The Family Trade

by Stross, Charles

  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the light: She could see the man in the high-backed chair smile faintly. He was in late middle age, possibly as old as Morris Beckstein would have been, had he lived. His suit was sober—these people dressed like a company of undertakers—but so well cut that it had to be hand-tailored. His hair was graying, and his face was indistinguished, except for a long scar running up his left cheek.

  “I might ask the same question,” he murmured. “Roland, be seated, I say!” His tone of voice said he was used to being obeyed. “I am the high Duke Angbard of house Lofstrom, third of that name, trustee of the crown of guilds, defender of the king’s honor, freeman of the city of Niejwein, head of security of the Clan Reunified, prince of merchant-princes, owner of this demesne, and holder of many more titles than that—but those are the principal ones.” His eyes were the color of lead, a blue so pale she found them hard to see, even when they were focused directly on her. “Also, if I am not very much mistaken, I am your uncle.”

  Miriam recoiled in shock. “What?” Another voice echoed her. She glanced sideways to see Roland staring at her in astonishment. His cool exterior began to crack.

  “My father would never—” Roland began.

  “Shut up,” said Angbard, cold steel in his voice. “I was not referring to your father, young man, but to your aunt once removed: Patricia.”

  “Would you mind explaining just what you’re talking about?” Miriam demanded, anger finally getting the better of her. She leaned forward. “Your people have abducted me, ransacked my house, and kidnapped me, just because you think I’m some kind of long-lost relative?”

  Angbard nodded thoughtfully. “No. We are absolutely certain you’re a long-lost relative.” He glanced at his nephew. “There is solid evidence.”

  Roland leaned back in his chair, whistled tunelessly, all military pretense fled. He stared at her out of wide eyes, as if he was seeing a ghost.

  “What have you got to whistle about?” she demanded.

  “You asked for an explanation,” Angbard reminded her. “The arrival of an unknown world-walker is always grounds for concern. Since the war…suffice to say, your appearance would have been treated drastically in those days. When you stumbled across the old coast trail a week ago, and the patrol shot at you, they had no way of knowing who you were. That became evident only later—I believe you left a pair of pink house-shoes behind?—and triggered an extensive manhunt. However, you are clearly not connected to a traitorious faction, and closer research revealed some interesting facts about you. I believe you were adopted?”

  “That’s right.” Miriam’s heart was fluttering in her ribs, shock and unpleasant realization merging. “Are you saying you’re my long-lost relatives?”

  “Yes.” Angbard waited a moment, then slid open one of the drawers in his desk. “This is yours, I believe.”

  Miriam reached out and picked up the locket. Tarnished with age, slightly battered—an island of familarity. “Yes.”

  “But not this.” Angbard palmed something else, then pushed it across the desk toward her.

  “Oh my.” Miriam was lost for words. It was the identical twin to her locket, only brightly shining and lacking some scratches. She took it and sprang the catch—

  “Ouch!” She glared at Roland, who had knocked it out of her hand. But he was bending down, and after a moment she realized that he was picking it up, very carefully, keeping the open halves facedown until it was upon the duke’s blotter.

  “We will have to teach you how to handle these things safely,” Angbard said mildly. “In the meantime, my sister’s is yours to keep.”

  “Your sister’s,” she echoed stupidly, wrapping her fingers around the locket.

  “My sister went missing thirty-two years ago,” Angbard said with careful lack of emphasis. “Her caravan was attacked, her husband slain, and her guard massacred, but her body was never found. Nor was that of her six-week-old daughter. She was on her way to pay attendance to the court of the high king, taking her turn as the Clan’s hostage. The wilds around Chesapeake Bay, as it is called on your side, are not heavily populated in this world. We searched for months, but obviously to little effect.”

  “You found the box of documents,” Miriam said. The effort of speaking was vast: She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

  “Yes. They provide impressive supporting evidence—circumstantial but significant. While you were unconscious, blood samples were taken for, ah, DNA profiling. The results will be back tomorrow, but I am in no doubt. You have the family face and the family talent—or did you think world-walking was commonplace?—and your age and the documentary evidence fits perfectly. You are the daughter Helge, born to my elder sister, Patricia Thorold Hjorth, by her husband the western magistrate-prince, Alfredo Wu, and word of your survival is going to set the fox among the Clan chickens with a vengeance when it emerges.” He smiled thinly. “Which is why I took the precaution of sending away the junior members of the distaff side, and almost all the servants, before bidding you welcome. It would not have done for the younger members of the Clan to find out about your existence before I looked to your defense. Some of them will be feeling quite anxious about the disruption of the braid succession, your highness.”

  “Highness? What are you talking about?” Miriam could hear her voice rising, out of control, but she couldn’t get it under control. “What are you on? Look, I’m a business journalist covering the Masspike corridor, not some kind of feudal noble! I don’t know about any of this stuff!” She was on her feet in front of the desk. “What’s world-walking, and what does it have to do—”

  “Your highness,” Angbard said firmly, “you were a business journalist, on the other side of the wall of worlds. But world-walking is how you came here. It is the defining talent of our Clan, of the families who constitute the Clan. It is in the blood, and you are one of us, whether you will it or no. Over here, you are the eldest heir to a countess and a magistrate-prince of the outer kingdom, both senior members of their families, and however much you might wish to walk away from that fact, it will follow you around. Even if you go back over there.”

  He turned to Roland, ignoring her stunned silence. “Earl Roland, you will please escort your first cousin to her chambers. I charge you with her safety and protection until further notice. Your highness, we will dine in my chambers this evening, with one or two trustworthy guests, and I will have more words for you then. Roland will assign servants to see to your comfort and wardrobe. I expect him to deal with your questions. In the meantime, you are both dismissed.”

  Miriam glared at him, speechless. “I have only your best interests at heart,” the duke said mildly. “Roland.”

  “Sir.” Roland took her arm.

  “Proceed.”

  Roland turned and marched from the office, and Miriam hurried to keep up, angry and embarrassed and trying not to show it. You bastard! she thought. Out in the corridor: “You’re hurting me,” she hissed, trying not to trip. “Slow down.”

  Roland slowed and—mercy of mercies—let go of her arm. He glanced behind, and an invisible tension left his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’re sorry?” she replied, disbelievingly. “You nearly twisted my arm out of its socket!” She rubbed her elbow and winced.

  “I said I’m sorry. Angbard isn’t used to being disobeyed. I’ve never seen anyone take such liberties with him and escape punishment!”

  “Punishment—” she stopped. “You weren’t kidding about him being the head of secret police, were you?”

  “He’s got many more titles than he told you about. He’s responsible for the security of the entire Clan. If you like, think of him as the head of the FBI here. There was a civil war before you or I were born. He’s probably ordered more hangings than you or I have had hot dinners.”

  Miriam stumbled. “Ow, shit!” She leaned against the wall. “That’ll teach me to keep my eye on where I’m going.” She glanced at him. “S
o you’re telling me I wasn’t paying enough attention?”

  “You’ll be all right,” Roland said slowly, “if you can adapt to it. I imagine it must be a great shock, coming into your inheritance so suddenly.”

  “Is that so?” She looked him up and down carefully, unsure how to interpret the raised eyebrow—Is he trying to tell me something or just having a joke at my expense?—then a second thought struck her. “I think I’m missing something here,” she said, deliberately casually.

  “Nothing around here is what it seems,” Roland said with a little shrug. His expression was guarded. “But if the duke is right, if you really are Patricia’s long-lost heir—”

  Miriam recognized the expression in his eyes: It was belief. He really believes I’m some kind of fairy-tale princess, she realized with dawning horror. What have I got myself into?

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it. In my chambers.”

  Cinderella 2.0

  Roland led her back to her suite and followed her into the huge reception room at its heart. He wandered over to the windows and stood there with his hands clasped behind his back. Miriam kicked her heels off and sat down in the huge, enveloping leather sofa opposite the window.

  “When did you discover the locket?” he asked.

  She watched him curiously. “Less than a week ago.”

  “And until then you’d grown up in ignorance of your family,” he said. “Amazing!” He turned around. His face was set in a faintly wistful expression.

  “Are you going to just stand there?” she asked.

  “It would be impertinent to sit down without an invitation,” he replied. “I know it’s the case on the other side, but here, the elders tend to stand on points of etiquette.”

  “Well—” her eyes narrowed. “Sit down if you want to. You’re making me nervous. You look as if you’re afraid I’ll bite.”

  “Um.” He sat down uneasily on the arm of the big chair opposite her. “Well, it’s irregular, to say the least, to be here. You being unwed, that is.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” she snapped. “I’m divorced. Is that another of the things you people are touchy about?”

  “‘Divorced?’” He stared at her hand, as if looking for a ring. “I don’t know.” Suddenly he looked thoughtful. “Customs here are distinctly different from the other side. This is not a Christ-worshiping land.” Another thought struck him. “Are you, uh…?”

  “Does Miriam Beckstein sound Christian to you?”

  “It’s sometimes hard to tell with people from the other side. Christ worship isn’t a religion here,” he said seriously. “But you are divorced. And a world-walker.” He leaned forward. “What that means is you are automatically a Clan shareholder of the first rank, eligible, unwed, and liable to displace a dozen minor distant relatives from their Clan shares, which they thought safe. Your children will displace theirs, too. Do you know, you are probably a great-aunt already?”

  To Miriam this was insupportable. “I don’t want a huge bunch of feuding cousins and ancestors and children! I’m quite happy on my own.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.” A momentary flash of irritation surfaced: “Our personal happiness has nothing to do with the Clan’s view of our position in life. I don’t like it either, but you’ve got to understand that there are people out there whose plans will be disrupted by the mere knowledge of your existence, and other people who will make plans for you, regardless of your wishes!”

  “I—” she stopped. “Look, I don’t think we’ve got this straight. I may be related to your family by genetics, but I’m not one of you. I don’t know how the hell you think or what your etiquette is like and I don’t care about being the orphan of a countess. It doesn’t mean anything to me.” She sighed. “There’s been some huge mistake. The sooner we get it over with and I can go back to being a journalist, the better.”

  “If you want it that way.” For almost a minute he brooded, staring at the floor in front of her. Miriam hooked one foot over the other and tried to relax enough to force her shoulders back into the sofa. “You might last six weeks,” he said finally.

  “Huh?”

  He frowned at a parquet tile. “You can ignore your relatives, but they can’t ignore you. To them you’re an unknown quantity. The Clan shareholders all have the ability to walk the worlds, to cross over and follow you. Over here they’re rich and powerful—but your current situation makes them insecure because you’re unpredictable. If you do what’s expected of you, you merely disrupt several inheritances worth a baron’s estate. If you try to leave, they will think you are trying to form a new schismatic family, maybe even lure away family splinters to set up your own Clan to rival ours. How do you think the rich and powerful deal with threats to their existence?” He looked grave. “I’d rather not measure you for a coffin so soon after discovering you. It’s not every day I find a new second cousin, especially one who’s as educated and intelligent as you seem to be. There’s a shortage of good conversation here, you know.”

  “Oh.” Miriam felt deflated, frightened. What happens to business life when there’s no limit to liability and the only people you can work with are your blood relatives? Instinctively she changed the subject. “What did your uncle mean about tonight? And servants, I mean, servants?”

  “Ah, that.” Roland slipped down into the seat at last, relaxing a little. “We are invited to dine with the head of one of the families in private. The most powerful family in the Clan, at that. It’s a formal affair. As for the servants, you’re entitled to half a dozen or so ladies-in-waiting, your own guard of honor, and various others. My uncle the duke sent the minor family members away, but in the meantime there are maids from below stairs who will see to you. Really I would have sent them earlier, when I brought you up here, but he stressed the urgent need for secrecy and I thought—” he paused. “You really did grow up over there, didn’t you? In the middle classes.”

  She nodded, unsure just how to deal with his sudden attack of snobbery. Some of the time he seemed open and friendly, then she hit a blind spot and he was Sir Medieval Aristocrat writ large and charmless. “I don’t do upper class,” she said. “Well, business class, maybe.”

  “Well, you aren’t in America any more. You’ll have get used to the way we do things here eventually.” He paused. “Did I say something wrong?”

  He had, but she didn’t know how to explain. Which was why a couple of hours later she was sitting naked in the bathroom, talking to her dictaphone, trying to make sense of the insanity outside—without succumbing to hysteria—by treating it as a work assignment and reporting on it.

  “Now I know how Alice felt in looking-glass land,” she muttered, holding her dictaphone close to her lips. “They’re mad. I don’t mean schizophrenic or psychotic or anything like that. They’re just not in the same universe as anyone else I know.” The same universe was a slip: She could feel the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her. She bit her lower lip, painfully hard. “They’re nuts. And they insist I join in and play their game by their rules.”

  There was some bumping and thumping going on in the main room of the suite. That would be the maidservants moving stuff around. Miriam paused the tape for a moment, considering her next words. “Dear Diary. Forty-eight hours ago I was hanging out in the forest, happy as a clam with my photographs of a peasant village that looked like something out of the middle ages. I was exploring, discovering something new, and it was great, I had this puzzle-box reality to crack open, a whole new story. Now I discover that I own that village, and a hundred more like it, and I literally have the power of life and death over its inhabitants. I can order soldiers to go in and kill every last one of them, on a whim. Once the Clans recognize me officially, at an annual session, that is. And assuming—as Roland says—nobody assassinates me. Princess Beckstein, signing off for The Weatherman, or maybe Business 2.0. Jesus, who’d have thought I’d end up starring in some kind of twisted remake of Cinderella? Or that it
would turn out so weird?”

  And I called Craig Venter and Larry Ellison robber barons in print, she thought mordantly, keying the “pause” button again.

  “Put that way it sounds funny, but it isn’t. First I thought it was the feds who broke in and grabbed me, and that’s pretty damn scary to begin with. FEMA, secret security courts with hearings held in camera. Then, it could have been the mob, if the mob looked like FBI agents. But this could actually be worse. These guys wear business suits, but it’s only skin-deep. They’re like sheikhs from one of the rich Gulf Emirates. They don’t dress up medieval, they think medieval and buy their clothes from Saks or Savile Row in England.”

  A thought occurred to her. I hope Paulette’s keeping the video camera safe. And her head down. She had an ugly, frightened feeling that Duke Angbard had seen right through her. He scared her: She’d met his type before, and they played hardball—hard enough to make a Mafia don’s eyes water. She was half-terrified she’d wake up tomorrow and see Paulie’s head impaled on a pike outside her bedroom window. If only Ma hadn’t given me the damned locket—

  A tentative knock on the door. “Mistress? Are you ready to come out?”

  “Ten minutes,” Miriam called. She clutched her recorder and shook her head. Four servants had shown up an hour ago, and she’d retreated into the bathroom. One of them, called something like Iona, had tried to follow her. Apparently countesses weren’t allowed to use a bathroom without servants in attendance. That was when Miriam had locked the door and braced the linen chest against it.

  “Damn,” she muttered and took a deep breath. Then she surrendered to the inevitable.

  They were waiting for her when she came out. Four women in severe black dresses and white aprons, their hair covered by blue scarves. They curtseyed before her as she looked around, confused. “I’m Meg, if it please you, your highness. We is to dress you,” the oldest of them said in a soft, vaguely Germanic accent: Middle-aged and motherly, she looked as if she would be more at home in an Amish farm kitchen than a castle.