The Family Trade

The glass-walled elevator car began to track up the outer wall of the tower. “That’s—oh my!” Brill leaned back against the far wall from the window. “I’d rather walk, I think,” she said shakily.

A thought struck Miriam at the top. “We’d better be careful going in,” she commented before the doors opened. “I want you to wait behind me.”

“Why?” Brill followed her out of the lift into an empty landing. She looked slightly green, and Miriam realized she hadn’t said anything on the way up.

“Because,” Miriam frowned, “we’re safe from the other side, here. But Roland knows which room I’m using.” He won’t have told anybody, she reasoned. Even if he has, they can’t have booby-trapped it from the inside, like the warehouse. Not on the twenty-second floor. I hope.

“All right.” Brill swallowed. “Which way?” she asked, looking bewildered.

“Follow me.” Miriam pushed through the fire doors, strolled along a hotel corridor, trying to imagine what it might look like to someone who’d never seen a hotel—or an elevator—before. “Wait here.”

She swiped her card-key through the lock, then stood aside, right hand thrust in her jacket pocket as she pushed the door open to reveal an empty suite, freshly prepared beds, an open bathroom door. “Quick.” She waved Brill inside then followed her, shut and locked the door, and sagged against it in relief.

“Oh shit, oh shit…” Her hands felt cold and shook until she clasped them together. Delayed shock, the analytical observer in her brain commented. Tonight you killed an assassin in self-defence, defused a bomb, discovered a murder and a conspiracy, and rescued Brill and Olga. Isn’t it about time you collapsed in a gibbering heap?

“Where is—” Brilliana was looking around, eyes narrowed. “It’s so small! But it’s hot. The fireplace—”

“You don’t have fireplaces in tall buildings,” Miriam said automatically. “We’re twenty-two floors up. We’ve got air-conditioning—that box, under the curtains, it warms the air, keeps it at a comfortable temperature all year around.” She rubbed her forehead: The pounding headache was threatening to make a comeback. “Have a seat.”

Brill picked a chair in front of the television set. “What now?” she asked, yawning.

Miriam glanced at the bedside clock: It was about one o’clock in the morning. “It’s late,” said Miriam. “Tonight we sleep. In the morning I’m going to take you on a journey to another city, to meet someone I trust. A friend. Then—” she instinctively fingered the pocket with the two lockets in it, her own and the one she’d taken from the assassin—“we’ll work out what to do next.”

They spent a nervous night in the anonymous hotel room, high above any threat from world-walking pursuers. In the morning Miriam pointed Brill at the shower—she had to explain the controls—while she called room service, then went to check the wardrobe.

A big anonymous-looking suitcase nearly filled the luggage niche, right where she’d left it. While breakfast was on its way up, Miriam opened it and pulled out some fresh clothing. Have to take time to buy some more, she thought, looking at what was left. Most of the suitcase was occupied by items that wouldn’t exactly render her inconspicuous on this side. Later, she resolved. Her wallet itched, reproaching her. Inside it was the platinum card Duke Angbard had sent her. Two million dollars of other people’s blood money. Either it was her “Get Out of Jail Free” card, or a death trap, depending on whether whoever had sent the first bunch of assassins—her enemy within the Clan, rather than without—was able to follow its transactions. Probably they wouldn’t be able to, at least not fast enough to catch up with her if she kept moving. If they were, Miriam wasn’t the only family member who was at risk. It’s probably safe as long as it keeps working and I keep moving, she reasoned. If somebody puts a stop on it, I’m in trouble. And better not go buying any air tickets. Not that she was pla

There was a discreet knock at the door. Miriam picked up her pistol and, hiding it in her pocket, approached. The peephole showed her a bored bellhop pushing a trolley. She opened the door. “Thanks,” she said, passing him a tip. “We’ll keep the trolley.”

Back inside the suite, Brill emerged from the bathroom looking pink and freshly scrubbed—and somewhat confused. “Where does all the water come from?” she asked, almost complaining. “It never stopped!”

“Welcome to New York, baby,” Miriam drawled, lifting the cover off a plate laden with a full-cooked breakfast. “Land of plenty, home of—sorry,” she finished lamely and waved Brill toward a chair. “Come on, there’s enough food for both of us.” Damn, she thought. I don’t want to go rubbing her nose in it. Not like that.

“Thank you,” Brill said, primly picking up a knife and fork and going to work. “Hmm. It tastes slightly … odd.”

“Yeah.” Miriam chewed thoughtfully, then poured a couple of cups of coffee from the thermal jug. “The eggs aren’t as good. Are they?”

“It’s all a little different.” Brill frowned, inspecting her plate minutely. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? Like identical twins?”

“It’s how we make things here.” Miriam shrugged. “You’ll see lots of things that are identical. But not people.” She began working on her toast before she noticed Brill surreptitiously following her example with the small wrapped parcels of butter. “First, I’m going to call my friend. If she’s all right, we’re going to go on a journey to another city and I’m going to leave you with her for a few days. The way we tell it is: You’re a relative from out of state who’s coming to stay. Your parents are weird backwoods types, which is why there’s a lot of stuff you haven’t seen. My friend will know the truth. Also, she’s got a contact number for Roland. If I—” she cleared her throat—“she’ll get you back in touch, so you can go home. To the other side, I mean, when you need to.”

“ ‘When I need to’,” Brill echoed doubtfully. She glanced around the room. “What’s that?”

“That?” Miriam blinked. “It’s a television set.”

“Oh. Like Ser Villem’s after-di

“That’s one way of putting it.” Kid, I prescribe a week as a dedicated couch potato before we let you go outdoors on your own, she resolved. “I’ve got a call to make,” she said, reaching for her mobile.

The first thing Miriam did was switch her phone off, open the back, and replace the SIM chip with one she took from her billfold. Then she reassembled it. The phone beeped as it came up with a new identity, but there was no voice mail waiting for her. Steeling herself, she dialled a number—one belonging to another mobile phone she’d sent via FedEx a couple of days before.

“Hello?” The voice at the end of the line sounded positively chirpy.

“Paulie! Are you okay?”

“Miriam! How’s it going, babe?”

“It’s going messy,” she admitted. “Look, remember the other day? Are you still home?”

“Yes. What’s come up?”

“I’m going to come pay you a visit,” said Miriam. “First, I’ve got a lot of things to discuss, stuff to get in order—and a down payment. Second, I’ve got a lodger. How’s your spare room?”

“Oh, you know it’s been empty since I kicked that bum Walter out? What’s up, you wanting him to stay with me?”

Miriam glanced at Brill. “It’s a she, and I think you’ll probably like her,” she said guardedly. “It’s part of that deal I’ve made. I need you to put her up for a few weeks, on the company—I mean, I’m paying. Trouble is, she’s from, uh, out of state, if you follow me. She doesn’t know her way around at all.”