Revolution Business (26 page)

"Sir!" One of the guards hurried off; the other stood by. Erasmus pointedly ignored the solecism: Ex-soldiers generally made the best militiamen, even when their political awareness wasn't up to scratch, and with the opposition boasting of two redshirts for every Freedom Rider the Party could muster, only a fool would make an issue of a slip of the tongue.

Presently the guard returned with Supervisor Philips following behind him. Philips, tall, stoop-shouldered, and quavery of voice, wouldn't normally have been Erasmus's idea of a military commander: He reminded him of a praying mantis. (But these weren't normal times, and Philips was, if nothing else, politically sound.) "Ah, citizen Burgeson. What can I do for you?"

Erasmus suppressed a twitch. Drawing himself up to his full height, he said: "I am summoned to the Westminster Halls by Sir Adam."

"Interesting." He could almost see the gears meshing in Philips's mind. "We'll have to avoid the Central Canal and Three Mile Lane, the redshirts are smashing up shop windows and working themselves up." The gears spun to a conclusive stop: "Citizen, please follow me. Meng, go tell Stevens to send the armored car round to the front steps. He's to follow with the motorcycle detachment. Gray, stand guard until I send someone to relieve you." Erasmus fell in behind Philips. "I should like you to ride in the car for your own safety, citizen. Unless you feel the need to arrange a provocation?"

"No provocations today." Erasmus smiled humorlessly, mentally reviewing the message that had dragged him away from the interminable speeches of the party faithful: COME AT ONCE TO DISCUSS PATRIOTS WITHDRAWL FROM ASS BREAK NEED TO RESPOND BREAK. "But there'll be plenty of provocations tomorrow."

Miriam was still vibrating from Olga's arrival two hours later, when the Lady Brilliana d'Ost arrived with all the ceremony due to a lord's daughter, and a small army of servants, stewards, armed guards, and other retainers besides.
They can't mean it,
Miriam kept telling herself:
I'm no queen!
She'd met His Majesty King Alexis a number of times, and his mother the dowager queen, but there'd been an empty space in that family tree for some years before Egon pulled his hostile takeover bid. She'd acquired from King Alexis a vague sense of what it was to be a monarch: much like being the CEO of a sprawling, huge, corporation with an activist and frequently hostile board. And the angle that if you screwed up, being fired took on a whole new and alarming meaning.

Olga had dragged her on a tour of the house and its grounds-sucking two bodyguards along in her wake, and using her walkie-talkie to warn other outer guards of their progress-and had tried explaining a huge inchoate bundle of protocol to her, in between showing her round an orchard patrolled by peacocks and a huge selection of outbuildings that evidently made this site suitable for a temporary royal presence-but most of it went right past her head. Too much, too fast: Miriam was still trying to come to terms with her mother's sudden reemergence at the center of a web of diplomacy, and the huge imposition of being pregnant, much less with the whole question of her status here, to grapple with anything else.

In the end, she'd just raised a hand. "Olga. Stop. This is too much for me, right now."

"Too much." Olga paused. "Helge. You need to know this. What is-"

"Back to the house. Please?"

Olga peered at her. "You're not feeling too good?"

"I am
way
overloaded," she admitted. "I'm not ready for this, for any of it. Mom's plan. You're part of it, right?"

"Back to the house," Olga said firmly, taking her in hand. "Yes," she confirmed as they walked, "I have the honor of conspiring with her, as do you. But we are relying on you for so much. If you are overloaded, let me help?"

Miriam sighed. "I'm not sure I can. Being pregnant? That wasn't in my plans. Mom's conspiracy? Ditto. Now you want me to be a queen, which is way outside my comfort zone: It's the kind of job that drives people to an early grave. And then there's the other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"Don't bullshit me, Olga. Angbard didn't pick you just because of your bright smile and fashion sense. You must have gotten my report through Brill. I
did
meet Mike Fleming in the palace! And he told me-"

"Yes, we know." Olga paused while one of their silent escorts opened the orchard gate for her. "It is a very bad situation, Helge, and I would be lying if I said it was entirely under control. You have been told what happened to Egon's men?"

"Yes." Miriam followed Olga through the gate. "Which means it's only a matter of time. It could all explode in our faces tomorrow, or next month."

"Absolutely. Your uncle-while he lay sick, he told me we needed to put your business plan into action, that it was the only way. But my word carries little weight with the likes of Julius or your grandam. If your mother's conspiracy works, we'll see. But we are riding on a tumbrel with a broken wheel-time is scarce, so we must pursue all our options at once lest we find ourselves treading on air. You as the mother to the heir-that helps. If not with the old aristocracy, then with our own conservatives-they recognize the heir, it was their own scheme! And there are other materials that his grace told me to entrust to you, when I can recover them-they are another. We might be able to hold the Gruinmarkt yet, should the American scientists fail to unravel our talent. It could take them years, not months. And we will still need to defeat them in covert battle and recover our hostages from them."

"But it's going to end sooner or later, and probably sooner than we think-"

"Yes, but every month it buys us is a month longer to find a way out of the trap. And we have plans. If the worst should fail to arrive, there is your mother's scheme. And if the worst
does
arrive, we have evacuation plans. We can flee by way of Canada, and then to other nations. We have sent spies to Europe. Your friend in New Britain might supply another option-better, if the Americans announce our existence at large. We've got
many
alternatives. Too many, in fact." The shady garden path approached the courtyard at the rear of the house, the door leading back inside. "Your confusion is our confusion. Brilliana told me you were working on a new plan of business. Work hard; I think we may need it very soon."

Which was all very well, and brought Miriam back to herself, lending her the strength for another try at being Helge. Just in time to open the door onto chaos.

"Move that upstairs! No, not that, the other case! You, yes, you, go find the kitchen! Honestly, where do I get these people? Oh, hi, Miriam!"

The main hallway was full of luggage, heavy trunks and crates, and their attendant grooms, guards, and porters. Brill-Lady Brilliana d'Ost in this time and place, elegant and poised-stood in the middle of it, directing the traffic with the confidence of a born chatelaine. "You'd better wait in the blue receiving room while I get this under control. Which reminds me." She switched to hochsprache: "Sir Alasdair, your presence is required." In English, sotto voce: "Alasdair is in charge of your bodyguards, Helge. Yes he's Clan, a full world-walker, but the offspring of two outer families hence the lack of braid. He's reliable, and unsworn."

"He is?" Miriam murmured, smiling with clenched teeth as a medium-sized mountain of a man shambled across the busy floor, narrowly missing two pieces of itinerant furniture and their cursing porters.

"He is. He's also my cousin." Brill nudged. "Alasdair, I'd like you to meet Helge-"

"Your highness, I am overwhelmed!" The mountain bowed like a landslide, sweeping the floor before Miriam's feet with his hat. "It is an honor to meet you! My lady has told me so much-"

"Oh good." At least the man-mountain spoke English.
Stand up,
she thought at the top of his head in mild desperation.

"Sir Alasdair, you must be able to stand in your liege's presence," Olga interrupted, casting Miriam a sidelong look.

"Of course," Miriam echoed.
Okay, that's two hints. I get the message. Swear your chief of security!

"Your highness is gracious." Brill winked at her and Olga studiously looked away as Alasdair straightened, revealing himself to be a not-unpresentable but extremely large fellow in his mid-thirties, if not for the starstruck expression on his face.

"If you do not mind, I have to be elsewhere," Olga told Miriam. She nodded at Brill. "You know what must be done?"

"I do."

"Well then." Olga ducked a brief curtsey in Miriam's direction, then sidestepped around the doorway and back into the garden.

"What was that about?" asked Miriam.

"Lady Hjorth is most peculiarly busy right now," Brilliana commented. "As I should be, too, if you do not mind."

Alasdair cleared his throat. "If your highness would care to inspect her guard of honor?"

"I'm not anyone's highness yet," Miriam pointed out. "But if you insist…"

"Alasdair and his men will see to your security," Brill repeated, as if she thought Miriam hadn't already got the message. "Meanwhile, I must humbly beg you to excuse me. I've got to get all the servants bedded in and the caravan unloaded-"

"Olga said something about ladies-in-waiting," Miriam interrupted. "Who did you pick?"

"Look no further." Brill raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I would put you in the hands of amateurs? I will find suitable assistants as soon as time permits."

"Oh, thank god." Miriam mopped at her brow in barely feigned relief. "So, I can leave everything to you?"

"You are my
highest
priority," Brill said drily. "You were, even before I swore to you. Now go and meet your guards." She turned and swept back into the chaos in the entrance hall, leaving Miriam standing alone with Sir Alasdair.

"Your highness." Alasdair rumbled quietly when he spoke. "Lady d'Ost has told me something of her time with you. I understand you were raised in America and have little experience of living in civilized manner here. In particular, she said you are unused to servants and bodyguards-is that correct?"

"Pretty much." Miriam watched him sidelong as she took in the details of the room: dark, heavy furniture, tapestries on the walls, an unlit hearth, unpadded chairs built so ruggedly they might be intended to bear the weight of history. Sir Alasdair looked to be a part of these environs, save for the Glock holstered on the opposite side of his belt from his saber. "What, realistically, can your guards do for me? Other than get in my way?"

"What indeed?" Alasdair raised an eyebrow. "Well, there are eight of them, so two are on duty at all times. And when your highness is traveling, all of them will be on duty to cover your path, before and after. We will cover your movements without getting in your way if you but tell us where you wish to go. And when the assassins come, we'll be ready for them."

Assassins?
Miriam blinked as Sir Alasdair paused for breath. "Charming," she muttered.

"My Lady d'Ost told me that you have killed a man who tried to kill you. Our job is to see that you never have to do that again."

"Well, that's nice to know. And if I do?"

"Then it will be over our dead bodies," Alasdair said placidly. "If your highness would care to follow me?"

"If you think-" She froze as Alasdair opened the door back onto the semi-organized chaos in the hall. "Wait, that man. I know him."

She was fumbling with the pouch in her sleeve as Alasdair followed her gaze, tensed, and stepped sideways to place his body in front of her and pull the door closed. He turned to face her. "What about him? That's Sir Gunnar; he's an experienced bodyguard, used to work for-"

Miriam's heart was thundering as if she were trying to run a marathon. She moved her hands behind her back, then tried again to slide her right hand into her left wristband. This time her fingers closed around the butt of her pistol: The man whose true name she had just learned hadn't seen her yet. Talking to another guard, he'd been distracted when Alasdair opened the door.

She swallowed, her mouth unaccountably dry. "Speaking hypothetically-if I ordered you to take that man outside and hang him from the nearest tree, would you do it?" The choking sense of panic was back with a vengeance.
The Ferret,
she'd called him. No-name.
Gunnar.

"If he were a commoner, yes. But he's one of us," Alasdair rumbled. "A proven world-walker and thus a gentleman, even though he's a by-blow of an outer family lass. You'd need to accuse him of something. Hold a trial." There was an oddly apprehensive note in his voice.
He's afraid of me,
she realized. It was like a bucket of cold water in her face:
Sir Alasdair is
afraid
of
me?

"Well, then I won't ask you to do anything you can't. But if I ordered you to send him a very long way away from me and make sure I never set eyes on him
ever again,
could you do
that?"

"Of course." The tension went out of his voice, replaced by something like mild amusement. "Do you want me to do that? May I ask why?"

"Yes.
We have a history, him and me." For a moment she'd been back in Henryk's tower with the Ferret loitering outside her bedroom door, an unsleeping jailer-possibly an executioner-inwaiting, she had no doubt about his willingness to kill her if his master ordered it-cold-eyed and contemptuous. And her racing pulse and clammy skin told her that part of her, a part nobody else could see, would always be waiting in that cell for his key to turn and those pale eyes to flicker across her face without registering any emotion. She flexed her fingers and carefully drew her pistol, then lowered her arm to hide it in a fold of her skirts, careful to keep her eyes on Alasdair's face as she did so. "Did you pick him? Is he a friend of yours?"

"He was on the list." Alasdair's nostrils flared. "One of the top three available bodyguards by ranking. I wouldn't say I know him closely." Miriam stared into his eyes. Wheels were turning there, slowly but surely. "You have relatives who dislike you, my lady, but do you really think they'd-"