The Clan Corporate: Book Three of The Merchant Princes

by Charles Stross

  She ran down, breathing heavily. Somewhere in the middle of things, she realized, she’d spilled a couple of drops of wine on the polished walnut top of Henryk’s desk. She leaned forward and blotted them up with the cuff of her jacket.

  “You make a persuasive case,” Henryk said thoughtfully.

  Yes, but do you buy it? Miriam froze inside. What have I put my foot in here?

  “Personally, I believe you. But I hope you can see, I have met you. I can see that you are a lady of considerable personal integrity and completely honorable in all your dealings. But the Clan is at this moment battling for its very survival, and the people who make such decisions—not Angbard, he directs, his perch is very high up the tree indeed—don’t know you from, from your lady-in-waiting out there. All they see is a dossier that says ‘feral infant, raised by runaway on other side, tendency toward erratic entrepreneurial behavior, feminist, unproven reliability.’ They know you came back to the fold once, of your own accord, and that is marked down in your favor already, isn’t it? You’re living in the lap of luxury, taking in the social season and pursuing the remedial studies you need in order to learn how to live among us. Expecting anything more, in the middle of a crisis, is pushing things a little hard.”

  “You’re telling me I’m a prisoner,” Miriam said evenly.

  “No!” Henryk looked shocked. “You’re not a prisoner! You’re—” He paused. “A probationer. Promising but unproven. If you keep to your studies, cultivate the right people, go through channels, and show the right signs of trustworthiness, then sooner rather than later you’ll get exactly what you want. All you need to do is convince the security adjutants charged with your safety that you are loyal and moderately predictable—that you will at least notify them before you engage in potentially dangerous endeavors—and they will bow down before you.” He frowned, then sniffed. “Your glass is empty, my dear. A refill, perhaps?”

  “Yes, please.” Miriam sat very still while Henryk paced over to the sideboard and refilled both glasses, her mind whirling. They see me as a probationer. Right. It wasn’t a nice idea, but it explained a lot of things that had been happening lately. “If I’m on probation, then what about my mother? What about Patricia?”

  “Oh, she’s in terrible trouble,” Henryk said reassuringly. “Absolutely terrible! Ghastly beyond belief!” He said it with relish as he passed her the glass. “Go on, ask me why, you know you’re dying to.”

  “Um. Is it relevant?”

  “Absolutely.” Henryk nodded. “You know how we normally deal with defectors around here.”

  “I—” Miriam stopped. Defection was one of the unforgivable crimes. The Clan’s ability to function as an organization devoted to trade between worlds scaled as a function of the number of couriers it could mobilize. Leaving, running away, didn’t merely remove the defector from the Clan’s control; it reduced the ability of the Clan as a whole to function. Below a certain size, networks of world-walkers were vulnerable and weak, as the Lee family (stranded unknowingly in New Britain two centuries ago) had discovered. “Go on.”

  “Your mother has unusual extenuating circumstances to thank for her predicament,” Henryk stated coolly. “If not for which, she would probably be dead. Angbard swears blind that her disappearance was planned, intended, to draw the faction of murderers out, and that she remained in contact with him at all times. A sleeper agent, in other words.” Henryk’s cheek twitched. “Nobody is going to tell the duke that he’s lying to his face. Besides which, if Patricia hadn’t disappeared when she did, the killing would have continued. When she returned to the fold”—a minute shrug—“she brought you with her. A life for a life, if you like. Even her mother can see the value of not asking too many pointed questions at this time, of letting sleeping secrets lie. And besides, the story might even be true. Stranger things happened during the war.”

  Henryk paused for a sip of wine. “But as you can see, your background does not inspire trust.”

  “Oh.” Miriam frowned. “But that’s not my fault!”

  “Of course not.” Henryk put his glass down. “But you can’t escape it. We’re a young aristocracy, Helge, rough-cut and un-civilized. This is a marcher kingdom, second sons hunting their fortune on the edges of the great forest. The entire population of this kingdom is perhaps five million, did you know that? You could drop the entire population of Niejwein into Boston and lose them. The Boston you grew up in, that is. Without us, without the Clan, Gruinmarkt culture and high society would make England in the fifteenth century look cosmopolitan and sophisticated. It’s true that there are enormous riches on display in the palaces and castles of the aristocracy, but it’s superficial—what you see on display is everything there is. Not like America, where wealth is so overwhelming that the truly rich store their assets in enormous bank vaults and amuse themselves by aping the dress and manners of the poor. You’re a fish out of water, and you’re understandably disoriented. The more so because you had no inkling of your place in the great chain of existence until perhaps six months ago. But you must realize, people here do not labor under your misconceptions. They know you for a child of your parents, your thuggish dead father and your unreliable tearaway mother, and they don’t expect any better of you because they know that blood will out.”

  Miriam stared at her white-haired, hollow-cheeked great-uncle. “That’s all I am, is it?” she asked in a thin voice. “An ornament on the family tree? And an untrustworthy one, at that?”

  “By no means.” Henryk leaned back in his chair. “But behavior like this, this display of indecorous—” He paused. “It doesn’t help your case,” he said tensely. “I understand. Others would not. It’s them you have to convince. But you’ve chosen the middle of a crisis to do it in—not the best of timing! Some would consider it evidence of guile, to make a bid for independence when all hands are at the breach. I don’t for a minute believe you would act in such a manner, but again: it is not me who you must convince. You need to learn to act within the constraints of your position, not against them. Then you’ll have something to work with.”

  “Um. I should be going, then.” She rubbed the palm of one hand nervously on her thigh. “I guess I should apologize to you for taking up your time.” She paused for a moment and forced herself to swallow her pride. “Do you have any specific advice for me, about how to proceed?”

  “Hmm.” Baron Henryk stood and slowly walked over to the window casement. “That’s an interesting question.” He turned, so that his face was shadowed against the bright daylight outside. “What do you want to achieve?”

  “What do I—” Miriam’s mouth snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed against the glare. “I think I made myself clear enough at the extraordinary meeting three months ago,” she said slowly.

  “That’s not what I asked.” It was hard to tell, but Henryk seemed to be smiling. “Why don’t you go and think about that question? When you have a better idea, we should talk again. If you’d like to join me for dinner, in a couple of weeks? Have your confidante write to my secretary to arrange things. Meanwhile, I’ll try to find out what has happened to your assistant, and I’ll ask someone in the security directorate to look into your affairs in New Britain so that you can go back to them as soon as possible. But if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to deal with right now.”

  Miriam rose. “Thank you for finding some time for me,” she said stiffly. Halfway to the door she paused. “By the way, what is it you do exactly?”

  Henryk stood. “Oh, this and that,” he said lightly. “Remember to write.”

  Outside in the corridor, Miriam found a nervous Kara shifting from foot to foot impatiently. “Oh, milady! Can we go now?”

  “Sure.” Miriam walked toward the staircase, her expression pensive. “Kara, do you know what Baron Henryk does here?”

  “Milady!” Kara stared at Miriam, her eyes wide. “I thought you knew!”

  “Knew? Knew what?” Miriam shook her head.

  Kara scurrie
d closer before whispering loudly. “The baron is his majesty’s master of spies! He collects intelligence for the crown, from countries far and wide, even from across the eastern ocean! I thought you knew . . .”

  Miriam stopped dead, halfway down the first flight of stairs. I just barged in on the Director of Central Intelligence, she thought sickly. And he told me I’m under house arrest. Then: “Hang on, you mean he’s the king’s spymaster? Not the Clan’s?”

  “Well, yes! He’s a sworn baron, milady, sworn to his majesty, or hadn’t you noticed?” Kara’s attempt at sarcasm fell flat, undermined by her frightened expression. “We’re all his majesty’s loyal subjects, here, aren’t we? Aren’t we?”

  TRANSLATED TRANSCRIPT BEGINS

  (Click.)

  “Ah, your lordship, how good to see you!”

  “On the contrary, the honor is mine, your grace.” (Wheezing.) “Here. Walther, a chair for his grace, damnit. And a port for each of us, then make yourself scarce. Yes, the special reserve. I’m sure you’ve been even busier than I, your grace, this being a tedious little backwater most of the time, but if there’s anything I can do for you—”

  “Nonsense, Henryk, you never sleep! The boot is on the other foot and the prisoner shrieking his plea as you heat it. You won’t get me with that nonsense—ah, thank you Walther.”

  “That will be all.”

  (Sound of door closing.)

  “Sky Father’s eye! That’s good stuff. Please tell me it’s not the last bottle?”

  “Indeed not, your grace, and I have it on good authority that there is at least a case left in the Thorold Palace cellars.” (Pause.) “Six?” (Pause.) “Five? Damn your eyes, four and that’s my lowest!”

  “I’ll have them sent over forthwith. Now, what brings you round here in a screaming hurry, nephew, when I’m sure there are plenty of other fires for you to be pissing on? Would I be right in thinking it’s something to do with woman trouble? And if so, which one?”

  (Clink of glassware.)

  “You know perfectly well which one could get me out of the office, pills or no pills. It’s the old bitches, Henryk, they are meddling in that of which they know not, and they are going to blow the entire powder keg sky-high if I don’t find a way to stop them. And I can’t just bang them up in a garret like the young pullet—”

  “The shrew?”

  “She’s not a shrew, she’s just overenthusiastic. A New Woman. They’ve got lots of them on the other side, I hear. But the old one, her manners may be good but her poison is of a fine vintage and she is getting much too close to our corporate insurance policy. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Your sister—”

  “Crone’s pawn, uncle, Crone’s pawn. Do you think it was coincidence that it was Helge who came calling on you, and not Patricia? Patricia is in a cleft stick and dare not even hiss or rattle her tail, lest the old bitches lop it off. If we could move her back to the other side things would be different, but it’s all I can do to keep the situation over there from coming apart on us completely—we’ve lost more couriers in the past month than in the preceding decade, and if I can’t stop the leakage I fear we will have to shut the network down completely. Sending Patricia back simply isn’t an option, and now that she’s here she’s less effective than we expected. It’s that blasted wasting disease. The old bitches and their quackery have her mewed up like a kitten in a sack. Meanwhile, Helge isn’t much use to us here, either. I’ve sent her Lady B to take her in hand, which might begin to repair the damage to her high esteem among her relatives, in a year or three—or at least stop her from dancing blind in the minefield—but you can see how isolated she is. A real disappointment. I had such high hopes that those two might tackle the bitches, but the cultural barrier is just too high.”

  “Come now, Angbard, there’s no need to be so pessimistic! The best-laid plans, et cetera. So what do you think the old she-devil is up to?”

  “Well, I can’t be certain, but she’s certainly done something to shut Patricia up. And I find it somewhat fascinating to see Helge outmaneuvered so thoroughly without even knowing who she’s up against.”

  “Do you think Patricia hasn’t told her?”

  “Do I—” (Pause.) “Henryk, you sly fellow! And here I was thinking I was asking you for information!”

  “The rack cares not who sleeps on it, and—”

  “Indeed, yes, all very well and apposite and all that. Henryk, the old bitches are turbulent and the she-devil-in-chief is plotting something, I feel it in my bowels. I have more important things to worry about right now. I do not have time to be looking over my shoulder for daggers. I do not have time to dance the reel to the old bitch’s hurdy-gurdy, when I can’t sleep at night for fear of conspirators. What do I need to know?”

  “I say—steady on, your grace! Here, let me remedy your glass . . . my agents at court opine that the she-devil has carried off a coup. Her stroking of the royal ego has come to something, it seems, and sparked a passing fancy with the revenant.”

  “The—what? What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “The royal succession—Oh dear! Here, use my kerchief.”

  (Bell rings.)

  “Walther! Walther, I say!”

  (Sound of door opening.)

  “A towel for his grace! Your grace, if you would care to make use of my wardrobe—”

  “No need, thank you uncle, I am sure a little wine stain will hurt only my dignity.”

  “Yes, but—”

  (Sound of door closing.)

  “That’s better.” (Pause.) “The royal succession! Curse me for an imbecile, which one is it, the Pervert or the Idiot? Don’t tell me, it’s the Idiot. More tractable, and the Pervert’s already promised to the Nordmarkt.”

  “That, and the Pervert’s bad habits are becoming increasingly difficult to cover for. Royal privilege is all very well, but if Egon were anyone other than his father’s eldest son he’d be learning wisdom from the Tree Father by now. A nastier piece of work hasn’t graced the royal court in my memory. If his father is forced to notice his habits . . . remember our ruling dynasty’s turbulent origins? Nobody wants to see another civil war, not with Petermann feeling his oats just across our northern border and the backwoods peers staring daggers at our Clan families’ new earned wealth. I believe the old bitches think that the Pervert will go too far one of these days, in which case owning the Idiot would throttle two rabbits with one snare, nailing down Helge and securing the royal bloodline. They’re not stupid, they probably think Helge is smart enough to see the advantages, to take what’s being offered her, and to play along. One more generation and we—they—would be able to splice the monarchy into the Clan for good. Helge’s a bit old, but it wouldn’t be a first pregnancy—don’t look so shocked, we’ve got her medical records—and she’s in good health. Pray for an accident for the Pervert, a single pregnancy, and her payoff is, well, you know how they work.”

  “They’re crazy!”

  “What? You think she’d refuse?”

  “Think? Blue mother, Henryk, did you listen to her at all? She is, to all intents and purposes, a modern American woman. They do not marry for duty. It was all I could do to stop her eloping with that waste of money, brains, and time, Roland! The old bitches had better hope they’ve got their claws into her deep, or she will kick back so hard—”

  “Patricia.”

  “Oh. What? That? Hmm, I suppose you’re right. She’s rather fond of her mother, that’s true. But I’m not sure it’ll be enough to hold her down in the long run. It raises an interesting question of priorities, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean, the insurance policy versus the throne? Or . . . ?”

  “Yes. I think—hmm. Helge, wearing her Miriam head, would understand the insurance policy. But not the old bitches. Whereas Patricia, for all her modernity and skeptical ways, probably wouldn’t buy it. She was raised by the she-devil, after all. And, ah, Miriam is very creatively unreliable. Yes. What do you t
hink?”

  “You’re hatching one of your plans, your grace, but you forget that I am not a mind reader.”

  “Oh, I apologize. Given: we do not want the old bitches to get their hands on the levers of temporal power, are we agreed? They’ve got too much already. They seem to have decided—well, it’s a bit early to be sure, but marrying Helge to the Idiot would simultaneously tie her down and put a spoke in the wheel the reformers are trying to spin, while also tying down Patricia. That debating society . . . Luckily for us, Helge is unreliable in exactly the right sort of way. Right now they’ve tied her up like a turkey and she hasn’t even realized what’s going on. That’s not very useful to us, is it? I say we should give her enough rope—no reason to tie the noose so tightly she can’t escape it, what—and then a little push, and see which way she runs. Yes? Do you think that could work?”