The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) by Stross Charles Page B

of polite attentiveness.
    ‘The prisoner is to be treated with all the courtesy due to one of your own station, indeed, as a senior Clan member, I say. As a respected guest, detained for her own
protection.’
    ‘Sir!’ Roland couldn’t contain his shock.
    Angbard stared at him. ‘You have something to say, my earl?’ he asked coldly.
    Roland swallowed. ‘I hear and . . . and will of course obey,’ he said. ‘Just, please permit me to say, this is a surprise – ’
    ‘Your surprise is noted,’ Angbard stated coldly. ‘Nevertheless, I will keep my reasons to myself for the time being. All you need to know at present is that the prisoner must
be treated with kidskin gloves.’ He stared at the young officer intently, but he showed no sign of defiance: and after a moment Angbard relented slightly. ‘This – ’ he
gestured at the box before him – ‘raises some most disturbing possibilities.’ He tapped one finger on the topmost sheet. ‘Or had you noticed any strangers out with the Clan
who are gifted with the family talent?’
    ‘Mm, no, sir, I had not.’ Roland looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘What are you thinking?’
    ‘Later. Just see she’s transferred to a comfortable – but securely doppelgängered – suite. Be polite and hospitable, win her trust, and treat her person with the
utmost respect. And notify me when she is ready to answer my questions.’
    ‘I hear and obey,’ Roland acknowledged, less puzzled, but clearly thoughtful.
    ‘See that you do,’ Angbard rumbled. ‘You are dismissed.’
    His nephew rose, straightened his suit jacket, and strode toward the door, a rapier banging at his side. Angbard stared at the door in silence for a minute after he had gone, then turned his eye
back to the items in the file box. Which included a locket that he had seen before – almost a third of a century ago.
    ‘Patricia,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘what has become of you?’
    *
    Daylight. That was the first thing that Miriam noticed. That – and she had the mother of all hangovers. Her head felt as if it was wrapped in cotton wool, her right arm
hurt like hell, and everything around her was somehow wrong. She blinked experimentally. Her head
was
wrapped in cotton wool – or bandages. And she was wearing something unfamiliar.
She’d gone to bed in her usual T-shirt, but now she was wearing a nightgown – but she didn’t own one!
What’s going on?
    Daylight. She felt muzzy and stupid and her head was pounding. She was thirsty, too. She rolled over and blinked at where the night-stand should have been. There was a whitewashed wall six
inches from her nose. The bed she was lying in was jammed up against a rough cinder-block wall that had been painted white. It was as weird as that confused nightmare about the light and the
chemical stink –
    Nightmare?
    She rolled the other way, her legs tangling up in the nightgown. She nearly fell out of the bed, which was far too narrow. It wasn’t her own bed, and for a moment of panic she wondered
what could possibly have happened. Then it all clicked into place. ‘Gangsters or feds? Must be the feds,’ she mumbled to herself.
They must have followed me. Or Paulie. Or
something
.
    A vast, hollow terror seemed to have replaced her stomach.
They’ll bury you so deep,
she remembered.
So deep that
–
    Her throat felt sore, as if she’d spent the entire night screaming. Odd, that.
    Maybe it was anticipation.
    Somehow she swung her legs over the side of the strange bed. They touched the floor much too soon, and she sat up, pushing the thin comforter aside. The far wall was too close, and the window
was set high up; in fact, the whole room was about the size of a closet. There was no other furniture except for a small stainless-steel sink bolted to the wall opposite the door. The door itself
was a featureless slab of wood with a peephole implanted in it at eye level. She noted with a dull sense of recognition that the door was