The Trade of Queens (19 page)

“But I can already hear you asking: Safe from whom?

“In the turmoil and heroism and agony of the attacks, it was difficult at first for us to ascertain the identity of our enemies. We have many enemies in the Middle East, from al-Qaeda and the terrorists in Iraq and Afghanistan, to the mullahs of Tehran, and naturally our suspicions first fell in those quarters. But they are not our only enemies; and the nature of the attack made it hard to be sure who was responsible. The two atomic bombs that exploded in our capital, and the third that misfired in the Pentagon visitors lot, were stolen from our own stockpile. This was not only a cowardly and heinous act of nuclear terrorism, but a carefully planned one. However, we have identified the attackers, and we are now preparing to deal with them as they have dealt with us.

“There is no easy way for me to explain this because the reality lies far beyond our everyday experience, but the scientists of our national laboratories assure me that this is true: We live in what they call a multiverse, a many-branched tree of reality. Scientists at Los Alamos have for a year now been probing techniques for traveling to other universes—to other versions of this, our own Earth. They had hoped to use this technique for peaceful ends, to solve the environmental and climatic problems that may arise in future decades. But we have discovered, the hard way, that we are not alone.

“Some of the alternate earths we have discovered are inhabited. And in one of these, at least, the inhabitants are hostile. Worse: They, too, have the technological tools to travel to other universes. The enemy who attacked us is the government of a sovereign nation in another America, a Godless feudal despotism ruled by terror and the lash. They know no freedom and they hate our own, for we are a living refutation of everything they hold to be true. Agents of this enemy have moved unseen among us for a generation, and indeed they have been active in the narcotics trade, using it to fund their infiltration of our institutions, their theft of our technologies. They are followers of an alien ideology and they seek to bring us down, and it is to that end that they stole at least six atomic weapons from their storage cells on military bases—gaining access from another unseen universe even as our guards vigilantly defended the perimeter fences.

“We have a name for this enemy: They call themselves the Clan, and they rule a despotic kingdom called Gruinmarkt. And we know what to do to them, for they attacked us without warning on the sixteenth of July, a date that will live in infamy with 9/11, and 12/7, for as long as there is a United States of America.

“To you of the Clan, the cabal of thieves and drug smugglers who have attacked America, I have a simple message: If you surrender now, without preconditions, I will guarantee you a fair trial before the military tribunals now convened at Guantánamo Bay. Only those of you who are guilty of crimes against the United States need fear our justice. But you should think fast. This offer expires one week from today. And then, in the words of my predecessor, Harry S Truman, you face prompt and utter annihilation.

“Think about it.

“Good night, and God bless America.”

END RECORDING

Bed Rest

It was beyond belief, how far things could change in just a week.

Sir Huw, beanpole-skinny and a bit gawky, reined his horse in and dismounted painfully while he was still a hundred yards short of the farmstead. He stretched, trying to iron the kinks out of his thigh and calf muscles.

“Is this it, bro?” rumbled the man-mountain driving the cart and pair behind him. “In the middle of nowhere?”

Huw glanced around. “On the other side, we're near Edison,” he said. “I'll go first. We're expected, but…” No point saying it:
The guards are jumpy.
Because this week and forevermore,
all
the guards were jumpy.
Probably expecting Delta Force to drop in,
Huw mused idly. Not, in his estimate, that likely just yet—although in the long run it couldn't be ruled out. Anxiety battled caution, and set his feet in motion. “I wonder how Her Majesty is.”

“Nearly three months gone by now,” chirped another voice from the back of the cart, emanating from beneath a blanket that covered its passenger and a mound of wheeled luggage—all Tumi branded, expensive but ultralightweight ballistic nylon. “Sick as a mule on a coaster.” Huw didn't look round: Trust Elena to interpret it as a political question. Because Miriam's pregnancy
was
political—and that was all it was. “Did you pack the books?”

“Yes.” Huw had, in fact, packed the books. Two hundred kilograms of them, paper that was worth far more than its weight in gold, or cocaine, where they were going. The Rubber Bible, the Merck Manual, the US Pharmacopoeia; and more recondite references, science and engineering and medicine all, with a side order of mathematics and maps. They weighed a bundle, but when he'd messaged ahead to ask if they should go digital, the reply had been a terse
no
. Which made a certain sense. CD-ROMs and computers weren't durable enough for what Miriam was planning—if, in fact, he was reading her intentions aright.

Huw walked towards the farmyard, leading his horse. It was a hedge-laird's place; the hearth smoke of a small village rose beyond it, and he could see stooped backs in the fields, some of them pausing and turning to stare at the visitors. But then two guards stepped out in front of him from the barn, and he stopped. The middle-aged sergeant raised a hand: “Who hails?” The other stood by tensely, his rifle pointed at the ground before Huw's feet.

“Sir Huw Thoms, lieutenant by order of his grace, accompanied by Yulius Thoms and the lady Elena of Holdt, in the service of the Council.” He halted; his horse exhaled noisily, neck drooping.

“Approach and be identified.” Huw took a step forward. The sergeant peered at him, then glanced at a clipboard cautiously. “You are welcome, sir.”

Huw stood where he was. “The password of the day is ‘banquet,'” he stated. “
Now
can we come in? The horses are tired.”

The armsman with the rifle relaxed visibly as his sergeant nodded. “Very good, sir, the countersign is ‘mullet.'” He gestured tiredly towards the stables. “We'll be pleased to sort you out. Sorry about the precautions—you can't be too careful these days.”

Huw grimaced, then waved a hand at the machine gun dug in just inside the tree line, ready to enfilade the approach to the farm. “Any rebels try you so far?”

“Not yet, sir. Ah, your companions. If you don't mind—”

Elena and Yul climbed down from the cart and consented to be inspected and compared to their photographs. “Is it that bad?” She asked brightly, shaking out her skirts.

“Some of Lord Ganskwert's retainers attacked the house at Doveswood last night, using a carriage and disguises to cover their approach. Three dead, plus the traitors of course. We can't be too careful.”

“Indeed.” Elena grinned alarmingly, and flashed the sergeant a glimpse of what she had inside her capacious shoulder bag. He blanched. “Sleep tight!” She added, “We're on your side!”

“Lightning Child, can't you keep it to yourself for even a minute?” Huw complained. To the sergeant: “We won't be staying overnight—we're wanted by Her Majesty, as soon as possible.”

“Ah, we'll do our best, sir. I'll have to confirm that first.” His tone didn't brook argument.

“We can wait awhile,” Huw conceded. “Got to sort out the horses first, grab something to eat if possible, that sort of thing.”

“There is bread and sausages in the kitchen. If you'd like to wait inside I can have my men deal with your mounts? I take it they're security livery?”

“Yes,” Huw confirmed. “All yours.” He handed his reins to the man. “We'll be inside if you need us.”

“Excellent,” added Yul, following his elder brother towards the farm building.

Huw and his small team had been well away from the excitement when the putsch by the conservatives and the lords of the Postal Service broke; following up a task assigned to him by Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, back before his stroke—the urgency of which had only become greater since. Huw had been in a rented house outside Macon, recovering from an exploration run, when Elena had erupted into the living room shouting about something on the television and waking up Yul (who had a post-walk hangover of doom). He'd begun to chastise her, only to fall silent as the mushroom cloud, red-lit from within, roiled skyward behind a rain of damaged-camera static.

They'd spent the first hour in shock, but then had come Riordan's Plan Black; and that had presented Huw with a problem, because they were nearly a thousand miles from the nearest evacuation point. Flights were grounded; police and national guard units were hogging the highways. It had taken them three days to make the drive, avoiding interstates and major cities. Finally they'd reached the outskirts of Providence and crossed over, taking another four days to finish the journey from Huw's family estates to this transit point, barely seventy miles away. A thousand miles—two hours by air. Or three days by back roads in the United States. Seventy miles—four days, in the Gruinmarkt. It was an object lesson in the source of the Clan's power—and a warning.

They didn't have long to wait; true to his word, the sergeant ducked in through the kitchen door barely half an hour later. “By your leave, sir, we have confirmed your permission to travel. If you are ready to go now…?”

“I suppose so,” said Yul, reluctantly setting aside a mug of game soup and a half-eaten cornbread roll. Elena was already on her feet, impatient; Huw set down his wine—a half-drained glass, itself exotic and valuable in this place—and stood.

“Have you got a level stage?” he asked. “We need to take the cart's contents.”

“We have something better, sir.” The guard turned and headed towards the barn. Huw followed him. Opposite the stalls—he saw a lad busily rubbing down the horses—someone had installed a raised platform, planks stretched across aluminum scaffolding. A ramp led up to it, and at the bottom—

“That's a
good
idea,” Elena said admiringly.

Three big supermarket trolleys waited for them, loaded up with bags. “The regular couriers will bring them back once you unload them,” said the sergeant. He picked up his clipboard. “In view of the current troubles we have no postmaster, but I'm keeping score. For later.”

“All right.” Huw set his hands to one of the trolleys and pushed it up the ramp. “What's the other side like?”

“It's in a cellar.” The sergeant looked disapproving. “Good thing too. You don't want to be seen coming and going over there—it's a real zoo. But you'll be safe enough here.” He caught Huw's raised eyebrow and nodded. “I'll go first, see if I don't.” He climbed onto the platform and waited while Yulius and Elena pushed their laden trolleys up the ramp. “Here, you let me take that one, young miss. Why don't you ride for once?” Laying one hand on the trolley's metal frame, he reached up and tugged a cord leading to a blind on the opposite wall. The blind rose—

The basement was brick-walled, and the ceiling low, but the Clan's surveyors had done their job well and the raised floor was a perfectly level match for the platform in the barn. As Huw hauled the first of his suitcases out of the trolley, trying to ignore the nausea and migrainelike headache, he heard voices from the top of the staircase: Elena, and someone else, someone familiar and welcome.

“My lady Brilliana,” he said. He deposited his case beside the top step—the cellar stairs surfaced in what seemed to be a servants' pantry—and bowed. “I'm glad to see you.”

“Sir Huw! How wonderful to see you, too.” She smiled slightly more warmly than was proper: Huw held himself in check, ignoring the impulse to hug her to him. He'd been worried about her for the past week; to find her here, her hair in blond curls, dressed after last year's New London mode, lifted a huge weight from his heart. Brilliana was an officer of the duke's intelligence directorate and the queen-widow's chief of staff—and something more to Huw. She held out her hand, and, somewhat daringly, he bent to kiss it. “Have you had a troublesome time?” she asked, gripping his fingers.

“Not as bad as some.” Huw straightened up, then gestured at the bags: “I bought the books Miriam wanted. And a few more besides. Yul is”—footsteps creaked on the stairs and he stepped aside as his brother hauled two more suitcases over the threshold—“here, too.”

“And all these damned bits of paper,” his brother complained, shoving the cases forward. “Lightning Child damn them for a waste of weight—” He stepped forward, out of the path of the sergeant from the other side of the transit post, who heaved another two bags towards Huw.

“Trig tables,” Huw added. “Have you any idea how hard it is to find five-digit trigonometry tables in good condition? Nobody's printed them for years. I also threw in a couple of calculators—I found a store with old stock HP-48GXs and a thermal printer, so I bought the lot. They take rechargeable batteries so the only scarce resource is the thermal paper,” he added defensively. “I'm still running the one I bought for my freshman year—they run forever.”

“Oh, Huw.” Brill shook her head, still smiling. “Listen, I'm sure it's a good idea! It's just”—she glanced over her shoulder—“we may not be able to resupply at will, and you know how easily computers break.”

“These aren't computers; they're programmable calculators. But they might as well be mainframes, by these people's standards.” He was burbling, he realized: a combination of post-world-walking sickness and the peculiar relief of finding Brill alive and well in the wake of the previous week's events. “Sorry. Been a stressful time. Is Miriam—”

“She's in bed upstairs. Resting.” An unreadable expression flickered across Brill's face. “I'll give you the tour, if you like. Who else…?”