The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (55 page)

The scale of his paranoia was giving Mike a very strange sensation, the cold detachment of a head trip into a darkened wilderness of mirrors: the occupational disease of spies.
If you
can’t trust your friends, the only people left to trust are your enemies,
he reminded himself. Miriam had tried to warn him; that suggested, at a minimum, something to hope for.
But
FTO’ll be watching her house. And her mother’s. In case anyone shows.
He forced himself to relax his grip on the wheel and pay attention to his surroundings as a pickup weaved past
him, horn blaring.
How
many
watchers?
Maintaining full surveillance on a building was extremely expensive – especially if nobody had bothered to look in on it for months.

An ephemeral flash of hope lit up the world around him. If FTO had been watching Miriam’s house before, they might well have pulled out already – and yesterday’s events would
have shaken things up even more.
But what if they’re wrong?
He remembered Matthias’s advice, from months ago:
They think like a government. And Miriam’s
important
to them. She’s an insider – otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to warn me. Would we put a watch on a cabinet official’s house if we knew enemies had it under
surveillance? Even if we were under attack?
Trying to work through that line of thought threatened to give him a headache, but it seemed to be worth checking out. Best case, there’d be a
Clan security post discreetly watching her place, and nobody else. Worst case, an FTO surveillance team – but knowing how FTO worked in the field, he’d have a good chance of spotting
them.
Find Miriam. Try to cut a deal: Warn her faction about the spy, about the president’s plans – in return, try to get them to hand over the murderers. Maybe find some way to cut
a deal.

I just hope I’m not too late.

In a stately house four miles outside Niejwein, two noble ladies sat beside an unlit hearth, awkwardly eyeing each other. Between their angled chairs an occasional table stood
like a frontier fence, punctuated by the border tower of a fortified wine decanter. The afternoon sun slanting through the lattice window stained the wood-paneled walls with a deep golden warmth; a
pair of fat flies buzzed in erratic circles below the ceiling, swooping and tracing out the lines of their confinement.

‘Have you been keeping well?’ asked the older of the pair, her age-spotted eyelids drooping as she watched her sixty-two-year-old visitor. ‘Do you have any complaints?’
She spoke abruptly, her tone brusque.

The younger one snorted. ‘Only the obvious, Mother.’ The last word came out with an odd emphasis, falling just short of making an insult of it. ‘Your hospitality is impeccable
but, I hope you’ll excuse me for putting it so crudely, oppressive. I would ask, though, is my maid Mhara unharmed?’

The dowager frowned, her crow’s-feet wrinkles deepening. ‘I do not know.’ She extended a shaky hand and tugged on a braided bell cord. A discreet servants’ door opened
behind her. ‘My daughter inquires of her maid.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The attendant bowed his head.

‘Was she taken? If so, is she well?’

‘She, ah, escaped, my lady. After she shot one of the dragoons in the, ah, thigh.’

‘Well then.’ The dowager gave her daughter a wintry smile. ‘Satisfied?’

Her daughter stared back at her for a long moment, then nodded fractionally. ‘Satisfied.’

‘Go away,’ the dowager announced to the air. The servants’ door opened and closed again, restoring the illusion of privacy. ‘Such a show of compassion,’ she added,
her tone of voice dripping with irony.

‘There’s no show about it,
Mother
.’ Patricia Thorold-Hjorth, herself dowager duchess and mother to the queen-widow, stared back at her own dam, the Duchess Hildegarde.
‘We bled ourselves white in your lifetime. Every one of us of the true blood who dies, especially the women, is a score fewer grandchildren to support our successors. If you don’t feel
that – ’

She stopped, as Hildegarde’s palm rattled the crystal on the table. ‘
Of course
I feel that!’ the duchess exploded. ‘I’ve known that since long before I
whelped you, you ungrateful child. I’ve known that ever since my sister – ’ She stopped, and reached for a glass of wine. ‘Damn you,
you’re
old enough to know
better, too.’

Hildegarde stopped. They sat in silence for a minute, eyeing each other sidelong. Finally Patricia spoke. ‘I assume you didn’t bring me here for a friendly mother-daughter
chat.’

‘I brought you here to save your life, girl,’ Hildegarde said harshly.

Patricia blinked. ‘You did?’

‘If you were elsewhere, I could not ensure that certain of the more enthusiastic members of the conservative club would leave you be,’ the dowager pointed out. ‘And I feel some
residual family loyalty to this day, whatever you may think of me.’

‘Eh. Well, if you say so. Do you expect that will make Helge think better of you?’

‘No.’ The dowager stared at her daughter. ‘But it will be one less thing for me to take to my grave.’ For a moment her eyes unfocussed, staring vaguely into some interior
landscape. ‘You corrupted her most thoroughly. My congratulations would be in order, were the ultimate effect not so damaging.’

Patricia reached slowly for the other wineglass. ‘Why should I thank you for saving my life?’ she asked. ‘Are your faction planning a return to the bad old days? Cousin
killers?’

‘No. Not really.’ Hildegarde took a sip from her glass. ‘But it was necessary to break the back of your half-brother’s organization, to buy time while we deal with the
harvest he was about to bring in from the field. Test-tube babies, what an idea. I gather I should thank you for helping deal with it – Dr. ven Hjalmar was quite effusive in his praise for
your assistance. But in any case: The program is secure, as is our future. We shall make sure that the infants are raised by trust-worthy families, to know their place within the Clan –
better than your wildcat, anyway – and in the next generation our numbers will increase fivefold.’

‘Where is the doctor?’

‘Oh, who cares?’ Hildegarde waved a shaky hand: ‘He doesn’t matter now that the program records are destroyed.’

‘Really?’ Hildegarde’s grasp of computers was theoretical at best, shaky at worst. ‘He’s not tried to blackmail you?’

‘No.’ Hildegarde’s grin was not reassuring. ‘I think he might be afraid to show his face. Something to do with your hoyden.’

‘So you took action against Security?’ Patricia nudged.

‘Yes. I had to, to preserve the balance. I know you harbor Anglischprache ideas about “equality” and “freedom”, but you must understand, we are
not
a
meritocracy – we live or die by our bloodlines. Certainly Angbard had the right idea thirty years ago, to clamp a lid on the interminable feuding, but his solution has become a monster. There
are young people who pledge their loyalty to the Security directorate, would you believe it? If he was allowed to bring the, the changelings into his organization, within a generation we’d be
done for. This way is better: With the Security organization cut back to its original status, and other threats dealt with, we can resume our traditional – ’ Patricia was whey-faced.
‘What is it?’

‘
Other
threats.
What
other threats?’

‘Oh, nothing important.’ Hildegarde waved the back of her hand dismissively, prompting a fly to dodge. ‘We sent a message to the Anglischprache leadership, one that they
won’t ignore. Once we’ve got them out of our hair – ’

‘A message the Anglischprache won’t ignore? What kind of message?’

‘Oh, we used those bombs Oliver had lying about.’ Hildegarde sniffed. ‘How else do you deal with a hostile king? They’ll make the point quite well: Once the new
Anglischprache president-emperor ascends the throne, he won’t be under any illusions about the consequences of threatening us. We’ll talk to him, I’m sure. We’ve done it
before: This will just set negotiations off on the right foot.’

‘
Sky Father
. . .’ Patricia stared at her mother, aghast, then raised her wineglass and knocked it back in a single swallow. ‘Those were atomic weapons,’ she said
slowly. ‘Where were they set?’

‘Oh, some white palace, I gather,’ Hildegarde said dismissively. ‘In a town named after a famous soldier.’

‘Oh dear Trickster Cousin,’ Patricia muttered under her breath. ‘You said “used”. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you misspoke, and there’s still
time – ’

Hildegarde stared at her daughter, perplexed. ‘Of course not. This was yesterday. Are you all right?’

‘I – a moment.’ Patricia shrugged uncomfortably. ‘This is not a criticism I speak now, but – I lived among them for nearly a third of a century, Mother.
You did
not.
You don’t know them the way I do.’ Patricia nodded at the decanter: Her mother reached for the bell-pull once more. ‘I’m telling you, you’ve misjudged them
badly.’

‘We had to get rid of their current king-emperor somehow; he’s an idiot.’ Hildegarde paused while her footman refilled both goblets and retreated. ‘His next-in-line is
far more intelligent. He understands power and its uses.’

‘Granted. But their president is not a king, as we understand the term, he is merely a first citizen, elected by his people. They run everything by a system of laws.’

‘I know that – ’

‘The trouble is, simply attacking them on their home field is . . . it’s a declaration of war. And
they don’t know how to surrender
, Mother. They
can’t
.
There is no law in their constitution that says “if attacked by an irresistible force it is permissible to offer a limited surrender: To do so invoke this clause.” Once they’re at
war, any leader who tries to stop it will be impeached – removed. It’s like stabbing a hornets’ nest: Every one you kill just makes the others angrier. I’m not making this
up. The last time they lost a war, nearly thirty years ago, they left it to an unelected temporary regent to take the barrage of rotten fruit, and there are
still
people who think they could
have won in Vietnam if only they’d fought harder. There are still many in the South who think they could have won the slaveowners’ treasonous rebellion against the North, a century and
a half ago. They’re all quite mad, you know. Just now they’re fighting two wars on the other side of the world, all because a ranting priest sent his idiot followers to blow up a couple
of towers.
Two
wars – because they’re not sure who did it.’ Patricia picked up her glass again. ‘Do you know how powerful these bombs are?’ she asked.
‘I’m told they can be made more or less damaging – ’

‘Oh, I’m sure they used the most powerful available,’ Hildegarde said dismissively. ‘No point tapping your enemy on the head with a twig when there’s a club to
hand, is there? As you say, it only makes them angry. But the enemy’s intentions, you must understand – they don’t matter. What can they do to us? Certainly they may kidnap one or
two of our own, ride them like mules, and they may even bring more of their bombs, but we are on our home ground here. We must be firm and deliver our ultimatum, and they must learn to leave us
alone!’

‘Mother.’ Patricia looked at Hildegarde: ‘You’re not the only person who’s been sending messages. I – at the rump Council’s orders – I’ve
been trying to negotiate with them for some time. They don’t want to haggle; they want our total surrender. They sent a final démarche and cut me dead.’

‘Really.’ Hildegarde didn’t bother to feign interest.

‘They’re working on a
machine
, Mother dearest. A machine that does what we do, a machine for walking between worlds. Yes, they told us this. Also that it might take months or
years, but when they succeeded, they would come here, and how they would treat with us would depend entirely on how we treated with
them
.’

‘And you believed that?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I did – and do. You’ve never lived among them. You don’t know what they’re capable of.’

Hildegarde sniffed. ‘Well, it will probably never happen. And if it does, we’ll think of something. But for now, our internal factional dispute is settled. The Security apparat is
back in its box, we have found a satisfactory solution to Angbard’s silly little breeding program, and we – you and I – are back on course to meet our braid’s long-term
goal. Your diversion has had no real long-term effect. That’s always been your besetting problem – always wanting to hare off and do things your own way, even when it forces you to do
something silly, like hide yourself away in a foreign scholar’s hovel for thirty years instead of enjoying the rightful fruits of your rank. I know, you’re not going to apologize. I
don’t expect you to. Will you believe me if I tell you that I bear you no ill will? Or your daughter? Or
her
child, be it boy or girl? But you have been a sore trial to your elderly
mother, these years, more even than the prodigal stepson. Even now. Not even asking why I wanted to see you.’

There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Why?’ Patricia finally asked.

‘Because I’m dying,’ Hildegarde said, so offhandedly that it took Patricia a moment to do a double take. ‘Nothing that the Anglischprache doctors can repair, I assure you
– I have been poked and prodded by Drs. ven Skorzeman and ven Hjalmar, and they have attempted to convince me to visit the other side for blood treatments that will make my hair fall out and
my gums bleed, to no avail. I am a goodly age, Patricia. I may even live to see a world-walking great-grandchild of mine take the throne, which is more than my half-sister managed. And I never
managed to settle my affairs with Angelin. So there is a canker in my guts and I should not want to impose overlong on your patience, but I am an old and impatient woman and I ask you to indulge my
sentiment.’

Patricia stared at the dowager. ‘But Angelin refused to speak to you – ’

‘She might have eventually, had she not died at the hands of her own grandchild’s men.’ Hildegarde turned unfocussed eyes on the window. ‘Which just goes to show the
unwisdom of schooling our young in alien ways: Never forget that – we are foreigners wherever we live, whether we be ruler or servant. Angelin failed to look to Egon’s schooling. She
left him to go native. You . . . made the opposite error with Helge, I think, schooling her to think she was Anglisch. I never took the time to set things right with my sister. So, I thought I
should at least make a gesture . . . Don’t make me reconsider the wisdom of this meeting.’