“Why, to the title you assume with so little preparation and polish, and manners utterly unfitted to the role. A mere commoner from the mummer’s stand, jumped up and gussied up by Cousin Lofstrom to stake his claim.” The dowager’s look of fierce indignation reminded Miriam of a captive eagle she’d once seen in a zoo. “A pauper, dependent on the goodwill and support of others. If you were who you claim to be, you would be of substance.” Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth made a little flicking motion, consigning her to the vacuum of social obscurity. “Come, my—”
“Now you wait right here!” Miriam took a step forward, right into the dowager’s path. “I am not an imposter,” she said, her voice pitched low and even. “I am who I am, and if I am not here happily and of my own free will, I will not be spoken to with contempt.”
“Then how will you be spoken to?” asked the duchess, treating her to a little acid smile that showed how highly she rated Miriam in this company.
“With the respect due my station,” Miriam threw at her, “or not at all.”
The dowager raised one hooded eyebrow. “Your station is a matter of debate, child, but not for you—and it is a debate that will be settled at Beltaigne, when I shall take great pleasure in ensuring that it is brought before the Clan council and given the consideration it deserves. And you might wish to give some thought to the matter of your competence, even if your identity is upheld.” The little smile was back, dripping venom: “If you joust with the elite, do not be surprised when you are unhorsed.” She turned and walked away, leaving Miriam gaping and angry.
She was just beginning to realize she’d been outmaneuvered when Brilliana appeared at her elbow. “Why didn’t you warn me?” she hissed. “Who is that poisonous bitch?”
Brilliana looked astonished. “But I thought you knew! That was your grandmother.”
“Oh. Oh.” Miriam clapped a hand to her mouth. “I have a grandmother?”
“Yes and a—” Brilliana stopped. “You didn’t know,” she said slowly.
“No,” Miriam said, looking at her sharply.
“Everyone says you’ve got the family temper,” Brill let slip, then looked shocked.
“You mean, like—that?” Miriam looked at her, aghast.
“Hmm.” Brill clammed up, her face as straight as a gambler with an inside flush. “Oh look,” she said, glancing behind Miriam. “Isn’t that—”
Miriam glanced around, then turned, startled. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she said, trying to pull herself together in the aftermath of the duchess’s attack.
The duke’s keeper of secrets nodded. “Neither was I, until yesterday,” he said stone-faced. He looked her up and down. “You appear to be settling in here.”
“I am.” Miriam paused, unsure how to continue. Matthias looked just as intimidating in Niejwein court finery as he had in a business suit. It was like having a tank take a pointed interest in her. “Yourself? Are you doing all right?”
“Well enough.” Matthias noticed Brilliana. “You. Please leave us, we have important matters to discuss.”
“Humph.”
Brill turned and was about to leave. “Do we?” Miriam asked, pointedly. “I rather think we can talk in front of my lady-in-waiting.”
“No we can’t.” Matthias smiled thinly. “Go away, I said.” He gestured toward the wall, where secluded window bays, curtain-lined against the cold, provided less risk of being overhead. “Please come with me.”
Miriam followed him reluctantly. If they ever make a movie about the Clan, they’ll have to hire Schwarzenegger to play this guy, she decided. But Arnie has a sense of humor. “What is there to talk about?” she asked quietly.
“Your uncle charged me to deliver this to you.” Matthias held out a small wooden tube, like a miniature poster holder. “For the king, a sworn affidavit testifying to your identity.” His expression was unreadable. “I am to introduce you to his majesty on behalf of my master.”
“I, uh, see.” Miriam took the tube. “Any other messages?”
“Security.” Matthias shook his head. “It’s not so good here. I gather that Baron Hjorth assigned you no guards? That’s bad. I’ll deal with it myself in the morning.” He leaned over her like a statue.
“Um.” Miriam looked up at him. “Is that all?”
“No.” His cheek twitched. “I have some questions for you.”
“Well. Ask away.” Miriam glanced around, increasingly uncomfortable with the way Matthias had corraled her away from the crowd. “What about?”
“Your upbringing. This is important because it may help me identify who is trying to kill you. You were adopted, I believe?”
“Yes.” Miriam shrugged. “My parents—I was in care, the woman I was found with was dead, stabbed, a Jane Doe. So when Morris and Iris went looking for a child to adopt, I was around.”
“I see.” Matthias’s tone was neutral. “Was your home ever burgled when you were a child? Did anyone ever attack your parents?”
“My—no, no burglaries.” Miriam shook her head. “No attacks. My father’s death, that was a hit-and-run driver. But they caught him; he was just a drunk. Random chance.”
“‘Random chance.’” Matthias sniffed. “Do not underestimate random chance.”
“I don’t,” she said tersely. “Listen, why the third degree?”
“Because.” He stared at her unblinkingly: “I take a personal interest in all threats to Clan security.”
“Bullshit. You’re secretary to the duke. And a member of the outer families, I believe?” She looked up at him. “That puts a glass ceiling right over your head, doesn’t it? You sit in Fort Lofstrom like a spider, pulling strings, and you run things in Boston when the duke is elsewhere, but only by proxy. Don’t you? So what’s in it for you?”
“You are mistaken.” Matthias’s eyes glinted by candlelight. “To get here, I left the duke’s side this morning.”
“Oh, I get it. Someone gave you a lift across and you caught the train.”
“Yes.” Matthias nodded. “And here is something else you should understand, your ladyship. I am not of high birth. Or rather, but for an accident of heredity…but like many of my relatives I have reached an accommodation with the Clan.” He took her arm. “I know a little about your history. Not everyone who lives here is entirely happy with the status quo, the way the Clan council is run. You have a history of digging—”
“Let go of my wrist,” Miriam said quietly.
“Certainly.” Matthias dropped his grip. “Please accept my apologies. I did not intend to give offense.”
Miriam paused for a moment. “Accepted.”
“Very well.” Matthias glanced away. “Would you care to hear some advice, my lady?”
“It depends,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal, trying to stay in control. First a hostile grandmother, now what…? She felt slightly dizzy, punch-drunk from too much information, much of it unwelcome. “In what spirit is the advice offered?”
Matthias’s face was as stiff and controlled as a mask. “In a spirit of friendly solicitude and perfect altruism,” he murmured.
She shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, then, I suppose I should take it in the manner in which it is intended.”
Matthias lowered his voice. “The Clan has many secrets, as you have probably realized, and there are things here that you should avoid showing a conspicuous interest in. In particular, the alignment of inner members, those who vote within the council, is vulnerable to disturbance if certain proxies were realigned. You should be careful of embarrassments; the private is public, and you never know what seeming accidents may be taken by your enemies as proof of your incompetence. I say this as a friend: You would do well to find a protector—or a faction to embrace—before you become a target for the fears of every conspirator.”
“Do you know who’s threatening me? Are you threatening me?” she asked.
“No and no. I am simply attempting to educate you. There are more factions here t
han anyone will admit to.” He shook his head. “I will visit you tomorrow and see to your guards—if that meets with your approval. I can provide you with a degree of protection if you choose to accept it. Do you?”
“Hah. We’ll see.” Miriam backed away from him, trying to cover her confusion. She retreated back into the flood of light shed by the enormous chandeliers overhead, back toward the torrent of faces babbling in their endless arrogant status games and power plays, just as Brilliana came hurrying up to her. “You have a summons!” Brill said hastily. “His royal highness would like you to present before him.”
“Present what, exactly? My hitherto-undiscovered family tree, a miracle of fratricidal squabbles and—”
“No, your credentials.” Brilliana frowned. “He gave them to you?”
Miriam held up the small scroll and examined the seal. It was similar to the one Olga had shown her, but different in detail.
“Yes,” she said, finally.
“Was that all he wanted?” Brilliana asked.
“No.” Miriam shook her head. “Time for that later. You’d better take me to his majesty.”
The royal party held their space in another window bay backed by curtains and shutters. All the cloth didn’t completely block the chill that exuded from the stonework. Miriam approached the king as she’d been shown, Brilliana—and a Kara she’d found somewhere—in tow, and made the deepest curtsy she could manage.
“Rise,” said his high majesty, Alexis Nicholau III. “I believe we have met? The night before last?”
He smelled of stale wine and old sweat. “Yes, your majesty.” She offered her scroll to him. “This is for you.”
He cracked the seal with a shaky hand, unrolled it, then nodded to himself and handed it to a page. “Well, if you’re good enough for Angbard, you’re good enough for me.”
“Um. Your majesty?”
He waved vaguely at the curtains. “Angbard says you’ll do, and what he says has a habit of sticking.” One of the two princes sidled up behind him, trailing a couple of attendants. “So I’ve got m’self a new countess.”
“It would appear so, your majesty.”
“You’re his heir,” said the king, relishing the last word.
Miriam’s jaw dropped. “M-majesty?”
“Well, he says so,” said King Alexis. “Says so right there.” He stabbed a finger at the page who held the parchment. “’N, who d’you think really runs this place?”
“Pardon me, please. He hadn’t told me.”
“Well, I’m telling you,” said the king. The prince—was it Creon or Egon? She couldn’t tell them apart yet—leaned over his majesty’s shoulder and stared at her frankly. “Doesn’t matter much.” The king sniffed. “You won’t fill that man’s shoes, girl. The man you marry might, though. If you both live long enough.”
“I see,” she said. The prince was clearly in his twenties, had long dark hair, an embroidered gold blouse, and a knife at his belt that looked to be a solid mass of gemstones. He regarded her with an expression of slack-jawed vacancy. What is this? Miriam wondered with growing fear. Shit, I knew it! They’re trying to set me up!
“There’s one way of seeing to that,” the king added. “I believe you’ve not been introduced to my son Creon?”
“Delighted, absolutely delighted!” Miriam tried to smile at him. Creon nodded back at her happily.
“Creon is long past an age to marry,” the king said thoughtfully. “Of course, whoever he took to wife would be a royal princess, you realize?” He looked down his nose at her. “Of course anyone who would be pledged to a royal household would need a very special dowry—” his glance was dark and full of veiled significance—“but I believe Angbard’s relatives might find the price affordable. And the prince would benefit from the intelligent self-interest of an understanding wife.”
“Uh-huh.” She looked past the king, at Prince Creon. The prince beamed at her, a delighted, friendly expression that was nevertheless undermined by the way he simultaneously drooled on his collar. “I’d be delighted to meet with the prince later, under more appropriate circumstances,” she gushed. “Delighted! Of course!” She beamed, desperately racking her brain for platitudes recovered from a thousand and one annual shareholders’ meetings gone bad. “I’d love to hear from you, really I would, but I am still being introduced to so many fascinating people and I owe you my full attention, it would be awful to devote less than my full energies and attention to your son! I quite appreciate your—”
“Yes, yes, that’s enough.” The king beamed at her. “There’s no need for sycophancy. I have heard so much I am far beyond its reach, and he—” he nodded—“will never be within it.”
Gulp. “I see, your majesty.”
“Yes, he’s an idiot,” King Alexis said genially. “And you’re too old.” Some instinct for self-preservation made Miriam swallow an automatic protest. “But he’s my idiot, and were he to marry his child would be third in line to the throne, at least until Egon’s wife bears issue. I urge you to think on this, young lady: Should you meet anyone suitable, I would be most interested to hear of them. Now begone with you, to these vastly important strangers who fascinate you so conspicuously. I won’t hold it against you.”
“Uh—thank you! Thank you most kindly!” Miriam fled in disarray, outmaneuvered for the third time this evening. Just what is it with these people? She wondered. The king’s overture was undoubtedly well-meant; just alarming and demoralizing, for it highlighted the depths of her own inadequacy in trying to play power politics with these sharks. The king wants to marry his son into the Clan, and he thinks I’m a useful person to talk to? It was desperately confusing. And why had Angbard named her his heir? That was the real question. Without an answer, nothing else seemed to make sense. What was he trying to achieve? Didn’t it make her some kind of target?
Target.
She stopped, halfway from pillared bay to dancing floor, as if struck in the head by a two-by-four.
“Milady Miriam? What is it?” Brilliana was tugging at her sleeve.
“Shush. I’m thinking.”
Target. Thirty-two years ago someone had pursued and murdered her mother, while she was en route to this very court to pay attendance to the king—probably Alexis’s father. During the civil war between the families, before the Clan peace was installed. Her mother’s marriage had been the peace settlement that cemented one corner of the arrangement.
Since she’d come here, someone had tried to kill her at least twice.
Miriam thought furiously. These people hold long grudges. Are the incidents connected? If so, it could be more than Baron Hjorth’s financial machinations. Or Matthias’s mysterious factions. Or even the dowager grandmother, Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth.
Someone ignorant of her past. Of course! If they’d known about her before, or on the other side, she’d have been pushed under a subway train or run over by a car or shot in a random drive-by incident long before she’d discovered the way back. How common is it to conceal an heir? She wondered.
“Mistress, you’ve got to come.”
“What is it?” Something about Brilliana’s insistent nudging attracted Miriam’s attention. It’s not me, it’s something to do with who I am, she realized vaguely, groping for the light. I’m so important to these people that they can’t conceive of me not joining in their game. It would be like the vice president refusing to talk to the Senate. Even if I don’t do anything, tell them I want to be left alone, that would be seen as some kind of deep political game. “What’s happening?” She asked distractedly.
“It’s Kara,” Brill insisted. “We’ve got a problem.”
“I’m here,” she said, shaking her head, dazed by her insight. I’ve got to be a politician, whether I like it or not… “What is it now?”
As it happened, Kara was somewhat the worse for wear, not to say steaming drunk. A young Sir Nobody-in-Particular had been plying her with wine, evidently fortified by freezing—her speech was
slurred and incoherent and her hair mussed—quite possibly with intent to climb into her clothing with her. He hadn’t got far, perhaps because Kara was more enthusiastic than discreet, but it wasn’t for want of trying. Though Kara protested her innocence, Miriam detected more than a minor note of concern on Brill’s part. “Look, I think there’s a good reason for going home,” Miriam told the two of them. “Can you get into the carriage?” she questioned Kara.
“Course I can,” Kara slurred. “N’body does ’t better!”
“Right.” Miriam glanced at Brilliana. “Let’s get her home.”
“Do you want to stay, mistress?” Brilliana looked at her doubtfully.
“I want—” Miriam stopped. “What I want doesn’t seem likely to make any difference here,” she said bleakly, feeling the weight of the world descend on her shoulders. Angbard named me his heir because he wanted me to attract whatever faction tried to kill my mother, she thought. Hildegarde takes against me because I can’t bring back, or be, her daughter, and now I’ve got these two ingenues to look out for. Not to mention Roland. Roland, who might be—
“Got a message,” announced Kara as they were halfway to the door.
“A message? How nice,” Miriam said drily.
“For th’ mistress,” Kara added. Then she focused on Miriam. “Oh!”
From between her breasts, she produced a thin scrap of paper. Miriam stuffed it in her hand-warmer and took Kara by the arm. “Come on home, you,” she insisted.
The carriage was literally freezing. Icicles dangled from the steps as they climbed in, and the leather seats crackled as they sat down. “Home,” Brilliana told the driver. With a shake of the reins, he set the horses to walking, their breath steaming in the frigid air. “That was exciting!” she said. “Shame you spoiled it,” she chided Kara. “What were you arguing about with those gentles?” she asked Miriam timidly. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“I was being put in my place by my grandmother, I think,” Miriam muttered. Hands in her warmer, she fumbled for the blister-pack of beta-blocker tablets. She briefly brought a hand out and dry-swallowed one, along with an ibuprofen. She had a feeling she’d be needing them soon. “What do you know about the history of my family, Brill?” she asked.
The Family Trade Page 27
