The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (39 page)

There were more people hanging around this street, and stalls mounted on brightly colored cart wheels were selling food and (by the smell) slightly rancid beer to them. The road ended ahead, not
in a junction but in a huge gate with a park beyond it. Or something that looked like a park. In the distance, a huge palace loomed above tents and crowd. Mike took a deep breath. ‘This
it?’ he asked Hastert.

‘Yessir.’ Hastert passed him a rolled-up piece of heavy paper. ‘This will get you in. I’m told it’s an invitation.’

‘And you . . . ?’

‘Got to stop at the gate, sir. Turns out there’s a law against bringing guards. You’re allowed to bear a gentleman’s arms, you’re supposed to be Sieur Vincensh
d’Lofstrom, but we’re . . . not. See that side gate? We’ll run a rotating watch on it. Any trouble, hotfoot it there and we’ll provide a distraction while we get you to Zone
Green.’ ‘Check.’ Mike glanced nervously at a passing bear, which watched him with ancient eyes until its owner jerked viciously on the chain riveted to its iron collar. ‘If
I’m not back in four hours, you’ll know I’m in trouble.’

‘Okay, four hours.’ Hastert nodded. ‘Good luck, sir.’ ‘Thanks.’ Mike shivered. ‘Hope I don’t need it.’ He took a deep breath and glanced at
the guards by the gate, their bright red and yellow uniforms and eight-foot poleaxes. The other side of the gate was a confused whirl of people and sounds and smells, a Renaissance Faire with added
stench and more alcohol.
Are you somewhere in there, Miriam?
he wondered. And:
What am I going to say when I find you?
Aloud: ‘Here goes.’

Miriam sat alone in her bedroom for a couple of hours, her mind spinning like a hamster in a wheel.
Should I stay or should I go?
The old Clash song held a certain
resonance.
Give the bastards what they want and Iris doesn’t get hurt
. The logic was sound, but the sick sense of humiliation she felt whenever she thought about it gave her a
visceral urge to lash out.
Go through with it. One year, two at the most. And then what?

They’d use artificial insemination. She’d have one or more small infants, be exhausted from the effort – it wasn’t for nothing that it was called labor – and the
babies would in turn be hostages to use against her. The idea of bringing up children didn’t fill her with enthusiasm; she’d seen friends turned old before their days by the workload of
diaper changes and late-night feedings. It was probably different for royalty: she’d have servants and wet nurses on call. But still, wasn’t that a bit irresponsible? Miriam felt a
twinge of conscience. She’d gotten into this mess of her own accord. It wouldn’t be fair to take out her resentment on a baby who wasn’t even around at the time. Or on the idiot
prince. It wasn’t
his
fault.

I wish I could just run away
. She lay back on the bed and indulged her escape fantasies for a while, studiously not thinking about Iris.
I could go back to New Britain. I’ve
got friends there
. But the Clan knew all about her company and her contacts.
I’d have to start from scratch. Talk to Erasmus about a new identity
. And without the Clan
connection, she’d be a lot less useful to him and his friends.
What if he wanted to stay in their good books?
He could easily turn her over to Morgan. Worse, New Britain didn’t
look like a hot place to spend the rest of her days, especially starting out halfway broke in the middle of a recession while trying to hide from the Clan. Which obviously ruled out technology
start-ups, businesses based on her existing know-how, anything that might draw their attention.
Iris found Morris. Who or what hope have
I
got?

Her thoughts turned to Cambridge. Home.
I could go back to being a journalist
, she thought.
Yeah, right
. That would work precisely as long as it took for her to run into
someone she’d interviewed at a trade conference. Or until she needed a bank account and a driving license. Post-9/11, disappearing and getting a new identity was becoming increasingly
difficult –

Which leaves the feds
, she thought.
I could go look up Mike. He worked for the DEA, didn’t he?
Since Matthias went over the wall, something had clearly gone deeply wrong
with the Clan courier networks. Matthias had blabbed to someone, and whatever he’d told them had caused the feds to start staking out safe houses.
Which means they know something about
the Clan
, she told herself, with a dawning sense that she’d been far too slow on the uptake. She sat up.
I’ve been an idiot. If I defected, I could join the Witness Protection
Program and then –

She hit a brick wall. A series of unwelcome visions began playing themselves out in the theater of her imagination. There went Angbard – a scheming old bastard he might be, but still her
uncle – shoved into a federal penitentiary at his age.
Lock him up for life and throw away the key
. And there went Iris –
The entire family, basically everybody, they could
arrest us
all
for complicity, criminal conspiracy. Right?
There went Olga. And Brill – probably for murder, in her case, come to think of it. The government would play hardball.
They’d find some way to come over here and mess things up. If necessary, they’d chop up a captured world-walker’s brains to figure out what made them tick, grow it in a petri dish
and mount it on a bomber. Before 9/11 she wouldn’t have credited it, but this was a whole different world, these were dangerous times, and the administration might do
anything
if it
thought there was a serious threat to the nation.

Forget law and order: it would be all-out war. Afghanistan was a source of hard drugs and terrorism before 9/11, and look what they’d done there when the rules changed. Everybody had
cheered the collapse of the Taliban – and yes, those bastards had it coming – but what about the village goatherds on the receiving end of cluster bombs, intended for sheep that looked
like guerillas when viewed in infrared from thirty thousand feet? What about the women and children killed when some bastard up the road with a satellite phone decided to settle a local
long-running blood feud using a B-52 bomber, by phoning the CIA and telling them that there were al-Qaeda gunmen in the next village?

I can’t do that
. She flopped back on the bed again.
I want out, sure. But do I want out badly enough to kill people?
If the only person to suffer was Baron Henryk,
perhaps the answer was yes – and that asshole doctor, she wouldn’t mind hurting him, or at least putting him through the same level of humiliation he’d inflicted on her. But the
idea of turning everyone in the Clan over to the US government cut too close to the bone.
I
am
one of them
, she realized, turning the unwelcome idea over in her mind to examine it
for feel.
I don’t think like them and I hate the way they work, but I can’t hand my family over to the government
. Leaving aside the fact that the Clan thought
they
were a government – and had a reasonable claim to being one – that thought clarified things somewhat.

And then there’s Mom
.

Miriam took a deep breath. Her mood crashed, giving way to bleak depression.
Henryk’s got me. Iris is right, I’m out of options. Unless something unexpected happens, I am stuck
with this. I’ll have to go through with it
. She winced.
What did they say about pregnancy? You can’t world-walk while you’re expecting
. Another unwanted, hostile
imposition on her freedom.
He won’t need a prison cell while I’m pregnant
, she realized.
And afterward
. . . When Iris had made her escape she’d been young and
healthy. By the time Miriam delivered, she’d be close to her mid-thirties.

There was a knock. Miriam pushed herself upright and stretched. The knock repeated, tentative, uncertain of itself.
Not the ferret
, she thought, walking over to the door.
‘Yes?’ she demanded.

‘Milady, we’re to –’ She didn’t understand the rest, but she knew the tone of voice. She opened the door.

‘You are, me, to dress?’ Miriam managed haltingly. The two servants bobbed. ‘Good.’ She shrugged.
This is going to happen
, she realized dismally, walking toward
the wardrobe as if on autopilot.
Oh well. I guess I should leave this to Helge, then. Helge?
‘Now what am I to wear?’ she asked aloud, surprising herself with her diction.

*

The Clan weren’t big on subtle messages. Helge let the servants lace her into an underdress, then help her into a gown of black silk and deep blue velvet. It had long
sleeves, full skirts, and a neckline that rose to a high collar. Current fashion favored a revealing décolletage, but she was in a funereal mood. She wrapped a thick rope of pearls around
her waist as a belt, and looped another around her collar. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her cheek was coming up in a fine bruise where Henryk had struck her, so she picked out a
black lace veil, cloak, and matching gloves from her armoire.
Let ’em wonder what kind of damaged goods they’re buying
, she thought bitterly. This outfit wouldn’t give
much away: truthfully, it looked like Victorian mourning drag. ‘I’m ready to go now,’ she announced, entering the reception room. ‘Where is that, that idle –
’

‘Right here.’ The front door was open, the ferret standing beside it. ‘My, how mysterious.’

‘Is the coach ready?’

‘Yes. If you would care to follow me . . .’

She managed to descend the staircase without tripping, and she clambered into the coach that was waiting. A sealed coach, with shuttered windows, locked on the outside, she observed.
Still a
prisoner, I see
.
Someone doesn’t trust me
.

The air was close and the evening warm. Helge fanned herself as the coach clattered and swayed out of the courtyard and across the streets. Alone in the dark, she brooded listlessly.
Is this
the right thing to do?
she wondered, then felt like kicking herself:
See any alternatives, stupid?
She felt stiff and defensive, her dress constricting and hot – more like a
suit of armor than a display of glamour and wealth.
I’m going to look like an idiot
, she thought,
preposterously frumpy
. A moment later:
Why should I care what they
think? Bah
.

After an interminable ride – which might have been five minutes or half an hour – the roadway smoothed, wheels crunching over gravel, and the carriage halted. Someone busied
themselves with the padlock outside, then a glare of setting sunlight almost blinded Helge as she squeezed through the door.

‘Milady.’ It was – what was his name?
Some flunky of Henryk’s
, she decided. He handed her down the steps to a small gaggle of guards and ladies-in-waiting and
general rubberneckers. ‘Please allow me to welcome you to the royal household. This is Sir Rybeck, master of the royal stables. And this is – ’

It was a receiving line. For
her
. Helge offered her hand as she was gently moved along it, accepting bows and courtesies and strange lips on the back of her glove, smiling fixedly and
trying not to bare her teeth. Two court ladies-in-waiting picked up the train of her cloak, and four guards in the red and gold of the royal troupe walked before her with long, viciously curved
axes held aloft.
This is public
, she realized with a sinking feeling.
They’re saying publicly that I rate the respect due a member of the royal household!
Which meant
there’d have to be some kind of announcement soon. Which in turn meant that they were definitely going ahead with it.

She’d never paid too much attention to royal etiquette in the past, and anything she’d accidentally read about in her old life was inapplicable, but it was seriously intimidating.
People were acting as if they were
afraid
of her. And if anyone thought her gown was unfashionable or noticed her bruised cheek under the veil, they were keeping quiet about it.

There was a huge banquet hall with several tables set up inside it, one of them on a raised platform at the back. People thronged the floor of the hall: as she entered the room there was a
ripple of low-key conversation. Faces turned toward her. Butterflies flapped their wings in her stomach. ‘What now?’ she asked her guide quietly, gripping his arm, forcing her
Hochsprache to perform.

‘I escort you to the antechamber. You greet the king. You greet the prince. There will be drinks. Then there will be the meal.’ He kept his diction clear and his phrases short,
speaking slowly out of deference to her poor language skills. To her surprise, Helge understood most of what he said.

‘Is the duke here? Angbard? Or Baron Henryk?’ she asked.

His reply was a small shrug. ‘Alas, matters of state keep both of them away.’

‘Oh.’
Right
. Matters of state, it seemed, conspired to keep her from giving them a piece of her mind. She walked past the curious crowds – she smiled and nodded at
enquiries, but kept her feet moving – then a door opened ahead of her. Guards grounded their axes. None of the nobles at
this
show were wearing swords. She went right ahead, then her
escort stopped, a restraining hand on her arm. Miriam paused, then recognized the sad-faced man in front of her. Her mind went blank.
He’s wearing a crown. You’re supposed to be
marrying his son. What am I supposed to do now?
Helge bent her knees in a deep curtsey. ‘Your majesty. I am, it pleases, me to see you.’

‘Countess Helge. Your presence brings light to an old man’s eye. Please, take our arm.’ He smiled hesitantly, his face wrinkling with the look of a man who’d born more
cruel blows than anyone should face.

She bit her tongue and took the proffered arm gingerly. For an instant the urge to try a throw she’d learned in a self-defense class fifteen years ago taunted her. However, throwing the
king over her shoulder might bring even less pleasant consequences than telling Baron Henryk to fuck off. ‘Yes, your majesty,’ she said meekly, falling back into the Helge role, and she
allowed Alexis Nicholau III to lead her across the room toward the stooped figure of his mother the queen, and the equally stooped, but much huskier, figure of his son, Prince Creon.