“Oh.” She slid it into her purse. “Any other messages from the duke?”

“Yes.” Roland managed a straight face. “He said, ‘Tell her she’s got a two-million-dollar credit limit and to try not to spend it all at once.’”

Miriam swore in a distinctly unladylike manner.

He laughed briefly. “It’s your money, Miriam—Countess Helge. The import/export trade your ancestors pioneered is lucrative, and you can certainly earn your keep through it. Now how about we visit the post room so I can do my business, and then maybe you can do whatever it is that you need to do?”

The post room was a concrete-lined subbasement, with pigeonholes sized to accommodate the big wheeled aluminium suitcases that the family used for “mail.” Roland picked a clipboard from the wall and read through it. “Hmm. Just two cases to FedEx today and that’s it.”

“Suitcases.” She looked at them dubiously, imagining all sorts of illegal contraband.

“Yes. Help me. Take that one. Yes, the handle locks into place as the wheels come out.”

Struggling slightly, Miriam tugged the big suitcase out of the post room and into the stark cargo elevator next to it. Roland hit the button for the basement, and they lurched upward.

“What’s in these things?” she asked after a moment. “Tell me if it’s none of my business.” I’m not sure I want to know, she thought, unable to avoid a flashback to the meeting in Joe’s office, the threats on her phone.

“Oh, it’s perfectly legal,” Roland assured her. “This is all stuff that is cheap enough in Gruinmarkt and Soffmarkt or the other kingdoms of the coast and wants shipping to the Outer Kingdom—that would be California and Oregon—on this side. On the other side, there are no railroads or airports and cargo has to go by mule train across the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains. Which are full of nomad tribes, so it takes months and is pretty risky. We bring our goods across to this side, heavily padded, and ship them by FedEx. The most valuable items in here are the sealed letters sent by the family post—we charge several times their weight in gold in return for a postal service that crosses the continent in a week. We also move intelligence. Our western Clan members—the Wu family, formerly known as Arnesen, and braided with the eastern families—exchange information with us. By coordinating our efforts, we can protect our traditional shipping on the other side from large bandit tribes like the Apache. It also helps us exert political leverage beyond our numbers. For example, if the Emperor Outside dies and there is a succession struggle, we can loan the Wu family funds with which to ensure a favourable outcome and do so long before news would otherwise reach us across the continental divide.”

Miriam’s eyes were nearly bulging as she tried to make sense of this. “You mean there’s no telegraph?” she asked.

“We are the telegraph,” he told her. “As for the rest of what’s in these suitcases, it’s mostly stuff that only comes from the east and is expensive in the west. Like, for example, diamonds from India. They’re expensive enough in the Grainmarkt and almost impossible to get in the Outer Kingdom—it’s much cheaper to ship them across the Boreal Ocean by barque than the western ocean by junk, especially since the Mongols refuse to trade with the east. Or penicillin. The ability to guarantee that a prince’s wife will not die of childbed fever is worth more than any amount of precious stones.”

“And going the other way …”

“More messages. More diplomatic intelligence. Spices and garnets and rubies and gold from the Outer Kingdom’s mines.”

Miriam nodded. The elevator doors opened onto the underground garage, and she followed him out into the concrete maze.

Several vehicles were parked there, including a long black Mercedes limousine—and her own slightly battered Saturn. Roland headed for the Merc. “Once we’ve fitted your car with some extras, you can use it—if you want,” he said. “But you can use any of the other cars here, too.”

Miriam shook her head, taking in a sleek Jaguar coupe parked behind a concrete column. “I’m not sure about that,” she murmured. What would it do for my independence? she wondered, watching as Roland opened the Mercedes’s trunk and lifted the suitcases into it. The two-million-dollar card in her purse was much more intoxicating than the wine last night, but didn’t feel as real. I’ll have to try it, she realized. But what if I get addicted?

The Mercedes was huge, black, and carried almost a ton of armour built into its smoothly gleaming bodywork. Miriam only realized this when she tried to open the passenger side door—it was heavy, and as it swung open she saw that the window was almost two inches thick and had a faint greenish tint. She sat down, pulled her seatbelt on, and tugged the door shut. It thudded into position as solidly as a bank vault.

“You’re serious about being attacked,” she said soberly.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” said Roland, “but the contents of those two suitcases are worth the equivalent of twenty million dollars each on the other side. And there are several hundred active family members that we know of—and possibly ones we don’t in hidden cells established by their family elders to gain a competitive edge over their rivals in the Clan. You’re unusual in that you’re a hidden one who was never intended to be hidden. The families in camera could raid us, and unless we took precautions we’d be sitting ducks. A young man like Vincenze—” he shrugged—“maybe a bit more mature. Waiting on a street corner. Can set off a bomb or walk up behind someone and shoot him, then just vanish into thin air. Unless there’s a doppelgänger on the other side or maybe a hill where over here there’s a cleared area, there’s no way of stopping that.”

“Twenty million.”

“At a very approximate exchange rate,” Roland offered, starting the engine. Bright daylight appeared from an electrically operated door at the top of the exit ramp. He put the Mercedes in gear and gently slid forward. “We’re fairly safe, though. This car has been customized by the same people that made Eduard Shevardnadze’s car. The President of the Republic of Georgia.”

“Should that mean something?” asked Miriam.

“Two RPG-7s, an antitank mine, and eighty rounds from a heavy machine gun. The passengers survived.”

“I hope we’re not going to encounter that sort of treatment,” she said with feeling, reaching sideways to squeeze his fingers.

“We aren’t.” He squeezed back briefly, then accelerated up the ramp. “But there’s no harm in taking precautions.”

They came up out of the ground near Belmont, and Roland chauffeured them smoothly onto the Cambridge turnpike and then 1-95 and the tunnel. They exited the highway near Logan International, and Roland drove toward the freight terminal. Miriam relaxed against the black leather and propped her feet up against the wooden dashboard. It smelled like a very expensive private club, redolent of the stink of money. She’d been in rooms with billionaires before and any number of sharkish venture capitalists, but somehow this was different. Most of the billionaires she knew were manipulative jerks or workaholics, obsessive and insecure about something or other. Roland, in contrast, was “old money”—old and unselfconscious, mature as a vintage wine. So old that he’d never known what it was like to be poor—or even upper-middle class. For a moment, she felt a flash of green-eyed envy—then remembered the two-million-dollar ballast in her purse.

“Roland, how rich am I?” she asked nervously.

“Oh, very,” he said casually. He swung the Mercedes into the entrance to a parking lot, where an automatic barrier lifted—also automatically—and then brought them to a halt in front of an anonymous-looking office with a FedEx sign above it. “I don’t know for sure,” he added, “but I think your share may run to almost one percent of the Clan’s net worth. Certainly many millions.”