The Family Trade tmp-1

by Charles Stross

  “Let go of my wrist,” Miriam said quietly.

  “Certainly.” Matthias dropped his grip. “Please accept my apologies. I did not intend to give offence.”

  Miriam paused for a moment. “Accepted.”

  “Very well.” Matthias glanced away. “Would you care to hear some advice, my lady?”

  “It depends,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal, trying to stay in control. First a hostile grandmother, now what…? She felt slightly dizzy, punch-drunk from too much information, much of it unwelcome. “In what spirit is the advice offered?”

  Matthias’s face was as stiff and controlled as a mask. “In a spirit of friendly solicitude and perfect altruism,” he murmured.

  She shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, then, I suppose I should take it in the manner in which it is intended.”

  Matthias lowered his voice. “The Clan has many secrets, as you have probably realized, and there are things here that you should avoid showing a conspicuous interest in. In particular, the alignment of inner members, those who vote within the council, is vulnerable to disturbance if certain proxies were realigned. You should be careful of embarrassments; the private is public, and you never know what seeming accidents may be taken by your enemies as proof of your incompetence. I say this as a friend: You would do well to find a protector-or a faction to embrace-before you become a target for the fears of every conspirator.”

  “Do you know who’s threatening me? Are you threatening me?” she asked.

  “No and no. I am simply attempting to educate you. There are more factions here than anyone will admit to.” He shook his head. “I will visit you tomorrow and see to your guards-if that meets with your approval. I can provide you with a degree of protection if you choose to accept it. Do you?”

  “Hah. We’ll see.” Miriam backed away from him, trying to cover her confusion. She retreated back into the flood of light shed by the enormous chandeliers overhead, back toward the torrent of faces babbling in their endless arrogant status games and power plays, just as Brilliana came hurrying up to her. “You have a summons!” Brill said hastily. “His royal highness would like you to present before him.”

  “Present what, exactly? My hitherto-undiscovered family tree, a miracle of fratricidal squabbles and-”

  “No, your credentials.” Brilliana frowned. “He gave them to you?”

  Miriam held up the small scroll and examined the seal. It was similar to the one Olga had shown her, but different in detail.

  “Yes,” she said, finally.

  “Was that all he wanted?” Brilliana asked.

  “No.” Miriam shook her head. “Time for that later. You’d better take me to his majesty.”

  The royal party held their space in another window bay backed by curtains and shutters. All the cloth didn’t completely block the chill that exuded from the stonework. Miriam approached the long as she’d been shown, Brilliana-and a Kara she’d found somewhere-in tow, and made the deepest curtsy she could manage.

  “Rise,” said his high majesty, Alexis Nicholau III. “I believe we have met? The night before last?”

  He smelled of stale wine and old sweat. “Yes, your majesty.” She offered her scroll to him. “This is for you.”

  He cracked the seal with a shaky hand, unrolled it, then nodded to himself and handed it to a page. “Well, if you’re good enough for Angbard, you’re good enough for me.”

  “Um. Your majesty?”

  He waved vaguely at the curtains. “Angbard says you’ll do, and what he says has a habit of sticking.” One of the two princes sidled up behind him, trailing a couple of attendants. “So I’ve got m’self a new countess.”

  “It would appear so, your majesty.”

  “You’re his heir’,’ said the king, relishing the last word.

  Miriam’s jaw dropped. “M-majesty?”

  “Well, he says so,” said King Alexis. “Says so right there.” He stabbed a finger at the page who held the parchment. “ ‘N, who d’you think really runs this place?”

  “Pardon me, please. He hadn’t told me.”

  “Well, I’m telling you,” said the king. The prince-was it Creon or Egon? She couldn’t tell them apart yet-leaned over his majesty’s shoulder and stared at her frankly. “Doesn’t matter much.” The king sniffed. “You won’t fill that man’s shoes, girl. The man you marry might, though. If you both live long enough.”

  “I see,” she said. The prince was clearly in his twenties, had long dark hair, an embroidered gold blouse, and a knife at his belt that looked to be a solid mass of gemstones. He regarded her with an expression of slack-jawed vacancy. What is this? Miriam wondered with growing fear. Shit, I knew it! They ‘re trying to set me up!

  “There’s one way of seeing to that,” the king added. “I believe you’ve not been introduced to my son Creon?”

  “Delighted, absolutely delighted!” Miriam tried to smile at him. Creon nodded back at her happily.

  “Creon is long past an age to marry,” the king said thoughtfully. “Of course, whoever he took to wife would be a royal princess, you realize?” He looked down his nose at her. “Of course anyone who would be pledged to a royal household would need a very special dowry-” his glance was dark and full of veiled significance-“but I believe Angbard’s relatives might find the price affordable. And the prince would benefit from the intelligent self-interest of an understanding wife.”

  “Uh-huh.” She looked past the king, at Prince Creon. The prince beamed at her, a delighted, friendly expression that was nevertheless undermined by the way he simultaneously drooled on his collar. “I’d be delighted to meet with the prince later, under more appropriate circumstances,” she gushed. “Delighted! Of course!” She beamed, desperately racking her brain for platitudes recovered from a thousand and one annual shareholders’ meetings gone bad. “I’d love to hear from you, really I would, but I am still being introduced to so many fascinating people and I owe you my full attention, it would be awful to devote less than my full energies and attention to your son! I quite appreciate your-”

  “Yes, yes, that’s enough.” The king beamed at her. “There’s no need for sycophancy. I have heard so much I am far beyond its reach, and he-” he nodded-“will never be within it.”

  Gulp. “I see, your majesty.”

  “Yes, he’s an idiot,” King Alexis said genially. “And you’re too old.” Some instinct for self-preservation made Miriam swallow an automatic protest. “But he’s my idiot, and were he to marry his child would be third in line to the throne, at least until Egon’s wife bears issue. I urge you to think on this, young lady: Should you meet anyone suitable, I would be most interested to hear of them. Now begone with you, to these vastly important strangers who fascinate you so conspicuously. I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Uh-thank you! Thank you most kindly!” Miriam fled in disarray, outmanoeuvred for the third time this evening. Just what is it with these people? She wondered. The king’s overture was undoubtedly well-meant; just alarming and demoralizing, for it highlighted the depths of her own inadequacy in trying to play power politics with these sharks. The king wants to marry his son into the Clan, and he thinks I’m a useful person to talk to? It was desperately confusing. And why had Angbard named her his heir? That was the real question. Without an answer, nothing else seemed to make sense. What was he trying to achieve? Didn’t it make her some kind of target?

  Target.

  She stopped, halfway from pillared bay to dancing floor, as if struck in the head by a two-by-four.

  “Milady Miriam? What is it?” Brilliana was tugging at her sleeve.

  “Shush. I’m thinking.”

  Target. Thirty-two years ago someone had pursued and murdered her mother, while she was en route to this very court to pay attendance to the king-probably Alexis’s father. During the civil war between the families, before the Clan peace was installed. Her mother’s marriage had been the peace settlement that cemented one corner of the arrangement.


  Since she’d come here, someone had tried to kill her at least twice.

  Miriam thought furiously. These people hold long grudges. Are the incidents connected? If so, it could be more than Baron Hjorth’s financial machinations. Or Matthias’s mysterious factions. Or even the dowager grandmother, Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth.

  Someone ignorant of her past. Of course! If they’d known about her before, or on the other side, she’d have been pushed under a subway train or run over by a car or shot in a random drive-by incident long before she’d discovered the way back. How common is it to conceal an heir? She wondered.

  “Mistress, you’ve got to come.”

  “What is it?” Something about Brilliana’s insistent nudging attracted Miriam’s attention. It’s not me, it’s something to do with who I am, she realized vaguely, groping for the light. I’m so important to these people that they can’t conceive of me not joining in their game. It would be like the vice president refusing to talk to the Senate. Even if I don’t do anything, tell them I want to be left alone, that would be seen as some kind of deep political game. “What’s happening?” She asked distractedly.

  “It’s Kara,” Brill insisted. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “I’m here,” she said, shaking her head, dazed by her insight. I’ve got to be a politician, whether I like it or not… “What is it now?”

  As it happened, Kara was somewhat the worse for wear, not to say steaming drunk. A young Sir Nobody-in-Particular had been plying her with wine, evidently fortified by freezing-her speech was slurred and incoherent and her hair mussed-quite possibly with intent to climb into her clothing with her. He hadn’t got far, perhaps because Kara was more enthusiastic than discreet, but it wasn’t for want of trying. Though Kara protested her innocence, Miriam detected more than a minor note of concern on Brill’s part. “Look, I think there’s a good reason for going home,” Miriam told the two of them. “Can you get into the carriage?” she questioned Kara.

  “Course I can,” Kara slurred. “N’body does ‘t better!”

  “Right.” Miriam glanced at Brilliana. “Let’s get her home.”

  “Do you want to stay, mistress?” Brilliana looked at her doubtfully.

  “I want-” Miriam stopped. “What I want doesn’t seem likely to make any difference here,” she said bleakly, feeling the weight of the world descend on her shoulders. Angbard named me his heir because he wanted me to attract whatever faction tried to kill my mother, she thought. Hildegarde takes against me because I can’t bring back, or be, her daughter, and now I’ve got these two ingénues to look out for. Not to mention Roland. Roland, who might be-

  “Got a message,” announced Kara as they were halfway to the door.

  “A message? How nice,” Miriam said dryly.

  “For th’ mistress,” Kara added. Then she focused on Miriam. “Oh!”

  From between her breasts, she produced a thin scrap of paper. Miriam stuffed it in her hand-warmer and took Kara by the arm. “Come on home, you,” she insisted.

  The carriage was literally freezing. Icicles dangled from the steps as they climbed in, and the leather seats crackled as they sat down. “Home,” Brilliana told the driver. With a shake of the reins, he set the horses to walking, their breath steaming in the frigid air. “That was exciting!” she said. “Shame you spoiled it,” she chided Kara. “What were you arguing about with those gentles?” she asked Miriam timidly. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “I was being put in my place by my grandmother, I think,” Miriam muttered. Hands in her warmer, she fumbled for the blister-pack of beta-blocker tablets. She briefly brought a hand out and dry-swallowed one, along with an ibuprofen. She had a feeling she’d be needing them soon. “What do you know about the history of my family, Brill?” she asked.

  “What, about your parents? Or your father? Families or braids?”

  Miriam shut her eyes. “The civil war,” she murmured. “Who started it?”

  “Why-” Brilliana frowned. “The civil war? ’Tis clear enough: Wu and Hjorth formed a compact of trade, east coast to west, at the expense of the Clan; Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen, and Hjalmar returned the compliment, sending Andru Arnesen west to represent them in Chang-Shi, and he was murdered on his arrival there by a man who vanished into thin air. Clearly it was an attempt to prevent the Clan of four from competing, so they took equivalent measures against the gang of two. What made it worse was that some hidden members of each braid seemed to want to keep the feud burning. Every time it looked as if the elders were going to settle things up, a new outrage would take place-Duchess Lofstrom abused and murdered, Count Thorold-Arnesen’s steading raided and set alight.”

  “That’s-” Miriam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a Hjahnar, right?”

  “Yes?” Brilliana nodded. “Why? What does it mean?”

  “Just thinking,” Miriam said. Left-over grudges, a faction that didn’t want the war to stop, to stop eating the Clan’s guts out. She hit a brick wall. It’s as if someone from outside had stepped in, intervened to set cousins against each other… She sat up.

  “Weren’t there originally seven sons of Angmar the Sly?”

  “Urn, yes?” Brill looked puzzled.

  “But one was lost, in the early days?”

  Brill nodded. “That was Markus, or something. The first to head west to make his fortune.”

  “Aha.” Miriam nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Just thinking.” Hypothesis: There is another family, outside the Clan. The Clan don’t know about them. They’re not numerous, and they ‘re in the same import/export trade. Won’t they see the Clan as a threat? But why? Why couldn’t they simply marry back into the braids? She shook her head. I should have tried those experiments with the photograph of the locket.

  The carriage drew up at the door of the Thorold Palace, and Miriam and Brilliana managed to get Kara out without any untoward incidents. Then Kara responded to the cold air by stumbling to the side of the ornate portico, bending over as far as she could, and vomiting in an ornamental planter.

  “Ugh,” said Brilliana. She glanced sidelong at Miriam. “This should not have happened.”

  “At least the plants were dead first,” Miriam reassured her. “Come on. Let’s get her inside.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Brill took a deep breath. “Euen of Arnesen plied her with fortified wine while she was out with my sight. I should have seen it, but was myself besieged when not following your lead.” She frowned. “This was deliberate.”

  “You expect me to be surprised?” Miriam shook her head. “Come on. Let’s get her up to our rooms and see she doesn’t-” a flashback to Matthias’s warning-“embarrass us further.”

  Brill helped steer Kara upstairs, and Miriam ensured that she was sat upright on a chaise lounge, awake and complaining with a cup of tea, before she retreated to her bedroom. She started to remove her cloak then remembered the hand-warmer, and the message Kara had passed her. She unrolled it and read.

  I have urgent news concerning the assassin who has been stalking you. Meet me in the orangery at midnight.

  Your obedient servant, Earl Roland Lofstrom

  “Shit,” she mumbled under her breath. “Brill!”

  “Yes, Miriam?”

  “Help me undress, will you?”

  “What, right now? Are you going to bed?”

  “Not immediately,” Miriam said grimly. “Our assassin seems to have gotten tired of trying to sneak up on me and is trying to reel me in like a fish. Only he’s made a big mistake.” She turned to present her back. “Unlace me. I’ve got places to go, and it’d be a shame to get blood on this gown.”

  Black jeans, combat boots, turtleneck, and leather jacket: a gun in her pocket and a locket in her left hand. Miriam breathed deeply, feeling naked despite everything. She felt as if the only thing she was wearing was a target between her shoulder blades.

  Across the room Brilliana looked worried. “Are yo
u sure this is the right thing to do?” she asked again. “Do you want me to come? I am trained using a pistol-”

  “I’ll be fine. But I may have to world-walk in a hurry.” I won’t be fine, Miriam corrected herself silently: But if I don’t deal with this trouble sooner or later, they’ll kill me. Won’t they? And the one thing an assassin wouldn’t be expecting would be for her-not one of the Clan-raised hotheads born with her hands on a pistol, but a reasonable, civilized journalist from a world where that sort of thing just didn’t happen-to turn on them. She hoped.

  Miriam hitched her day sack into place and checked her right pocket again, the one with the gun and a handful of spare cartridges. She didn’t feel fine: There were butterflies in her stomach. “If there’s a problem, I’ll stay the night on the other side, safely out of the way. But I need to know. I want you to wait half an hour, then take Kara around to Olga and sit things out with her there. With your gun, and Olga, and her own guards, in a properly doppelgangered area, you should be safe. But I don’t want her tripping and falling downstairs before we learn who gave her that note. D’you understand? Matthias promised to sort me out some guards tomorrow, but I don’t trust him. If he’s in on this-or just being watched-there’ll be an attempt on my life tonight. Except this time I think they got sloppy, expecting me to turn up for it like it’s an appointment. So I’m going to avoid it entirely.”

  “I understand.” Brill stood up. “Good luck,” she said.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.” Miriam took two steps toward the door, then pulled out her locket.

  Dizziness, mild nausea, a headache that clamped around her head like a vice. She looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed in the warehouse attic, other than the dim light getting dimmer and the bad smell from somewhere nearby. It was getting worse, and it reminded her of something. “Hmm.”

  Miriam ducked behind a wall of wooden crates, her head pounding. She pulled the pistol out, slightly nervous at first. It was a self-cocking revolver, reliable and infinitely reassuring in the gloom. Stay away from guns, the training course had emphasized. But that was then, back where she was a journalist and the world made sense to rational people. But if they’re trying to kill you, you have to kill them first, was another, older lesson from the firearms instructor her father had sent her to. And here and now, it seemed to make more sense.