“Don’t mind if I do,” said Burgeson. He coughed damply into a wadded handkerchief. “’Scuse me…”
“No need for excuses,” the inspector said, as warmly as an artist inspecting his handiwork. He smiled like a mantrap. “Terrible winters up there in Nova Scotia, aren’t they?”
“Character-building,” Burgeson managed, before breaking out in another wracking cough. Finally he managed to stop and sat up in his chair, leaning against the back with his face pointed at the window.
“That was how the minister of penal affairs described it in parliament, wasn’t it?” The inspector nodded sympathetically. “It would be a terrible shame to subject you to that kind of character-building experience again at your age, wouldn’t it, Mr. Burgeson?”
Burgeson cocked his head on one side. So far the inspector had been polite. He hadn’t used so much as a fist in the face, much less a knee in the bollocks, relying instead on tea and sympathy and veiled threats to win Burgeson to his side. It was remarkably liberal for an HSB man, and Burgeson had been waiting for the other shoe to drop—or to kick him between the legs—for the past ten minutes. “What can I do for you, Inspector?” he asked, clutching at any faint hope of fending off the inevitable.
“I shall get to the point presently.” The inspector picked up the teapot and turned it around slowly between his huge callused hands. He didn’t seem to feel the heat as he poured a stream of brown liquid into Burgeson’s cup, then put the pot down and dribbled in a carefully measured quantity of milk. “You’re an old man, Mr. Burgeson, you’ve seen lots of water flow under the bridge. You know what ’appens in rooms like this, and you don’t want it to ’appen to you again. You’re not a young hothead who’s going to get his self into trouble with the law any more, are you? And you’re not in the pay of the Frogs, either, else we’d have scragged you long ago. You’re a careful man. I like that. Careful men you can do business with.” He cradled the round teapot between his hands gently. “And I much prefer doing business to breaking skulls.” He put the teapot down. It wobbled on its base like a decapitated head.
Burgeson swallowed. “I haven’t done anything to warrant the attention of the Homeland Security Bureau,” he pointed out, a faint whine in his voice. “I’ve been keeping my nose clean. I’ll help you any way I can, but I’m not sure how I can be of use—”
“Drink your tea,” said the inspector.
Burgeson did as he was told.
“’Bout six months ago a Joe called Lester Brown sold you his dear old mother’s dressing table, didn’t he?” said the inspector.
Burgeson nodded cautiously. “It was a bit battered—”
“And four weeks after that, a woman called Helen Blue came and bought it off you, din’t she?”
“Uh.” Burgeson’s mouth went dry. “Yes? Why ask me all this? It’s in my books, you know. I keep records, as the law requires.”
The inspector smiled, as if Burgeson had just said something extremely funny. “A Mr. Brown sells a dressing table to a Mrs. Blue by way of a pawnbroker who Mr. Green says is known as Dr. Red. In’t that colorful, Mr. Burgeson? If we collected the other four, why, we could give the hangman a rainbow!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Burgeson said tensely. “What’s all this nonsense about? Who are these Greens and Reds you’re bringing up?”
“Seven years in one of His Majesty’s penal colonies for sedition back in seventy-eight and you still don’t have a fucking clue.” The inspector shook his head slowly. “Levelers, Mr. Burgeson.” He leaned forward until his face was inches away from Burgeson’s. “That dressing table happened to have a hollow compartment above the top drawer and there were some most interesting papers folded up inside it. You wouldn’t have been dealing in proscribed books again, would ye?”
“Huh?” The last question caught Burgeson off-guard, but he was saved by another coughing spasm that wrinkled his face up into a painful knot before it could betray him.
The inspector waited for it to subside. “I’ll put it to you like this,” he said. “You’ve got bad friends, Erasmus. They’re no good for yer old age. A bit o’ paper I can’t put me finger on is one thing. But if I was to catch ’em, this Mrs. Blue or Mr. Brown, they’d sing for their supper sooner than put their necks in a noose, wouldn’t they? And you’d be right back off to Camp Frederick before your feet touch the ground, on a one-way stretch. Which in your case would be approximately two weeks before the consumption carried you away for good an’ all and Old Nick gets to toast you by the fires of hell.
“All that Godwinite shit and old-time Egalitarianism will get you is a stretched neck or a cold grave. And you are too old for the revolution. They could hold it tomorrow and it wouldn’t do you any good. What’s that slogan—‘Don’t trust anyone who’s over thirty or owns a slave’? Do you really think your young friends are going to help you?”
Burgeson met the inspector’s gaze head-on. “I have no Leveler friends,” he said evenly. “I am not a republican revolutionary. I admit that in the past I made certain mistakes, but as you yourself agree, I was punished for them. My tariff is spent. I cooperate fully with your office. I don’t see what else I can do to prevent people who I don’t know and have never heard of from using my shop as a laundry. Do we need to continue this conversation?”
“Probably not.” The inspector nodded thoughtfully. “But if I was you, I’d stay in touch.” A business card appeared between his fingers. “Take it.”
Burgeson reached out and reluctantly took the card.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” said the inspector. “You don’t need to know how. If you see anything that might interest me passing through your shop, I’ll trust you to let me know. Maybe it’ll be news to me—and then again, I’ll know about it before you do. If you turn a blind eye, well—” he looked sad—“you obviously won’t be able to see all the titles of the books in your shop. And it’d be a crying shame to send a blind man back to the camps for owning seditious tracts, wouldn’t it?”
Two women stood ten feet apart, one shaking with rage, the other frightened into immobility. Around them, orange trees cloistered in an unseasonable climate perfumed the warm air.
“I don’t understand.” Miriam’s face was blank as she stared down the barrel of Olga’s gun. Her heart pounded. Buy time! “What are you talking about?” she asked, faint with the certainty that her assignation with Roland had been overseen and someone had told Olga.
“You know very well what I’m talking about!” Olga snarled. “I’m talking about my honor!” The gun muzzle didn’t deviate from Miriam’s face. “It’s not enough for you to poison Baron Hjorth against me or to mock me behind my back. I can ignore those slights—but the infamy! To do what you did! It’s unforgivable.”
Miriam shook her head very slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I didn’t know at the time it started between us, I mean. About your planned marriage.”
A faint look of uncertainty flickered across Olga’s face. “My betrothal has no bearing on the matter!” She snapped.
“Huh? You mean this isn’t about Roland?” Miriam asked, feeling stupid and frightened.
“Roland—” Olga stared at her. Suddenly the look of uncertainty was back. “Roland can have nothing to do with this,” she claimed haughtily.
“Then I haven’t got a clue what the it you’re talking about is,” Miriam said heavily. Fear would only stretch so far, and as she stared at Olga’s eyes all she felt was a deep wellspring of resignation, at the sheer total stupidity of all the events that had brought her to this point.
“But you—” Olga began to look puzzled, but still angry. “What about Roland? What have you been up to?”
“Fucking,” Miriam said bluntly. “We only had the one night together but, well, I really care about him. I’m fairly sure he feels the same way about me, too. And before you pull that trigger, I’d like you ask yourself what will happen and who will be harmed if you shoot me.” She closed her eyes, terr
ified and amazed at what she’d just heard herself say. After a few seconds, she thought, Funny, I’m still alive.
“I don’t believe it,” said Olga. Miriam opened her eyes. The other woman looked stunned. However, her gun was no longer pointing directly at Miriam’s face.
“I just told you, dammit!” Miriam insisted. “Look, are you going to point that thing somewhere safe or—”
“You and Roland?” Olga asked incredulously.
A moment’s pause. Miriam nodded. “Yes,” she said, her mouth dry.
“You went to bed with that dried-up prematurely middle-aged sack of mannered stupidity? You care about him? I don’t believe it!”
“Why are you pointing that gun at me, then?”
For a moment, they stood staring at each other; then Olga lowered the machine pistol and slid her finger out of the trigger guard.
“You don’t know?” she asked plaintively.
“Know what?” Miriam staggered slightly, dizzy from the adrenaline rush of facing Olga’s rage. “What on earth are you talking about, woman? Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve just admitted I’m having an affair with the man you’re supposed to be marrying and that isn’t why you’re threatening to kill me over some matter of honor?”
“Oh, this is insupportable!” Olga stared at her. She looked very uncertain all of a sudden. “But you sent your man last night.”
“What man?”
Their eyes met in mutual incomprehension.
“You mean you don’t know? Really?”
“Know what?”
“A man broke into my bedroom last night,” Olga said calmly. “He had a knife and he threatened me and ordered me to disrobe. So I shot him dead. He wasn’t expecting that.”
“You. Shot. A, a rapist. Is that it?”
“Well, that and he had a letter of instruction bearing the seal of your braid.”
“I don’t understand.” Miriam shook her head. “What seal? What kind of instructions?”
“My maidenhead,” Olga said calmly. “The instructions were very explicit. What is the law where you come from? About noble marriage?”
“About—what? Huh. You meet someone, one of you proposes, usually the man, and you arrange a wedding. End of story. Are things that different here?”
“But the ownership of title! The forfeiture. What of it?”
“What ‘forfeiture’?” Miriam must have looked puzzled because Olga frowned.
“If a man, unwed, lies with a maid, also unwed, then it is for him to marry her if he can afford to pay the maiden-price to her guardian. And all her property and titles escheat to him as her head. She has no say in the matter should he reach agreement with her guardian, who while I am in his care here would for me be Baron Hjorth. In my event, as a full-blood of the Clan, my Clan shares would be his. This commoner—” she pronounced the word with venomous diction—“invaded my chamber with rape in mind and a purse full of coin sufficient to pay his way out of the baron’s noose.”
“And a letter,” Miriam said in tones of deep foreboding. “A letter sealed with…what? Ink? Wax? Something like that, some kind of seal ring?”
“No, sealed with the stamps of Thorold and Hjorth. It is a disgusting trick.”
“I’ll say.” Miriam whistled tunelessly. “Would you believe me if I said that I don’t have—and have never seen—any such stamp? I don’t even know who my braid are, and I really ought to, because they’re not going to be happy if I—” she stopped. “Oh, of course.”
“‘Of course,’ what?”
“Listen, was there an open door to the roof in your apartment last night? After you killed him? I mean, a door he came in through?”
Olga’s eyes narrowed. “What if there was?”
“Yesterday I world-walked from my room to the other side,” said Miriam. “This house is supposed to be doppelgängered, but there is no security on the other side of my quarters. Anyone who can world-walk could come in. Later, Brilliana and I found an open door leading to the roof.”
“Ah.” Olga glanced around, taking in whatever was behind Miriam. “Let’s walk,” she said. “Perhaps I should apologize to you. You have further thoughts on the matter?”
“Yes.” Miriam followed Olga, still apprehensive, knees weak with relief. “My question is: Who profits? I don’t have a braid seal, I didn’t even know such a thing existed until you told me, but it seems clear that others in my braid would benefit if you killed me. Or if that failed, if I was deprived of a friend in circumstances bound to create a scandal of monstrous proportions around me, it certainly wouldn’t harm them. If you can think of someone who would also benefit if you were split apart from your impending alliance—” She bit her tongue, but it was too late.
“About Roland,” Olga said quietly.
“Uh. Yes.”
“Do you really love him?” she asked.
“Um.” Tongue-tied, Miriam tried to muster her shredded integrity. “I think so.”
“Well, then!” Olga smiled brightly. “If the two of you would please conspire to convince your uncle to amend his plans for me, it would simplify my life considerably.” She shook her head. “I’d rather marry a rock. Is he good in bed?”
Miriam coughed violently into her fist. “What would you know about—”
“Do you think I’m completely stupid?” Olga shook her head. “I know you are a dowager, you have no guardian, and you are competent in law. You have nothing to lose by such intrigues. It would be naïve to expect you to abstain. But the situation is different for me. I have not my majority until marriage, and upon marriage I lose my independence. Isn’t that an unpleasant paradox?”
“I don’t understand you people,” Miriam muttered, “but I figure your inheritance and marriage law is seriously screwed. Rape as a tool of financial intrigue—it’s disgusting!”
“So we agree on one thing.” Olga nodded. “What do you think could be behind this?”
“Well. Someone who doesn’t like me—obviously.” She began ticking off points on her fingers. “Someone who holds you in contempt, too, or who actively wants you out of the way. By the way, what would have happened to you if you had shot me?”
“What?” Olga shrugged carelessly. “Oh, they’d have hanged me, I suppose,” she said. “Why?”
“Let’s see. We have Item Two: someone who has it in for you as well as me. We all center around—” something nagged at her for attention—“No, it’s not there yet. Well, Item Three is my unsecured apartment. That we can blame on Baron Oliver, huh? Someone took advantage of it to get their cat’s paw into place by way of the roof, I think that’s clear enough. I got Brilliana to lock and bolt the inner apartment—which is doppelgängered—last night, when I realized the roof door was open onto areas that aren’t secured on the other side. Maybe their first objective was to shoot me in my sleep, and they turned to you as a second target when that failed. By attacking you they could either convince you that I was to blame—you shoot me, they win—or they could deprive me of an ally—you—and perhaps turn others against me. Do you think they believe Roland would think I’d do such a thing to you?”
Olga clutched her arm. “That’s it,” she said calmly. “If they didn’t know about you and Roland, they would believe him to be set on me as his prize. It would be a most normal reaction to be enraged at anyone who ordered his bride-to-be raped away by night. Out of such actions blood feuds are born.” Her fingers dug into Miriam’s arm. “You would swear to me you had no hand in it?”
“Olga. Do you really believe I’d pay some man to rape my worst enemy? As opposed to simply shooting her and having done with the matter?”
Olga slowly relaxed. “If you were not raised over there, I might think so. But your ways are so charmingly informal that I find it hard to believe you would be so cruel. Or devious.”
“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more paranoid I become.” Miriam shuddered. “Is there any risk of some asshole trying to rape me for my presumed riches?”
“Not if you’re a guest of someone who cares what happens on their estate, such as the duke. Even at other times, you are only at risk if your guards fail you, and your guardian is willing to accept maidenprice,” said Olga. “As you are of age and able to act as your own guardian, I don’t think that situation is likely to arise—an adventurer who took you against your will could expect to go to the gallows. But you do have guards, don’t you, just in case?” She looked anxious. “They’re very discreet, wherever they’re hiding!” A frown crossed her face. “Assuming the Baron hasn’t managed to make sure the orders assigning a detachment to your household haven’t been lost…”
“No shit,” Miriam said shakily as they climbed the steps toward the entrance, looking around at the same time for signs of Brilliana. “I must congratulate them on their scarcity. When I find out who they are and where they live.”
The snow was falling thick and fast outside, from a sky the color of leaden tiles. The temperature was dropping, a blizzard in the making. “You must come up to my receiving room for tea,” Olga insisted, and Miriam found herself unable to decline. Brilliana hurried alongside them as they reentered the barely heated corridors of the palace, ascending through a bewildering maze of passages and stairs to reach Olga’s private rooms.
Olga had left her guards behind. She wanted no witnesses to our little contretemps, Miriam thought with a cold chill. Now she berated them as she entered her outer reception room, four strapping tall men in household livery worn with cuirasses, swords, and automatic weapons. “Come in, be welcome, sit you down,” Olga insisted, gesturing toward a circle of sofas being moved hastily into place by a bevy of servants. Miriam accepted gratefully, placing Brilliana at her left, and presently Olga’s own ladies-in-waiting shepherded in a small company of servants bearing side tables, a silver samovar, and sweetmeats on trays. With the blazing fireplace, it was almost possible to forget the gathering storm outside.
Now that Olga’s fury at Miriam had been diverted toward a different target, she overcompensated, attempting to prove herself a charming hostess by heaping every consideration upon Miriam in a way that Miriam found more than a bit creepy after her earlier rage. Maybe it was just a guilt reaction, Miriam speculated, but it left her feeling very relieved that Olga didn’t share her interest in Roland. They were well into a second pot of tea, with Miriam eavesdropping on the Lady Aris’s snide comments about the members of this or that social set at court, when there was a polite announcement at the door. “Courier for madame Thorold,” announced Olga’s steward, poking his head in. “Shall I admit him?”
The Family Trade Page 23
