The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) (29 page)

At the end, there was another bench. Someone was seated there, contemplating something on the ground. Miriam walked forward lightly. ‘Olga?’ she called.

Olga sat up when she was about twenty feet away. She was wearing a black all-enveloping cloak. Her hair was untidy, her eyes reddened.

‘Olga! What’s wrong?’ Miriam asked, alarmed.

Olga stood up. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ she said. She sounded strained.

‘What’s the matter?’ Miriam asked uncertainly.

Olga brought her hands out from beneath the cloak, and pointed a boxy machine pistol at Miriam’s face. ‘You are,’ she said, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘If you have
any last lies to whisper before I kill you, say them now and be done with it, whore.’

PART FOUR

HOSTILE TAKEOVER

The interview room was painted pale green except for the floor, which was unvarnished wood. The single window, set high up in one wall, admitted a trickle of wan winter
daylight that barely helped the glimmering of the electrical bulb dangling overhead. The single table had two chairs on either side of it. All three pieces of furniture were bolted to the floor,
and the door was soundproofed and locked from the outside.

‘Would you care for some more tea, Mr. Burgeson?’ asked the inspector, holding his cup delicately between finger and thumb. He loomed across the table, overshadowing Burgeson’s
frail form: they were alone in the room, the inspector evidently not feeling the need for a stout sergeant to assist him as warm-up man.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Burgeson. He coughed damply into a wadded handkerchief. ‘’Scuse me . . .’

‘No need for excuses,’ the inspector said magnanimously. He smiled like a mantrap. ‘The winters up in Nova Scotia are terrible, aren’t they?’

‘Character-building,’ Burgeson managed, before breaking out in another wracking cough. Finally he managed to stop and sat up in his chair, leaning against the back with his face
pointed at the window.

‘That was how the minister of penal affairs described it in parliament, wasn’t it?’ The inspector nodded sympathetically. ‘It would be a terrible shame to subject you to
that kind of character-building experience again at your age, wouldn’t it, Mr. Burgeson?’

Burgeson cocked his head on one side. So far the inspector had been polite. He hadn’t used so much as a fist in the face, much less a knee in the bollocks, relying instead on tea and
sympathy and veiled threats to woo Burgeson to his side. It was remarkably liberal for an HSB man, and Burgeson had been waiting for the other shoe to drop – or to kick him between the legs
– for the past ten minutes. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he asked, clutching at any faint hope of fending off the inevitable.

‘I shall get to the point presently.’ The inspector picked up the teapot and turned it around slowly between his huge callused hands. He didn’t seem to feel the heat as he
poured a stream of brown liquid into Burgeson’s cup, then put the pot down and dribbled in a carefully measured quantity of milk. ‘You’re an old man, Mr. Burgeson, you’ve
seen a lot of water flow under the bridge. You know what happens in rooms like this, and you don’t want it to happen to you again. You’re not a young hothead who’s going to get
hisself into trouble with the law anymore, are you? And you’re not in the pay of the Frogs, either, else we’d have hanged you long ago. You’re a careful man. I like that. You can
do business with careful men.’ He cradled the round teapot between his hands gently.

‘And I much prefer doing business to breaking skulls.’ He put the teapot down. It wobbled on its base like a decapitated head.

Burgeson swallowed. ‘I haven’t done anything to earn the attention of the Homeland Security Bureau,’ he pointed out, a faint whine in his voice. ‘I’ve been keeping
my nose clean. I’ll help you any way I can, but I’m not sure how I can be of use – ’

‘Drink your tea,’ said the inspector.

Burgeson did as he was told.

‘’Bout six months ago a joe called Lester Brown sold you his dear old mother’s dressing table, didn’t he?’ said the inspector.

Burgeson nodded cautiously. ‘It was a bit battered – ’

‘And four weeks after that, a woman called Helen Blue came and bought it off you, didn’t she?’

‘Uh.’ Burgeson’s mouth went dry. ‘I
think
so, but I’d have to check my books. Why ask me all this? It’s in the books, you know. I keep records, as
the law requires.’

The inspector smiled, as if Burgeson had just said something extremely funny. ‘A Mr. Brown sells a dressing table to a Mrs. Blue by way of a pawnbroker who Mr. Green says is known as Dr.
Red. In’t that colorful, Mr. Burgeson? If we collected the other four, why, we could give the hangman a rainbow!’

Burgeson cringed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s all this nonsense about? Who are these Greens and Reds you’re bringing up?’

‘Seven years in one of His Majesty’s penal colonies for sedition back in seventy-eight and you
still
don’t have a fucking clue.’ The inspector shook his head
slowly. ‘Levelers, Mr. Burgeson.’ He leaned forward until his face was inches away from Burgeson’s. ‘That dressing table happened to have a hollow compartment above the top
drawer and there were some most interesting papers folded up inside it. You wouldn’t have been dealing in proscribed books again, would ye?’

‘Huh?’ The last question caught Burgeson off-guard, but he was saved by another tubercular spasm that wrinkled his face up into a painful knot before it could betray him.

The inspector waited for it to subside. ‘I’ll put it to you like this,’ he said. ‘You’ve got bad friends, Erasmus. They’re no good for yer old age. A bit
o’ paper I can’t put me finger on is one thing. But if I was to catch ’em, this Mrs. Blue or Mr. Brown, they’d sing for their supper sooner than put their necks in a noose,
wouldn’t they? And you’d be right back off to Camp Frederick before your feet touched the ground, on a one-way stretch. Which in your case would be approximately two weeks before the
consumption carried you away for good an’ all and Old Nick gets to toast you by the fires of hell.

‘All their Godwinite shit and old-time Egalitarianism will get you is a stretched neck or a cold grave. And you are too old for the revolution. They could hold it tomorrow and it
wouldn’t do you a blind bit of good. What’s that slogan – “Don’t trust anyone who’s over thirty or owns a slave”? Do you really think your young friends
are going to help you?’

Burgeson met the inspector’s gaze head-on. ‘I have no Leveler friends,’ he said evenly. ‘I am not a republican revolutionary. I admit that in the past I made certain
mistakes, but as you just said, I was punished for them. My tariff is spent. I cooperate fully with your office. I don’t see what else I can do to prevent people who I don’t know and
have never heard of from using my shop as a laundry. Do we need to continue this conversation?’

‘Probably not.’ The inspector nodded thoughtfully. ‘But if I was you, I’d stay in touch.’ A business card appeared between his fingers. ‘Take it.’

Burgeson reached out and reluctantly took the card.

‘I’ve got my eyes on you,’ said the inspector. ‘You don’t need to know how. If you see anything that might interest me passing through your shop, I’ll trust
you to let me know. Maybe it’ll be news to me – and then again, I’ll know about it before you do. If you turn a blind eye, well – ’ he looked sad – ‘you
obviously won’t be able to see all the titles of the books in your shop. And it’d be a crying shame to send a blind man back to the camps for owning seditious tracts, wouldn’t
it?’

*

Two women stood ten feet apart, one shaking with rage, the other frightened into immobility. Around them, orange trees cloistered in an unseasonable climate perfumed the warm
air.

‘I don’t understand.’ Miriam’s face was blank as she stared down the barrel of Olga’s gun. Her heart pounded.
Buy time!
‘What are you talking
about?’ she asked, faint with the certainty that her assignation with Roland had been overseen and someone had told Olga.

‘You know very well what I’m talking about!’ Olga snarled. ‘I’m talking about my honor!’ The gun muzzle didn’t deviate from Miriam’s face.
‘It’s not enough for you to poison Baron Hjorth against me or to mock me behind my back. I can ignore those slights – but the infamy! To do what you did! It’s
unforgivable.’

Miriam shook her head very slowly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know at the time it started between us. I mean, about your planned marriage.’

A faint look of uncertainty flickered across Olga’s face. ‘My betrothal has no bearing on the matter!’ she snapped.

‘Huh? You mean this isn’t about Roland?’ Miriam asked, feeling stupid and frightened.

‘Roland – ’ Olga stared at her. Suddenly the look of uncertainty was back. ‘Roland can have nothing to do with this,’ she claimed haughtily.

‘Then I haven’t got a clue what the “it” you’re talking about is,’ Miriam said heavily. Fear would only stretch so far, and as she stared at Olga’s
eyes, all she felt was a deep wellspring of resignation at the sheer total stupidity of all the events that had brought her to this point.

‘But you – ’ Olga began to look puzzled, but still angry. ‘What about Roland? What have you been up to?’

‘Fucking,’ Miriam said bluntly. ‘We only had the one night together but, well, I really care about him. I’m fairly sure he feels the same way about me, too. And before
you pull that trigger, I’d like you to ask yourself what will happen and who will be harmed if you shoot me.’ She closed her eyes, terrified and amazed at what she’d just heard
herself say. After a few seconds, she thought,
Funny, I’m still alive.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Olga. Miriam opened her eyes.

The other woman looked stunned. However, her gun was no longer pointing directly at Miriam’s face.

‘I just told you, dammit!’ Miriam insisted. ‘Look, are you going to point that thing somewhere safe or – ’

‘You and Roland?’ Olga asked incredulously.

A moment’s pause. Miriam nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, her mouth dry.

‘You went to bed with that dried-up prematurely middle-aged sack of mannered stupidity? You care about him? I don’t believe it!’

‘Why are you pointing that gun at me, then?’

For a moment, they stood staring at each other; then Olga lowered the machine pistol and slid her finger out of the trigger guard.

‘You don’t know?’ she asked plaintively.

‘Know
what
?’ Miriam staggered slightly, dizzy from the adrenaline rush of facing Olga’s rage. ‘What on earth are you talking about, woman? I’ve just
admitted I’m having an affair with the man you’re supposed to be marrying and that
isn’t
why you’re threatening to kill me over some matter of honor?’

‘Oh, this is insupportable!’ Olga stared at her. She looked very uncertain all of a sudden. ‘But you sent your man last night.’

‘
What
man?’

Their eyes met in mutual incomprehension.

‘You mean you don’t know? Really?’

‘Know what?’

‘A man broke into my bedroom last night,’ Olga said calmly. ‘He had a knife and he threatened me and ordered me to disrobe. So I shot him dead. He wasn’t expecting
that.’

‘You. Shot. A. Rapist. Is that it?’

‘Well, that and he had a letter of instruction bearing the seal of your braid.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Miriam shook her head. ‘What seal? What kind of instructions?’

‘My maidenhead,’ Olga said calmly. ‘The instructions were very explicit. What is the law where you come from? About noble marriage?’

‘About – what? Huh. You meet someone, one of you proposes, usually the man, and you arrange a wedding. End of story. Are things that different here?’

‘But the ownership of title! The forfeiture. What of it?’

‘What “forfeiture”?’ Miriam must have looked puzzled because Olga frowned.

‘If a man, unwed, lies with a maid, also unwed, then it is for him to marry her if he can afford to pay the maiden-price to her guardian. And all her property and titles escheat to him as
her head. She has no say in the matter should he reach agreement with her guardian, who while I am in his care here would for me be Baron Hjorth. In my case, as a full-blood of the Clan, my Clan
shares would be his. This commoner – ’ she pronounced the word with venomous diction – ‘invaded my chamber with rape in mind and a purse full of coin sufficient to pay his
way out of the baron’s noose.’

‘And a letter,’ Miriam said in tones of deep foreboding. ‘A letter sealed with . . . what? Ink? Wax? Something like that, some kind of seal ring?’

‘No, sealed with the stamps of Thorold and Hjorth. It is a disgusting trick.’

‘I’ll say.’ Miriam whistled tunelessly. ‘Would you believe me if I said that I don’t have – and have never seen – any such stamp? I don’t even
know who my braid are, and I really ought to, because they’re not going to be happy if I – ’ she stopped. ‘Oh, of course.’

‘“Of course”, what?’

‘Listen, was there an open door to the roof in your apartment last night? After you killed him? I mean, a door he came in through?’

Olga’s eyes narrowed. ‘What if there was?’

‘Yesterday I world-walked from my room to the other side,’ said Miriam. ‘This house is supposed to be doppelgängered, but there is no security on the other side of my
quarters. Anyone who can world-walk could come in. Later, Brilliana and I found an open door leading to the roof.’

‘Ah.’ Olga glanced around, taking in whatever was behind Miriam. ‘Let’s walk,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should apologize to you. You have further thoughts on the
matter?’

‘Yes.’ Miriam followed Olga, knees weak with an adrenaline-rush of anger. ‘My question is: Who profits? I don’t have a braid seal, I didn’t even know such a thing
existed until you told me, but it seems clear that others in the – my – braid would benefit if you killed me. Or if that failed, if I was deprived of a friend in circumstances bound to
create a scandal of monstrous proportions around me, it certainly wouldn’t harm them. If you can think of someone who would also benefit if you were split apart from your impending alliance
– ’ She bit her tongue, but it was too late.