highways he’d be trapped, in a manner of speaking; committed to Niejwein, by hook or by crook. He could be at the palace in a matter of hours, there to take charge of a troop of cavalry such as befitted a gentleman: but while he was on the road he’d be unable to listen in on the upstart Riordan’s increasingly desperate messages.
Impatient and irritable with tiredness, Oliver stood—for perhaps the fifth time that morning—and walked to the window casement. Below him, a cleared slope ran downhill to the woodline: Nobody stirred on the dirt track leading to the house.
Schuller glanced up, then nodded—overfamiliarly, in Oliver’s opinion, but fatigue made churls of all men—and shoved one headphone away from an ear. “Nothing for the past fifteen minutes, my lord. Before that, something garbled from Lady Thorold’s adjutant. A call for reinforcements from their Millgartfurt station, where they reported word of an attack—cut short. Orders from Major Riordan’s command post, demanding that all units hold their station and report by numbers. There were three responses.”
“
“Riordan told the post to keep reporting hourly on the attack; it is by all accounts chaos over there. All air flights are grounded, but the roads are open—outside of the capital, of course. They’re clucking like headless chickens.” Schuller’s expression was stony. “As well they might. Fools.”
“Did I pledge you for your opinions?” The baron raised an eyelid: Schuller recoiled slightly.
“No sir!”
“Then kindly keep them to yourself, there’s a good chap. I’m trying to think.” Oliver dabbed at his forehead, trying to mop away the perspiration.
“They are probably shorthanded, sir.” Schuller looked up at the baron as he paged through the sheet. “Their traffic has been tailing off all morning.”
“Well then.” The baron smiled tightly as he saw the time stamps grow thinner, the broadcasts more desperate. “I think it’s time to move headquarters. Tell Stanislaw and Poul we’re moving, then hail Andrei and tell him to ready the troops to move this afternoon. Shut up shop and meet me downstairs in ten minutes: I must change first.” It wouldn’t do to be stopped and searched by the Anglische police while dressed as a Sudtmarkt cousin’s guest, but he had a business suit laid out next door.
The plan was simple, as such things went: Baron Hjorth would transfer to the United States, drive north— covering a distance of hundreds of miles in a mere afternoon—and reemerge in the Gruinmarkt, on his own estate, with a bodyguard of cavalrymen in time to ride to the flag of the Postal Lords and her grace the dowager duchess. Who, if things were going to plan—as appeared to be the case—would have coaxed the Idiot’s hoyden widow into a suitably well-guarded retreat and arranged for her confinement, in every sense of the word. Having managed the successful delivery of the atomic bombs to their targets (an expensive process, as Kurt and Jurgen could attest), he was, if nothing else, in line for the reward for a job well done.
Oliver made his way through the empty servants’ quarters, passing the room recently vacated by Schuller, before descending by way of a back staircase and a dressing room to reach the main staircase. His men had dismissed most of the regular servants, banishing them to the village over the hill in the name of security. The great house was almost deserted, sweltering in the noon heat. Air-conditioning and the milder Northern climate beckoned, putting a spring in the baron’s step. As he reached the bottom step, one shoe touching the mosaic floor of the central hall, he paused. It was, if anything,
“They won’t be answering.” Schuller stepped out of the shadows.
Oliver’s left hand tightened on the handrail. “What is this?” His right hand was already shoving aside his jacket, reaching for the small of his back—
Schuller shot him. In the confines of the high-ceilinged room the blast of the shotgun was more than a noise, a deafening concussion that launched a screeching flight of frightened birds from the grounds outside. Oliver Hjorth collapsed, eyes staring, his chest flayed open as any victim of the blood-eagle. Schuller racked the pump on his weapon, ejecting the smoking cartridge, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, his face still expressionless. “Fucking aristocratic traitor,” he muttered, inspecting the baron’s body for any sign of residual life; but there was not so much as a toe-twitch, and the pool of blood was spreading evenly now, no longer spurting but beginning to soak into the rug at the center of the hall. Turning on his heel, Schuller walked slowly towards the front door of the hall; raising his left hand to stare at something cupped within his palm, he vanished. An instant later he reappeared in a linoleum-floored utility room, windowless. Walking over to the telephone, he dialed a number from memory: “Message to the major,” he said, swallowing back bile. “Cuckoo Four has hatched three eggs. Cuckoo Four is going home.”
There was a moment’s delay, and then a woman’s voice spoke: “Got that, and good luck. The major says you did well.”
“Bye.” He hung up, carefully unloaded his shotgun, and deposited it on the workbench. Then, taking a pair of car keys from his pocket, he headed for the carport. It would be a long drive for one man sticking religiously to the speed limit; but if he hurried, he could be back with his unit by sundown. Unlike the baron, Earl-Major Riordan didn’t think of his agents as expendable embarrassments.
* * *
It took more than a war, a liquidity crisis, or even a revolution to stop the dogs. The morning after his father explained the new arrangement to him—the identity of their new political patron, the reason for backing ven Hjalmar, and the ruling council of elders’ plans for the future—James Lee, his hat pulled down as low as his spirits, walked to the track to put some money on the greyhounds.
It was not, of course, entirely safe for a man with Asian features to walk these streets alone; but Lin, his favorite younger brother, was more than eager to get out of the house for a few hours. With smoked glasses and the beard he’d been cultivating of late, James didn’t feel too out of place; and in addition to his cane, he had a pistol and a locket on a ribbon around his left wrist.
“Look—I’ll put two shillings on Red Leinster in the next race,” said Lin, pointing at one of the muzzled and hooded hounds, being led back to the kennels in the wake of a near-miss. “How about you?”
“Huh. Three and six on Bottle Rocket, I think.” James glanced around, looking for a tout’s man. “And a pint of mild.”
“Make that two pints.” Lin flashed him a brief grin. “What’s gotten into you, brother? I haven’t seen you this low since…” He trailed off.
James shook his head. Another glance: “Not in English,” he said quietly. “Later, maybe.”
“Oh.” Slightly crestfallen, Lin subsided. But not for long: “Look! There’s your bookmaker.” He pointed excitedly, at a sharply dressed figure surrounded by a court of supplicants, and not a few stone-faced gentlemen with stout walking sticks—some of them doubtless concealing blades. “Are you going to—”
James shook his head. “Life’s a gamble,” he said quietly. A moment later his mood lifted. “Yes, I think I shall take a flutter.” He worked his way over towards the bookmaker, Lin following along in his wake. A few minutes later, by way of a tap-man who dispensed mild straight into battered pewter pots from the back of a cask-laden dray, he made his way towards the back of the trackside crowd. The audience was abuzz with anticipation as the fresh dogs were led out to the stalls. “Which do you think is more important: filial obedience, or honor?” he asked.
Lin’s eyes crossed briefly. “Uh. Beer?” he hazarded.
James shook his head minutely. “Imagine I’m being serious.”
“Well, then.” Lin took a gulp of the black beer. “This is a trick question, isn’t it? Filial obedience, obviously, because that’s where your honor comes from, right?”
“Wrong.” James took a sip from his own mug. “And yes it
