The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (73 page)

‘She’s a grown woman who can make her own mistakes,’ Patricia said sharply. ‘And I’ll thank you for not telling her what I had to do to give her that
freedom.’ Softly: ‘I think it better for the older generation to retire, you know. Rather than fighting, kicking and screaming, against the bitter end.’

‘I’m certain they could take care of you, over there,’ the earl pointed out. ‘If you stay behind when the Americans come . . .’

‘I’ll die.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve been there, to the other world, Frederick. It’s backward and dangerous. With my condition it’s just a matter of time. Did
I tell you, my mother was dying? She thought she had a year to live. Didn’t occur to her to ask how
I
was doing, oh no. If it had, and if she’d won, she might have outlived me,
you know.’

‘You’re not that ill, are you?’

‘Not yet. But without my medication I will be. And when the Americans come, it won’t matter whether I’m hale and hearty or on my deathbed. If I evacuate, those medicines I need
to sustain me will run out by and by. And if I stay . . .’ She fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘I hope you’re going to evacuate yourself before the end. My daughter doesn’t
need old dead wood like me clogging up her household and draining her resources; but a young, energetic lord of security is another matter.’

Riordan stared back at her. ‘This land is my land. And enough of my people are staying that I’d be derelict if I abandoned them.’

‘My mother said something like that. My mother was also a damned fool.’ Patricia took a deep breath. ‘She shot a man-eating tiger in the tip of its tail, where the wound is
calculated to cause maximum pain and outrage, but to do no lasting harm. Do you really expect the tiger not to bite?’

‘Oh, it’s going to bite all right.’ Riordan looked as resigned as a condemned man on his way to the scaffold. ‘You are correct, your grace. And I am encouraging every man
and woman I meet to make their way to the evacuation points. But it’s an uphill battle, and many of our less well-traveled cousins are skeptical. If I go, my powers of persuasion are vastly
reduced. So, like the captain of a sinking ship, my station is on the bridge until all are saved.’

‘Exactly.’ Patricia folded her hands. ‘But I’m not going anywhere, even if you throw wide the doors to this gilded cell. So why not let me help?’

*

On the other side of the sprawling metropolis, a steamer drove slowly along a road lined with big houses, set back behind the wire-topped fences and overgrown hedges of a mostly
absent bourgeoisie. Those with royalist connections or a history with the Polis or sympathies with the Patriot Party had mostly decided that they had pressing business out of town, far from urban
militias who might recognize them and Leveler Party commissioners who might think the city better off without their ilk.

Sitting in the back of the steamer, James Lee stared pensively at the padlocked gates from behind smoked glass pince-nez spectacles. There, but for the lubrication of certain palms and the
careful maintenance of appearances, were his own family’s estates; in time of civil war, nobody suffered quite like foreign merchants, despised for their race and resented for their imagined
wealth. Only the Lee family’s dedication to concealing their true nature had kept them from attracting the mob’s attention so far. ‘This next,’ he called ahead to the
chauffeur and his companion, a heavyset fellow with a nose that had been broken so many times that it was almost flat. ‘She’s at home.’ There was a trickle of smoke from one
chimney pot, no doubt a flue venting from the kitchen range.

The thick hedge fronting the Beckstein estate was unkempt and as bushy as its neighbors, but the gate wasn’t chained shut – and the hut beside it showed signs of recent use. As the
car hissed to a halt in the roadway, the hut’s door opened and a fellow stepped out, making no attempt to conceal his breech-loading blunderbuss.

‘Ahoy, the house,’ called the chauffeur.

The gatekeeper stayed well clear of the car. ‘Who calls?’ he demanded.

James leaned forward to rap the head of his cane once on the back of the driver’s partition, then opened the car door and stepped out. ‘James Lee,’ he said easily in
Hochsprache. The gatekeeper jumped. ‘I have come to visit my cousin, Helge of Thorold-Hjorth.’

‘Wait, if it pleases you.’ The gatekeeper raised his left hand and held something to his mouth, muttering. Then he shook his head, as if hearing an answer. His face froze.
‘Please wait . . . My lord, I am told that you are welcome here. But your men will please leave their arms in the vehicle.’ Two more men appeared, hurrying along the driveway from the
direction of the house. ‘If that is acceptable . . . ?’

James nodded. ‘Take the car where he directs you and wait with it,’ he told his chauffeur.

‘Are you sure?’ the bodyguard asked edgily.

‘We’re safer here than we were on the way,’ James pointed out. Which was true: Three men who would be taken as foreigners driving an expensive motor through a British city in
time of revolution would not have been safe if they had been stopped. ‘They won’t lay a finger on us, Chang. They don’t know what we are capable of. And besides, I am an honored
guest.’ He closed the car door and walked towards the gate as it swung open.

The house Miriam had purchased for her first foray into the business world in New Britain was large enough to conceal a myriad of sins, and James Lee was not surprised when the suspiciously
unobsequious butler who met him at the front door rushed him into a parlor off to one side. ‘If you’d wait here, sir, her – my lady sends her apologies, and she will see you
shortly.’ He began to move towards the door, then paused. ‘Can I fetch you anything? Tea, coffee, whisky?’

‘I am perfectly all right,’ James said blandly. The not-butler frowned, then bowed briskly and hurried out of the room. He was clearly unused to playing this role; his stockings were
creased and his periwig lamentably disordered. James sat in the solitary armchair, glancing round curiously. Aside from the presence of the armchair and a small box attached to the wall close to
one ceiling corner, there was nothing particularly unusual about the room – for a butler’s pantry.
Someone is not used to entertaining,
he decided.
Now, what does that
signify?

As it happened, he didn’t have long to wait. Barely ten minutes later, the not-butler threw the door open in a rush. ‘They’re ready for you now,’ he explained. ‘In
the morning room. If you’ll follow me, sir.’

‘Certainly.’ James stood and followed the fellow along a gloomy passage, then out into a wood-paneled hall and through a doorway into a day-lit room dominated by a large mahogany
table set out with nearly a dozen seats.
Dining table or conference table?
He nodded politely at the occupants, reserving a small smile for their leader. ‘Good morning, Your Majesty
– your grace – however I should address you? I must say, I’m glad to see you looking so well.’
Well
was questionable; she looked as if she had recently been seriously
unwell, and was not yet back to full health.

She nodded. ‘Thank you, my lord baron. Uh – we are trying to make a practice of avoiding titles here; the neighbors are less than understanding. You may call me Miriam and I shall
call you James, or Mr. Lee, whichever you prefer. Unless you insist on formalities?’

‘As you wish.’ The not-butler stepped forward, drawing out a chair for him. ‘Perhaps you could introduce your companions? I don’t believe we’ve all met.’

‘Sure. Have a seat – everybody? Brilliana I think you’ve met. This is Sir – uh, Alasdair, my – ’

‘Chief of security,’ the not-butler rumbled mildly. He, too, sat down. ‘Your men are being taken care of with all due hospitality,’ he added.

‘Thank you.’
Message received.
James nodded and concentrated on remembering names as Miriam – the former Duchess Helge – introduced another five members of the six
traitor brothers’ families –
Stop that,
he reminded himself. It was a bad habit, born of a hundred and fifty and more years of tradition built on the unfortunate belief that his
ancestor had been abandoned to his fate by his wicked siblings. A belief which might or might not be true, but which was singularly unhelpful in the current day and age . . .

‘I assume you’re here because of my letter,’ Miriam finished after the naming of names. Then she simply sat back, watching him expectantly.

‘Ah – yes.’
Damn.
He hadn’t expected quite such an abrupt interrogation. He smiled experimentally. ‘My father was most intrigued by it – especially by
what it left unsaid. What is this threat you referred to?’

Miriam took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to mince words. The Clan fucked up.’

Brilliana – Miriam’s chief of staff, as far as he could tell – glanced at her liege. ‘Should you be telling – ’

Miriam shook her head. ‘Leave this to me, Brill.’ She looked back at James Lee, her shoulders slumping slightly. ‘You know about our internal factional splits.’ He nodded
cautiously. The blame game might be easy enough to play at this point; gods knew, his parents and grandparents had done their best to aggravate those disputes in decades past. ‘But you
don’t know much about the Clan’s trade in the United States.’

He cocked his head attentively. ‘No. Not having been there, I couldn’t say.’

More euphemisms; the Lee family knotwork enabled them to travel between the worlds of the Gruinmarkt and New Britain, while the Clan’s knot had provided them with access to the
semi-mythical United States.

‘The US government discovered the Clan,’ Miriam said carefully. ‘The Clan has earned its power over there through criminal enterprise – smuggling. The US government sent
them a message by means of an, a, a super-weapon. The conservatives decided to send a message right back using stolen weapons of the same class – and at the same time to decapitate the Clan
security apparatus and council. Their coup failed, but they
really
got the attention of the US authorities. Like climbing over the railings at a zoo and stamping on the tail of a sleeping
tiger.’

James tried not to wince. ‘But what can they do?’

‘Quite a lot.’ Miriam frowned and glanced at the skinny young fellow called Huw. ‘Huw? Tell him about the project my uncle gave you.’

Huw fidgeted with his oddly styled spectacles. ‘I was detailed to test other knotwork designs and to systematically explore the possibility of other worlds.’ He rested a hand on a
strange device molded out of resin that lay on the table before him. ‘I can show you – ’

‘No,’ Miriam interrupted. ‘Just the summary.’

‘
Okay.
We found and visited three other worlds before the coup attempt – and identified fifteen different candidate knots that look promising. One of the worlds was accessible
using your, the Lee family, knotwork from the United States. We found ruins, but very high-tech ruins. Still slightly
radioactive
.’ James squinted a little at the unfamiliar jargon.
‘The others were all stranger. Upshot: The three worlds we know of are only the tip of an iceberg.’

‘Let me put Huw’s high technology in perspective.’ Miriam’s smile tightened with a moue of distaste: ‘He means high tech in comparison to the United States. Which
is about as far ahead of New Britain as New Britain is ahead of the Gruinmarkt. There is strange stuff out there, and no mistake.’

‘Perhaps, but of what use is it?’ James shrugged, trying to feign disinterest.

‘Well, perhaps the fact that the United States government has threatened us, and appears to have the ability to build machines that can move between worlds, will be of interest to
you?’ Miriam looked at him expectantly.

‘Not really. They can’t find us here, after all.’ James crossed his arms. ‘Unless you’ve told them where to look . . . ?’

‘
We
haven’t – we wouldn’t know who to talk to, or how.’

James froze in response to her flat stare.

‘Why are you
here
?’ Alasdair asked pointedly.

Miriam held up a warning hand. ‘Stop,’ she told him. Looking back at James: ‘Let me see. This
might
just be a social visit. But on balance, no, I don’t think so.
You’re here to deliver a message.’

James nodded.

‘From your elders – ’ Miriam stopped, registering his expression. ‘Oh shit. You’re
not
here on your uncle’s behalf?’

‘You are not the only people with a problem,’ James confessed ruefully. ‘I am afraid my elders have made an error of judgment, one that is in nobody’s best interests
– not ours, nor yours.’

‘An error – ’

‘Shut up, Huw.’ This from Brilliana. ‘What have they done, and what do you think we can do about it?’

‘These are dangerous, turbulent times.’ James stopped, hunting for the least damaging way of framing his confession.
These are dangerous, turbulent people,
he reminded
himself.
Who were until a year ago enemies of our blood.
‘They sought a patron,’ he confessed.

‘A patr – ’ Miriam stared at him. ‘Crap. You mean, they’ve gone public?’

‘Yes.’
Wait and see.
James crossed his arms.

‘How public?’ asked Miriam. ‘What have they done?’

‘It started nearly a month ago.’ James met her eyes. ‘When they learned of the upheaval in the Eastern states, the elders became alarmed. Add your cousins’ manifest
difficulties with their own strange world, the America, and there was . . . cause for concern. My uncle sought advice on the wisdom of maintaining the rule of secrecy. His idea was that we should
seek out a high-ranking minister within the provisional government, provide them with discreet services – ideally to the point of incrimination, to compel their cooperation later – and
use their office to secure our safety. Does this sound familiar?’

They were all nodding. ‘Very,’ said Miriam. ‘We made the same mistake.’ She glanced sidelong at Brill. ‘Getting involved in local politics. Hmm.’

‘Don’t blame
me
,’ Brill said with some asperity.

‘I’m not. But if the Council hadn’t wanted to place a world-walker on the throne, or to do business with local politicians in Wyoming, we wouldn’t be in this fix
now.’