The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (74 page)

*

Traveling across New Britain by train in a first-class suite was a whole lot less painful than anything Amtrak or the airlines had to offer, and Miriam almost found herself
enjoying it – except for the constant nagging fear of discovery. Discovery of what, and by whom, wasn’t a question she could answer – it wasn’t an entirely rational fear.
I still feel like an impostor everywhere I go,
she realized. Erasmus’s attempts to engage in friendly conversation over dinner didn’t help, either: she’d been unable to
make small talk comfortably and had lapsed into a strained, embarrassed silence. The tables in the wide-gauge dining car were sufficiently far apart, and the noise of the wheels loud enough, that
she wasn’t worried about being overheard; but just being on display in public made her itch as if there was a target pinned to her back. The thing she most wanted to ask Erasmus about was
off-limits, anyway – the nature of the errand that was taking a lowly shopkeeper haring out to the west coast in the lap of luxury.
I’m going to see a man about his book?
That
must be some book – this journey was costing the local equivalent of a couple of around-the-world airline tickets in first class, at a time when there were soup kitchens on the street corners
and muggers in the New London alleyways who were so malnourished they couldn’t tackle a stressed-out woman.

That was more than enough reason to itch. Things had gone bad in New Britain even faster than they had in her own personal life, on a scale that was frightening to think about. But the real
cause of her restlessness was closer to home.
Sooner or later I’m going to have to stop drifting and
do
something,
she told herself. Relying on the comfort of near-strangers
– or friends with secret agendas of their own – rankled.
If only the laptop was working!
Or:
I could go home and call Mike. Set things moving. And then
– Her
imagination ran into a brick wall.

After dinner they returned to the private lounge, and Miriam managed to unwind slightly. There was a wet bar beside the window, and Erasmus opened it: ‘Would you care for a brandy before
bed?’

‘That would be good.’ She sat down on the chaise. ‘They really overdid the dessert.’

‘You think so?’ He shook his head. ‘We’re traveling in style. The chef would be offended if we didn’t eat.’

‘Really?’ She accepted the glass he offered. ‘Hmm.’ She sniffed. ‘Interesting.’ A sip of brandy and her stomach had something else to worry about:
‘I’d get fat fast if we ate like that regularly.’

‘Fat?’ He looked at her oddly. ‘You’ve got a long way to go before you’re fat.’

Oops.
It was another of those momentary dislocations that reminded Miriam she wasn’t at home here. New British culture held to a different standard of beauty from Hollywood and
the New York catwalks: in a world where agriculture was barely mechanized and shipping was slow, plumpness implied wealth, or at least immunity from starvation. ‘You think so?’ She
found herself unable to suppress a lopsided smile of embarrassment, and dealt with it by hiding her face behind the brandy glass.

‘I think you’re just right. You’ve got a lovely face, Miriam, when you’re not hiding it. Your new hairstyle complements it beautifully.’

He looked at her so seriously that she felt her ears flush. ‘Hey! Not fair.’ A sudden sinking feeling,
Is that what this is about? He gets me alone and then
–

‘I’m –’ He did a double-take. ‘Oh dear! You – Did I say something wrong?’

Miriam shook her head. He seemed sincere:
Am I misunderstanding?
‘I think we just ran into an etiquette black hole.’ He nodded, politely uncomprehending. ‘Sorry. Where
I come from what you said would be something between flattery and an expression of interest, and I’m just not up to handling subtlety right now.’

‘Expression of . . . ?’ It was his turn to look embarrassed. ‘My mistake.’

She put the glass down. ‘Have a seat.’ She patted the chaise. Erasmus looked at it, looked back at her, then perched bird-like on the far end.
Better change the subject
, she
told herself. ‘You were married, weren’t you?’ she asked.

He stared at her as if she’d slapped him. ‘Yes. What of it?’

Whoops
. ‘I, uh, was wondering. That is. What happened?’

‘She died,’ he said. He glanced at the floor, then raised his brandy glass.

Miriam’s vision blurred. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why? It’s not your fault.’ After a long moment, he shrugged. ‘You had your fellow Roland. It’s not so different.’

‘What –’ she swallowed ‘– happened to her?’
How long ago was it?
she wondered. Sometimes she thought she’d come to terms with Roland’s
death, but at other times it still felt like yesterday.

‘It was twenty years ago. Back then I had prospects.’ He considered his next words. ‘Some would say, I threw them away. The movement – well.’

‘The movement?’

‘I was sent to college, by my uncle – my father was dead, you know how it goes – to study for the bar. They’d relaxed the requirements, so dissenters, freethinkers, even
atheists, all were allowed to affirm and practice. His majesty’s father was rather less narrow than John Frederick, I don’t know whether that means anything to you. But anyway . . . I
had some free time, as young students with a modest stipend do, and I had some free thoughts, and I became involved with the league. We had handbills to write and print and distribute, and a clear
grievance to bring before their lordships in hope of redress, and we were overly optimistic, I think. We thought we might have a future.’

‘The league? You had some kind of political demands?’ Miriam racked her brains. She’d run across mention of the league –
league of what
had never been clear
– in the samizdat history books he’d loaned her, but only briefly, right at the end, as some sort of hopeful coda to the authorial present.

‘Yes. Little things like a universal franchise, regardless of property qualifications and religion and marital status. Some of the committee wanted women to vote, too – but that was
thought too extreme for a first step. And we wanted a free press, public decency and the laws of libel permitting.’

‘Uh.’ She closed her mouth. ‘But you were . . .’

The frown turned into a wry smile. ‘I was a young hothead. Or easily led. I met Annie first at a public meeting, and then renewed her acquaintance at
The People’s Voice
where she was laying type. She was the printer’s daughter, and neither he nor my uncle approved of our liaison. But once I received my letters and acquired a clerk’s post, I could
afford to support her, which made her father come round, and my uncle just muttered darkly about writing me out of his will for a while, and stopped doing even that after the wedding. So we had a
good four years together, and she insisted on laying type even when the two boys came along, and I wrote for the sheets – anonymously, I must add – and we were very happy. Until it all
ended.’

Miriam raised her glass for another sip. Somehow the contents had evaporated. ‘Here, let me refill that,’ she said, taking Erasmus’s glass. She stood up and walked past him to
get to the bar, wobbling slightly as the carriage jolted across a set of points. ‘What went wrong?’

‘In nineteen eighty-six, on November the fourteenth, six fine fellows from the northeast provinces traveled to the royal palace in Savannah. There had been a huge march the week before in
New London, and it had gone off smoothly, the petition of a million names being presented to the black rod – but the king himself was not in residence, being emphysemic. That winter came
harsh and early, so he’d decamped south to Georgia. It was his habit to go for long drives in the country, to take the air. Well, the level of expectation surrounding the petition was high,
and rumors were swirling like smoke: that the king had read the petition and would agree to the introduction of a bill, that the king had read the petition and threatened to bring home the army,
that the king had this and the king had that. All nonsense, of course. The king was on vacation and he refused to deal with matters of state that were anything less than an emergency. Or so I
learned later. Back then, I was looking for a progressive practice that was willing to take on a junior partner, and Annie was expecting again.’

Miriam finished pouring and put the stopper back in the decanter. She passed a glass back to him: ‘So what happened?’

‘Those six fine gentlemen were a little impatient. They’d formed a ring, and they’d convinced themselves that the king was a vicious tyrant who would like nothing more than to
dream up new ways to torment the workers. You know, I think – judging by your own history books – how it goes. The mainstream movement spawns tributaries, some of which harbor currents
that flow fast and deep. The Black Fist Freedom Guard, as they called themselves, followed the king in a pair of fast motor carriages until they learned his habitual routes. Then they assassinated
him, along with the queen, and one of his two daughters, by means of a petard.’

‘They what? That’s crazy!’

‘Yes, it was.’ Erasmus nodded, outwardly calm. ‘John Frederick himself pulled his dying father from the wreckage. He was already something of a reactionary, but not, I think,
an irrational one – until the Black Fist murdered his parents.’

‘But weren’t there guards, or something?’ Miriam shook her head.
What about the secret service?
she wondered. If someone tried a stunt like that on a U. S. president
it just wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be
allowed
to work. Numerous whack-jobs had tried to kill Clinton when he was in office: a number had threatened or actually tried to off the
current president. Nobody had gotten close to a president of the United States since nineteen eighty-six. ‘Didn’t he have any security?’

‘Oh yes, he had security. He was secure in the knowledge that he was the king-emperor, much beloved by the majority of his subjects. Does that surprise you? Today John Frederick goes
nowhere without a battalion of guards and a swarm of Polis agents, but his father relied on two loyal constables with pistols. They were injured in the attack, incidentally: one of them died
later.’

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then another sip of the brandy. ‘The day after the assassination, a state of emergency was declared. Demonstrations ensued. On Black Monday, the
seventeenth, a column of demonstrators marching towards the royal complex on Manhattan Island were met by dragoons armed with heavy repeaters. More than three hundred were killed, mostly in the
stampede. We were . . . there, but on the outskirts, Annie and I. We had the boys to think of. We obviously didn’t think hard enough. The next day, they arrested me. My trial before the
tribunal lasted eighteen minutes, by the clock on the courtroom wall. The man before me they sentenced to hang for distributing our newssheet, but I was lucky. All they knew was that I’d been
away from my workplace during the massacre, and I’d been limping when I got back. The evidence was circumstantial, unlike the sentence they gave me: twelve years in the camps.’

He took a gulp of the brandy and swallowed, spluttering for a moment. ‘Annie wasn’t so lucky,’ he added.

‘What? They hanged her?’ Miriam leaned toward him, aghast.

‘No.’ He smiled sadly. ‘They only gave her two years in a women’s camp. I don’t know if you know what that was like . . . no? All right. It was hard enough for the
men. Annie died – ‘he stared into his glass ‘– in childbed.’

‘I don’t understand – ’

‘Use your imagination,’ Erasmus snapped. ‘What do you think the guards were like?’

‘Oh god. I’m so sorry.’

‘The boys went to a state orphanage,’ Erasmus added. ‘In Australia.’

‘Enough.’ She held up a hand: ‘I’m sorry I asked!’

The fragile silence stretched out. ‘I’m not,’ Erasmus said quietly. ‘It was just a little bit odd to talk about it. After so long.’

‘You got out . . . four years ago?’

‘Nine.’ He drained his glass and replaced it on the occasional table. ‘The camps were overfull. They got sloppy. I was moved to internal exile, and there was a – what
your history book called an underground railway. “Erasmus Burgeson” isn’t the name I was known by back then.’

‘You’ve been living under an assumed identity all this time?’

He nodded, watching her expression. ‘The movement provides. They needed a dodgy pawnbroker in Boston, you see, and I fitted the bill. A dodgy pawnbroker with a history of a couple of years
in the camps, nothing serious, nothing
excessively
political. The real me they’d hang for sure if they caught him, these days. I hope you don’t mind notorious
company?’

‘I’m –’ She shook her head. ‘It’s crazy.’
You were writing for a newspaper, for crying out loud! Asking for voting rights and freedom of the press!
And those are hanging offenses?
‘And if what you were campaigning for back then is crazy, so am I. What’s the movement’s platform now? Is it still just about the franchise,
and freedom of speech? Or have things changed?’

‘Oh yes.’ He was still studying her, she realized. ‘Eighty-six was a wake-up cry. The very next central council meeting that was held – two years later, in exile –
announced that the existence of a hereditary crown was a flaw in the body politic. The council decreed that nothing less than the overthrow of the king-emperor and the replacement of their
Lordships and Commons by a republic of free men and women, equal before the law, would suffice. The next day, the Commons passed a bill of attainder against everyone in the movement. A month after
that
the pope excommunicated us – he declared democracy to be a mortal sin. But by then we already knew we were damned.’

Another day, another Boston. Brill walked up the staircase to the front office and glanced around. ‘Where’s Morgan?’ she demanded.

‘He’s in the back room.’ The courier folded his newssheet and laid it carefully on the desk.

‘Don’t call ahead.’ She frowned, then headed straight back to the other office, overlooking the backyard collocated with Miriam’s house’s garden in the other
Boston, in New Britain.