The Hidden Family tmp-2

by Charles Stross

  Olga rubbed her head. “This is going to be the most fascinating Clan council in living memory,” she said.

  “Come on.” Miriam waved at the hut. “Let’s get moving. I think it’s time we dragged Roland into this.”

  One o’clock in the morning. Ring ring…“Hello?” Roland’s voice was furred with sleep.

  “Roland? It’s me.”

  “Miriam, you do pick your times—”

  “Not now. Got a family emergency.”

  “Emergency? What kind?” She could hear him waking up by the second.

  “Get a couple of soldiers who you trust, and a safe house. Not Fort Lofstrom or its doppelgänger, it needs to be somewhere anonymous but secure on this side. It must be on this side. We’ve got a prisoner to debrief.”

  “A prisoner? What kind—”

  “One of the assassins. He’s alive, terrified, and spilling his guts to Olga right this moment.” Olga was in the back office with Lin and Miriam’s dictaphone, playing Good Cop. Lin was chattering, positively manic, desperate to tell her everything she wanted. Lin wasn’t even eighteen. Miram felt ashamed of herself until she thought about what he’d been involved in. Boy soldiers, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, recruited to defend their family’s honor against the children of the hostile elder brothers—elder brothers who had stolen their birthright many generations ago, abandoning them to the nonexistent mercy of the western empire.

  “He needs to be kept alive, and that means keeping him away from the security leak in Angbard’s operation. And, uh, your little friend, assuming they’re not one and the same person. Someone there is working with this guy’s people. And here’s another thing: I want a full DQ Alpha typing run on a blood sample, and I want it compared to as many members of the Clan—full members—as you can get. I want to know if he’s related, and if so, how far back it goes.”

  And I want him out of here before Paulette shows up in the morning, Miriam thought. Paulie was a good friend and true, but some things weren’t appropriate for her to be involved in. Like kidnapping.

  “Okay, I’ll sort it. Where do I go?”

  “You come here.” Miriam rattled off directions, mentally crossing her fingers. “I’ve got a new amulet for you, one that takes you from the other side to world three, my hideaway. Watch out, it is very different, as different from this world as you can imagine.”

  “Okay—but you’d better be able to explain why if the duke starts asking questions. I’ll roust Xavier and Mort out of bed and be round in an hour. They’ll keep their mouths shut. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Yeah.” Miriam licked her lips. “Is Angbard over here?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ve got to call him right away. Then I’m probably going to be gone before you get here. Got to go back to the far side to clean up the mess when the little prick broke into my house.”

  “He broke in—hey! Are you alright?”

  “I’m alive. Olga and Brill can fill you in. Got to go. Stay safe.” She rang off before she could break down and tell him how much she wanted to see him. Cruel fate…the next number was preprogrammed as well.

  “Hello?” A politely curious voice.

  “This is Helge Lofstrom-Hjorth. Get me Angbard. This is an emergency.”

  “Please hold.” No messing around this time, Miriam noted. Someone was awake at the switchboard.

  “Angbard here.” He sounded amused rather than tired. “What is it, Miriam? Having trouble sleeping?”

  “Perhaps. Listen, the Clan summit on Beltaigne is three months away. Is there a procedure for bringing it forward, calling an extraordinary general meeting?”

  “There is, but it’s most unusual—nobody has done it in forty years. Are you sure you want me to do this for you? Without a good reason, there are people who would take it as a perfect opportunity to accuse you of anything they can think of.”

  “Yes.” Miriam took a deep breath. “Listen. I know you’ve got my mother.” Dead silence on the phone. She continued: “I don’t know why you’re holding her, but I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt—for now. But I need that meeting, and she needs to be there. If she isn’t, you’re going to be in deep shit. I’m going to be there, too, and it has to be now, in a couple of days’ time, not in two months, because we’ve got a prisoner and if you’ve not found your leak yet the prisoner will probably be dead before Beltaigne.”

  “A prisoner—” he hissed.

  “You told me about a child of the founder who went west,” Miriam said, very deliberately. “I’ve found his descendants. They’re the ones who tried to kill Patricia and who’ve been after Olga and me. And I figure they may be messed up with the mole in your security staff. You want to call this emergency meeting, Angbard, you really want to do this.”

  “I believe you,” he said after a momentary pause, in a tone that said he wished he didn’t. “How extraordinary.”

  “When is it going to be ready?”

  “Hmm.” A pause. “Count on it in four days’ time, at the Palace Hjorth. Any sooner is out of the question. I’ll have to clear down all nonessential mail to get the announcement out in time—this will cost us a lot of goodwill and money. Can you guarantee you’ll be there? If not, then I can’t speak for what resolutions will be put forward and voted through by the assembled partners. You have enemies.”

  “I will be there.” She hesitated for a moment. “If I don’t make it, it means I’m dead or incapacitated.”

  “But you’re not, now.”

  “Thank Brilliana and Olga,” she said. “They were good choices.”

  “My Valkyries.” He sounded amused.

  “I’ll see you in four days’ time,” Miriam said tersely. “If you need to know more, ask Olga, she knows what I’m doing.” Then she hung up on him.

  Two days later, Miriam looked up from her office ledger and a stack of official forms in response to a knock on the office window. “Carry on,” she told Declan, who looked up inquiringly from his drafting board. “Who is it?” she demanded.

  “Police, ma’am.”

  Miriam stood up to open the door. “You’d better come in.” She paused.

  “Ah, Inspector Smith of the Homeland Defense Bureau. Come to tell me my burglars are a matter of national security?” She smiled brightly at him.

  “Ah, well.” Smith squeezed into the room and stood with his back to the cupboard beside the door where she kept the spare stationery. The constable behind him waited in the hall outside. “It was a most peculiar burglary, wasn’t it?”

  “Did you catch any of the thieves?” she asked sharply.

  “You were in New London all along,” he said, accusingly. “Staying in the Grange Mouth Hotel. Into which you checked in at four o’clock in the morning the day after the incident.”

  “Yes, well, as I told the thief-taker’s sergeant, I dined in town then caught the last train, and my carriage threw a wheel on its way from the railway station. And I stayed with it because cabs are thin on the ground at two o’clock.”

  “Humph.” Smith looked disappointed, to her delight. Gotcha! She thought. She’d set off from her office in Cambridge at midnight, floored the accelerator all the way down the near-empty interstate, and somehow managed not to pick up any speeding tickets. There were no red-eye flights in New Britain, nor highways you could drive along at a hundred five miles an hour with one hand on the wheel and the other clutching an insulated mug of coffee. In fact, the fastest form of land travel was the train—and as she’d be happy to point out to the inspector, the last train she could have caught from Boston to arrive in New London before 4 a.m. had left at eight o’clock the night before.

  It had been a rush. She’d parked illegally in New York—her New York, not the New London the inspector knew—and changed into her rich widow’s weeds in the cramped confines of the car. Then she’d crossed over and banged on a hotel door in the predawn light. She’d been able to establish an alibi by the skin of her teeth, but only b
y breaking the New Britain land speed record on a type of highway that didn’t exist in King John the Fourth’s empire…

  “We haven’t identified the Chinee-man who was asking after you,” Smith agreed. “Nor the unknown assailant who fled—who we are investigating with an eye for murder,” he added with relish.

  Miriam sagged slightly. “Horrible, horrible,” she said quietly. “Why me?”

  “If you turn up in town flashing money around, you must expect to pick up unsavory customers,” Smith said sarcastically. “Especially if you willingly mix with low-lifes and Levelers.”

  “Levelers?” Miriam glared at him. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say.” Smith looked smug. “But we’ll get them all in the end, you’ll see. I’ll be going now, but first I’d like to introduce you to Officer Fitch from the thief-taker’s office. I believe he has some more questions to ask about your burglar.”

  Fitch’s questions were tiresome, but not as tiresome as those of the city’s press—two of whose representatives had already called. Miriam had pointedly referred them to her law firm, then refused to say anything until Declan and Roger had escorted them from the premises with dire threats about the law of trespass. “We will call you if we arrest anyone,” Fitch said pompously, “or if we recover any stolen property.” He closed his notebook with a snap. “Good day to you, Miss.” And with that he clumped out of her office.

  Miriam turned to Declan and rolled her eyes. “I can live without these interruptions. How’s the self-tightening mechanism coming along?”

  Declan looked a trifle startled, but pointed to a sketch on his drafting board. “I’m working on it…”

  Miriam left the office in late afternoon, earlier than usual but still hours after she’d ceased being productive. She caught a cab home, feeling most peculiar about the whole business—indignant and angry, and sick to her stomach at what she’d done—but not guilty. The morning room was a freezing mess, the glaziers still busily working on the shattered window frames. The elderly one tugged his forelock at her as she politely looked over his shoulder and tut-tutted, trying to project the image of a house-proud lady bearing up under one of life’s little indignities.

  She found Jane in the kitchen. “Is the dining room going to be ready by this evening?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.” Jane shrugged. “It is a mess. They broke two chairs and scratched the dining table!”

  “Well, at least nobody was hurt. Piece of luck, sending you away, wasn’t it?” Miriam shook her head. She’d forgotten about the dining room. The windows were boarded up, but the furniture—“I think I’m going to have to hire a butler, Jane.”

  “Oh good,” Jane said, startling Miriam.

  “Well, indeed.” Miriam left the kitchen and was about to climb the staircase when a bell began to jangle from the hall. It was the household telephone. She stalked over and picked up the earpiece, then leaned close to the condenser and said, “Hello?”

  “Fletcher residence?” The switchboard operator’s voice was tinny but audible. “Call from 87492, do you want to accept?”

  “Yes,” said Miriam. Who can it be? She wondered.

  “Hello?” asked a laid back, slightly jovial man’s voice. “Is Mrs. Fletcher available?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Durant here. Are you well, I hope? I read about your little unpleasantness.”

  “I’m quite alright,” Miriam managed through gritted teeth. Suddenly her heart was right up at the base of her throat, threatening to fly away. “The burglars damaged some furniture, then they appear to have fallen out among themselves. It is all most extraordinarily distressing, and a very good thing for me that I was visiting my sister up in New London at the weekend. But I’m bearing up.”

  “Oh, good for you. I trust the thief-takers are offering you all possible assistance? If you have any trouble at all I can put in a word with the magistrate-in-chief—”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but I’m very grateful,” Miriam said warmly. “But can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Certainly, certainly. I was telephoning to say—ah, this is such a spontaneous, erratic medium!—that I’ve been reviewing your proposal carefully. And I’d like to proceed.”

  Miriam blinked, then carefully sat down on the stool next to the telephone. Her head was swimming.

  “You want to go ahead?” she said.

  “Yes, yes. That’s what I said. My chaps have been looking at the brake assembly you sent them and they say it’s quite remarkable. When the other three are available we’ll fit them to a Mark IV carriage for testing, but they say they’re in no doubt that it’s a vast step forward. However did you come up with it, may I ask?”

  “Feminine intuition,” Miriam stonewalled. Oh wow, she thought. So close to success… “How do you want to proceed?”

  “Well,” said Durant, and paused.

  “Royalty basis or outright purchase of rights? Exclusive or nonexclusive?”

  He whistled quietly past the condenser. “I believe a royalty basis would do the job,” he said. “I’ll want exclusive rights for the first few years. But I’ll tell you what else. I should like to invest in your business if you’re open to the idea. What do you say to that?”

  “I say—” she bit the tip of her tongue carefully, considering: “I think we ought to discuss this later. I will not say yes, definitely, but in principle I am receptive to the idea. How large an investment were you thinking of?”

  “Oh, a hundred thousand pounds or so,” Sir Durant said airily. Miriam did the conversion in her head, came up with a figure, double-checked it in disbelief. That’s thirty million dollars in real money!

  “I want to retain control of my company,” she said.

  “That can be arranged.” He sounded amused. “May I invite you to dine with me at, let’s say, the Brighton’s Hanover Room, a week on Friday? We can exchange letters of interest in the meantime.”

  “That would be perfect,” Miriam said with feeling.

  They made small talk for a minute, then Durant politely excused himself. Miriam sat on the telephone stool for several minutes in stunned surprise, before she managed to get a grip on herself. “He really said it,” she realized. “He’s really going to buy it!” Back home, in another life, this was the kind of story she’d have covered for The Weatherman. Bright new three-month-old start-up gets multimillion-dollar cash injection, signs rights deal with major corporation. I’m not covering the news anymore, I’m making it. She stood up and slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Two more days to go, she remembered. I wonder how Olga and Brill are doing?

  The next morning Miriam telephoned her lawyer. “I’m going to be away for a week from tomorrow,” she warned Bates. “In the meantime, I need someone to handle the payroll and necessary expenditures. Can you recommend a clerk who I can leave things with?”

  “Certainly.” Bates muttered something, then added, “I can have my man Williams sit in for you if you want. Will that do?”

  “Yes, as long as he’s reliable.” They haggled over a price, then agreed that Williams would show up on that afternoon for her to hand him the reins.

  Later in the morning, a post boy knocked on the door. “Parcel for Fletcher?” he piped to Jane, who accepted it and carried it to Miriam, then waited for her to open the thing.

  “Curiosity,” Miriam said pointedly, “is not what I pay you for.” Jane left, and Miriam stared at her retreating back before she reached for a paper knife from her desk and slit the string. If I’ve got to have servants around, I need ones who can keep their mouths shut, she thought gloomily. It wasn’t like this with Brill and Kara. The parcel opened up before her to reveal a leatherbound and clearly very old book. Miriam opened the flyleaf. A True and Accurate History of the Settlement of New Britain, it said, by some author whose name didn’t ring any bells. A card was slipped into the pages. She pulled it out and s
aw the name on it, blinked back sudden tears of relief. “You’re alright,” she mumbled. “They couldn’t pin anything on you.” Suddenly it was immensely important to her to know that Burgeson was safe and out of the claws of the political police. A sense of warm relief filled her. For a moment, all was right with the world.

  The doorbell rang yet again at lunchtime. “Oh, ma’am, it’ll be a salesman,” said Jane, hurrying from the kitchen to pass Miriam, who sat alone in the dining room, toying with a bowl of soup and reading the book Erasmus had sent, her thoughts miles away. “I’ll send him—”

  Footsteps. “Miriam?”

  Miriam dropped her spoon in the soup and stood up. “Olga?”

  It was indeed Olga, wearing the green outfit she’d bought from Burgeson by way of disguise. She smiled broadly as she entered the dining room and Miriam met her halfway in a hug. “Are you alright?” Olga asked.

  “Yes. Have you eaten?”

  “No.” Olga rubbed her forehead.

  “Jane, another place setting for my cousin! How good of you to call.” As Jane hurried to the kitchen, Miriam added, “We can talk upstairs while she’s washing up.” Louder, “I was just preparing for my trip to New London tomorrow. Are you tied down here, or do you fancy the ride?”

  “That’s why I came,” said Olga, sitting down and leaning back as the harried maid planted a place setting before her. “You didn’t think I’d let you go there all on your own, did you, cuz?” Jane rushed out, and Olga winked at Miriam. “You’re not getting out of it so easily! What did you say to put the Iron Duke in such a mood?”

  “It’s going to be such a party tomorrow night!” Miriam said enthusiastically, then waited for Jane to place a bowl before Olga and withdraw to the scullery. Quietly, “I told him his little shell game was up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” Olga paused, blowing on a spoon full of hot broth.

  “That Angbard had planted you on me. As a bodyguard.”