The Trade of Queens (32 page)

Riordan nodded reluctantly. “So?”

“So Hildegarde tried to smash the program, at least by seizing the infants and having them adopted. Griben was her cat's-paw. It was a power play and countermove, nothing more. But her solution would give us other problems. There is a reason why we are six high families and their clients, why each group numbers less than three hundred. An extended family—a clan, not
our
great collective Clan, but a normal grouping—is of that order, you know? Anthropologists have theories to explain why humans form groups of that size. Tribes, clans. We knit our six together into one bigger group, to permit the braiding of recessive genetic trait without excessive inbreeding. But if you triple our numbers—well, there was a reason we were susceptible to civil war eighty years ago. If a tribe grows too large it splinters along factional lines.”

“But you're—” Riordan stopped. “Oh.”

Patricia nodded. “Yes. If Hildegarde's idea—bring the newborn world-walkers into the Clan's client families and raise them among us—had worked, we'd have grown much too fast to maintain control. It would have set us up for another damaging civil war.”

“Have you destroyed the records, then?”

She shook her head. “No need. We may even need them later. I leave that to the Council's future deliberations; but in the meantime, I took steps to insure that nobody would use them to breed an army of world-walkers. It has to be done openly, with the consent of the entire Clan, or not at all.”

“I can live with that—if you can guarantee it.”

“The problem is ven Hjalmar.” She turned her face to the window. A beam of sunlight splashed through it, lengthening across the floor. “The sleazy little tapeworm's stolen a set of the records. And now he's gone missing.
You
know that Helge will hang him as soon as look at him. Put yourself in his shoes—where would you go?”

Riordan stared at her. “You think he'd defect to … who? The Lees?”

“I wouldn't bet against it. He might be lying low in America, but what's he going to do? He can't fake up a good enough identity to practice as an ob-gyn—the full academic and employment track record would be a
lot
harder than a regular cover—so he can't simply jump the wall and hide there, not unless he's willing to take a big cut in his standard of living. So he needs sponsorship. The breeding program is … well, it'd be more useful to the Lees than it is to us: They're not far from extinction, did you know that? They've got less than a hundred world-walkers. He might have gone to the US government a couple of weeks ago, but he can't do that now: They wouldn't need him once they get their hands on the breeding program records and they're in no mood to be accommodating. That leaves the Lee family, or maybe the authorities in New Britain, but the latter won't have a clue what he's offering them without a working demonstration.”

“God-on-a-stick.” Riordan ran one hand through his thin hair. “I'll point Olga after him. One more damn thing to worry about.”

“I have a question.” Patricia waited.

“Yes?”

“My daughter's
interest
in Roland last year.” She licked suddenly dry lips. “And Olga was betrothed to him. And that nasty business Helge told me about, in the old orangery. Which was that to do with—WARBUCKS or the breeding program?”

“WARBUCKS—” For a moment Riordan looked confused. He shook his head. “Let me think. There was something about it in the files. The old man knew there was a leak; Olga was investigating. I think he may have set her on him—she was still under cover so she could run the fresh-faced ingenue pumping her fiancé—to see if he was the leak.
Someone
on the inside was still colluding with WARBUCKS after we officially cut him off, and Roland was considered unreliable. But you may be right. Economics was his big thing, wasn't it? If he was talking to ven Hjalmar…” He trailed off.

“A tame army of world-walkers,” Patricia said tartly. “If Roland had been planning to defect, and if he could get his hands on the breeding-program records and take them to WARBUCKS, he could have named his own price, couldn't he? Was that why he had to die?”

Riordan gave her a flat stare. “You might think that, but I couldn't possibly comment.”

Patricia met his gaze. After several long seconds she nodded, very slightly. “In any case, there are other plausible explanations. My mother, for example. There's no way she would have allowed her granddaughter to marry a mere
earl
. Not with a pliable prince on offer, and her own elder sister—the queen-mother—happy to matchmake for her grandson.”

“That is true.” Riordan inclined his head. Then he took a deep breath. “I find the weight of your half-brother's secrets inordinately onerous, my lady. I wish I could confide fully in you; it's only those matters concerning your bloodline which give me cause for hesitation. I hope you can forgive me—but can you put yourself in my place?”

Patricia nodded again. “I beg your forgiveness. I don't believe even for a moment that you might have arranged the liquidation of your elder brother Roland, not even on the duke's orders. I don't think Angbard would have given such a—but we live in paranoid times, do we not? And we
know
Dr. ven Hjalmar is a lying sack of shit who liked to incriminate other people.”

“Indeed. Did I mention it was his signature on your brother's death certificate?”

“Was it really?” Patricia breathed.

“Yes. Really.” Riordan cleared his throat. “Just so you understand what—who—we're dealing with here. I gather Helge has given her retainers certain orders in his regard. I'm inclined to declare him outlaw before Clan Security. If you, and the committee, concur?”

Patricia nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes.”

They sat in contemplative silence for a minute.

“Are you sure I can't convince you to go to New Britain?” asked Riordan. “Your daughter could use your support.”

“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 discreetly, 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 right 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 it 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.”

“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.

James smiled tightly. “We're safer here than we were on the way,” he 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—“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?”

James smiled. “I am perfectly all right,” he 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 out into a gloomy passage, then out into a wood-paneled hall and through a doorway into a daylit 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 man-mountain 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.…