“It’s freezing out there.” The man called Esau blew on his fingers, shook his head, then began to peel his gloves off.
Jacob kicked the door shut. “You really need to observe proper security discipline,” he said.
“Yeah well, and how many times have we done this?” Esau shrugged. “Stupid christ-cultist names from the far-side, dumb pass-phrases and secret handshakes—”
“If I was ill and sent a proxy, the dumb pass-phrases would be the only thing that could tell you who they were,” Jacob pointed out.
“If you were ill, you’d have radio’d ahead to call off the meeting. Is that a bottle of the local emetic? I’ll have a drop.”
“Here. Settle down.” Jacob poured. “What have you got for me?”
Esau shrugged. “This.” A leather purse appeared, as magically as Jacob’s pistol. “Pharmaceutical-grade, half a kilo.”
“That’ll do.” Jacob transferred it to his belt pouch without expression. “Anything else?”
“Well.” Esau settled down and picked up the full glass. “Certain feathers have been—ruffled, shall we say—by the news of those pink slippers. That account was supposed to have been settled a very long time ago. Do you have an update for me?”
“Yes.” Jacob nodded, then picked up his own glass. “Nothing good. A couple more sightings and then a search and sweep found a very wet chair in the woods near Fort Lofstrom. It was from the other side. Need I say any more? It was too obvious to cover up, so the old man sent a snatch squad through and they pulled in a woman. Age thirty-two, professional journalist, and clearly a long-lost cousin.”
“A woman journalist? Things are passing strange over there.”
“You’re telling me. Sometimes I get to visit on business. It’s even weirder than those sheep-shagging slant-eyes on the west coast.” Jacob put the empty glass down—hard—on the table. “Why does this shit always happen when I’m in charge?”
“Because you’re good,” soothed Esau. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out and I’m pretty sure the—control—will authorize a reward for this. It’s exactly what we’ve been looking out for all these years.” He smiled at Jacob and raised his glass. “To your success.”
“Huh.” But Jacob raised his (empty) glass right back, then refilled both of them. “Well. The old asshole put the runaway on her case, but she’s turning out to be a bit hot. She’s the grand dowager’s granddaughter, you know? And a tear-away. All too common in women from over there, you know. She’s poking her nose into all sorts of corners. If the old bat recognizes her formally, seven shades of shit will hit the Clan council balance of power, but I have a plan that I think will cover the possibility. She could be very useful if I can coopt her.”
“What about her mother?” Esau leaned forward.
“Dead.” Jacob shrugged. “The baby was adopted on the other side. That’s why she was missing for so long. We’ve got the foster mother under surveillance, but…” he shook his head. “It’s a thirty-two-year-old trail. What do you expect?”
“I expect her to—” Esau frowned. “Look, I’m going to have to break cover on this and go get instructions from my superiors. There may be preexisting orders in effect for just this situation, but if not it would be as well for you to proceed as you see fit. Anything that keeps the Clan from asking awkward questions is all right by us, I think. And I don’t want to risk using one of your magical radio thingies in case they’ve got a black chamber somewhere listening in. Are you going to be here overnight?”
“I will be.” Jacob nodded. “I was planning to leave in the morning, though.”
“That’s all right. I’ll cross over and ask for directions. If anyone knows anything, I’ll pass on your instructions before you leave.” He rubbed his forehead in anticipation, missing Jacob’s flash of envy, which was in any case quickly masked. “If I don’t show, well, use your imagination. We don’t need the Clan raking over the evidence…”
“Evidence that might point to your faction’s existence.”
“Exactly.”
Servants were invisible, Miriam realized, as she hurried through the narrow rough-walled corridor below stairs. Take this particular servant, for example. She was wearing the long black skirt, white blouse, and starched apron of a parlor maid, hurrying along beneath a tray with a pot of coffee on it. Nobody paid her a second glance. Maybe they should have, she decided, carefully putting one foot in front of another. The servant outfit was inauthentic, machine-woven, obviously wrong if anyone had looked closely, and bulked up from hiding something underneath. But the house was still in upheaval, individual servants were mostly beneath notice to the noble occupants, and the staff was large enough that she didn’t expect to be noticed by the real maids. This is going to be really useful, Miriam decided, balancing the tray carefully as she mounted the staircase.
The tight spiral steps were a trial, but she managed not to tread on her hem as she wound her way up to the floor above. Once she squeezed against the wall to let an equerry by: He glanced at her in mild disgust and continued on. Score one to the invisible woman, she told herself. She stalked along the corridor, edgy with anticipation. Planning this move in cold blood was all very well, but she wouldn’t be able to go through with it if the idea of an illicit assignation with Roland didn’t set her pulse racing. And now she came to the final passage, she found her blood wasn’t cool at all.
She found the right door and entered without knocking. It was another private apartment, seemingly empty. She put the tray down on the sideboard beside the door, then looked around. One of the side doors opened: “I didn’t order—oh.”
“We meet again.” She grinned nervously at him, then dropped the latch on the door. “Just in case,” she said.
Roland looked her up and down in mild disbelief. “The mistress of disguise? It’s a good thing I swept the room earlier. For bugs,” he added, catching her raised eyebrow.
“Well, that was prudent. You look great, too.” He’d dressed in a black tuxedo, she noted with relief. He’d taken her seriously; she’d been a little worried. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Through there.” He looked doubtful.
“Back in a minute,” she said, ducking inside.
She closed the door, hastily untied her servant’s apron, shook her hair out of the borrowed mob cap, then spent a minute fumbling with her waistband. She stripped off the servant’s outerwear, then paused to look in a mirror. “Go kill him, girl,” she told herself. She deftly rolled on a coat of lip gloss, installed earrings and a single string of pearls. Finally she pulled on her black evening gloves, did an experimental twirl that set two thousand dollars’ worth of evening dress swirling, blew herself a kiss in the mirror, and stepped out.
Roland was waiting outside, holding a goblet of wine out toward her: He nearly dropped it when he saw her. “You look absolutely spectacular,” he said, finally. “How did you do it?”
“Oh, it wasn’t hard.” She shrugged her shoulders, which were bare. “You could conceal an arsenal under one of those maids’ uniforms.” I know. I did. She took the glass from him, then took his hand, led him to the sofa. “Sit.” She sat herself, then patted the leather seat next to her. “We need to talk.”
“Sure.” He followed her, looking slightly dazzled.
She felt a stab of tenderness mixed with regret, unsettling and unexpected. What am I really doing here? she half-wondered, then shoved the thought aside. “Come on. Sit down.” He sat in the opposite corner of the huge leather sofa, one arm over the back, the other cradling his glass in front of him, almost hiding behind it. “I had my chat with Angbard today.”
“Ah.” He looked defensive.
She took a sip from the glass and smiled at him. The wine was more than good, it was excellent, a rich, fruity vintage with a subtle aftertaste that reminded her of strawberries and freshly mowed lawns. She fired another smile at him, and he cracked, took a mouthful, and tried to smile back.
“Roland, I think the duke
may be lying to us—separately. Or merely being economical with the truth.”
“Ah, ‘lying’?” He looked cautiously defensive.
“Lying.” She sighed, then looked at him sidelong. “I’m going to tell you what he told me, then you can tell me if that’s what he told you. Do you think you can do that? No need to reveal any secrets…”
“‘Secrets,’” he echoed. A shadow flickered across his face. “Miriam, there are things I’m not allowed to tell you, and I don’t like it, but it’s possible that—well, some of them may be seeds.”
“‘Seeds’?”
“Tests, for me, to see if I can keep secrets.” He took a mouthful of the Cabernet. “Stuff that, if I tell you, will probably make you do something predictable, so that he’ll know I told you. Do you understand? I’m not considered trustworthy. I came back with ideas about, well, about trying to change the way things are done. Ideas that upset a lot of people. The duke seems to like me—or at least think some of my ideas could be useful—but he certainly doesn’t trust me. That’s why he keeps me so close at hand.”
“Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully. Her opinion of him rose yet again: He doesn’t lie to himself. “I guessed that. Which is why I’m going to tell you what he told me and you’re just going to decide whether to confirm it if it’s true.”
“Uh, okay.” He was intensely focused on her. Good, she thought, feeling a little thrill. She slid one leg over the other, let a calf encased in sheer black stocking sneak out. The game’s afoot, she thought to herself, then noticed his response and felt her breath catch in her throat. Then again, maybe it’s not all a game.
“Okay, this is what he told me. He says I’m in an exposed position and liable to be attacked, maybe murdered, if I don’t dig myself inextricably into the Clan power structure as soon as possible. He says I have some discretion, but I ought to marry within the families and do it soon. Which I think is bullshit, but I let him lead me on. So he’s sending me to the royal court with Olga, for a formal presentation and coming-out. We leave tomorrow.” When she said tomorrow he frowned.
“There’s more.” She paused to drink, then put her empty glass down. Her stomach felt warm, relaxed. She met his eyes. “Is what he told me about expecting me to find a husband among the families what you heard?”
“Yes.” Roland nodded. “I didn’t know you were to leave tomorrow, though,” he said, sounding a little disappointed.
Miriam straightened up and leaned toward him. “Yes, well, he also discussed you,” she said. “He said he’s going to marry you off to Olga.”
“Bastard—” Roland’s raised his glass to hide his expression, then drank its contents straight down.
“What, no comment?” Miriam asked, her heart pounding. This was the critical moment—
“I’m sorry. Not your fault,” he said hoarsely. “I’d guessed he was going to try something to tie me down, but not that crude.” He shook his head frustratedly. “Stupid.” He took a deep breath, visibly struggling for control.
“I take it that’s a no.”
He put his glass down on the low table beside the sofa. As he straightened up, Miriam laid one hand on his arm. “What you told me the other day—he wants you nailed to a perch, just an obedient little branch on the family tree,” she said urgently. “Angbard wants you to make an appropriate marriage and breed lots of little Thorold–Lofstroms to look after him in his old age. With Olga.”
“Yes.” Roland shook his head. He didn’t seem to notice her hand on his arm. “I thought he was at least still interested in—shit. Olga’s loyal. It means he’s been stringing me along with his warnings to shut up and play the political game—all along, all the time.” He stood up and paced across the room agitatedly. “He’s been keeping me here on ice to stop me getting my point across.” He reached the fireplace and paused, thumping the heel of his right hand into his left palm. “Bastard.”
“So Uncle Angbard has been messing you around?”
“‘Uncle’—” he shook his head. “He’s much more your uncle than mine. You know how the family braids work? There are several deaths and remarriages in the tree.”
Miriam stood up. Don’t let him get distracted now. This is the point of no return, she realized. Do I want to go through with this? Well, the answer that came to mind wasn’t “no.” She screwed up her courage and walked over to him. “Olga would lock you in and throw away the key.”
“She’d—no, not deliberately. But the effect would be the same.” He didn’t seem to notice her standing a few inches in front of him, close enough to feel her breath on his cheek. Is he completely blind—or just too distracted to notice what his eyeballs are seeing? Miriam wondered, half-turning to face him and pushing her chest up as far as she could without being blatant about it—which was difficult, given what she was wearing. “He wants to tie me in with children, a family. I’d have to protect them.”
On second thoughts… he was looking her in the eyes, now, and he’d noticed her, all right. “That’s not the only option,” she murmured. “You don’t have to surrender to Angbard.”
“I don’t—” He trailed off.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. “What you said earlier,” she tried to explain. “You offered to help.” She looked up at him, still maintaining eye contact. “How serious are you?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
He blinked slowly, his expression thoughtful, then she saw him focusing on her properly, and it did something odd to her. She felt suddenly embarrassed, as if she’d made some horrible faux pas in public. “It wouldn’t be sensible,” he said slowly. Then he embraced her, hugging her tightly. “Are you sure it’s what you want?”
And now she really felt something, and it wasn’t what she’d expected when the idea of compromising Angbard’s plans for Olga stole into her mind. “The door’s locked. Who’s going to know? A serving girl goes in, a serving girl goes out, I’m in my bedroom working, it’s all deniable.” She pressed her chin into his shoulder. “I want you to pick me up, carry me into your bedroom, and take my clothes off—slowly,” she whispered into his ear.
“Okay,” he said.
She turned her head and laid her lips alongside his. He’d shaved. After a moment she felt his jaws loosen, exploration begin. Her whole weight fell against him and he lifted her, then put her down on her feet.
“Over here,” he said, arm dropping to her waist, half-leading her.
The bedroom furnishings were different. A big oak four-poster with a red-and gold-tapestried canopy dominated the room, and the secondary items were different. She pulled him toward the bed, then paused in front of it. “Kiss me,” she said.
He leaned over her and she sank into him, reaching down to his trousers with one hand to fumble at unfamiliar catches. He groaned softly as she caressed him. Then his jacket was on the floor, his bow tie dangling, his trousers loose. A shocking sense of urgency filled her.
Hours passed. They were both naked now: She lay with her back to Roland, his arms curled protectively around her. This is unexpected, she thought dizzily. A little tremor surged through her. Wow. Well, her plan had worked: pull him into bed and annoy the hell out of Angbard by being a loose cannon. Except that wasn’t how it had turned out. She liked Roland a lot, and that wasn’t in the script.
“This is so wrong,” he mumbled into her hair.
She tensed. “What is?” she asked.
“Your uncle. He’ll kill me if he suspects.”
“He’ll—” Her blood ran cold for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“You’re immune,” he said in a tone of forced calm. “You’ve got huge leverage, and he doesn’t have specific plans for you. I’m meant to marry Olga, though, and that’s an end of it. Open defiance is bad. He’s probably been planning the marriage for years.”
“Surely I’m an, uh, acceptable substitute?” she asked, surprising herself. It hadn’t been in the plan when she came upstairs, unless her subconscious had been working overti
me on strategies for spiking Angbard’s plans.
“That’s not the point. It’s not just about producing off-spring with the ability, you know? You’re about the most unsuitable replacement for Olga it’s possible to imagine. Making me marry Olga would buy Angbard influence with her father’s braid and tie me down with a family. But an alliance with you wouldn’t do that—in fact, he’d risk losing influence over both of us, to no gain for himself.” He paused for breath. “Aside from marrying out, one of the council’s worst fears is fragmentation—world-walkers leaving and setting up as rivals. We’re both classic fragmentation risks, disaffected rebellious adults with independent backgrounds. My plans…reform has to come from within or it’s seen as a threat. That’s why I was hoping he might still be listening to me. There’s nothing personal about Clan alliances, Miriam. Even if Angbard the kindly uncle wanted to let you and me stay together, Angbard the duke would be seen as weak by the council, which would open him up to challenge…he can’t take that risk, he’d have to split us up.”
“I didn’t know about the competition angle,” she murmured. “What a mess.” I don’t want to think about it.
“This is a—it isn’t a…a one-night stand?” he asked.
“I hope not.” She nuzzled back deeper into his arms. “What about you? What do you want?”
“What I want seldom has anything to do with what I get,” he said, a trifle bitterly. “Although—” he stroked her flank silently.
“We have a problem,” Miriam whispered. “Tomorrow they’re going to put me in a stagecoach with Olga and send us both to the royal court. Herself to pay respects to the king, me to be exhibited like some kind of prize cow. You’re going to be staying here, under his eye. That right?”
She felt his nod: It sent a shiver through her spine. “It’s a test,” he murmured. “He’s testing you to see what you’re made of—also to see if your presence lures certain disaffected elements into the open.”
“We can try for a different outcome. Olga can be taken out of the picture by, well, anything.”
The Family Trade Page 17
