Elena opened her bag reluctantly and the guard looked inside. He blinked. "Haim. You may come, but please unload and safe your arm." He shrugged at Miriam apologetically. "I am sorry but it is a matter of policy—no armor-piercing loads are allowed. The rest of you, pistols only? No concealed shotguns?" His lips quirked. "Good. If you would follow me . . ."
Elena trailed behind them, her hands buried in her bag, from which muffled clicking noises were emerging.
Another hospital corridor leading to another hospital room, like a hotel with oxygen lines and diagnostic machines in place of the Internet hub and minibar. I'm getting to hate these places, she realized, as she followed the broad shoulders and buzz cut of her guide. "Have you been here before?" she asked Brill.
"Yes." Brilliana seemed reluctant to say more, so she dropped the topic.
They passed a set of fire doors, then a nursing station, and finally came to a door where a pair of machine-gun missionaries were standing easy. Their guide knocked twice, then opened the door. "More visitors," he said quietly.
The first thing Miriam saw in the small hospital room was a bed with a body in it and people gathered around, their backs turned to her. Then one of them looked round: "Olga!"
Olga's expression of startled relief emboldened Miriam to take a step forward.
"Miriam—"
Then the woman beside Olga looked up. "Miriam?" And her heart fluttered and skipped a beat.
"Mom?"
"Ach, scheisse. You didn't need to see him like this."
Iris stared up at her. She looked tired, and apprehensive—guilty, perhaps—and worried. Miriam looked past her at the figure in the bed. "Maybe not, Mom, but let me be the judge of that." There was an ache in her throat as she looked at Olga. "How is he?"
Olga shook her head. "He is not good," she said. "Earlier, he could speak, he spoke of you—but not since we moved him. He is barely conscious."
"Then why did you move—"
Iris cut in. "They were under siege, kid. You know, bad guys with machine guns shooting at them? They wouldn't have relocated him if staying was an option. You can ask Dr. MacDonald later if you want to know more." She nodded at Brilliana. "Who are your companions?"
Brill gestured. "They're mine. Ours." She put an odd emphasis on the words. "Who's seen his grace in this condition?"
"Everyone and their dog." Iris addressed Miriam: "I'm expecting that little shitweasel Julius Arnesen to turn up any minute now. Oliver Hjorth is making himself surprisingly useful, all things considered—I think he finally worked out how unreliable mother-dearest is"—the dowager Hildegarde, who seemed to take Miriam's mere existence as a personal insult—"and Mors Hjalmar is running interference for me. The silver lining on this particular shit sandwich is that most of the conservative tribal elders attended your betrothal, Miriam. They were in the Summer Palace when Egon staged his little divertissement—we came out much better. Also, they're on the back foot now because of the troubles at home. But once they get a grip on how ill my half brother is, they're going to jump us. You can be sure of it."
"Good!" said Miriam, surprising herself—and, from their reactions, everybody else. "Let them." She sidestepped around Brill and got her first good look at the duke.
Last time she'd seen him, months ago, Angbard had seemed implacable and unstoppable: a mafia don at the height of his power, self-assured and calculating, a healthy sixty-something executive whose polished exterior masked the ruthless drive and cynical outlook within. Lying half-asleep in a hospital bed, an intravenous drip in his left arm and the cables of an EEG taped to his patchily shaved head, he looked pathetic and broken. His skin was translucent, stretched thin across ancient muscles, the outline of bones showing through at elbows and shoulders; his closed eyes were half-sunk in their sockets. His breathing was shallow and slow.
Iris cleared her throat. "Are you sure you don't want to reconsider that?"
Miriam looked her mother in the eye. "Can you think of a better time?"
"Ladies—" Heads turned. The Clan security officer who'd brought them here paused. "Perhaps you would like to move to the conference room? He is not well, and the doctor said not to disturb him overly. They will try to feed him in half an hour, and need space. . ."
"That sounds like a good idea," said Brilliana. "Will you call us if any other visitors arrive, Carlos?"
"I'll do that." He nodded. "This way, please."
Over peppermint tea and refreshments in the conference room, Miriam eyed Iris warily. "You're looking healthy."
Iris nodded. "Over here, treatment is easier to come by." She was making do with a single cane, moving without any obvious signs of the multiple sclerosis that periodically confined her to a wheelchair. "And certain bottlenecks are . . . no longer present." Months ago, she'd as good as told Miriam that she was on her own: that Hildegarde—or other members of the conservative faction—had a death grip on the supply of medicines she needed, and if Iris went against their will she'd stay in a wheelchair in the near-medieval conditions of the Gruinmarkt until she rotted.
"How nice." Miriam managed an acidic smile. "So what happens now?"
Iris looked at her sharply. "That depends on you, kid. Depends on whether you're willing to play ball."
"That depends on what rules the ball game is played by."
Her mother nodded. "Yes, well; the rules are changing." She glanced at the young people gathered at the other end of the room, chatting over drinks and snacks. "There's a garden here. Are you up to pushing a wheelchair?"
"I think I can trust them, Mom." Miriam let a note of exasperation into her voice.
"More fool you, then," Iris said tartly. "Your uncle trusted me, and look where it got him. . . ." She trailed off thoughtfully, then shrugged. "You may be right about them. I'm not saying you're not. Just . . . don't be so certain of people. You can never tell in advance who's going to betray you. And we need to talk in private, just you and me. So let's get a wheelchair and go look at the flowers."
"What's to talk about that needs so much secrecy?" Miriam asked.
Iris smiled crookedly. "Oh, you'd be surprised, kid. I've got a plan. And I figure you've got a plan, too. So, let's walk, and I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
"After the last plan you hatched that got me sucked in . . ." Miriam followed Iris slowly into the corridor, shaking her head. "But it got worse. You know what those bastards have done to me?"
"Yes." A moment's pause, then: "Mother-dearest told me, right before the betrothal. She was very proud of it." Miriam quailed at the tone in Iris's—her own mother's—voice. A stranger might not have recognized it, but Miriam had grown up knowing what it signified: the unnatural calm before a storm of coldly righteous anger. "I'm appalled, but not surprised. That's how they play the game, after all. They were raised to only value us for one thing." They reached the nursing station; an empty wheelchair waited beside it. "If you could push? . ." Iris asked.
The garden was bright and empty, neatly manicured lawns bordered by magnolia hedges. "You said the rules had changed," Miriam said quietly. "But I don't see much sign of them changing."
"As I said, I've been developing a plan. It's a long-term project—you don't get an entrenched aristocracy to change how they do things overnight—and it relies on an indirect approach; the first step is to build a coalition and the second is to steer it. So I've been cutting deals, finding out what it'll take to get various parties to sign on. For it to succeed, we've got to work together, but everyone I've spoken to so far seems to be willing to do that—for their own reasons, if not for mine. Now . . . the one thing the Conservatives will rely on is the sure knowledge that mothers and daughters always work at cross-purposes. They always stab each other in the back, because the way the Clan is set up to encourage arranged first-cousin marriages puts them in conflict. But . . . our rules are different. That's a big part of why I raised you in the United States, by the way. I wanted a daughter I could trust, a daughter who'd trust me. A daughte
r I could work with rather than against."
Miriam stared at the backs of her hands on the handles of the wheelchair. A daughter's hands. Trusting, maybe too trusting. "What do you want?" she asked.
Iris chuckled quietly. "Well, let me see . . . knowing you, you're planning something to do with business models and new worlds. Am I right? You're plotting a business revolution." Without waiting for Miriam's assent she continued: "My plan is a bit different. I just want to make sure that no daughter of the families ever goes through what you've been put through ever again, for dynastic reasons. Or what I went through. That's all; nothing huge."
Miriam cleared her throat. "But. You'd need to break the Clan's entire structure to do that," she said conversationally. She could hear the blood throbbing in her ears.
"Yes," said Iris. "You see? You're not the only one of us who wants a revolution." Her voice dropped a notch. "The trouble is, like I said: I can't make it work without your help. You're in a powerful position, and better still, you've got a perfect excuse for moving across social boundaries rather than obeying convention. It's not going to be obvious to onlookers whether you're doing stuff deliberately or because you don't know better. Which gives you a certain freedom of action. . . . Meanwhile, my plan depends on us agreeing to cooperate, and that's something the braid system tends to discourage. See? A year ago you wouldn't have been this suspicious of my motives. That's part of the problem. I know it's a lot to ask of you—but I want you to trust me to help you."
Miriam stared at the back of her mother's head, her mind a whirl of emotions. Once, a year ago, she'd have trusted Iris implicitly, but now that she knew the forge her mother had been tempered in, a tiny voice urged caution. "Tell me exactly what you're planning," she said slowly, "then I'll tell you what I'm planning."
"And then?"
"Then perhaps we can do a deal."
Working in the belly of the beast, supervising the electrically-driven presses of the Petrograd Times and minding the telautograph senders that broadcast the message of the Committee for Democratic Accountability up and down the western seaboard, Erasmus had little time to spare for mundane tasks—he slept under his desk, having not had time even to requisition a room in a miner's flophouse—but a superb perspective on the revolution. "We're going to succeed," he told John Winstanley one morning, over tea. "I think this time it's actually going to work."
Winstanley had stared at him. "You thought it might not? Careful, citizen!"
"Feh." Burgeson snorted. "I've spent half my life in exile, citizen, working underground for a second chance. Ask Sir Adam, or Lady Bishop, if you doubt my commitment. And I'll willingly do it all over again and go for third time lucky, and even a fourth, if this one doesn't succeed. I'm just pleased to note that it probably won't be necessary and taking advantage of your discretion to vent a little steam in company where it won't fog the minds of the new fish."
"Ahem. Well, then, I certainly can't find fault with that. I'm sorry, Erasmus. Sometimes it's hard to be sure who's reliable and who isn't."
Burgeson turned his attention back to the pile of communiques on the table, studiously ignoring the Truth Commissioner. He was rapidly developing a jaundiced view of many of his fellow revolutionaries, now that the time to come out of the shadows and march for freedom and democracy had arrived; too many of them stood revealed as time-servers and insidious busybodies, who glowingly talked up their activities in the underground struggle with scant evidence of actually having done anything. I didn't spend twenty years as a fugitive just so the likes of you could criticize me for pessimism, citizen. The New Men seemed to be more preoccupied with rooting out dissenters and those lacking in ideological zeal than in actually building a better nation, but Erasmus wasn't yet sure enough of his footing to speak out against them. The rot had spread surprisingly far in a matter of weeks. Not so surprising, if what the membership subcommittee reports is right, he reminded himself; the council's declared members—whose number could all count on a short drop to the end of a rope if the revolution failed—had quadrupled in the past two weeks, and just keeping Polis informers out of the rank and file was proving a challenge.
"Let's see," he said. "Jim, if you'd be so good? . . ."
"Ayup." Jim, who Erasmus had drafted as a sub-editor as soon as he'd ascertained his literacy, picked up the top of the pile. "Lessee now. Yesterday, Telegraph Street, Cyprus Hill: A people's collective has seized control of the Jevons Ironworks and Steam Corporation factory and is restarting the manufacturing of parts for the war effort, with the arming of the Cyprus Hill militia as a first priority. The first four armored steamers have been delivered and are patrolling the Hispaniola Reaches already."
"Bottom drawer," Erasmus said instantly. "Next."
"Yesterday, Dunedin: The ships of the Ontario patrol have put into harbor and their officers and men have raised the people's flag. That's the last of the undeclared territorial and riverine patrols—"
"Get that on the wire. Hold page three, this sounds promising.
"A moment." Winstanley leaned forward. "Are those ships under control of people's commissioners? Because if not, how do we know they're not planning—"
Burgeson glared at him. "That's not your department," he said, "nor mine. If you want to waste your time, make inquiries; my job is to get the news out, and this is news." He turned back to Jim. "Get someone to look for some stock pictures of the Ontario patrol. I know: you, Bill. Go now, find pictures."
Bill, the put-upon trainee sub, darted off through the news room towards the stairs down to the library. "Next story," Erasmus said wearily.
"Yesterday. People's courts in Santiago have arrested and tried sixteen Polis commissars and eleven informers for crimes against the people: Three have been executed for ordering the arrest and torture of patriots during the Andean campaign last fall. More details . . ."
"Run it. Paper only, inside pages." Erasmus jotted down a quick note on his pad. "Next."
"Today. Communique from the New London people's committee: A people's provisional council will be voted in, by open polling next Tuesday, to form a constitutional convention that will determine the structure of the people's congress and establish a timetable for its election. Lots of details here. Um, delegates from the provinces are to attend, as are members of the inner council—"
"Stop." Erasmus stood. "That's the front page for you, right there, and get it on the wire. I'll need a copy for reference while I write the editorial. Go get it now." He glanced at Winstanley, who was examining his fingernails. "Coming?"
"What? Where?"
Erasmus closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling every second of his years. Give me strength. When he opened them again, he spoke evenly. "I don't know about you, but I am going to see Sir Adam, who will surely be preparing to depart very shortly, in order to learn what he expects of me in his absence." He paused. Winstanley was looking at him dumbly. "I expect he'll have some errands for you to run," he added, not unkindly.
"What—oh? But. Surely? . . ." Winstanley looked confused. "You weren't listening, were you? Or rather, you were listening to the voice, not to the words."
Winstanley flinched. "I say, there's no need for—" "Negativism?" Erasmus smiled humorlessly. "Get your jacket, man. We have to see the chief right away."
"The correct salutation is 'citizen.' " Winstanley levered himself out of his chair with a glare.
"Certainly, citizen." Erasmus headed for the door.
Over in the Committee Palace (its new name hastily hacked into a layer of fresh cement that covered the carved lintel of the former mayoral mansion), Erasmus found the usual ant-heap a-buzzing with petitioners, delegates from regional committees from places as far afield as Chihuahua and North Cascadia, guards drawn from the local militia, and the anxious families of arrested king's men. "Commissioner Burgeson, to see Sir Adam," he told the harried page waiting in the Hall of People's Justice (formerly the western state dining room).
"This way, sir. You're just in time.
"
Am I, now? He stifled a wince as the door opened. "Ah! Erasmus." Sir Adam grinned impishly and stood up, cutting off the manager or committee member who had been talking to him. "I'd just sent a courier for you. Did he arrive?"
"A courier? No, we must have passed in the street." Burgeson glanced round. The manager or committee member was an unfamiliar face; Burgeson's secretary Joseph MacDonald, though . . . "I take it you're going east?"
"We're going, Erasmus." Sir Adam inspected him curiously. "Unless you have more pressing concerns to keep you in this provincial capital than the business of keeping the people appraised of the progress of the new constitutional convention?"
"I'm sure Jim and Judas between them can keep the press and the wire running, just as long as you leave orders to keep that sheep Winstanley away from the hay. But I assumed we'd be here a bit longer. . . . Do you really need me merely as a stenographer or ordinary correspondent?"
"God, no!" Sir Adam looked him in the eye. "I need you in the capital, doing what you've started here, only on a larger scale. You pick the correspondents—and the editors—then leave them to it unless they go off course. But we're about to up our game, man, and I want someone riding herd on the gossipmongers who knows what he's doing."
Erasmus's cheek twitched. "The correct salutation is 'citizen,' or so Citizen Winstanley keeps reminding me, but aside from that I take your point." He grinned. "So what's the plan?"
"The militia—rather, an army air wing who have signed to us—are arranging for a mail packet to fly from Prussian Ridge encampment tonight. You and I will be on it, along with a dozen trusted cadre—Haynes, Smith, Joe, Miss Rutherford, a few others, I've written a memo—your copy is on its way to the wrong place—and we shall arrive in New London the day after tomorrow. Andrew White is collating the lists of longtime party members for us to review when we arrive. You will take your pick of staff for a new Communications Committee, which will take over from the Truth and Justice commissioners when the congressional committee sits. Edicts are being drafted to nationalize all the telautographs and printing presses and place them under your ministry. Are you for it?"
The Revolution Business: Book Five of the Merchant Princes Page 15
