped. "What?"

"Oh yes." Farnsworth nodded lugubriously. "It will mean war, you mark my words."

War? Erasmus blinked rapidly. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't you know?" Farnsworth seemed startled.

"I've been on a train all afternoon," said Erasmus. "Has something happened?" Something more than a sick little boy dying?

"They caught one of the assassins," Farnsworth said tensely. "An Ottoman subject." He peered blearily at Burgeson's uncomprehending face. "Prince James was murdered just after lunchtime today; shot in the chest from a building overlooking the Franciscan palace. It was a conspiracy! Bomb-throwing foreigners on our soil, spreading terror and fomenting fear. Naval intelligence says it's a message for his majesty. The crisis in the Persian Gulf. Sir Roderick is recommending a bill of attainder to his majesty that will seize all Ottoman assets held by institutions here until they back down."

Burgeson stared at him. "You. Have got to be kidding."