"I would never say you were an idiot!"
"-inadequately informed. And I never said you thought I was, but you know what I mean, right? I don't like looking stupid, Brill."
"Well." Brilliana took a deep breath: "Be it so little consolation to you, I am supposed to be your confidante, and your honor is mine. It dishonors me-directly-should you look stupid. I plead purely out of self-interest, you understand, not at all speaking as your friend who wishes to return the favor you did me in Boston." She smiled briefly and continued, "So if you tell me what you want to achieve, I shall try to find a way to make it happen, if not instantly then certainly as rapidly as possible. How should that go?"
"Okay." Miriam screwed her eyes shut. "That's what Baron Henryk told me, you know: to work out what I want, then tell him. Over dinner, maybe next week." She opened her eyes and focused on Brilliana as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps she was, for Helge's ghost was prompting her, Take your allies where you find them, and Brill was surely the nearest thing to an ally Miriam had within the Clan. "So. How about it? First, we should arrange for me to dine with the good baron next week-and yourself, I think. Secondly, I want to get back out to see how my company is running, as soon as possible. Thirdly, Ma has been dropping scarily vague hints about marriage, and this crazy old-" She caught herself. "Sorry. The king's mother. Angelin. She's dropping broad hints. I need to know what she wants. Never mind that creepy prince Egon. And what's got into Ma-Patricia. Can you find out?"
Brill's eyes went very wide at the last confessions. She clenched her hands between her knees and leaned back on her stool: "The Queen Mother bespoke you? About Egon?"
"No, Egon threatened me-the Queen Mother just wanted a chat-"
"He threatened you? Miriam, that is completely beyond my conscience! Does Duke Angbard know?"
"Why wouldn't he?" It was Miriam's turn to look startled. "He's head of the Clan's intelligence apparatus! Isn't it his job to know things like that?"
"Only if people tell him!" Brill stood up, agitatedly. "I imagine I can do something toward your first two desires, but this-this is new to me. I think I had better write to the duke, by your leave. Miriam, you must steer clear of Prince Egon! He's not-he's-"
"Whoa. I got the message, very clearly, that he doesn't like me, or my relatives. Is that it? Or is there something more?"
Brill nodded, vigorously. "You know their nicknames? The two princes?"
"The . . ." Miriam's forehead creased.
"The Idiot and the Pervert," Brill said tightly. "The Idiot is clear enough. The Pervert-there are rumors. Pray you don't come to his attention."
"Huh?" Miriam stared at her. "What are you trying to tell me? He's a rapist? Wouldn't there be some kind of . . ." She trailed off, a sick realization stealing over her.
"He's the heir to the throne," Brill said, clearly and slowly, as if talking to a young and rather stupid child. "He has, as a duke in his own right, the right of summary justice. The only lord with the authority to hear a case against him is his own father. Such a case would depend upon the plaintiffs and the witnesses living long enough to bring suit. This is not America, Miriam. There, if the rich and powerful want to get away with murder, they must pay lawyers and judges. Here, they are the judges." Her expression brightened. "Having said that, if the crown prince tried to use such as you or I for sport, he could expect the full weight of the Clan to oppose him. Likely, even his father would disown him. You are not some peasant."
Miriam shuddered. "And if he comes to power?"
"He won't move against us." There was a hard edge to Brilliana's voice. "He may be wicked, but he isn't stupid. We are like your America in some ways: our king rules by the will of the people-at least, the people who count. The succession has to be ratified by the landsknee, the dukes and barons. If he offends too many of them, he risks his coronation." Her expression softened. "But please, make sure someone knows if he menaces you again. Otherwise . . ."
"I get the picture." Miriam nodded jerkily. Jesus, is Egon some kind of serial killer? Or am I misunderstanding something, and it's just hardball politics? Somehow the idea that her encounter with Egon was simply political business as usual didn't make sense. "What about the Queen Mother?"
"Oh, she's safe," Brill said dismissively. "She's family, after a fashion." She paused, looking thoughtful. "And she noticed you? Ha. It can't be about Egon, he's already earmarked for an alliance with the Nordmarkt, which means-Creon? She aims to put him into play?" She looked distant for a moment. "A royal match would seem fantastical, upon its face, but-"
"Not a hope," Miriam said, tight-lipped. "I mean that."
"But are you . . . ?" Brilliana paused, taking in Miriam's expression. "You would reject it?" she asked, wondering aloud. "You would reject a match, uncountenanced, to such a high estate?" For a moment she was starry-eyed, before practicality reasserted itself. "It would hamper your plans, true-"
"In spades," Miriam said grimly. "And in case you'd forgotten, we're not talking a prize catch, here, we're talking sloppy seconds. The one everybody calls the Idiot, to his face." She clenched her hands between her knees. "Not enough that Roland had to get himself killed, but this-"
"I'm sorry, my lady!"
"I don't blame you," Miriam said, startled out of her gloomy introspection. "Don't ever think I blame you!" Brilliana had been there when Roland was killed, in that terrible minute in the duke's outer office with Matthias's psychotic bondsman. If Brill had gotten there faster, or if Roland hadn't tried to play the hero, if she hadn't been there, a lure for him- "This is not about you," she said. Roland she might have married, giving her tacit consent to being bound into the Clan's claustrophobic family structures. "I'm not planning on marrying anyone, ever again," Miriam added bleakly. Anything else would be too much like an admission that she was absolutely part of the Clan. Miriam had read about Stockholm syndrome once, the tendency of hostages to come to identify with their abductors. It was a concept uncomfortably close to home: sometimes her new life felt like a perpetual struggle not to succumb to it.
Brilliana adroitly changed the subject. "Would it please you to volunteer for an additional corvée? I can whisper to the duke that it would do you well to walk outside this pit of vipers."
"If you think he'd go for that," said Miriam.
"He will, if he believes you are being schemed around." She frowned. "One other thing I would suggest."
"Oh? What's that?"
"That you invite your mother to dine with you in private. As soon as possible." Brill paused. "If she refuses, that will tell you everything you need to know."
"If she refuses-" Miriam stopped dead. "That's ridiculous!" she burst out. "I know she's been grumpy since being forced out of isolation, but she already said she didn't blame me. I haven't done anything to offend her, she's my mother! Why wouldn't she come to visit me?"
"She might not, if she is being blackmailed." Brill stood up. "Which would fit the other facts of your situation, milady. There's enough of it about." Her tone was crisp. "Meanwhile, shall we retire to the morning room? You must tell me all about your encounter with her majesty."
Letters were written and invitations issued. But as events turned, Miriam did not get the chance to talk to her mother in private-or to dine with the baron-over the next few days. The evening of Brill's arrival, two summonses arrived for her: an invitation to a private entertainment at the royal court, hand-scribed in gold ink on vellum by a second secretary of the honorable lord registrar of nobles, and a formal request for her services, signed by the lord high second chamberlain of the Clan Trade Committee.
Of the two, the court summons was more perplexing. "This is a dinner invitation," Brill explained, holding the parchment at arm's length between two fingertips. "The closed company. It is open to the royal household and their closest hangers-on and friends, only about sixty people, and there will be a private performance by, oh, some entertainers." A theatrical troupe, or a chamber orchestra, or, if the royal family wer
e feeling particularly avant garde, a diesel generator, a VCR, and a movie.
"Will the Crown Prince be there?" Miriam asked tensely.
"I don't know. Possibly not; he hunts a lot in summer. But you need to attend this. To decline the invitation would require a most serious indisposition." Brill looked nervous. "It does not wait upon your disposition, thus attendance is mandatory. I can come along, should you require me."
"I'd be scared to attend without you," Miriam admitted. "How large a retinue can I take?"
"Oh, to escort you there, as many as you like-but inside? One or two, at the most. And"-Brill glanced askance at the doorway-"Kara would be delighted to go, but might prove less than reliable." Kara was running some errand or other, arranging an evening meal or scaring up some more servants or perhaps simply taking time by herself.
"Uh-huh. And this other?" Miriam held up the other invitation.
"I was not expecting it so promptly." Brill's brow wrinkled. "You would, perhaps, like to return to Boston from time to time?" She smiled: "I believe it is probably the baron's little joke on you, to ensure that you see as much of it as you want, with a sore head, in a borrowed cellar."
"Uh. Right." Miriam grimaced. "But the royal-"
"She wants to see you," Brill said firmly. "What else could it be? You don't ignore the Queen Mother's whim, milady, not unless you are willing to risk the next one being delivered by a company of dragonards."
"Ah. I see." Miriam peered at the letter. "When is it for?"
"Next Sun's Day Eve . . . good. There will be plenty of time to attire you appropriately and prepare you for the company." Brill frowned minutely. "But the second chamberlain desires you to present yourself before him tomorrow. Perhaps I should look to your preparations for the royal court while you attend to your corvée?"
Miriam took a deep breath then nodded. "Do that. Mistress Tanzig has held custody of my wardrobe in your absence, Kara managed to sort me out with the use of one of the livery coaches, and if I'm away you can prepare written notes for me while I'm gone." She looked at the window pensively. "I wonder where he wants me to go?"
I should have known better, Miriam thought ruefully, as she watched smoke belch across the railway station platform from the shunting locomotive. The breeze blowing under the open cast-iron arches picked up the smuts and dragged them across the early afternoon sky. She held her hat on with one hand and her heavy carpetbag with another as she looked along the platform, hunting for her carriage.
"It's-harrumph! A postal problem we have, indeed," Lord Brunvig had said, clearing his throat, a trifle embarrassed. "Every route is in chaos and every identity must be vetted. We have lost couriers," the old buffer had said, in tones of horror. (As well he might, for if a Clan courier went missing in Massachusetts he or she should very well be able to make their own way home eventually unless the worst had happened.) "So. We need a fallback," he had added, quietly dignified. "Would you mind awfully . . . ?"
The Clan had plenty of quiet, disciplined men (and some women) who knew the Amtrak timetable inside out and had clean driving licenses, but precious few who had spent time in New Britain-and they weren't about to trust the hidden family with the crown jewels of their shipping service. It took time to acculturate new couriers to the point where they could be turned loose in a strange country with a high-value cargo and expected to reliably deliver it to a destination that might change from day to day, reflecting the realities of where it was safe to make a delivery on the other side of the wall of worlds. Which was why Miriam-a high lady of the Clan, a duchess's eldest child-found herself standing on a suburban railway platform on the outskirts of New London in a gray shalwar suit and shoulder cape, her broad-brimmed hat clasped to her head, tapping her heels as the small shunting engine huffed and panted, shoving a string of three carriages up to the platform. And all because I already knew to read a gazetteer, she thought whimsically.
Not that there was much to be whimsical about, she reflected as she waited for the first-class carriage to screech to a halt in front of her. New Britain was in the grip of a spy fever as intense as the paranoia about terrorism currently gripping the United States, aggravated by the existence of genuine sub rosa revolutionary organizations, some of whom would deal with the devil himself if it would advance their agenda. Things were, in some ways, much simpler here. The machinery of government was autocratic, and the world was polarized between two great superpowers much as it had been during the Cold War. But political simplicity and the absence of sophisticated surveillance technology didn't mean Miriam was safe. What the Constabulary (the special security police, not the common or garden-variety thief-takers) lacked in bugging devices they more than made up for in informers and spies. Her papers were as good as the Clan's fish-eyed forgers could make them, and she was confident she knew her way. But if a nosy thief-taker or weasel-eyed constable decided to finger her, they'd be straight through her bag, and while she wasn't sure what it contained she was certain that it would prove incriminating. If that happened she'd have to world-walk at the drop of a hat-and hope she could make her own way home from wherever she came out. The quid pro quo was itself trivial: a chance to spend some time in New Britain, a chance to replace the paranoia of court life in Niejwein with a different source of stress.
The shunting engine wheezed and clanked, backing off from the carriages. Somewhere down the platform a conductor blew his whistle and waved a green flag, signaling that the train was ready for boarding. Miriam stepped forward, grabbed a door handle, and pulled herself into one of the small, smoke-smelling sleeper compartments in the ladies' first-class carriage. Alone, I hope, she told herself. Let me be alone . . . ? She pulled the door shut behind her and, grunting quietly, heaved the heavy bag onto the overhead luggage net. With any luck it would stay there undisturbed until Dunedin-near to Joliet, in the United States, there being no such city as Chicago in this timeline. All she had to do was ferry it to a certain suburban address and exchange it for an identical bag, then return to New London. But Dunedin was over a thousand miles from New London. One good thing you could say about the New British railways was that the overnight express service rattled along at seventy miles an hour. But if the train was full she might end up with company, and being kept awake by genteel snoring was not Miriam's idea of fun.
Clank. The carriage bounced, almost throwing her out of her seat. A shrill whistle from the platform, and a distant asthmatic chuffing, followed by a jerk as the newly coupled locomotive began to pull. Miriam relaxed enough to unbutton her cape. It's going to be all right, she decided. No snoring!
The corridor door opened: "Carnets, please, ma'am." The inspector tugged his hat as he scratched her name off on a chalkboard. "Ah, very good. Bed make-up will be at eight bells, ma'am, and the dining car opens from seven. If you have any requests for breakfast, the cook will be glad to accommodate you." Miriam smiled faintly as he backed out through the door. First class definitely had some advantages.
Once he'd gone she pulled the slatted wooden shutters across the corridor window, and shot the bolt on the door. Alone! It was positively liberating, after weeks spent in the hothouse atmosphere of the Niejwein aristocracy. Her cape went up on the overhead rack first, then she bent down to unbutton her ankle boots. First-class sleeper compartments had carpet and kerosene heaters, not that she'd be needing the latter on this hot, dusty journey. Once the rows of gray, hunchbacked workers apartments petered out into open countryside, she pulled her PDA out of her belt-purse. With four hours to go until dinner-and fifteen or sixteen until the train pulled into Dunedin station-she'd have plenty of time for note taking and reading.
Precisely half an hour later, the machine emitted a strangled squawking noise and switched itself off.
"Bother." Miriam squeezed the power button without success, then stuck the stylus in the reset hole. Beep. The machine switched on again. Miriam breathed a sigh of relief, then tried to open the file she'd been working on. It wasn't there. A couple minutes of feverish
poking proved that the machine had reset itself to factory condition, erasing not only the work she'd already done but all the other files she'd been meaning to read and edit. Miriam stared at it in dismay. "Fifteen hours?" she complained to the empty seat opposite: she hadn't even brought a newspaper. For a moment she was so angry she actually considered throwing the machine out the window. "Fucking computers." She glanced over her shoulder guiltily, but she was alone. Alone with nothing but the parched New Britain countryside rolling past, a faint smoke trail off to one side hinting at the arid wind that seemed to be plaguing the seaboard this summer.
If Miriam had one overwhelming personality flaw it was that she couldn't abide inactivity. After ten minutes of tapping her right toe on the floor she found herself nodding along, trying to make up a syncopated backbeat that followed the rhythm of the wheels as they clattered over the track joints. Not even a book, she thought. For a while she thought about leaving her compartment in search of the conductor, but it would look odd, wouldn't it? Single woman traveling alone, no reading matter: that was the sort of funny-peculiar thing that the Homeland Security Directorate might be interested in. The idea of writing on her PDA had lost all its residual charm, in the absence of any guarantee that the faulty device wouldn't consign long hours of work to an electronic limbo. But not doing anything went right against the grain. Worse, it was an invitation to daydream. And when she caught herself daydreaming these days, it tended to be about people she knew. Roland loomed heartbreakingly large in her thoughts. I'll go out of my mind if I don't do something, she realized. And almost without her willing it, her eyes turned upward to gaze at the carpetbag. It can't do any harm to look. Can it?
COMPANY
CONFIDENTIAL
From:
Director's office,
Gerstein Center for Reproductive Medicine,
Stony Brook
To:
Angbard Lofstrom,
Director,
The Clan Corporate (ARC) Page 12