The Family Trade (17 page)

“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 harbour much used by coast-hugging merchants.

Not that many merchants would put into this harbour 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. Brash. 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 innkeeper 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.

“It’s
freezing
out there.” The man called Esau blew on his fingers, shook his head, then began to peel his gloves off.

Jacob kicked the door shut. “You really need to observe proper security discipline,” he said.

“Yeah well, and how many times have we done this?” Esau shrugged. “Stupid Christ-cultist names from the far-side, dumb pass-phrases and secret handshakes—”

“If I was ill and sent a proxy, the dumb pass-phrases would be the only thing that could tell you who they were,” Jacob pointed out.

“If you were ill, you’d have radio’d ahead to call off the meeting. Is that a bottle of the local emetic? I’ll have a drop.”

“Here. Settle down.” Jacob poured. “What have you got for me?”

Esau shrugged. “This.” A leather purse appeared, as magically as Jacob’s pistol. “Pharmaceutical-grade, half a kilo.”

“That’ll do.” Jacob transferred it to his belt pouch without expression. “Anything else?”

“Well.” Esau settled down and picked up the full glass. “Certain feathers have been—ruffled, shall we say—by the news of those pink slippers. That account was supposed to have been settled a very long time ago. Do you have an update for me?”

“Yes.” Jacob nodded, then picked up his own glass. “Nothing good. A couple more sightings and then a search and sweep found a very wet chair in the woods near Fort Lofstrom. It was from the other side. Need I say any more? It was too obvious to cover up, so the old man sent a snatch squad through and they pulled in a woman. Age thirty-two, professional journalist, and clearly a long-lost cousin.”

“A woman journalist? Things are passing strange over there.”

“You’re telling me. Sometimes I get to visit on business. It’s even weirder than those sheep-shagging slant-eyes on the west coast.” Jacob put the empty glass down—hard—on the table. “Why does this shit always happen when I’m in charge?”

“Because you’re good,” soothed Esau. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out and I’m pretty sure the—control—will authorize a reward for this. It’s exactly what we’ve been looking out for all these years.” He smiled at Jacob and raised his glass. “To your success.”

“Huh.” But Jacob raised his (empty) glass right back, then refilled both of them. “Well. The old asshole put the runaway on her case, but she’s turning out to be a bit hot. She’s the grand dowager’s granddaughter, you know? And a tear-away. All too common in women from over there, you knew. She’s poking her nose into all sorts of corners. If the old bat recognizes her formally, seven shades of shit will hit the Clan council balance of power, but I have a plan that I think will cover the possibility. She could be very useful if I can coopt her.”

“What about her mother?” Esau leaned forward.

“Dead.” Jacob shrugged. “The baby was adopted on the other side. That’s why she was missing for so long. We’ve got the foster mother under surveillance, but…” he shook his head. “It’s a thirty-two-year-old trail. What do you expect?”

“I expect her to—” Esau frowned. “Look, I’m going to have to break cover on this and go get instructions from my superiors. There may be pre-existing orders in effect for just this situation, but if not it would be as well for you to proceed as you see fit. Anything that keeps the Clan from asking awkward questions is all right by us, I think. And I don’t want to risk using one of your magical radio thingies in case they’ve got a black chamber somewhere listening in. Are you going to be here overnight?”

“I will be.” Jacob nodded. “I was planning to leave in the morning, though.”

“That’s all right. I’ll cross over and ask for directions. If anyone knows anything, I’ll pass on your instructions before you leave.” He rubbed his forehead in anticipation, missing Jacob’s flash of envy, which was in any case quickly masked. “If I don’t show, well, use your imagination. We don’t need the Clan raking over the evidence …”

“Evidence that might point to your faction’s existence.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Servants were invisible, Miriam realized, as she hurried through the narrow rough-walled corridor below stairs. Take this particular servant, for example. She was wearing the long black skirt, white blouse, and starched apron of a parlour maid, hurrying along beneath a tray with a pot of coffee on it. Nobody paid her a second glance. Maybe they should have, she decided, carefully putting one foot in front of another. The servant outfit was inauthentic, machine-woven, obviously wrong if anyone had looked closely, and bulked up from hiding something underneath. But the house was still in upheaval, individual servants were mostly beneath notice to the noble occupants, and the staff was large enough that she didn’t expect to be noticed by the real maids.
This is going to be really useful,
Miriam decided, balancing the tray carefully as she mounted the staircase.

The tight spiral steps were a trial, but she managed not to tread on her hem as she wound her way up to the floor above. Once she squeezed against the wall to let an equerry by: He glanced at her in mild disgust and continued on.
Score one to the invisible woman,
she told herself. She stalked along the corridor, edgy with anticipation. Planning this move in cold blood was all very well, but she wouldn’t be able to go through with it if the idea of an illicit assignation with Roland didn’t set her pulse racing. And now she came to the final passage, she found her blood wasn’t cool at all.

She found the right door and entered without knocking. It was another private apartment, seemingly empty. She put the tray down on the sideboard beside the door, then looked around. One of the side doors opened: “I didn’t order—oh.”

“We meet again.” She grinned nervously at him, then dropped the latch on the door. “Just in case,” she said.

Roland looked her up and down in mild disbelief. “The mistress of disguise? It’s a good thing I swept the room earlier. For bugs,” he added, catching her raised eyebrow.

“Well, that was prudent. You look great, too.” He’d dressed in a black tuxedo, she noted with relief. He’d taken her seriously; she’d been a little worried. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Through there.” He looked doubtful.

“Back in a minute,” she said, ducking inside.

She closed the door, hastily untied her servant’s apron, shook her hair out of the borrowed mob cap, then spent a minute fumbling with her waistband. She stripped off the servant’s outerwear, then paused to look in a mirror. “Go kill him, girl,” she told herself. She deftly rolled on a coat of lip gloss, installed earrings and a single string of pearls. Finally she pulled on her black evening gloves, did an experimental twirl that set two thousand dollars’ worth of evening dress swirling, blew herself a kiss in the mirror, and stepped out.

Roland was waiting outside, holding a goblet of wine out toward her: He nearly dropped it when he saw her. “You look absolutely spectacular,” he said, finally. “How did you do it?”

“Oh, it wasn’t hard.” She shrugged her shoulders, which were bare. “You could conceal an arsenal under one of those maids’ uniforms.”
I know. I did.
She took the glass from him, then took his hand, led him to the sofa. “Sit.” She sat herself, then patted the leather seat next to her. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” He followed her, looking slightly dazzled.

She felt a stab of tenderness mixed with regret, unsettling and unexpected. 
What am I really doing here?
she half-wondered, then shoved the thought aside. “Come on. Sit down.” He sat in the opposite corner of the huge leather sofa, one arm over the back, the other cradling his glass in front of him, almost hiding behind it. “I had my chat with Angbard today.”

“Ah.” He looked defensive.

She took a sip from the glass and smiled at him. The wine was more than good, it was excellent, a rich, fruity vintage with a subtle aftertaste that reminded her of strawberries and freshly mowed lawns. She fired another smile at him, and he cracked, took a mouthful, and tried to smile back.

“Roland, I think the duke may be lying to us—separately. Or merely being economical with the truth.”

“Ah, ‘lying’?” He looked cautiously defensive.

“Lying.” She sighed, then looked at him sidelong. “I’m going to tell you what he told me, then you can tell me if that’s what he told you. Do you think you can do that? No need to reveal any secrets …”

“ ‘Secrets,’” he echoed. A shadow flickered across his face. “Miriam, there are things I’m not allowed to tell you, and I don’t like it, but it’s possible that—well, some of them may be seeds.”

‘“Seeds’?”

“Tests, for me, to see if I can keep secrets.” He took a mouthful of the Cabernet. “Stuff that, if I tell you, will probably make you do something predictable, so that he’ll know I told you. Do you understand? I’m not considered trustworthy. I came back with ideas about, well, about trying to change the way things are done. Ideas that upset a lot of people. The duke seems to like me—or at least think some of my ideas could be useful—but he certainly doesn’t trust me. That’s why he keeps me so close at hand.”

“Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully. Her opinion of him rose yet again:
He doesn’t lie to himself.
“I guessed that. Which is why I’m going to tell you what he told me and you’re just going to decide whether to confirm it if it’s true.”

“Uh, okay.” He was intensely focused on her.
Good,
she thought, feeling a little thrill. She slid one leg over the other, let a calf encased in sheer black stocking sneak out.
The game’s afoot,
she thought to herself, then noticed his response and felt her breath catch in her throat.
Then again, maybe it’s not all a game.

“Okay, this is what he told me. He says I’m in an exposed position and liable to be attacked, maybe murdered, if I don’t dig myself inextricably into the Clan power structure as soon as possible. He says I have some discretion, but I ought to marry within the families and do it soon. Which I think is bullshit, but I let him lead me on. So he’s sending me to the royal court with Olga, for a formal presentation and coming-out. We leave tomorrow.” When she said
tomorrow
he frowned.