The Family Trade

by Stross, Charles

  “Indeed not,” he said acerbically. “But you seem to be clear on your position.” A sudden tightening of the skin around his eyes. “Are you a drug user?” he asked.

  “Me?” She laughed, mentally crossing her fingers. “No! Never.” At least, not heroin or crack. Please don’t let him ask about anything else. Like many students, she’d acquired a passing familiarity with marijuana, but had mostly given it up some time ago. And she didn’t think he was the type to count coffee, cigars, or whiskey as drugs.

  “That’s good,” he said seriously. “Most users are indiscreet. Can’t keep secrets. Bad for business.”

  “Sobriety is next to godliness,” she agreed, nodding enthusiastically, then wondered if she’d overdone it when he fixed her with a slightly jaundiced stare. Oops, five glasses of wine, she remembered—and shrugged self-deprecatingly. His glare slowly faded.

  “You have your mother’s sly tongue,” he commented. “But I didn’t call you here to ask you questions about your opinion of our business. I gather that Roland has been filling in a few of the gaps in your education—some of them, like a working knowledge of hightongue, will take a long time to remedy—but I dare say he has not been forthcoming in full with the details of your position in the Clan. Is that the case?”

  Miriam could feel her forehead wrinkle. “He said I was rich and of very high position. But he didn’t explain in detail, no. Why?”

  “Well, then,” said the duke, “perhaps I had better hasten to explain. You see, you are in a unique position—two unique positions.”

  “Really? What kind?” she asked brightly. Missionary or….

  “You know that there are five families in the Clan,” Angbard began. “These are Lofstrom—the senior family—Thorold, Hjorth, Wu, Arnesen, and Hjalmar. Yes, I know that’s six. The familial name does not necessarily correspond to a lineage. Our families are the descendants of the children of the founder, Angmar Lofstrom. He had many children, but the blood ran thin—only when their children married and the great-grandchildren showed the family trait were we able to come together to form the Clan.”

  He cleared his throat. “Wu is not the name of one of our original ancestors; it is a name that the second son of line Arnesen took upon emigrating to the Outer Kingdom, two thousand miles to the west, perhaps a hundred and twenty years ago. The idea was that family Wu would become our western arm, trading with us by way of the Union Pacific Railroad, to mutual benefit. That wasn’t the first attempt, by the way. Angmar the elder’s youngest son, Marc, tried to cross the wilderness far earlier, but the attempt came to nothing and Marc was lost. So, we have branches on both sides of the Continental Divide. And a history of other families. Once there were seven lineages—but I digress.”

  “But how does it all work?” Miriam asked. “How does the Clan come out of all this?”

  “The Clan is not what you’d call a limited liability company—it is a partnership. A family firm, if you like. You see, we hold our lands and riches and titles in common trust for the Clan, which operates in concert and receives the profits from all our ventures. The Clan makes use of all who have the world-walking talent—the members of the inner families—and arranges or authorizes marriages that braid the families together across generations, avoiding both out-breeding and too many close kin marriages. It also controls the outer family—those who lack the talent, but whose children might possess it if they marry like with like—and finds jobs for them over here. For example, Matthias cannot ever visit Boston on his own—but he has a talent for security, and makes a most excellent mailed fist. We number almost five hundred world-walkers now, and with two thousand in the outer families the pickings at the lower ranks are slim.”

  He coughed. “One iron rule is that family members are required to marry into another family lineage—otherwise the blood runs thin within a generation. The only exceptions are by prior dispensation of the council, to permit an alliance outside the Clan, such as adoption into the nobility. The second iron rule is that inheritance follows Clan shareholdings, not lineage or family. If you die, your children inherit whatever the Clan allocates to them—you hold your estates from the Clan, they don’t belong to you because without the Clan you would be nothing. The system is supposed to encourage cooperation and it usually succeeds, but there are exceptions. Sixty years ago, a war broke out within the Clan, between families—Wu and Hjorth on one side, Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen, and Hjalmar on the other. Nobody is certain what started it any more—those who knew died early on—but my personal supposition is that the Wu family, in their ambition to climb into the eternal palace itself, exposed themselves to court intrigue and were turned into a weapon against us by the palace of the Outer Kingdom, which considered the Wu lineage to be a threat. In any event, it was a bloody period in our history. During the war years, our numbers fell from perhaps a thousand of the true blood to fewer than two hundred. The war ended thirty-five years ago with a treaty, solemnized by the marriage of Patricia Lofstrom Thorold to Alfredo Wu. Patricia was my half-sister, and I inherited custody of the Lofstrom estates.”

  He paused to clear his throat. “Your mother’s death is now confirmed, although neither her nor Alfredo’s body was recovered. Since then, there has been no pretender to the estates of the Thorold–Hjorth shareholding, which were therefore administered as a trusteeship under the order of the high crown.”

  “‘The high crown?’”

  “Yes, the royal family,” he said irritably. “You don’t have one, I know. We have to put up with them, and they can be a blithering nuisance!”

  “Ah, I think I begin to see.” She crossed her ankles. “So. There’s a big shareholding in the Clan enterprise, under the control of an external party who knows who and what you are. Then I come along and offer you a lever to take it back under the family’s control. Is that right?”

  “Yes. As long as nobody kills you first,” he said.

  “Now, wait a minute!” She leaned forward. “Who would do that? And why?”

  “Oh, several parties,” Angbard said with what Miriam found a distinctly unnerving tone of relish. “The crown, to maintain their grip on almost a tenth of our properties and revenues without forcing an outright war with their most powerful nobles. Whoever killed Patricia, for the same reason. Any of the younger generations of lineages Hjorth and Thorold, who must be hoping that the shares will escheat to them in due course should no pretender emerge and should those families re-create the braid of inheritance. And finally, the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  “They aren’t, I merely name them as another party who would take an instant dislike to you were they to become appraised of your existence.” He smiled humorlessly. “Think of it as a test, if you like.”

  “Ri-i-ight,” she drawled. I already figured that much out for myself, thanks. “I believe I see where you’re coming from, Uncle. One question?”

  “Ask away, by all means.”

  “Roland. Does he have a motive?”

  Angbard startled her by laughing loudly. “Roland the dreaming runaway?” He leaned back in his chair. “Roland, who tried to convince us all to sign away our lands to the peasantry and set up a banking system to loan them money? Roland the rebel? He’s squandered all the credibility he might have built by refusing to play the game over here. I think Roland Lofstrom will make a suitable husband for Olga Thorold. And she should make him an excellent wife—she’ll slow him down and that’s necessary, he has disruptive tendencies. Once he’s yoked to the Clan, it might be time to revisit some of his ideas, but as things stand the council can’t afford to be seen taking him seriously—by rebelling in his youth he has automatically tainted any valid reformist ideas he may present. Which is a shame. Meanwhile, you are my direct niece. Patricia, your mother, was the daughter of my father’s first wife. Roland, in contrast, is the son of my half-brother, by my father’s third wife. He’s not a blood relative of yours—at least, not within four generations. Three wiv
es, three children, three scandals! My father lent our affairs much complexity…

  “Anyway, Roland will create another Thorold–Lofstrom braid, which will be of considerable use to my successor, whoever he is. But he’s not important and he has no stake in your disarray. In fact, that is why it was safe for him to know of your existence so early.”

  Miriam shook her head. The family intricacies confused her, and she was left with nothing but a vague impression of plaited families and arranged marriages. “Have you asked Olga’s opinion about this?” she asked.

  “Why would I? She’ll do as she’s told for the good of the Clan. She’s a sweet child.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then,” Miriam said, nodding slightly and biting her cheek to keep a straight face.

  “Which brings me to you, again,” Angbard nodded. “Obviously, you are not a sweet child. You’re an experienced dowager, I would say, and sharp as a razor. I approve of that. But I hope I have made it clear to you that your future is inextricably tied to the Clan. You can’t possibly go back into obscurity on the other side—your enemies would seek you out, whether you will it or no. Nor can you afford not to take sides and find a protector.”

  “I see,” she stated, biting the words out sharply.

  “I think it would be best for you to see something of the other families before we discuss this further,” Angbard continued, ignoring her coolness. “As it happens, Olga is summoned to pay attendance upon the person of the king for the next three months, who as it also happens is not one of us—it would be a good thing at this juncture for you to make your debut before the royal court and that part of the Clan that is in residence in the capital in her company. Your presence should lure certain lice out of the bedding in, ah, a controlled manner. Meanwhile you will not entirely be at a loose end, or without support, when you make the rounds of the eligible nobility before the annual grand meeting at Beltaigne, seven months hence. Olga can advise you on bloodlines and shareholdings and etiquette, and begin language lessons. I place no obligation upon you to make a hasty alliance, just so long as you understand your situation.”

  “Right. So I’m to go looking for an alliance—a husband who meets with your approval—at court. When do you expect me to do this?” Miriam asked, with a forced brightness that concealed her slowly gathering anger. “I assume you’re planning on exhibiting me widely?”

  “Olga departs tomorrow morning by stage,” Angbard announced. “You shall travel with her, and on arrival at court in Niejwein she will help you select your ladies-in-waiting—of low but family rank, not base servants such as you have had here. Your maids are already packing your bags, by the way.” He fixed her with a coldly unamused smile. “Think of it as a test, if you like. You do see this is for your own long-term good, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I see, all right,” Miriam said and smiled at him, as sweet as cyanide-laced marzipan. “Yes, I see everything very clearly indeed.”

  Miriam politely declined the duke’s invitation to lunch and returned to her apartment in a state of barely controlled fury. Her temper was not made better by the discovery that her maids had packed most of her clothes in heavy wooden trunks.

  “Fuck!” She spat at the bathroom mirror. “You will be good, won’t you,” she muttered under her breath. “Patronizing bastard, my dear.”

  Murderous bastard, a still small voice reminded her from inside. Duke Angbard was quite capable of killing people, Roland had said. Paulie’s words came back to haunt her: ‘If you back down, they own you; it’s as simple as that.’ And what the hell was that crack about luring lice out of the bedding meant to mean? She sobered up fast. I need advice, she decided. And then a thought struck her—a thought simultaneously wicked and so delicious that it brought a smile to her lips. A perfect scheme, really, one that would gain her exactly what she needed, while simultaneously sending an unequivocal message to the duke, if she went all the way through with it. She raised one middle digit: “Sit and swivel!” she whispered triumphantly. Yeah, that will work!

  She headed back into the suite, chased her maids out, shut the door, and picked up the phone. “Put me through to Earl Roland,” she demanded in her most imperious voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the operator confirmed. “One moment.”

  “Roland?” she said, suddenly much less confident. ‘Roland the dreamer,’ his uncle called him. Roland the disruptive influence, who looked too good to be true. Did she go through with this? Just picking up the phone made her feel obscurely guilty. It also gave her a thrill of illicit anticipation.

  “Miriam! What can I do for you?”

  “Listen,” she said, licking her suddenly dry lower lip. “About yesterday. You invited me to…dinner? Does that invitation still stand?”

  “You’ve seen the old man?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She waited.

  “Oh. Well, yes, the invitation still stands. Would you like to come?”

  “As long as it’s just you and me. No servants, no company, no nothing.”

  “Oh!” He sounded amused. “Miriam, have you any idea how fast word of that would get around, now that the palace is fully staffed again? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen you know. Not with servants.”

  “It’s not like that: I need confidential advice,” she said. Lowering her voice, “They must know I’ve spent over thirty years on the other side. Can I catch a couple of hours with you, without anyone snooping?”

  “Hmm.” He paused for a bit. “Only if you can manage to become invisible. Listen, I am in the suite on the floor above you, second along. I’ll have dinner laid out at six, then send the servants away. Still, it’ll be best if nobody sees you. It would cause tongues to wag—and give your enemies words to throw back at you.”

  “I’ll think of a way,” she promised. “Lay on the wine and dress for dinner. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Part 3

  Hothouse Flowers

  Revenge of the Invisible Woman

  The small town of Svarlberg squatted at the mouth of the Fall River on the coast, a day’s ride south of Fort Lofstrom. Overlooked by a crumbling but huge stone fortress built in the romans model, brought to the western lands by survivors of the Roman Gothic war against the Turkic occupiers of Constantinople and now used as a bulwark against threat of invasion by sea, Svarlberg was home to a thriving fishing community and a harbor much used by coast-hugging merchants.

  Not that many merchants would put into this harbor so late in the year. A few late stragglers coming down the coast from the icy trapping settlements up north, and perhaps an overdue ship braving the North Atlantic winter to make the last leap from the Ice Isles to western civilization—but winter was beginning to bite, and only rich fools or the truly desperate would brave the boreal gales this late in the year.

  When the horseman reined in his tired mount outside the port-side inn, wearily slid out of the saddle, and banged on the door, it took a minute for the owner to open the hole and look out. “What are you wanting?” he asked brusquely.

  “Board, beer, and stable.” The rider held up a coin so the innkeeper could see it. “Or are you already asleep for the winter, like a bear fattened on salmon since I was here last, Andru?”

  “Ah, come you in.” Andru the innkeeper unbarred the heavy door and yelled over his shoulder: “Markus! Markus! Where is the boy?” A freezing draft set him to shivering. “It’s perishing cold out. Will you be staying long this time, sir?”

  A thin boy came rushing out of the kitchens. “Ma said I was to—” he began.

  “Horse,” said Andru. “Stable. Brush. Oats. You know what to do.”

  “Yes, master.” The boy half-bowed cringingly, then waited while the rider unstrapped one saddle bag before leading the gelding around the side of the inn.

  “Layabout would rather stay in the warmth,” Andru said, shaking his head and glancing along the street in the vain hope of some more passing trade, but it was twilight, and everyone with any sense was already abed. He
stepped aside to let his customer in, then pulled the door shut. “What’ll it be first, sir?”

  “Whatever you’ve got.” The rider bared his teeth in a smile half-concealed by a heavy scarf. “I’m expecting a visitor tonight or tomorrow. If you’ve got a private room and a pipe, I’ll take it.”

  “Be at your ease sir, and I’ll sort it out immediately.” The innkeeper hurried off, calling: “Raya! Raya! Is the wake room fit for a king’s man?”

  The inn was half-empty, dead as a doornail by virtue of the time of day and the season of year. A drunken sailor lay in one corner, snoring quietly, and a public scribe sat at one end of a table, mumbling over a mug of mulled wine and a collection of fresh quills as he cut and tied them for the next week’s business. It was definitely anything but a thriving scene. Which suited the horseman fine, because the fewer people who saw him here, the better.

  A moment later, the innkeeper bustled up—“This way, this way please, kind sir!”—and herded the rider through a side door. “We’ve laid out the wake room for you, sir, and if you will sit for it a selection of cold cuts and a bottle of the southern wine: Will that be sufficient? It’s late in the season but we will be roasting a lamb tomorrow if you should be staying—”

  “Yes, yes—” the inkeeper hurried out again and the rider settled himself in the armchair beside the table and stretched out his legs, snarling quietly when the kitchen girl didn’t hurry to remove his boots fast enough.

  Two hours later he was nodding over his second cup of wine—the room was passably warm, and a couple of large chunks of sausage and pickled tongue had filled his belly comfortably—when there was a discreet tap on the door. He was on his feet instantly, gun at the ready. “Who is it?” he asked quietly.

  “When the dragon of the north wind blows—shit, is that you, Jacob?”

  “Hello, Esau.” Jacob dragged the door open one-handed. The revolver vanished.