“Yes.” Her heart pounded. “So it’s going to happen.”

“What?”

“Fucking Cinderella. Never mind. Roland, I am not stupid. I need some time to myself to think, that’s all. I’m angry with you in the abstract, not the particular. I don’t like being made to jump through hoops. I hear what you’re saying. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” A pause. “I think I do. I’m angry too.”

“Oh, really?” she asked, half-sarcastically.

“Yes.” This time, a longer pause. “I like your sense of humour, but it’s going to get you into deep trouble if you don’t keep it under control. There are people here who will respond to sarcasm with a garrotte. Trying to change the way the Clan works from the inside is hard.”

“Good-bye.” She hung up hastily and stood next to the phone for a long minute, heart thudding at her ribs, head throbbing in time to it. The smell of leather car seats was strong in her nose, the echo of his smile over lunch fixed in her mind’s eye. Duke’s orders, she thought. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?

She managed to pull herself away from the telephone and walked back into her bedroom, to the dresser with the tiny Picture book computer perched next to the stack of disks and the external DVD-ROM drive. She had software to install. She riffled through disks containing relief maps of North America, an electronic pharmacopoeia, and a multimedia history of the Medici families. She put them down next to the encyclopaedia of medieval history and other textbooks that had seemed relevant.

Once she’d made her first notes for the article Steve had commissioned, she’d start installing the software. Then she had a long night of cramming ahead, reading up on the great medieval merchant princes and their dynasties. The sooner she got a handle on this situation, the better …

Another morning dawned—a Sunday, bright and cold. Miriam blinked tiredly and threw back her bed clothes to let the cold air in. I may be getting used to this, she thought blearily. Oh dear. She looked at her watch and saw that the ten o’clock interview with Duke Angbard was worryingly close. “Shit,” she said aloud, but was gratified to note that the word brought no maidservants scurrying out of the woodwork. Even better, the outer suite was empty except for a steaming jug of strong coffee and a tray piled with croissants, just as she’d requested. “I could get used to this level of room service,” she muttered under her breath as she dashed into the bathroom. The computer was still running from last night, a Screensaver showing.

She laid out her clothes for the meeting with the duke. After a moment’s thought, she dressed conservatively, choosing a suit with a collarless jacket that buttoned to her throat. “Think medieval,” she told herself. “Think demure, feminine, unprovocative.” For a touch of colour, she tied a bright silk scarf round her throat. “Think camouflage.” And remember what Roland said about not defying the old bastard openly. At least, not yet. How and where to get the leverage was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, of course, to be followed by the bonus question of when and how to use it to shaft him, but she doubted she’d find such tools conveniently lying around while she lived as a guest—or valued prisoner—in his house. This whole business of being beholden to a powerful man left a nasty taste in her mouth.

However, there was one thing she could carry to even up the odds—a very potent equalizer. To complete her ensemble, Miriam chose a small black makeup bag, clearly too small to hold a gun or anything threatening. She didn’t load it down with much: just a tube of lipstick, some tissues, and a running dictaphone.

The door to her suite was cooperating today, she noted as she pushed into the corridor outside. She remembered the way to the duke’s suite and made her way quietly past a pair of diligent maidservants who were busy polishing the brass-work on one of the doors and a footman who appeared to be replacing the flowers on one of the ornamental side tables. They bowed out of her way and she nodded, passing them hastily. The whole palace appeared to be coming awake, as if occupants who had been sleeping were coming out of the woodwork to resume their life.

She reached the duke’s outer office door and paused. Big double doors, closed, with a room on the other side. She took a deep breath and pushed the button set beside the door.

“Wer ish?” His voice crackled tinnily: a loose wire somewhere.

“It’s Miriam—Helge. I believe the duke wanted to talk to me,” she replied to the speaker.

“Enter.” The lock clicked discreetly and Miriam pushed the door inward. It was astonishingly heavy, as if lined with steel, and it drifted shut behind her.

Matthias, the frightening secretary, was waiting behind the big desk in shirtsleeves, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. This time she noted the pile of papers in front of him. Some of them looked like FedEx waybills, and some of them looked like letters.

“Helge. Miriam.” Matthias nodded to her, almost friendly.

“Yes.” Why does he make me so nervous? she wondered. Was it just the shoulder holster he wore so conspicuously? Or the way he avoided eye contact but scanned across and around her all the while?

“You have an appointment,” he said. “But you should call first, before setting out. So that we can send an escort for you.”

“ ‘An escort’ ?” She asked. “Why would I want an escort?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t you? You are a lady of status, you deserve an escort. To be seen without one is a slight to your honour. Besides, someone might seek to take advantage of the deficiency in order to approach you.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll think about it.” She nodded at the inner door. “Is he ready?”

“One moment.” Matthias stood, then knocked on the door. A muttered exchange followed. Matthias pulled the door ajar, then held it for her. “You may enter,” he said, his expression unreadable. As she passed his desk, he moved to place his body in front of the papers there.

Miriam pretended not to notice as she entered the lion’s den. As before, Duke Angbard was seated at his writing desk, back to the window, so that she had to squint into the light to see him. But this time there was nobody else present, and he rose to welcome her into his study.

“Ah, Miriam, my dear niece. Please come in.”

He was trying for the kindly uncle role, she decided, so she smiled warmly in return as she approached the desk. “Uncle. Uh, I’m unfamiliar with the proper form of address. I hope you don’t mind if I call you Angbard?”

“Not in private.” He smiled benevolently down at her. “In public, it would be best to call me ‘your Excellency’ or ‘uncle,’ depending on context—official or familial. Please have a seat.”

“Thanks.” She sat down opposite him, and he sat down in turn. He was wearing another exquisitely tailored suit of conservative cut with, she couldn’t help noticing, a sword. It was curved: a sabre, perhaps, but she couldn’t be sure—the blades with which she was most familiar were scalpels. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Oh, many things.” His broad wave took in half the world. “It isn’t customary here to introduce conversations with business, but I gather you are accustomed to a life conducted at a brisker pace.” He leaned back in his chair, face shadowed. “Roland tells me you opened the second case,” he said briskly. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Ah, the moment of truth. Miriam leaned back, consciously mirroring his posture. “Well, I’d have to say that only an idiot lets themselves be sucked into any business arrangement without a full awareness of what it involves,” she said slowly. “And nobody had ordered me not to peek. You should also note that I’m here to discuss it with you, and the only other person who knows about it is Roland. What do you think?”