The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (25 page)

END RECORDING

There was a country estate, untouched by war, separated from the clinic in Springfield by about three blocks and two-and-a-half thousand years of divergent history. Brill had
picked up a courier from somewhere nearby and driven Miriam round to a safe house on a quiet residential street; whereupon the courier had carried her across, back into the depths of someone
else’s history.

It was, in many respects, like her time as an involuntary guest of Baron Henryk. There was no electricity in the great stone-walled house, and no central heating or water on tap, and she was
surrounded by servants who spoke to her only in Hochsprache. Brill had left her in the hands of the maidservants, and she’d felt an unpleasant tension as the chattering women dressed her in
clothes from the landholder’s wife’s chests.
Trapped again
: She felt a quite unexpected sense of panicky claustrophobia rising as they fussed over her. It had been hard to stand
still, giving no sign of her urge to bolt and run: She forced herself to recall Brill’s oath.
She won’t leave me here
, she told herself.

To distract herself she fought her unease by trying to puzzle out their story. The landholder, she eventually concluded, was away in the wars, a relative of the Clan families: He’d sent
his dependents to safety for the duration, leaving the staff behind with instructions to look after whomever the council billeted on them. Which meant they were expecting to host one Lady Helge,
house and braid and surname unspecified, not Miriam – a woman from another world.
You let yourself get trapped again
, a little corner of her worried.
They laid out a trap and let
you walk right into it
.

But there were significant differences from Henryk’s idea of hospitality, despite the primitive amenities and unwanted expectations. Her bedroom door had a lock, but she held the key. The
afternoon after her arrival, trying to dispel the anxiety and claustrophobia of being Helge again, she’d ventured from her room to look around the grand hall and the main rooms of the estate.
When she’d returned she found the battered suitcase she’d borrowed from Erasmus sitting beside the canopy bed. A quick inspection with shaking hands revealed her laptop and the revolver
Burgeson had given her. And not only had they let her keep the locket James Lee had given her – Brill had winked, and given her a second, smaller locket on a gold bracelet. None of these
things were of any immediate use, but collectively they conveyed a powerful message:
The trap has a key, and you are not a prisoner
.

She’d sat on the bed, holding the laptop and shaking, carefully stifling her sobs of relief lest the servants waiting outside take fright. When she’d calmed down sufficiently to
function again, she checked over the small pistol, reloading it with ammunition from its case. She let the hammer down on an empty cylinder, and slid it into a pouch she’d found cunningly
stitched inside the cuff of her left sleeve;
I can make this work
, she told herself.
I’ve
got to
make this work
. The one common drawback of both her own plan, and her
mother’s, was that they depended on her living as the Countess Helge voh Thorold d’Hjorth. Not playacting in fancy dress, but actually being a lady of the Gruinmarkt – at least
unless and until Iris’s hastily improvised junta secured its grip on power, or the US military figured out a way to claw a hole in the wall between the worlds. Which could happen tomorrow
– or in ten years’ time.

The alternatives on offer were all worse: a gamble on the questionable mercies of the DEA’s witness protection program, an even riskier gamble on Erasmus and his ruthless political allies.
Between her mother’s Machiavellian proposal and the naïve optimism of the young progressive faction, there was at least some room for her to get a grip on events. ‘As long as
Henryk doesn’t rise from the dead I’ll be all right,’ she muttered under her breath. (
Keep telling yourself that
, mocked her inner skeptic.
They’ll find some other
way to screw you
. . .)

If Roland were still alive, and had actually been the knight in shining armor he’d looked like at first sight, she wouldn’t have to sort everything out for herself. But first
he’d disappointed her, then he’d died trying to live up to her expectations, and now there was nothing to do but press on regardless.
No more heroes
, she resolved.
I’m
going to have to do this all on my own again, damn it
. Which, semirandomly, reminded her of the old song. ‘What do I have to do to get a CD player in here?’ she asked herself, and
managed a croak of laughter.

A tentative voice piped up somewhere behind her, near the door: ‘Milady, are you all right?’

Miriam – Helge – turned her head. ‘I am – well,’ she managed in her halting Hochsprache. ‘What is it?’

The servant, a maid of the bedchamber – evidently of a higher status than a common or garden serving woman – studiously ignored her reddened eyes. ‘Milady? I beg you to receive
a visitor downstairs?’ The maid continued for another sentence, but Helge’s Hochsprache was too patchy to catch more than a feminine prefix and an implication of status.

‘In a, a minute.’ Helge reached for one of the canopy posts and levered herself upright. ‘Speak, tell, her I will see them.’ She took a step towards the heavy oak dresser
with the water jug and bowl that stood in for a sink. The door closed behind her. ‘Ouch.’ She’d kept the ankle boots she’d acquired in New London because they fit her feet
better than any shoes in milady’s wardrobe, but she’d been wearing them all day and her feet were complaining. She examined her face ruefully in the precious aluminum-framed mirror.
‘I’m a mess,’ she told it, and it winced, agreeing. ‘Better clean up.’

Five minutes later, Helge closed her door and marched onto the landing at the head of the grand staircase, a wide wooden platform that circled the inside wall of the central hall. She gripped
the handrail tightly as she descended.
It wouldn’t do to fall downstairs, I might lose the baby
. She tried not to throw off the fit of dark humor: She had a feeling that if she aired
that particular joke she might scare people. Not, she was determined, that she was going to bond even remotely with the kid.
That
would be too much like collusion.
I wonder who wants to
see me?

The butler, or equerry or whatever, was waiting at the foot of the stairs with a gaggle of maidservants lined up behind him. ‘Milady.’ He bowed, almost sweeping the floor. ‘Her
ladyship awaits you in the green lounge.’

Miriam nodded acknowledgement.
Who?
Two unfamiliar servants waited outside the door he indicated, standing at ease with almost military precision. ‘Introduce me,’ she
said.

‘Aye, milady.’ The equerry walked towards the door, which opened before him. ‘This is Lady Thorold – ’

‘We’ve met,’ said Helge. She swept past the startled equerry.

Olga met her halfway in a hug. ‘Helge! You look well. Have they been looking after you?’

‘Well enough so far.’ She hugged Olga back, then took a deep breath and stepped aside to look at her. With her hair up, wearing an embroidered riding habit, Olga almost looked like
the blond ingénue Miriam had mistaken her for when they’d first met, almost a year ago. ‘You’re looking good yourself.’ She took another deep breath, feeling the knot
of anxiety begin to loosen. ‘But how have you been? Brill tried to bring me up to date on some of the details, but . . .’

‘It has been difficult.’ Olga looked slightly pained for a moment, then her brows wrinkled into a thunderous frown. ‘But leave that for later! I come to see you, and I find you
in a yokel’s barn with peasants for attendants and no guards for your back – how long have you been left alone here?’

‘Oh, I’ve only been here since this morning – ’

‘Only this morning? Well then, I probably need not execute anyone just yet – ’

‘Wait!’ She held up a hand. ‘Brill was sorting things out for me. What are you going on about?’

‘It was Lady d’Ost?’ Olga’s anger faded. ‘She told me about your . . . arrangement. She left you here?’

‘Yeah. But she was supposed to be back later in the day. Think she ran into trouble?’

‘Possibly.’ Olga walked over to the heavy oak sideboard that stood against one wall and opened a small valise to pull out a handset. ‘I’ll just check. One-two, one-two.
Stefan, wer’ ist?’ A burst of crackling Hochsprache answered her. Miriam didn’t even try to follow the conversation, but after a minute’s back and forth Olga was content to
shove the radio back in her bag. ‘My men will ask, when they finish walking the perimeter. It could be just one of those things . . .’ Olga shrugged, delicately. ‘But we cannot
leave you here without a staff, especially once the servants work out who you are. At a minimum you need your own ladies-in-waiting – at least two of them, to supervise the servants and look
to your needs. I am able to detach Lady Brilliana from other duties, so she can serve, again . . . Then you need a lance of guards under a suitable officer, and a communications officer with a
courier or two at his disposal. I’d be happier if we could add a doctor or at least a properly trained paramedic, a coachman and two grooms, and either a full kitchen staff or at least a
poison-taster. The full household we can leave until later, but this is an essential minimum – ’

‘Olga.’ Miriam – shoving Helge out of her mind – took a deep breath. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Olga looked surprised. ‘Because you’re
carrying the heir
, dear. We have a special word for a woman who does that. We call her
the queen
.’

*

‘This glorious nation of ours was not built by the landed gentry or the bastard sons of George; it was built by the sweat and love of men like you. And its future is in
your hands.’

Erasmus squinted at the faces behind the fulminating glare of the limelights as the scripted applause rolled on, trying to hold an impassive expression of determination on his face. ‘Thank
you, citizens! And long live the commonwealth!’

The applause grew louder, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. Hungry men clinging to their best hope of a solid meal, a cynical corner of his mind observed as he bowed his head, then stepped back
from the lectern and walked to the back of the stage to make way for the next speaker.

‘I thought that was well enough received,’ he told the fellow on the bench seat behind the backstage curtain. ‘What do you think?’

Ronald Smith, the Assistant Commissioner for Justice, nodded thoughtfully. ‘A good tub-thumping rant doesn’t go amiss,’ he conceded. ‘Who’s on next?’

‘Brian MacDougal.’ Burgeson frowned as he sat beside Smith. ‘Which means he’ll harangue them for three hours about the price of flour while their stomachs are
rumbling.’

‘I ought to go back to the front bench.’ Smith showed no sign of moving.

‘I ought to go back to the office.’ Burgeson’s frown deepened. ‘There’ll be new slanders and rumors from the Patriot Club to rebut before the congress is over, if I
don’t mistake myself . . .’

‘No, you don’t.’ Smith fumbled in his coat pocket for a while before pulling out a villainously stained clay pipe. ‘They’re getting ready for something big. I can
feel it in my bones. We’ll have to break some heads before long, or they’ll be electing a king to ride us like nags. Francis or Sir Hubert, most likely.’ Both of whom were popular
with the elitist thugs of the Patriot Club and their opportunist redshirted street runners – the shirts were dyed to conceal the bloodstains of their victims, Burgeson had announced in one of
his more lurid editorials, and for once he was making none of it up.

‘They’ll break the assembly if they do that.’

‘The assembly’s doomed anyway, Erasmus. As long as Sir Adam sticks to his and our principles and the New Club continue to demand amnesty for John Frederick, there’s going to be
no compromise, and the taller the debate grows, the more bitter its fruit will be.’

‘You sound as if you want to compromise. Or am I misunderstanding you?’

Smith grunted as he fumbled with his lighter. ‘No, I believe there
will
be a compromise, eventually, whether we want it or no; the only question is, whose terms will it favor? The
alternative is open strife, and as that would only benefit our enemies . . .’

He pulled the trigger. Sparks snapped and fell into the barrel of his pipe.

‘I think you underestimate our resources and our prowess,’ Erasmus murmured as Smith drew on his weed. ‘We have a majority of the navy behind us.’ The rigid
stratification and harsh discipline of the service, combined with a recent decline in the quality of rations and an influx of conscripts, had turned the navy into a tinderbox of pro-Leveler
sentiment. ‘In fact, I think we’d have a majority of the people behind us, if the assembly would get round to holding the elections we were promised for our support.’ Erasmus
nodded to himself. ‘We know we hold the people’s mandate, that’s why they’re carrying on this rearguard action in the popular committees. And the sooner we stop gassing at
each other and patting ourselves on the back’ – his nod towards the front of the stage, where Citizen MacDougal had commenced his peroration on the price of bread, took in the invisible
audience of party delegates – ‘the better. This is what did for us the last time round, and if we don’t seize the day it’ll do for us again – ’

He paused. A messenger boy was tiptoeing towards them, eyes wide. ‘Citizen Burgeson?’ he piped quietly.

‘Yes, lad?’

‘Electrogram from the Westminster Halls!’ He held the message slip out, stiff-armed.

‘Hmm.’ Burgeson took the message and read it as fast as he could in the backstage twilight. Then he pocketed it. ‘It has been good to talk to you, Citizen Smith, but I’m
needed elsewhere.’ He rose. ‘Do keep me informed as to the substance of Citizen MacDougal’s bakery, will you?’ Then he turned to the messenger boy: ‘Go tell the
postmaster to signal that I’m on my way.’

Burgeson emerged blinking from the basement of the commandeered theater where the party caucus was in full swing. Two militiamen in the gray-and-green uniform of the Freedom Riders challenged
him. ‘Citizen Burgeson. Please tell Citizen Supervisor Philips that I am ready to leave on urgent business and require transport.’