stopped two blocks from the place by a barricade manned by marines who had torn their insignia of rank from their uniforms, Erasmus climbed out of the car. "I'm here to see Adam," he said openly. "Take me to him."
It took a while, but half an hour later Erasmus slid to the front of a queue of supplicants. They were queuing to see the man in the mayor's office, but the man behind the mayor's desk was not the mayor, and he wasn't doing ordinary civic business as usual. When Erasmus entered the room he was holding forth animatedly with a group of hard-looking types who he recognized instantly as party cadres. Sir Adam Burroughs had aged in the nearly twenty years since Erasmus had last seen him: His hair was thin and straggling, and his high forehead was deeply grooved with worry lines. But the magnetic charm and hyperactive temperament remained-
"Hello? Who's this?" Burroughs looked at him for a few seconds. Then his eyes widened. "Joshua? Is that you?"
"It is indeed." Erasmus bowed low-not a flourishing courtier's bow, but a salute born of deep respect. "Lady Margaret sends her regards, and her hopes for your success in this venture." He smiled. "Though it seems to me that you've made a good start already!"
"Joshua, man-" Burroughs stood up and flew from behind his desk, then gripped Erasmus by the shoulders. "It's been too long!" He turned to face his half-dozen assistants. "This man is Joshua Cooke! During the eighty-six he was my secretary and correspondent, he ran the People's Voice in New York. Since then he's been a mainstay of the movement out east." Eyes were staring, lips mumbling silently. "You've come to join us, I take it."
"Oh yes." Erasmus nodded. "But I go by the name of Erasmus Burgeson these days, and it's gotten to be something of a habit. And to plug you into what's been happening out east. I was delayed, I'm afraid, by the Polis-got away, but it was a near thing. And everywhere I went, rumor was chasing falsehood's tail for truth's bone. I take it loyalists are thin on the ground around here?"
"Vanished like rats from a sinking ship," grumped one of Burroughs's new assistants, a heavy-set fellow with a nautical beard. "We'll root 'em out."
"Organization first," Burroughs said mildly. "Josh-Erasmus, is it?-you've arrived at exactly the right time. We've got to get the word out, now that the Hanoverian has emptied his treasury, get control-I want you to take a flying picket down to the Petrograd Times and get the presses rolling again. And the telautograph senders on the east bay mount. You're going to be in charge of the propaganda ministry. Can you do that?"
Erasmus cracked his knuckles, grinning cadaverously. "It'll be a good start."
"An accident." Miriam stared at Brill across the width of the safe house's kitchen. She looks like someone told her the family dog's got cancer. "What kind of accident?"
"The duke-" Brill swallowed.
Huw sidestepped towards the sink, making an adroit grab for a water glass.
"Yes?" Miriam said encouragingly, her heart sinking.
"He's had a stroke, they say. World-walking."
"But why would he-" Huw fell silent, seeing Miriam's expression.
"The pretender's army took the Hjalmar Palace by treachery. His grace was organizing a force to take it back when… something happened, something bad. Near Concord. Everyone had to cross over in a hurry. They retook the fortifications, but the duke-"
Brilliana swallowed.
"Well shit," Huw said angrily.
Miriam raised a finger. "Is he still alive?" she asked. "Is he conscious? Because-"
"Wait." Brill took the water glass from Huw's fingers. "Anything. To put in this?"
"There's a bottle of brandy in the luggage." Huw headed for the door. "Don't go away. Be right back."
Miriam pulled a stool out and steered it behind Brilliana, who sat, gratefully.
"He's in a bad way," she said eventually, visibly gathering her wits. "Paralyzed on one side. They need to get him to a neurology ward but they're trapped in the Hjalmar Palace-a
It took a while, but half an hour later Erasmus slid to the front of a queue of supplicants. They were queuing to see the man in the mayor's office, but the man behind the mayor's desk was not the mayor, and he wasn't doing ordinary civic business as usual. When Erasmus entered the room he was holding forth animatedly with a group of hard-looking types who he recognized instantly as party cadres. Sir Adam Burroughs had aged in the nearly twenty years since Erasmus had last seen him: His hair was thin and straggling, and his high forehead was deeply grooved with worry lines. But the magnetic charm and hyperactive temperament remained-
"Hello? Who's this?" Burroughs looked at him for a few seconds. Then his eyes widened. "Joshua? Is that you?"
"It is indeed." Erasmus bowed low-not a flourishing courtier's bow, but a salute born of deep respect. "Lady Margaret sends her regards, and her hopes for your success in this venture." He smiled. "Though it seems to me that you've made a good start already!"
"Joshua, man-" Burroughs stood up and flew from behind his desk, then gripped Erasmus by the shoulders. "It's been too long!" He turned to face his half-dozen assistants. "This man is Joshua Cooke! During the eighty-six he was my secretary and correspondent, he ran the People's Voice in New York. Since then he's been a mainstay of the movement out east." Eyes were staring, lips mumbling silently. "You've come to join us, I take it."
"Oh yes." Erasmus nodded. "But I go by the name of Erasmus Burgeson these days, and it's gotten to be something of a habit. And to plug you into what's been happening out east. I was delayed, I'm afraid, by the Polis-got away, but it was a near thing. And everywhere I went, rumor was chasing falsehood's tail for truth's bone. I take it loyalists are thin on the ground around here?"
"Vanished like rats from a sinking ship," grumped one of Burroughs's new assistants, a heavy-set fellow with a nautical beard. "We'll root 'em out."
"Organization first," Burroughs said mildly. "Josh-Erasmus, is it?-you've arrived at exactly the right time. We've got to get the word out, now that the Hanoverian has emptied his treasury, get control-I want you to take a flying picket down to the Petrograd Times and get the presses rolling again. And the telautograph senders on the east bay mount. You're going to be in charge of the propaganda ministry. Can you do that?"
Erasmus cracked his knuckles, grinning cadaverously. "It'll be a good start."
"An accident." Miriam stared at Brill across the width of the safe house's kitchen. She looks like someone told her the family dog's got cancer. "What kind of accident?"
"The duke-" Brill swallowed.
Huw sidestepped towards the sink, making an adroit grab for a water glass.
"Yes?" Miriam said encouragingly, her heart sinking.
"He's had a stroke, they say. World-walking."
"But why would he-" Huw fell silent, seeing Miriam's expression.
"The pretender's army took the Hjalmar Palace by treachery. His grace was organizing a force to take it back when… something happened, something bad. Near Concord. Everyone had to cross over in a hurry. They retook the fortifications, but the duke-"
Brilliana swallowed.
"Well shit," Huw said angrily.
Miriam raised a finger. "Is he still alive?" she asked. "Is he conscious? Because-"
"Wait." Brill took the water glass from Huw's fingers. "Anything. To put in this?"
"There's a bottle of brandy in the luggage." Huw headed for the door. "Don't go away. Be right back."
Miriam pulled a stool out and steered it behind Brilliana, who sat, gratefully.
"He's in a bad way," she said eventually, visibly gathering her wits. "Paralyzed on one side. They need to get him to a neurology ward but they're trapped in the Hjalmar Palace-a
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