their leaders from the Thorold Palace reached the killing zone and paused to check the identity of the victims.
Security Breaches
Angbard’s bad day started out deceptively, with a phone call that he had taken for a positive development at first. It was not until later, when events began to spin out of control, that he recognized it for what it was–the very worst disaster to befall the Clan during his tenure as chief of external security.
This week his grace was staying on the other side, in a secluded mansion in upstate New York that he had acquired from the estate of a deceased record producer who had invested most of the money his bands had earned in building his own unobtrusive shrine to Brother Eater. (Not that they used the Hungry God’s true name in this benighted land, but the principle was the same.) The heavily wooded hundred-acre lot, discreet surveillance and security fittings, and the soundproofed basement rooms that had once served as a recording studio, all met with the duke’s approval. So did the building’s other-side location, a hilly bluff in the wilds of the Nordmarkt that had been effectively doppelgangered by a landslide until his men had tunneled into it to install the concealed exits, supply dumps, and booby-trapped passages that safety demanded.
Of course the location wasn’t perfect in all respects—in Nordmarkt it was a good ten miles from the nearest highway, itself little more than an unpaved track, and in its own world it was a good fifty-minute drive outside Rochester—but it met with most of his requirements, including the most important one of all: that nobody outside his immediate circle of retainers knew where it was.
These were desperate times. The defection of the duke’s former secretary, Matthias, had been a catastrophe for his personal security. He had been forced to immediately quarantine all his former possessions in the United States, the private jet along with the limousines and the houses: all out of reach for now, all contaminated by Matthias’s insidiously helpful management. He had holdouts, of course, the personal accounts held with offshore institutions that not even his secretary had known about—Duke Lofstrom had grown up during a time of bloody- handed paranoia, and never completely trusted anyone–but by his best estimate, it had cost him at least one hundred and twenty-six million dollars. And that was just how much it had cost
Events started with a phone call shortly after 11 p.m. Or rather, they started with what passed for a phone call where the duke was concerned: although he received it on an old-fashioned handset, it arrived at the safe house by a circuitous route involving a very off-the-books patch into the local phone company exchange, dark fiber connections between anonymous Internet hosts, and finally an encrypted data call to a stolen mobile phone handset. Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, might write his personal correspondence with a fountain pen and leave the carrying of mobile phones to his subordinates, but his communications security was the best that the Clan’s money could buy.
When the phone rang, the duke had just finished dining with the lords-comptrollers of the Post Office: the two silver-haired eminences who were responsible for the smooth running of the Clan’s money-making affairs to the same degree that he was responsible for their collective security. The brandy had been poured, the last plates removed, and he had been looking forward to a convivial exploration of the possibilities for expansion in the new territories when there was a knock on the dining room side door.
“Excuse me,” he nodded to his lordship, Baron Griben ven Hjalmar, causing him to pause in mid-flow: “Enter!”
It was Carlos, one of his security detail, looking apologetic. “The red telephone, my lord. It’s ringing in your office.”
“Ah.” The duke glanced at his dining companions: “I must apologize, perforce, but this requires my immediate attention. I shall return presently.”
“Surely, sir.” Baron ven Hjalmar raised his glass: “By all means!” He smiled indulgently.
The duke rose and left the table without further ado. On his way out, Carlos took up the rear. “Who is it?” he asked as soon as the dining room door had closed behind them.
“The officer of the day in the Thorold Palace has just declared an emergency. The signal is Tango Mike. He crossed over to report in person. He’s on the phone now.”
The duke swore. “Who is he? On the duty roster?” The officer of the day was the Clan member entrusted with ensuring the security of Clan members in their area, and he would not cross over to the other world to make a report—effectively abandoning their post, if only for a few minutes—without a very good reason.
“I believe it’s Oliver, Earl Hjorth.”
The duke swore again. Then they were at his office door. He picked up the telephone before he sat down. “Put him through.” His face fell unconsciously into an odd, pained expression: Oliver was a member of his half- sister’s mother’s coterie, an intermittent thorn in his side—but not one that he could remove without unpleasant consequences. What made it even worse was that Oliver was competent and energetic. If it wasn’t for Hildegarde’s malign influences, he might be quite useful…“Good evening, Baron. I gather you have some news for me.”
A quarter of an hour later, when he put the phone down, the duke’s expression was, if anything, even more stony. He turned to stare at Carlos, who stood at parade rest by the door. “Please inform their lordships ven Hjalmar and Ijsselmeer that I deeply regret to inform them that there has been a development that requires—” He paused, allowing his head to droop. “Let me rephrase. Please inform them that an emergency has developed and I would appreciate their assistance, in their capacity as representatives of the Post Office board, in conducting a preliminary assessment of the necessary logistic support for execution of the crisis plan in the affected areas. Then bring them here.” He sighed deeply, then looked up. “Go on.”
“Sir.” Carlos swerved through the door and was gone.
The duke half-smiled at the closing door. The fellow was probably scared out of his wits by whatever he’d overheard of the duke’s conversation with Earl Hjorth. Who should, by now, be back in Niejwein, and organizing his end of the crisis plan. The duke shook his head again. “Why
Angbard hung up the phone and settled down to wait. A knock at the door: one of his men opened it. “Sir, their lordships—”
“Send them in. Then fetch a speakerphone.” Angbard rose, and half-bowed to Hjalmar and Ijsselmeer. “I must apologize for the informality, but there has been an unfortunate development in the capital. If you would both please be seated, I will arrange for coffee in a minute.”
Hjalmar found his voice first; diffidently—incongruously, too, for he was a big bear of a man—he asked: “is something the matter?”
Angbard grinned. “Of course something is the matter!” he agreed, almost jovially. “It’s the crown prince!”
“What? Has Egon had an accident—”
“In a manner of speaking.” Angbard sat down again, leaning back in his chair. “Egon has just murdered his own father and brother, not to mention Henryk and my niece Helge and a number of other cousins, at the occasion of his brother’s betrothal. He’s sent troops to lay siege to the Thorold Palace and he’s issuing letters of attainder against us, promising our land to anyone who comes to his aid.” Angbard’s grin turned shark-like. “He’s made his bid at last, gentlemen. The old high families have decided to cast their lot in with him, and we can’t be having that. An example will have to be made. King Egon the Third is going to have one of the shortest reigns on record—and I’m calling this meeting because we need to establish who we’re going to put on the throne once Egon is out of the way.”
