The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (21 page)

‘Yesterday. People’s courts in Santiago have arrested and tried sixteen Polis commissars and eleven informers for crimes against the people: Three have been executed for ordering the
arrest and torture of patriots during the Andean campaign last fall. More details . . .’

‘Run it. Paper only, inside pages.’ Erasmus jotted down a quick note on his pad. ‘Next.’

‘Today. Communiqué from the New London people’s committee: A people’s provisional council will be voted in, by open polling next Tuesday, to form a constitutional
convention that will determine the structure of the people’s congress and establish a timetable for its election. Lots of details here. Um, delegates from the provinces are to attend, as are
members of the inner council – ’

‘Stop.’ Erasmus stood. ‘That’s the front page for you, right there, and get it on the wire. I’ll need a copy for reference while I write the editorial. Go get it
now.’ He glanced at Winstanley, who was examining his fingernails. ‘Coming?’

‘What? Where?’

Erasmus closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling every second of his years.
Give me strength
. When he opened them again, he spoke evenly. ‘I don’t know about you, but
I
am going to see Sir Adam, who will surely be preparing to depart
very shortly
, to attend the convention. I need to learn what he expects of me in his absence.’ He paused.
Winstanley was looking at him dumbly. ‘I expect he’ll have some errands for you to run,’ he added, not unkindly.

‘What – oh? But. Surely . . . ?’ Winstanley looked confused.

‘You weren’t listening, were you? Or rather, you were listening to the
voice
, not to the
words
.’

Winstanley flinched. ‘I say, there’s no need for – ’

‘Negativism?’ Erasmus smiled humorlessly. ‘Get your jacket, man. We have to see the chief right away.’

‘The correct salutation is “citizen”.’ Winstanley levered himself out of his chair with a glare.

‘Certainly,
citizen
.’ Erasmus headed for the door.

Over in the Committee Palace (its new name hastily hacked into a layer of fresh cement that covered the carved lintel of the former mayoral mansion), Erasmus found the usual ant-heap a-buzzing
with petitioners, delegates from regional committees from places as far afield as Chihuahua and North Cascadia, guards drawn from the local militia, and the anxious families of arrested
king’s men. ‘Commissioner Burgeson, to see Sir Adam,’ he told the harried page waiting in the Hall of People’s Justice (formerly the western state dining room).

‘This way, sir. You’re just in time.’

Am I, now?
He stifled a wince as the door opened. ‘Ah! Erasmus.’ Sir Adam grinned and stood up, cutting off the manager or committee member who had been talking to him.
‘I’d just sent a courier for you. Did he arrive?’

‘A courier? No, we must have passed in the street.’ Burgeson glanced round. The manager or committee member was an unfamiliar face; Burgeson’s secretary Joseph MacDonald,
though . . . ‘I take it you’re going east?’

‘
We’re
going, Erasmus.’ Sir Adam inspected him curiously. ‘Unless you have more pressing concerns to keep you in this provincial capital than the business of
keeping the people appraised of the progress of the new constitutional convention?’

‘I’m sure Jim and Judas between them can keep the press and the wire running, just as long as you leave orders to keep that sheep Winstanley away from the hay. But I assumed
we’d be here a bit longer . . . Do you really need me merely as a stenographer or ordinary correspondent?’

‘God, no!’ Sir Adam looked him in the eye. ‘I need you in the capital, doing what you’ve started here, only on a larger scale.
You
pick the correspondents –
and the editors – then leave them to it unless they go off course. But we’re about to up our game, man, and I want someone riding herd on the gossipmongers who knows what he’s
doing.’

Erasmus’s cheek twitched. ‘The correct salutation is “citizen”, or so Citizen Winstanley keeps reminding me, but aside from that I take your point.’ He grinned.
‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The militia – rather, an army air wing who have signed to us – are arranging for a mail packet to fly from Prussian Ridge encampment tonight. You and I will be on it, along
with a dozen trusted cadre – Haynes, Smith, Joe, Miss Rutherford, a few others, I’ve written a memo – your copy is on its way to the wrong place – and we shall arrive in New
London the day after tomorrow. Andrew White is collating the lists of longtime party members for us to review when we arrive. You will take your pick of staff for a new Communications Committee,
which will take over from the Truth and Justice commissioners when the congressional committee sits. Edicts are being drafted to nationalize all the telautographs and printing presses and place
them under your ministry. Are you for it?’

‘
All
of them?’ Erasmus raised an eyebrow; Sir Adam nodded. ‘Well, that’s reassuring – nothing like half measures to short the stew pot.’ He rubbed his
hands together. ‘Yes, I’m up for it. But, one question – ’

‘Yes? Spit it out, man!’

Erasmus scowled. ‘Is there somewhere in this place where I can catch a bath and some fresh clothes? I’ve been living in my office for the past week – I’d rather not stand
up in front of a room full of newspaper owners and tell them I’m holding their front pages to ransom while smelling like a tramp . . .’

*

The next day, Miriam visited the clinic again – this time, for her own appointment.

Brill had found her an anonymous motel suite near the interstate, along with a survival kit. ‘Here’s your driving license, credit card, and phone. Want to do dinner?’

‘Sounds like a plan. Uh, what about you guys?’

‘Oh, we’ll be around.’ Brill looked amused. ‘I thought you’d appreciate some privacy. Tomorrow . . .’

‘Yeah, that.’

Tomorrow dawned hot and early through the picture window in the suite’s lounge; Miriam rolled over and buried her face in the pillow until the bedside alarm radio cut in, reminding her
that she really needed to get up. She sat up slowly, fuzzy-headed and confused:
Where am I?
A concatenation of hotel bedrooms seemed to blur behind her.
What am I – oh
. And so
it began – the first day of Iris’s, of her own, little conspiracy.

She swallowed, feeling a mild sense of nauseous dread.
You can’t avoid this step
, a little voice reminded her.
But it’s too much like admitting it’s real
. The
result of the cheap pregnancy test kit on the road had left her feeling numb but clearheaded. Going to see an OB/GYN and finding out whether it was a boy was the inexorable next step down the road,
but she wasn’t ready to face up to her destination yet, or to decide whether she was going to go there or stamp on the brake pedal. As she brushed her teeth, combed out her hair – which
was darkening at the roots again, after its brutal treatment in New London – and pulled on her clothes, she found herself treasuring every remaining second of her indecision.

Brill was waiting for her downstairs in the lobby, concealed behind a newspaper. She rustled it as she rose, to signal her presence. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Let’s get this over with.’ Miriam managed a brittle smile.

‘As my lady wishes.’

While Miriam had been held prisoner for a couple of months by Baron Henryk – held in the conditions of a most privileged prisoner, the troublesome heiress of a noble family who must needs
be mewed up and married off before she embarrassed the elders enough to warrant strangling – the baron had arranged a most unpleasant medical examination for her by a doctor who specialized
in making sure that the family tree always bore fruit on the right branches. And seven weeks later, give or take a couple of days, her period was
still
late, and she was regularly skipping
breakfast. Not to mention the other, terrifying symptom: the loss of her ability to world-walk. There was no room for doubt in her mind, even before the test stick had shown her the treacherous
blue label.
It’s not like I haven’t been pregnant before
, she’d told herself. But dealing with it was another matter entirely, and if it was male, potentially heir to an
explosive situation . . . this wasn’t about
her
doubts and fears. It was about everybody else’s.
And Mom. Mustn’t forget Mom
.

‘Your pardon, Miriam – aren’t you a bit tense?’

‘Put yourself in my shoes. How would
you
feel?’

‘I’d be petrified! If it’s a boy it’s the heir – ’ Brill stopped, her hands gripping the steering wheel.

‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ Miriam agreed. With the free run of a fertility clinic, ven Hjalmar would have been able to put his sperm samples through a sex
sorting protocol, and while that wasn’t a surefire guarantee, she wasn’t inclined to bet against it. ‘But what about me?’

Brill paused for a few seconds. ‘I’m sorry.’

Miriam took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘Don’t be. What’s done is not your fault.’
What happens next, though
. . . ‘Just get me there and back.
Then we’ll talk.’

This time there was no security cordon of bible-scholar bandits to penetrate, just a brilliant and vacuous smile from the receptionist followed by directions to a waiting room. ‘Dr. Price
is waiting for you,’ she added as Miriam put one foot in front of the other and forced herself along the corridor. Brilliana, behind her, felt like the shadow of all her fears, come to escort
her to the examination room.
I’ve done this before
, she reminded herself.
Yes, but you were twenty-one and indecisive and Mom guilt-tripped you
out of
having an abortion
– And
there
was a nasty thought, because how certain was she that Mom wasn’t playing a riff on that same head game all over again?

Seven weeks along. All I have to do is ask. Huw said he’d sort everything out
. She held the thought like the key to a prison cell as she paused on the threshold of the examination
room, and the guy with curly brown hair sitting at the desk turned to look at her and then rose to greet her. ‘Hello? Are you Miriam? I’m Dr. Price, Alan Price.’ His eyes tracked
past her. ‘And this is . . . ?’

‘A friend.’ She practiced her smile again; she had a feeling that if she was going to go through with this she’d be needing it a lot over the next weeks and months. ‘Hi.
I understand you’re an OB/GYN.’ She shuffled sideways as he gestured towards a chair. ‘Have you ever worked with Dr. ven Hjalmar?’

Price frowned. ‘Van Hjelmar . . . no, doesn’t ring a bell.’ He shook his head. ‘Were you seeing him?’

‘A different practice.’ Miriam sat down heavily, as if her strings had been cut; a vast weight of dread that she hadn’t even been aware of disappeared. ‘I really
didn’t like him. Hence this, uh . . .’

‘I understand.’ Price leaned over and dragged a third chair into position, then waved Brilliana towards it. His face assumed an expression of professional interest. ‘And your
mother, I gather, suggested . . . ?’

‘Yes.’ Miriam took another deep breath. ‘My fiancé is, uh – ’

‘ – He died last month,’ Brill picked up without a pause.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Price sat up. ‘Well, that probably explains it.’

‘It was a shooting accident,’ Miriam said tonelessly, earning her a sharp look from Brill.

‘Eh.’ Price glanced back at his computer screen. ‘All right. So you were on his HMO plan, but now you’ve moved to – oh, I see. Well. I think my receptionist’s
got the new release forms through – if you can sign one and get your old practitioner’s details to us we can take it from there.’

‘Okay.’ Miriam nodded.

‘Meanwhile . . . ?’ Price raised an eyebrow.

‘Well.’ Miriam managed to get a grip on her breathing:
mustn’t start hyperventilating
. ‘I’m pregnant.’ It was funny how you could change your script
and the person who you were talking to would fall into a new pattern of their own, she thought as she watched Price visibly tense as he tried to keep up with the conversation: from polite sympathy
through to curiosity to a quickly suppressed wince. Brill glanced sidelong at her again:
You’re laying it on too thick, back off!
‘It wasn’t planned,’ she added, not
backpedaling exactly but trying to fill in enough details to put Price back on ground he was comfortable with, that wouldn’t raise any questions. ‘We were going to wait until after the
wedding. But . . .’ She shrugged helplessly.

‘I see.’ Price was visibly trying to get a grip on the situation. ‘Well, then.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you used a pregnancy test kit?’

‘Yes. I assume you’ll want a urine sample so you can verify . . . ?’

‘Yes.’ Price opened his desk drawer and removed a collection jar. ‘If you wouldn’t mind? The rest room is through there.’

When Miriam returned she placed the collection jar on the desk as carefully as if it were full of nitroglycerin. ‘Here it is.’

‘Right.’ Price looked as if he was about to say something else, then changed his mind at the last moment. ‘I’ll run it right now and then we can take it from there. Is
that okay?’

Miriam didn’t trust herself to reply. She nodded jerkily.

‘Okay. I’ll be right back.’ Price pulled on a blue disposable glove, then stood up and carried the sample jar out through a side door.

Miriam looked at Brill. ‘How discreet is he going to be?’

‘Very. He’s on salary. Our dime.’

‘Ah.’

They sat in silence for five minutes; then, as Miriam was considering her conversational options, Dr. Price opened the door again. He was, she noticed, no longer wearing the glove. There was a
brief, awkward silence as he sat down again, then: ‘It’s positive,’ he confirmed. Then he picked up his pen and a notepad. ‘How long ago did you last have sex?’

The question threw Miriam for a moment, bringing back unwelcome memories of Roland. She was about to say ‘at least eight months ago,’ when suddenly she realized:
That’s not
what he’s asking
. ‘Seven weeks,’ she said. A little white lie; sex had nothing to do with her current situation, except in the most abstract imaginable sense.