The buzz of conversation grew louder. “I’ve done some more spreadsheet work,” Miriam added, now more confident. “If we do this, we’ll push the New British economic growth rate up by one or two percent per annum over its long-term average. We could do the same, though, importing intermediate technologies from there to here. There’s no point trying to train nuclear engineers or build airports in the Gruinmarkt, not with a medieval level of infrastructure, and a lot of the technologies up for sale in the U.S. are simply too far ahead to use here. Those of you who’ve wired up your estates will know what I’m talking about. But we can import tools and ideas and even teachers from New Britain, and deliver a real push to the economy over here. Within thirty years you could be traveling to your estates by railway, your farmers could be producing three times as much food, and your ships could dominate the Atlantic trade routes.”
Angbard rapped his gavel on the wooden block in front of him for attention. “The chair thanks Countess Helge,” he said formally. “Are there any more questions from the floor?”
A new speaker stood up: a smooth-looking managerial type who smiled at Miriam in a friendly manner from the bench behind her grandmother. “I’d like to congratulate my cousin on her successful start-up,” he began. “It’s a remarkable achievement to come into a new world and set up a business, from scratch, with no background.” Oh shit, Miriam thought uneasily. Who is this guy, and when’s he going to drop the hammer? “And I agree completely with everything she says. But clearly, her efforts could be aided by an infusion of support and experience. If we accept her motion to transfer the new business to the Clan as a subsidiary enterprise, it can clearly benefit from sound management—”
“Which it already has,” Miriam snapped, finally getting his drift. “If you would like to discuss employment opportunities—” and a pound of flesh in return for keeping out of my way, you carpetbagger “—that’s all very well—but this is not the time and place for it. We have an immediate problem, which is relations with the sixth family. I’ll repeat my proposal; that the new business venture be recognized as a Clan business, that membership in it be open to the Clan, and that handling the lost family be considered the responsibility of this business. Can we put this to a vote?”
Oliver Hjorth made to interrupt, but Angbard caught his hand and whispered something in his ear. His eyes narrowed and he shut up.
“I don’t see why we can’t settle it now,” muttered Julius. “Show of hands! Ayes! Count them, damn your eyes. Nays!” He brought his own hammer down briskly. “The Ayes have it,” he announced. He turned to Miriam. “It’s yours.”
Is that it? Miriam wondered dumbly, feeling as if something vast and elusive had passed her by in an eyeblink while her attention was elsewhere.
“Next motion,” said Angbard. “Some of you have been misinformed that I announced that I was designating Helge as my heir. I wish to clarify the issue: I did not do so. However, I do intend to change my designated successor—to Patricia Thorold-Hjorth, my half-sister. Can anyone dispute my right to do so?” He looked around the room furiously. “No?” He nudged Julius. “See it minuted so.”
Miriam felt as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders—but not for long. “A new motion,” said Oliver Hjorth. He frowned at Miriam. “The behavior of this long-lost niece gives me some cause for concern,” he began. “I am aware that she has been raised in strange and barbarous lands, and allowances must be made; but I fear she may do herself an injury if allowed to wander around at random. As her recent history of narrow scrapes shows, she’s clearly accident-prone and erratic. I therefore move that she be declared incompetent to sit as a member of the Clan, and that a suitable guardian be appointed—Baroness Hildegarde—”
“Objection!” Miriam turned to see Olga standing up. “Baron Hjorth, through negligence, failed to see to the subject’s security during her residence here, notionally under his protection. He is not fit to make determinations bearing on her safety.”
Oliver rounded on her in fury. “You little minx! I’ll have you thrown out on the street for—”
Bang! The gavel again. “Objection sustained,” Julius quavered.
Oliver glared at him. “Your time will come,” he growled, and subsided into grim silence.
“I am an adult,” Miriam said quietly. “I am divorced, I have created and managed a Clan subsidiary, and I am not prepared to surrender responsibility for my own security.” She looked around the hall. “If you try to railroad me out of the New London operation, you’ll find some nasty surprises in the title deeds.” She stared at Oliver: “or you can sit back and wait for the profits to roll in. It’s your choice.”
“I withdraw my motion,” Oliver growled quietly. Only his eyes told Miriam that he resented every word of it. There’d be a reckoning, they seemed to say.
“Check your gun.”
“I don’t need to.”
“I said, check it. Listen. I told Poul to go for help. Think he’ll have made it?”
“I don’t see why not.” Sullivan looked dubious, but he ejected the magazine and worked the slide on his gun, then reloaded and safed it.
“Matthias believes in belt and braces.” For a moment, Roland looked ill. “I think he’ll have left a surprise or two for us.”
“So?” Sullivan nodded. “You ready?”
“Ready?” Roland winced, then flipped his locket open. “Yes. Come on. On my back—Sky Father, you’re heavy! Now—”
Roland’s vision dimmed and his head hammered like a drum. His knees began to give way and he fell forward, feet slipping on the damp floor. Sullivan rolled off him with a shout of dismay. “What’s—”
Roland fell flat, whimpering slightly as one knee cracked hard on the concrete. Red, everything seemed to be red with bits of white embedded in it, like an explosion in an abattoir. He rolled over, sliding slightly, smelling something revolting and sweet as the noise of Sullivan being violently sick reached his ears.
The pounding headache subsided. Roland sat up, dismayed, staring at the wall behind him. It was chipped and battered, stained as if someone had thrown a tin of blackish paint at it. The smell. Roland leaned forward and squeezed his eyes shut. The blackness stayed with him, behind his eyelids. “Belt and braces.”
Sullivan stopped heaving. The stench refused to clear. Roland opened his eyes again. The post room in the basement of Fort Lofstrom had been painted with blood and bits of flesh and bone, as if a live pig or sheep had been fed through a wood chipper. There were small gobbets of stuff everywhere. On his hands, sticking to his trousers where he’d fallen down. He pulled a hunk of something red with hairs sprouting from it off the back of his hand. The furniture was shredded, and the door hung from its hinges as if an angry bull had kicked it.
“Belt and braces,” Roland repeated hoarsely. “Shit.”
Sullivan straightened up. “You sent Poul into this,” he said flatly. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.
“Shit.” Roland shook his head. A pair of legs, still wearing trousers, still attached at the hips, had rolled under the big oak table in the middle of the room. A horrified sense of realization settled over him. “Why hasn’t someone—”
“Because they are all fucking dead,” Sullivan hissed, moving to the side of the door and bringing his gun up. “Shut up!”
Silence. The stink of blocked sewers and slaughterhouse blood and recent vomit filled Roland’s nostrils. His skull pounded, bright diamond-flashes of light flickering in his left eye as the edges of his visual field threatened to collapse. He’d walked too soon after taking the beta blocker, and now he was going to pay the price. “Matthias planted a claymore mine on a wire at least once before,” he said quietly. “Well, someone did—and my guess is Matthias. Sloppy work, using the same trick over. Think there’ll be another one, or will he have used something else?”
“Shut up.” Sullivan darted around the corner and stopped, his back visible: Roland cringed, but there was no explosion. “Yeah.
Looks like it was an M18A1, we keep about a dozen in the armory. This here’s the clacker. Bastard.”
“See any more?” Roland shuffled forward slowly, still woozy and in pain from the too-hasty transfer.
“No, but—wait.” Sullivan came back into the devastated post room and looked around twitchily, ignoring Roland.
“What are you after?”
“Some kind of pole. Lightweight. And a flashlight.”
“Let me.” Roland shambled over to the curtain-covered sigil and yanked hard on the curtain. The curtain rail bent and he grabbed it, pulled it away from the wall. “Will this do?” he asked, carefully not looking at the knotwork design on the wall behind it.
“Yeah.” Sullivan took the rod and went back out into the corridor, advancing like an arthritic sloth. “Fuck me, that was bad.”
A thought struck Roland. “Are there any explosives in the armory, apart from the mines? And detonators?”
“Are you kidding?” Sullivan barked something that in better times might have been a laugh. “About a hundred kilos of C4, for starters! And gunpowder. Shitloads of it. Some of his farms, they’ve been, well, productive. Matthias took a serious interest in blowing things up, you know?”
“Gunpowder.” Roland digested the unpleasant possibilities this news opened up. “The fort should be locked down. Where is everybody?”
“Like I said, dead or gone.” Sullivan looked around at him. “What are you going to—”
Roland pushed past him. “Follow me.”
“Hey wait! There might be mines—”
“There won’t be.” Roland dashed down the corridor. There was a servant’s staircase at the end. He took the steps two at a time, until he was gasping for breath. “He dismissed the help. Good of him.” The staircase surfaced in the scullery, and the door was shut. “If I’m right, he’s put the whole damn fort on a time fuse. It could blow any minute.”
“A bomb? There could be more than one, couldn’t there?”
Roland opened the door half an inch, running a finger up and down the crack to make sure there were no wires. “It’s clear.”
“If you do that too fast—”
“Come on!” Through the scullery and up another short flight of steps, round a corner, then into the main ground-floor hallway. The fort was eerily empty, cold and desolate. Roland didn’t bother with the main door, but instead opened an arched window beside it and scrambled through. “Stables!”
Matthias might have sent the servants away, but he sure as hell hadn’t thought about the livestock. Sullivan and Roland saddled up a pair of mares, and the guard worked one of the big gates open while Roland waited, clutching a blanket around his shoulders. “You go get help,” Sullivan panted up at Roland. “I’ll go see if the armory is wired. I might be able to stop it.”
“But you’ll—”
“Shut the fuck up and listen for once! If you get help, you’ll need a safe post room to walk through, won’t you? I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for the others. Go get the gods-damned Clan and get back here as fast as you can. I’ll see it’s safe for you.”
Roland paused for a moment. “Take my keys,” he said, and tossed them to the guard. “They’re a master set—only place they won’t get you into is the old man’s office.” Sullivan took the keys, then watched until Roland disappeared around the first bend in the road before he turned and headed back into the compound thoughtfully. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy: He hadn’t even had to hint about the place being booby-trapped. Now all he needed was time to complete the boss’s business, and a lift home, then he could claim his reward.
The meeting was winding down in a haze of fatigue, recriminatory posturing, and motions to hear trivial complaints. Miriam slumped back in her seat tiredly. Please, let this be over, she thought, watching Iris from the other side of the room. If she was aching and bored, her mother must be feeling it ten times worse.
Baron Horst of Lorsburg had the floor, and was using it for all it was worth. “While the provisions of article eighteen of the constitution are still valid, I’d like to raise a concern about paragraph six,” he droned, in the emolient tones of a lay preacher trying to get across the good message without boring his flock into catatonia in the process. “The issue of voting partners failing to attend to bills of—”
He was interrupted by a tremendous banging on the outer door. “What’s that?” demanded Julius the ancient. “Sergeant! Have silence outside the room!”
The sergeant-at-arms marched over to the door, yanked it open, prepared to berate whoever was outside—but instead took a step back.
Roland lurched into the room. He was dressed for the road in a battered gray coat and a hat pulled down over his face: His expression was deathly. Miriam had another surprise coming: Brill was right behind him. “Permission to approach the Dean of Security?” he rasped.
“Approach,” Angbard called. “And explain yourself. Assuming the news is fit for public hearing.”
Roland glanced round the room. “Don’t see why not.” He passed Miriam without any indication that he’d seen her. “Big problem,” he announced tersely, and Miriam swallowed her anger as she realized he was exhausted and out of breath, walking painfully, as if his clothes chafed.
“We’ve been betrayed. Fort Lofstrom is cut off, here and on the other side. What’s worse is, they’ve got the February shipment from Panama sitting in Boston along with the post, and someone has told the Feds—there’s a DEA stakeout in progress.” He nodded at Angbard. “Looks like our traitor has identified himself. Bad news is, he got away and he’s decided to take down the entire Massachusetts end. I only just got out by the skin of my teeth. We’ve got nine outer family members trapped on the other side with a SWAT team on their doorstep. To make matters worse, there are booby traps in Fort Lofstrom—at least one bomb. We lost Poul, Poul of Hjalmar. He walked into a claymore mine.”
“Order! Order!” Angbard leaned down and stared at Roland. “Let’s get this straight. Fort Lofstrom on this side has been barred to us. On the other side, its doppelgänger is under siege. There is a huge consignment sitting over there, and family members who lack the talent to extricate themselves. Is that broadly correct?”
“Yeah.” Roland slumped against the table. “I world-walked into the Fort. Blood all over the walls of the post room. Sullivan got me a horse and, and I rode over to a place Miriam told me about. Used the spare locket she gave me, the one she took from the enemy.” The room was in uproar, half the Clan on their feet. “Lady Brilliana got me on a train in the new world, from Boston to New London. That’s how I got here so fast. The shit hit the fan yesterday. By now, we’re either looking at a pile of rubble on the other side with our people trapped under it and the FBI digging toward them, or something worse.” He rubbed his head carefully, as if unsure whether it was still there. “I had to make three crossings in the past twelve hours.”
“Security summit, clear the room!” called the sergeant-at-arms. “By your leave, sir,” he told Julius apologetically.
“Can we get in from the far side? From New Britain?” asked Miriam.
Angbard stared at her. “You know more about that than we would, I think,” he said. “Your opinion?”
“Hmm.” Miriam thought for a moment. “You’re sure it was Matthias?” she asked Roland.
Roland nodded wordlessly. “Sir?” He looked up at Angbard, tiredly.
“Yes,” Angbard said darkly. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him. I’ve had my suspicions for a while now.” He paused, looking as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Obviously I haven’t been watching him closely enough. That’s not a mistake I’m going to repeat.” He glanced at Miriam. “Do you have anything to add?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, but I don’t believe in coincidences, and the way the hidden families kept going after me—” she glanced at Baron Hjorth, who stared back at her for a moment, then looked away. “I think it’s clear who he was in the pay of.” She shrugged.
“It doesn’t change my position. I think you should release Lin, send the kid home with a message offering a cease-fire. If they accept, it means your Keeper of the Secrets is cut off with no retreat and no friends. If they refuse, we’re no worse off. It might make them think we’re weak, but that can only be an advantage right now.”
“I’ll think about it,” Angbard said coolly. “But right now it’s not a priority. What would you suggest doing about Boston? If you have any ideas, that is.”
“Uh.” She paused. “Two or three crossings a day: If we do more we’ll be in no condition for anything, and this needs to be fixed quick. I think we’ll have to cross over to New London, won’t we? If Olga and I and a bunch of others go, it’ll take us a bit longer to get to Boston by steam train, but from there it’s one hop into Fort Lofstrom by the back door. Faster than going by stagecoach, anyway. We’ll have to carry some extras, who’ll need to go over into the basement under siege and pull in our people before the FBI and DEA dig through to them. Think that would work?”
“I think it’s our only chance.” Roland looked worried. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her.
“Do it,” said Iris, unexpectedly. “It’s your future.” She met Miriam’s gaze. “I’ll be alright.”
“I know you will.” Miriam walked toward her. “Please be here when I get back,” she said. “We’ve got a lot of talking to do.”
Brill cleared her throat. “I’m coming,” she said calmly.
“You can’t—oh.” Miriam turned back to Angbard. “She can come.”
“She’ll have to. How many copies of the lost family’s sign have you got?”
The Hidden Family: Book Two of Merchant Princes Page 30
