Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the light: She could see the man in the high-backed chair smile faintly. He was in late middle age, possibly as old as Morris Beckstein would have been, had he lived. His suit was sober—these people dressed like a company of undertakers—but so well cut that it had to be hand-tailored. His hair was graying, and his face was indistinguished, except for a long scar running up his left cheek.

“I might ask the same question,” he murmured. “Roland, be seated, I say!” His tone of voice said he was used to being obeyed. “I am the high Duke Angbard of house Lofstrom, third of that name, trustee of the crown of guilds, defender of the king’s honor, freeman of the city of Niejwein, head of security of the Clan Reunified, prince of merchant-princes, owner of this demesne, and holder of many more titles than that—but those are the principal ones.” His eyes were the color of lead, a blue so pale she found them hard to see, even when they were focused directly on her. “Also, if I am not very much mistaken, I am your uncle.”

Miriam recoiled in shock. “What?” Another voice echoed her. She glanced sideways to see Roland staring at her in astonishment. His cool exterior began to crack.

“My father would never—” Roland began.

“Shut up,” said Angbard, cold steel in his voice. “I was not referring to your father, young man, but to your aunt once removed: Patricia.”

“Would you mind explaining just what you’re talking about?” Miriam demanded, anger finally getting the better of her. She leaned forward. “Your people have abducted me, ransacked my house, and kidnapped me, just because you think I’m some kind of long-lost relative?”

Angbard nodded thoughtfully. “No. We are absolutely certain you’re a long-lost relative.” He glanced at his nephew. “There is solid evidence.”

Roland leaned back in his chair, whistled tunelessly, all military pretense fled. He stared at her out of wide eyes, as if he was seeing a ghost.

“What have you got to whistle about?” she demanded.

“You asked for an explanation,” Angbard reminded her. “The arrival of an unknown world-walker is always grounds for concern. Since the war…suffice to say, your appearance would have been treated drastically in those days. When you stumbled across the old coast trail a week ago, and the patrol shot at you, they had no way of knowing who you were. That became evident only later—I believe you left a pair of pink house-shoes behind?—and triggered an extensive manhunt. However, you are clearly not connected to a traitorious faction, and closer research revealed some interesting facts about you. I believe you were adopted?”

“That’s right.” Miriam’s heart was fluttering in her ribs, shock and unpleasant realization merging. “Are you saying you’re my long-lost relatives?”