The Trade of Queens (14 page)

“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've 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 insure 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 trustworthy families, to know their place within the Clan—better than your wildcat, anyway—and in the next generation our numbers will increase fivefold.”

Patricia nodded guardedly. “Where is the doctor?” she asked.

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

“Really?” Patricia shook her head. 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 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' 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 really 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 due to one 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 they 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 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.”

“Oh, Mother.” Patricia put her wineglass down. “This is most harsh, this news.” A hesitancy crept into her voice.

“Bear with me.” Hildegarde raised a slightly shaky hand and closed her eyes, as Patricia picked up the decanter with both hands and refilled their glasses. “I have always acted for what I perceived to be the best interests of our braid. I had hoped you would understand that, and at least not stand in my way, but by poisoning my natural heir against me … well, it's too late to undo that.” She opened her eyes and blinked rheumily at her daughter. “May you have better luck with your grandchild. Angelin's great-grandchild.”

“If it arrives. Consanguinuity—”

“It will be all right, child. Helge and Creon were second cousins, and Creon's ailment was a consequence of poisoning, not inbreeding. We risk worse with every twist of the braid. The hazard is minimal.”

“Miriam won't see it that way, you know.”

“
Miriam
—what an odd name. Where did you get it from?”

Patricia smiled tightly. “The same place I got Iris. And Beckstein. She answers to it, you know. You might have gotten better results from her if you'd called her by the name she prefers.”

“Perhaps. But it's not her name, it's a disguise. Where would we be if people could pick and choose their name? Nobody need recognize their seniors—there would be anarchy! Or another strong man like Angbard would grab everybody by the throat and rule by force majeure. A rogue, that boy. But listen, I have a few months, perhaps a year or two. And seeing that Angbard was ill, I decided to move now, to detach his slippery followers' fingers from the reins of power and hand them back to their rightful owner—a woman of the line, or a lord working as her agent, as is right and proper.
You
, Patricia. You have a grandchild in the great game, or you will soon—you will act in their name. Once the hangers-on and opportunists are purged, once Angbard's security apparatus is emptied of dangerous innovators and cut back to its original size and scope, you will inherit the full power of my position, and they'll love you. Complete freedom of action. I never had that, girl, but
you will
.”

Patricia stared at Hildegarde for almost a minute. Presently, she closed her mouth. “You're not joking.”

“You know me, girl. Do I ever joke?”

Patricia opened her mouth for a moment, then closed it again. “Let me get this straight. You had your granddaughter forcibly inseminated with your sister's grandson's sperm so that you could reassert our cadet branch's claim to the throne. You had me kidnapped and brought here so that we could kiss and make up. You're dying of cancer, so you decided to set up Miriam's kid for the throne by destroying Angbard's security organization, just as the old nobility are getting over the civil war and wondering what we're going to unleash on them next. And you nuked the White House, just to send a message to WARBUCKS. Am I missing anything?”