The small town of Svarlberg squatted at the mouth of the Fall River on the coast, a day’s ride south of Fort Lofstrom. Overlooked by a crumbling but huge stone fortress built in the Romans model, brought to the western lands by survivors of the Roman Gothic war against the Turkic occupiers of Constantinople and now used as a bulwark against threat of invasion by sea, Svarlberg was home to a thriving fishing community and a harbour much used by coast-hugging merchants.

Not that many merchants would put into this harbour so late in the year. A few late stragglers coming down the coast from the icy trapping settlements up north, and perhaps an overdue ship braving the North Atlantic winter to make the last leap from the Ice Isles to western civilization—but winter was beginning to bite, and only rich fools or the truly desperate would brave the boreal gales this late in the year.

When the horseman reined in his tired mount outside the port-side inn, wearily slid out of the saddle, and banged on the door, it took a minute for the owner to open the hole and look out. “What are you wanting?” he asked brusquely.

“Board, beer, and stable.” The rider held up a coin so the innkeeper could see it. “Or are you already asleep for the winter, like a bear fattened on salmon since I was here last, Andru?”

“Ah, come you in.” Andru the innkeeper unbarred the heavy door and yelled over his shoulder: “Markus! Markus! Where is the boy?” A freezing draft set him to shivering. “It’s perishing cold out. Will you be staying long this time, sir?”

A thin boy came rushing out of the kitchens. “Ma said I was to—” he began.

“Horse,” said Andru. “Stable. Brash. Oats. You know what to do.”

“Yes, master.” The boy half-bowed cringingly, then waited while the rider unstrapped one saddle bag before leading the gelding around the side of the inn.

“Layabout would rather stay in the warmth,” Andru said, shaking his head and glancing along the street in the vain hope of some more passing trade, but it was twilight, and everyone with any sense was already abed. He stepped aside to let his customer in, then pulled the door shut. “What’ll it be first, sir?”

“Whatever you’ve got.” The rider bared his teeth in a smile half-concealed by a heavy scarf. “I’m expecting a visitor tonight or tomorrow. If you’ve got a private room and a pipe, I’ll take it.”

“Be at your ease sir, and I’ll sort it out immediately.” The innkeeper hurried off, calling: “Raya! Raya! Is the wake room fit for a king’s man?”

The inn was half-empty, dead as a doornail by virtue of the time of day and the season of year. A drunken sailor lay in one corner, snoring quietly, and a public scribe sat at one end of a table, mumbling over a mug of mulled wine and a collection of fresh quills as he cut and tied them for the next week’s business. It was definitely anything but a thriving scene. Which suited the horseman fine, because the fewer people who saw him here, the better.

A moment later, the innkeeper bustled up—“This way, this way please, kind sir!”—and herded the rider through a side door. “We’ve laid out the wake room for you, sir, and if you will sit for it a selection of cold cuts and a bottle of the southern wine: Will that be sufficient? It’s late in the season but we will be roasting a lamb tomorrow if you should be staying—”

“Yes, yes—” the innkeeper hurried out again and the rider settled himself in the armchair beside the table and stretched out his legs, snarling quietly when the kitchen girl didn’t hurry to remove his boots fast enough.

Two hours later he was nodding over his second cup of wine—the room was passably warm, and a couple of large chunks of sausage and pickled tongue had filled his belly comfortably—when there was a discreet tap on the door. He was on his feet instantly, gun at the ready. “Who is it?” he asked quietly.

“When the dragon of the north wind blows—shit, is that you, Jacob?”

“Hello, Esau.” Jacob dragged the door open one-handed. The revolver vanished.

“It’s freezing out there.” The man called Esau blew on his fingers, shook his head, then began to peel his gloves off.

Jacob kicked the door shut. “You really need to observe proper security discipline,” he said.

“Yeah well, and how many times have we done this?” Esau shrugged. “Stupid Christ-cultist names from the far-side, dumb pass-phrases and secret handshakes—”

“If I was ill and sent a proxy, the dumb pass-phrases would be the only thing that could tell you who they were,” Jacob pointed out.

“If you were ill, you’d have radio’d ahead to call off the meeting. Is that a bottle of the local emetic? I’ll have a drop.”

“Here. Settle down.” Jacob poured. “What have you got for me?”

Esau shrugged. “This.” A leather purse appeared, as magically as Jacob’s pistol. “Pharmaceutical-grade, half a kilo.”

“That’ll do.” Jacob transferred it to his belt pouch without expression. “Anything else?”

“Well.” Esau settled down and picked up the full glass. “Certain feathers have been—ruffled, shall we say—by the news of those pink slippers. That account was supposed to have been settled a very long time ago. Do you have an update for me?”

“Yes.” Jacob nodded, then picked up his own glass. “Nothing good. A couple more sightings and then a search and sweep found a very wet chair in the woods near Fort Lofstrom. It was from the other side. Need I say any more? It was too obvious to cover up, so the old man sent a snatch squad through and they pulled in a woman. Age thirty-two, professional journalist, and clearly a long-lost cousin.”

“A woman journalist? Things are passing strange over there.”

“You’re telling me. Sometimes I get to visit on business. It’s even weirder than those sheep-shagging slant-eyes on the west coast.” Jacob put the empty glass down—hard—on the table. “Why does this shit always happen when I’m in charge?”

“Because you’re good,” soothed Esau. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out and I’m pretty sure the—control—will authorize a reward for this. It’s exactly what we’ve been looking out for all these years.” He smiled at Jacob and raised his glass. “To your success.”

“Huh.” But Jacob raised his (empty) glass right back, then refilled both of them. “Well. The old asshole put the runaway on her case, but she’s turning out to be a bit hot. She’s the grand dowager’s granddaughter, you know? And a tear-away. All too common in women from over there, you knew. She’s poking her nose into all sorts of corners. If the old bat recognizes her formally, seven shades of shit will hit the Clan council balance of power, but I have a plan that I think will cover the possibility. She could be very useful if I can coopt her.”

“What about her mother?” Esau leaned forward.

“Dead.” Jacob shrugged. “The baby was adopted on the other side. That’s why she was missing for so long. We’ve got the foster mother under surveillance, but…” he shook his head. “It’s a thirty-two-year-old trail. What do you expect?”

“I expect her to—” Esau frowned. “Look, I’m going to have to break cover on this and go get instructions from my superiors. There may be pre-existing orders in effect for just this situation, but if not it would be as well for you to proceed as you see fit. Anything that keeps the Clan from asking awkward questions is all right by us, I think. And I don’t want to risk using one of your magical radio thingies in case they’ve got a black chamber somewhere listening in. Are you going to be here overnight?”

“I will be.” Jacob nodded. “I was planning to leave in the morning, though.”

“That’s all right. I’ll cross over and ask for directions. If anyone knows anything, I’ll pass on your instructions before you leave.” He rubbed his forehead in anticipation, missing Jacob’s flash of envy, which was in any case quickly masked. “If I don’t show, well, use your imagination. We don’t need the Clan raking over the evidence …”