The Clan Corporate tmp-3

by Charles Stross

  Shortly after lunch (a tray of cold cuts delivered by two servants from the great hall below), there came a knock on her dressing-room door. “Who is it?” she called.

  “Me, Miriam! Are you decent?” The door opened. “What’s the matter?” Brilliana d’Ost stepped inside and glanced around. “Are you hiding from someone? The servants speak of you as if you’re a forest troll, lurking in the shadows to bite the next passing trapper’s head off.”

  “I’m not that bad, surely.” Miriam smiled. “Welcome back, anyway—it’s good to see someone around here who’s happy to see me. What have you been up to?” She stood up to embrace the younger woman.

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Brill said lightly, hugging her back. Then her smile faded. “Don’t assume I’m exaggerating. I’ve been very busy lately. Some things I can’t talk about.” She shed her bulky shoulder-bag and pushed the door shut behind her. “Miriam. What do you mean, happy to see you? What on earth has been going on here? I got word by way of the duke’s office—”

  “Am I in that much trouble, already?” Miriam asked, sitting down again. She saw that Brill had cut her black hair shorter than last time they’d met and was using foundation powder to cover the row of smallpox craters on the underside of her jaw. In her trouser-suit she could have been just another office intern on the streets of New York—Miriam’s New York.

  “Trouble?” Brill shrugged dismissively. “Trouble is for little people. But I hear word, ‘Brilliana, your mistress needs you, go and look to her side,’ and I am thinking that perhaps not all is well—and here you are, hiding like a bear with a headache!” She sat down on one of the upholstered stools that served as informal seating. “Oh, his excellency says, ‘Tell her to stop making waves and we’ll sort everything out.’ ”

  “Um. Right.” Miriam closed the lid on her laptop. “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “A glass of wine? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be precious, should you but have any.” Brill looked wistful as Miriam tugged the bell rope. “The weather is as impoverished on the other side. Homeful for the ducks, but not enchanting lest your feet be webbed.”

  “Nobody told me that Henryk was a palace ogre,” Miriam complained. The door opened: “Two coffees, cream, no sugar,” she directed. As it closed, she continued. “I’ve been stuck here, all isolated, for weeks. It’s not easy to fit in. Kara’s done her best to help me, but that isn’t much—she just isn’t perceptive enough to warn me before I put my foot in it. Andragh”—the head of her detachment of bodyguards—“is the strong silent type, not a political advisor. Mom’s busy and has her own problems, Olga’s in and out but mostly out, and I’m”—she took a deep breath—“lonely and bored.”

  “Yes, well, that’s what the boss said.” Brill brooded for a moment, then burst out, “Miriam, I’m sorry!”

  “Hey, wait a moment—”

  “I mean it! I blame myself. I was supposed to stick to you like glue, but while you were in the hospital I had other tasks to attend to and my—I can’t tell you who—needed me elsewhere. High priority jobs, lots of them—I’ve been run ragged. Our networks are in rags, new safe houses must be bought, identities created, safe procedures developed, contacts sanitized and renewed. An underground railroad which took us decades to build has to be scrapped and rebuilt from scratch, and his grace badly needs eyes and ears he can trust. I thought that you’d be all right here on your own, that not much could happen, but I didn’t realize—if I had I’d have made a fuss, demanded to be released back to you!”

  Brill was upset and Miriam, who hadn’t expected any of this, was taken aback. “Whoa! It’s all right. Seriously, we’ve been in the middle of a real mess and if you had to go fight security fires for Angbard—or whatever—then obviously, there were higher priorities than acting nursemaid for me. And you’re here now, which is the main thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I should have been here earlier.” Brill frowned. “Not letting you run amok.” For a moment her flashing grin returned. “So what else have you been up to?”

  Miriam sighed. “Etiquette lessons. Basic hochsprache.” She began ticking points off on her fingers: “Learning to ride, memorizing long lists of who’s related to who, learning to dance—court dances, over here, that is—endless appointments with the dressmaker. Oh, and getting pissed off about being given the runaround. About when I can get back to my business, that kind of thing.” She pulled a face. “What’s missing from this picture?” Besides brooding over— She stopped that line of thought dead. Brill hadn’t concealed her opinion of Roland very effectively, but she knew better than to pick a fight with Miriam over his memory, especially when Miriam very definitely wasn’t over him.

  “Let us see. Long lists of who is who—did Kara think to instruct you in their scandals or holdings? Or worse?” Brill raised an eyebrow. “No? Methought it unlikely. The rest is not unexpected. The travel restrictions . . .” She frowned again. “I think if it was solely the decision of your uncle you should be able to return from whence you were summoned immediately. He instructed me to tell you to pay your corvée regularly. I think he wishes to shine your loyalty, to demonstrate you are reliable enough as a courier to trust with world-walking. One week or two, he says, and you should be assigned a regular courier duty to the new outposts, with permission to overnight there when not needed here. This would be unofficial, but should anyone ask they can be told you’re running errands simple, not looking to your faction. Discretion is the watchword.”

  “Uh.” Miriam blinked, taken aback. “That’s—well. That’s far too easy. After yesterday, I was expecting the third degree . . .”

  “Henryk convinced you that you were under arrest?” Brill tossed her head as the door opened. “I’ll take that.” The maid closed the door and Brill transferred the silver tray to the top of a chest of drawers. “The baron is jealous of the demands upon his time, whosoever makes them,” she said. “He wished you subdued for the while. Either that, else there’s a discord over how to handle you. Here, this is yours.”

  Miriam took the mug. “I’m confused. Or he was trying to lower my expectations. Wasn’t he?”

  “In all probability.” Brill sat down again. “I can’t believe you bearded the lion in his den, without appointment,” she added with a curious grin.

  “I’m not sure I can, either,” Miriam admitted. “Understand, I’m not going to blame Kara—but if she was up to managing my affairs herself I’d have known better than to go barging in. The whole issue just wouldn’t have arisen in the first place. I’m not an idiot, Brill, just—”

  “I would never say you were an idiot!”

  “—inadequately informed. And I never said you thought I was, but you know what I mean, right? I don’t like looking stupid, Brill.”

  “Well.” Brilliana took a deep breath: “Be it so little consolation to you, I am supposed to be your confidante, and your honor is mine. It dishonors me—directly—should you look stupid. I plead purely out of self-interest, you understand, not at all speaking as your friend who wishes to return the favor you did me in Boston.” She smiled briefly and continued, “So if you tell me what you want to achieve, I shall try to find a way to make it happen, if not instantly then certainly as rapidly as possible. How should that go?”

  “Okay.” Miriam screwed her eyes shut. “That’s what Baron Henryk told me, you know: to work out what I want, then tell him. Over dinner, maybe next week.” She opened her eyes and focused on Brilliana as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps she was, for Helge’s ghost was prompting her, Take your allies where you find them, and Brill was surely the nearest thing to an ally Miriam had within the Clan. “So. How about it? First, we should arrange for me to dine with the good baron next week—and yourself, I think. Secondly, I want to get back out to see how my company is running, as soon as possible. Thirdly, Ma has been dropping scarily vague hints about marriage, and this crazy old—” She caught herself. “Sorry. The king’s mother. Ange
lin. She’s dropping broad hints. I need to know what she wants. Never mind that creepy Prince Egon. And what’s got into Ma—Patricia. Can you find out?”

  Brill’s eyes went very wide at the last confessions. She clenched her hands between her knees and leaned back on her stool: “The Queen Mother bespoke you? About Egon?”

  “No, Egon threatened me—the Queen Mother just wanted a chat—”

  “He threatened you? Miriam, that is completely beyond my conscience! Does Duke Angbard know?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” It was Miriam’s turn to look startled. “He’s head of the Clan’s intelligence apparatus! Isn’t it his job to know things like that?”

  “Only if people tell him!” Brill stood up, agitatedly. “I imagine I can do something toward your first two desires, but this—this is new to me. I think I had better write to the duke, by your leave. Miriam, you must steer clear of Prince Egon! He’s not—he’s—”

  “Whoa. I got the message, very clearly, that he doesn’t like me, or my relatives. Is that it? Or is there something more?”

  Brill nodded, vigorously. “You know their nicknames? The two princes?”

  “The . . .” Miriam’s forehead creased.

  “The Idiot and the Pervert,” Brill said tightly. “The Idiot is clear enough. The Pervert—there are rumors. Pray you don’t come to his attention.”

  “Huh?” Miriam stared at her. “What are you trying to tell me? He’s a rapist? Wouldn’t there be some kind of . . .” She trailed off, a sick realization stealing over her.

  “He’s the heir to the throne,” Brill said, clearly and slowly, as if talking to a young and rather stupid child. “He has, as a duke in his own right, the right of summary justice. The only lord with the authority to hear a case against him is his own father. Such a case would depend upon the plaintiffs and the witnesses living long enough to bring suit. This is not America, Miriam. There, if the rich and powerful want to get away with murder, they must pay lawyers and judges. Here, they are the judges.” Her expression brightened. “Having said that, if the crown prince tried to use such as you or I for sport, he could expect the full weight of the Clan to oppose him. Likely, even his father would disown him. You are not some peasant.”

  Miriam shuddered. “And if he comes to power?”

  “He won’t move against us.” There was a hard edge to Brilliana’s voice. “He may be wicked, but he isn’t stupid. We are like your America in some ways: our king rules by the will of the people—at least, the people who count. The succession has to be ratified by the landsknee, the dukes and barons. If he offends too many of them, he risks his coronation.” Her expression softened. “But please, make sure someone knows if he menaces you again. Otherwise . . .”

  “I get the picture.” Miriam nodded jerkily. Jesus, is Egon some kind of serial killer? Or am I misunderstanding something, and it’s just hardball politics? Somehow the idea that her encounter with Egon was simply political business as usual didn’t make sense. “What about the Queen Mother?”

  “Oh, she’s safe,” Brill said dismissively. “She’s family, after a fashion.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “And she noticed you? Ha. It can’t be about Egon, he’s already earmarked for an alliance with the Nordmarkt, which means—Creon? She aims to put him into play?” She looked distant for a moment. “A royal match would seem fantastical, upon its face, but—”

  “Not a hope,” Miriam said, tight-lipped. “I mean that.”

  “But are you . . . ?” Brilliana paused, taking in Miriam’s expression. “You would reject it?” she asked, wondering aloud. “You would reject a match, uncountenanced, to such a high estate?” For a moment she was starry-eyed, before practicality re-asserted itself. “It would hamper your plans, true—”

  “In spades,” Miriam said grimly. “And in case you’d forgotten, we’re not talking a prize catch, here, we’re talking sloppy seconds. The one everybody calls the Idiot, to his face.” She clenched her hands between her knees. “Not enough that Roland had to get himself killed, but this—”

  “I’m sorry, my lady!”

  “I don’t blame you,” Miriam said, startled out of her gloomy introspection. “Don’t ever think I blame you!” Brilliana had been there when Roland was killed, in that terrible minute in the duke’s outer office with Matthias’s psychotic bondsman. If Brill had gotten there faster, or if Roland hadn’t tried to play the hero, if she hadn’t been there, a lure for him—“This is not about you,” she said. Roland she might have married, giving her tacit consent to being bound into the Clan’s claustrophobic family structures. “I’m not planning on marrying anyone, ever again,” Miriam added bleakly. Anything else would be too much like an admission that she was absolutely part of the Clan. Miriam had read about Stockholm syndrome once, the tendency of hostages to come to identify with their abductors. It was a concept uncomfortably close to home: sometimes her new life felt like a perpetual struggle not to succumb to it.

  Brilliana adroitly changed the subject. “Would it please you to volunteer for an additional corvée? I can whisper to the duke that it would do you well to walk outside this pit of vipers.”

  “If you think he’d go for that,” said Miriam.

  “He will, if he believes you are being schemed around.” She frowned. “One other thing I would suggest.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “That you invite your mother to dine with you in private. As soon as possible.” Brill paused. “If she refuses, that will tell you everything you need to know.”

  “If she refuses—” Miriam stopped dead. “That’s ridiculous!” she burst out. “I know she’s been grumpy since being forced out of isolation, but she already said she didn’t blame me. I haven’t done anything to offend her, she’s my mother! Why wouldn’t she come to visit me?”

  “She might not, if she is being blackmailed.” Brill stood up. “Which would fit the other facts of your situation, milady. There’s enough of it about.” Her tone was crisp. “Meanwhile, shall we retire to the morning room? You must tell me all about your encounter with her majesty.”

  Letters were written and invitations issued. But as events turned, Miriam did not get the chance to talk to her mother in private—or to dine with the baron—over the next few days. The evening of Brill’s arrival, two summonses arrived for her: an invitation to a private entertainment at the royal court, hand-scribed in gold ink on vellum by a second secretary of the honorable lord registrar of nobles, and a formal request for her services, signed by the lord high second chamberlain of the Clan Trade Committee.

  Of the two, the court summons was more perplexing. “This is a dinner invitation,” Brill explained, holding the parchment at arm’s length between two fingertips. “The closed company. It is open to the royal household and their closest hangers-on and friends, only about sixty people, and there will be a private performance by, oh, some entertainers.” A theatrical troupe, or a chamber orchestra, or, if the royal family were feeling particularly avant garde, a diesel generator, a VCR, and a movie.

  “Will the Crown Prince be there?” Miriam asked tensely.

  “I don’t know. Possibly not; he hunts a lot in summer. But you need to attend this. To decline the invitation would require a most serious indisposition.” Brill looked nervous. “It does not wait upon your disposition, thus attendance is mandatory. I can come along, should you require me.”

  “I’d be scared to attend without you,” Miriam admitted. “How large a retinue can I take?”

  “Oh, to escort you there, as many as you like—but inside? One or two, at the most. And”—Brill glanced askance at the doorway—“Kara would be delighted to go, but might prove less than reliable.” Kara was running some errand or other, arranging an evening meal or scaring up some more servants or perhaps simply taking time by herself.

  “Uh-huh. And this other?” Miriam held up the other invitation.

  “I was not expecting it so promptly.” Brill’s brow wrinkled. “You would, perhaps, like to
return to Boston from time to time?” She smiled: “I believe it is probably the baron’s little joke on you, to ensure that you see as much of it as you want, with a sore head, in a borrowed cellar.”

  “Uh. Right.” Miriam grimaced. “But the royal—”

  “She wants to see you,” Brill said firmly. “What else could it be? You don’t ignore the Queen Mother’s whim, milady, not unless you are willing to risk the next one being delivered by a company of dragonards.”

  “Ah. I see.” Miriam peered at the letter. “When is it for?”

  “Next Sun’s Day Eve . . . good. There will be plenty of time to attire you appropriately and prepare you for the company.” Brill frowned minutely. “But the second chamberlain desires you to present yourself before him tomorrow. Perhaps I should look to your preparations for the royal court while you attend to your corvée?”

  Miriam took a deep breath then nodded. “Do that. Mistress Tanzig has held custody of my wardrobe in your absence, Kara managed to sort me out with the use of one of the livery coaches, and if I’m away you can prepare written notes for me while I’m gone.” She looked at the window pensively. “I wonder where he wants me to go?”

  I should have known better, Miriam thought ruefully, as she watched smoke belch across the railway station platform from the shunting locomotive. The breeze blowing under the open cast-iron arches picked up the smuts and dragged them across the early afternoon sky. She held her hat on with one hand and her heavy carpetbag with another as she looked along the platform, hunting for her carriage.

  “It’s—harrumph! A postal problem we have, indeed,” Lord Brunvig had said, clearing his throat, a trifle embarrassed. “Every route is in chaos and every identity must be vetted. We have lost couriers,” the old buffer had said, in tones of horror. (As well he might, for if a Clan courier went missing in Massachusetts he or she should very well be able to make their own way home eventually unless the worst had happened.) “So. We need a fallback,” he had added, quietly dignified. “Would you mind awfully . . . ?”