The Trade of Queens (17 page)

“Did I pledge you for your opinions?” The baron raised an eyelid: Schuller recoiled slightly.

“No sir!”

“Then kindly keep them to yourself, there's a good chap. I'm trying to think.” Oliver dabbed at his forehead, trying to mop away the perspiration.
The limousine is air-conditioned,
he reminded himself. “You have a log, yes? Let me see it.” Schuller held up a clipboard. The pages were neatly hand-scribed, a list of times and stations and cryptic notes of their message content. “Careless of them. They're not encrypting.”

“They are probably shorthanded, sir.” Schuller looked up at the baron as he paged through the sheet. “Their traffic has been tailing off all morning.”

“Well then.” The baron smiled tightly as he saw the time stamps grow thinner, the broadcasts more desperate. “I think it's time to move headquarters. Tell Stanislaw and Poul we're moving, then hail Andrei and tell him to ready the troops to move this afternoon. Shut up shop and meet me downstairs in ten minutes: I must change first.” It wouldn't do to be stopped and searched by the Anglische police while dressed as a Sudtmarkt cousin's guest, but he had a business suit laid out next door.

The plan was simple, as such things went: Baron Hjorth would transfer to the United States, drive north—covering a distance of hundreds of miles in a mere afternoon—and reemerge in the Gruinmarkt, on his own estate, with a bodyguard of cavalrymen in time to ride to the flag of the Postal Lords and her grace the dowager duchess. Who, if things were going to plan—as appeared to be the case—would have coaxed the Idiot's hoyden widow into a suitably well-guarded retreat and arranged for her confinement, in every sense of the word. Having managed the successful delivery of the atomic bombs to their targets (an expensive process, as Kurt and Jurgen could attest), he was, if nothing else, in line for the reward for a job well done.
Probably more of the same,
he thought, as he dressed in American fashion, mildly irritated by the lack of body servants.
The sacrifices we make.
…

Oliver made his way through the empty servants' quarters, passing the room recently vacated by Schuller, before descending by way of a back staircase and a dressing room to reach the main staircase. His men had dismissed most of the regular servants, banishing them to the village over the hill in the name of security. The great house was almost deserted, sweltering in the noon heat. Air-conditioning and the milder Northern climate beckoned, putting a spring in the baron's step. As he reached the bottom step, one shoe touching the mosaic floor of the central hall, he paused. It was, if anything,
too
quiet. “Poul?” he called quietly. “Stanislaw—”

“They won't be answering.” Schuller stepped out of the shadows.

Oliver's left hand tightened on the handrail. “What is this?” His right hand was already shoving aside his jacket, reaching for the small of his back—

Schuller shot him. In the confines of the high-ceilinged room the blast of the shotgun was more than a noise, a deafening concussion that launched a screeching flight of frightened birds from the grounds outside. Oliver Hjorth collapsed, eyes staring, his chest flayed open as any victim of the blood-eagle. Schuller racked the pump on his weapon, ejecting the smoking cartridge, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, his face still expressionless. “Fucking aristocratic traitor,” he muttered, inspecting the baron's body for any sign of residual life; but there was not so much as a toe-twitch, and the pool of blood was spreading evenly now, no longer spurting but beginning to soak into the rug at the center of the hall. Turning on his heel, Schuller walked slowly towards the front door of the hall; raising his left hand to stare at something cupped within his palm, he vanished. An instant later he reappeared in a linoleum-floored utility room, windowless. Walking over to the telephone, he dialed a number from memory: “Message to the major,” he said, swallowing back bile. “Cuckoo Four has hatched three eggs. Cuckoo Four is going home.”

There was a moment's delay, and then a woman's voice spoke: “Got that, and good luck. The major says you did well.”

“Bye.” He hung up, carefully unloaded his shotgun, and deposited it on the workbench. Then, taking a pair of car keys from his pocket, he headed for the carport. It would be a long drive for one man sticking religiously to the speed limit; but if he hurried, he could be back with his unit by sundown. Unlike the baron, Earl-Major Riordan didn't think of his agents as expendable embarrassments.

*   *   *

It took more than a war, a liquidity crisis, or even a revolution to stop the dogs. The morning after his father explained the new arrangement to him—the identity of their new political patron, the reason for backing ven Hjalmar, and the ruling council of elders' plans for the future—James Lee, his hat pulled down as low as his spirits, walked to the track to put some money on the greyhounds.

It was not, of course, entirely safe for a man with Asian features to walk these streets alone; but Lin, his favorite younger brother, was more than eager to get out of the house for a few hours. With smoked glasses and the beard he'd been cultivating of late, James didn't feel too out of place; and in addition to his cane, he had a pistol and a locket on a ribbon around his left wrist.

“Look—I'll put two shillings on Red Leinster in the next race,” said Lin, pointing at one of the muzzled and hooded hounds, being led back to the kennels in the wake of a near-miss. “How about you?”

“Huh. Three and six on Bottle Rocket, I think.” James glanced around, looking for a tout's man. “And a pint of mild.”

“Make that two pints.” Lin flashed him a brief grin. “What's gotten into you, brother? I haven't seen you this low since…” He trailed off.

James shook his head. Another glance: “Not in English,” he said quietly. “Later, maybe.”

“Oh.” Slightly crestfallen, Lin subsided. But not for long: “Look! There's your bookmaker.” He pointed excitedly, at a sharply dressed figure surrounded by a court of supplicants, and not a few stone-faced gentlemen with stout walking sticks—some of them doubtless concealing blades. “Are you going to—”

James shook his head. “Life's a gamble,” he said quietly. A moment later his mood lifted. “Yes, I think I shall take a flutter.” He worked his way over towards the bookmaker, Lin following along in his wake. A few minutes later, by way of a tap-man who dispensed mild straight into battered pewter pots from the back of a cask-laden dray, he made his way towards the back of the trackside crowd. The audience was abuzz with anticipation as the fresh dogs were led out to the stalls. “Which do you think is more important: filial obedience, or honor?” he asked.

Lin's eyes crossed briefly. “Uh. Beer?” he hazarded.

James shook his head minutely. “Imagine I'm being serious.”

“Well, then.” Lin took a gulp of the black beer. “This is a trick question, isn't it? Filial obedience, obviously, because that's where your honor comes from, right?”

“Wrong.” James took a sip from his own mug. “And yes it
is
a trick question, but not the kind you're expecting. Let me see. Try this one: Why does honor come from filial obedience?”

“Because it does?” Lin rolled his eyes this time, making it clear that he was honoring his elder brother precisely inasmuch as the free beer required. “This is boring—”

“No it isn't,” James said, quietly urgent. “Listen. Firstly, we obey because it's the right and traditional thing to do. Secondly, we obey because it is what we shall want for ourselves, when
we
are elders. And thirdly, we obey because the old farts are usually right, and they are making decisions with our family's best interests in mind. They know what they're doing. Except when they
don't
. So let me rephrase: If you found out that the elders were doing something really stupid,
dangerously
stupid, and you couldn't talk them out of it—what would you do?”

A rattling clangor of gates and the shrill of a whistle: The dogs were off, bolting up the track in pursuit of the mechanical hare. “Oh brother.” Lin was uncharacteristically quiet. “This isn't theoretical, is it?”

“No.” Shouting and hoarse cheering rose on all sides as the crowd urged their hounds on. “They've bet the family's future on a wild black dog.
Our
future, Lin.”

“They wouldn't do that,” Lin said automatically. He raised his tankard, drank deeply as the gongs clashed and the crowd roared their approval. “Would they?” He wiped his mouth with the back of a hairless wrist.

“They would, and they did, with the best of intentions.” James shook his head. “Huh, there goes my three and six. But looks like you lucked out.”

“What have they done?” Lin asked as they queued to collect his winnings—not so much, for he'd bet on a favorite—from the men with clubs.

“Later.” James waited vigilantly while his younger brother swapped his ticket for five shillings; the tout's men looked disapprovingly on, but made no move to pick a fight. They headed back to the dray for a refill, then over to the fence near the bleachers to watch. The racing dogs were kenneled, while dogs of another kind were brought out, along with a bear for them to bait in a wire-fenced enclosure in the middle of the track. “You met the enemy heir, Helge, Miriam. What did you think of her?”

Lin shook his head. “She's a crazy woman,” he said admiringly. A shadow crossed his face. “I owe her, brother. It shames me to say.”

“The elders sent you to kill her, and she ended up saving your life. That's a heavy obligation, isn't it? What if I said the elders have settled on a harebrained scheme to make us safe and rich—but one that will kill her? Where's your honor there, eh?”

“They wouldn't do that!” Lin glanced from side to side. “That would restart the war, wouldn't it?”

“They may not realize what they're doing,” James said quietly. “They're entering into an arrangement with one of her enemies, though, a man who she told me had wronged her grievously. Another of the cousins, their feuds are hard to keep track of … but what makes this different is that they're
also
talking to a government man.” His younger brother's eyes were bulging with disbelief. “I know, I know.
I
think they've taken leave of their senses, you know the rules—but Dad and Uncle Huan are agreed. They figure the revolution's going to turn into a bloody civil war, and I think they're probably right about that—and they think we need political patronage to survive it. Well, that goes against the old rules, but they're the elders: They
make
the rules, and sometimes you have to throw out the old rules and bring in new rules. The trouble is, they're hoping to use a mad scheme of Dr. ven Hjalmar's to breed extra world-walkers—don't ask me how it works, it's magic medicine from the other world the cousins go to—and they're hoping to use their political patron's offices to make it work. Ven Hjalmar is poison: Miriam hates him. And the patron they've picked—” James shook his head. “I don't trust him. Uncle doesn't trust him either, but I think Uncle underestimates how untrustworthy he is.
And
ven Hjalmar. They'll cut a deal behind our backs and we'll be at their mercy.”

“A deal. What sort of deal? What do they want us to do?” Lin stared at his elder brother.

“Assassination. Spying. Smuggling. What do
you
think the Leveler's secret Polis might want of us? And then they'll own us, match, lock, and trigger. But more importantly—the cousins will be looking for sanctuary here, and this will put them at our throat, and we at theirs: The Polis won't tolerate a different group of world-walkers beyond their control, once they learn of the cousins' existence. We'll be right back where we started, but this time under the thumb of the Polis—who despise us because we're children of the Inner Kingdom.”

“We could go back there—” Lin stopped.

“Could we?” It was James's turn to raise an eyebrow. “Where would we be, if we couldn't move freely through New Britain? How would we prosper? And that's assuming we
can
go back there. What the cousins have stirred up—” He shook his head. “No, it wouldn't work. That's why I'm asking you: Which comes first, your honor or your filial loyalty?”

Lin stared for a few seconds; then his shoulders slumped. He took a deep mouthful of beer. “I defer to your elder wisdom,” he finally said. Another pause. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to watch.” James whistled tunelessly between his front teeth. “Hopefully I won't have to do anything. Hopefully Uncle is right and I am wrong. But if it turns out that Uncle Huan
isn't
right … will you obey him to the end, or will you do what's right for the family?”

Lin looked away. Then he looked back and nodded: a minute inclination of the head, but a significant one—the precise degree of submission that he might otherwise give his father. “What are you considering?”

“Nothing specific, as yet.” James raised his tankard. “But if the elders' plans go astray—we'll see.”

*   *   *

As he turned in to Miriam Beckstein's street, Mike Fleming felt an uncontrollable shudder ripple up the small of his back: an intense sensation of guilt, as if he'd done something unforgivable. Which was ridiculous.
Why do I feel like a stalker?
he wondered ironically.
I'm not the guy who's been lurking in the bushes with a phone and a camera for the past six months, hoping she'll come home.
He drove carefully up the road, not slowing and not staring at the houses, trying to tag the parked cars as memories battered for his attention.

Mike had a history: not uncommon. Single cop, married to the job. He had another history, too: dates, girlfriends, brief excursions into the alien world of domesticity that never quite seemed to gain traction. Four or five years ago he'd met a woman journalist—
how
? he could remember the where, but not the why—and asked her out, or maybe she'd asked him to ask her out, or something. And they'd gotten to know each other and she'd asked him home and then it all seemed to cool off, over the space of a couple of months.