The Clan Corporate: Book Three of The Merchant Princes

by Charles Stross

  She hit a brick wall. A series of unwelcome visions began playing themselves out in the theater of her imagination. There went Angbard—a scheming old bastard he might be, but still her uncle—shoved into a federal penitentiary at his age. Lock him up for life and throw away the key. And there went Iris—the entire family, everybody, they could arrest us all for complicity, criminal conspiracy. Right? There went Olga. And Brill—probably for murder, in her case, come to think of it. The government would play hardball. They’d find some way to come over here and mess things up. If necessary, they’d chop up a captured world-walker’s brains to figure out what made them tick, grow it in a petri dish and mount it on a bomber. Before 9/11 she wouldn’t have credited it, but this was a whole different world, these were dangerous times, and the administration might do anything if it thought there was a serious threat to the nation.

  Forget law and order: it would be all-out war. Afghanistan was a source of hard drugs and terrorism before 9/11, and look what they’d done there when the rules changed. Everybody had cheered the collapse of the Taliban—and yes, those bastards had it coming—but what about the village goatherds on the receiving end of cluster bombs, intended for sheep that looked like guerillas when viewed in infrared from thirty thousand feet? What about the women and children killed when some bastard up the road with a satellite phone decided to settle a local long-running blood feud using a B-52 bomber, by phoning the CIA and telling them that there were Al-Qaida gunmen in the next village?

  I can’t do that, Miriam thought despairingly. She flopped back on the bed again. I want out, sure. But do I want out badly enough to kill people? If the only person to suffer was Baron Henryk, perhaps the answer was yes—and that asshole doctor, she wouldn’t mind hurting him, or at least putting him through the same level of humiliation he’d inflicted on her. But the idea of turning everyone in the Clan over to the US government cut too close to the bone. I am one of them, she realized, turning the unwelcome idea over in her mind to examine it for feel. I don’t think like them and I hate the way they work, but I can’t hand my family over to the government. Leaving aside the fact that the Clan thought they were a government—and had a reasonable claim to being one—that thought clarified things somewhat.

  And then there’s Mom.

  Miriam took a deep breath. Her mood of fragile hope crashed, giving way to bleak depression. Henryk’s got me. Iris is right, I’m out of options. Unless something unexpected happens, I am stuck with this. I’ll have to go through with it. She winced. What did they say about pregnancy? You can’t world-walk while you’re expecting. Another unwanted, hostile imposition on her freedom. He won’t need a prison cell while I’m pregnant, she realized. And afterward . . . when Iris had made her escape she’d been young and healthy. By the time Miriam delivered, she’d be close to her mid-thirties.

  There was a knock. Miriam pushed herself upright and stretched. The knock repeated, tentative, uncertain of itself. Not the ferret, she thought, walking over to the door. “Yes?” she demanded.

  “Milady, we’re to—” She didn’t understand the rest, but she knew the tone of voice. She opened the door.

  “You are, me, to dress?” Miriam managed haltingly. The two servants bobbed. “Good.” She shrugged. This is going to happen, she realized dismally, walking toward the wardrobe as if on autopilot. Oh well. I guess I should leave this to Helge, then. Helge? “Now what am I to wear?” she said aloud, surprising herself with her diction.

  The Clan weren’t big on subtle messages. Helge let the servants lace her into an underdress, then help her into a winter gown of black silk and deep blue velvet. It had long sleeves, full skirts, and a neckline that rose to a high collar. Current fashion favored a revealing décolletage, but she was in a funereal mood. She wrapped a thick rope of pearls around her waist as a belt, and looped another around her collar. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her cheek was coming up in a fine bruise where Henryk had struck her, so she picked out a black lace veil, cloak, and matching gloves from her armoire. Let ’em wonder what kind of damaged goods they’re buying, she thought bitterly. This outfit wouldn’t give much away: truthfully, it looked like Victorian mourning drag. “I’m ready to go now,” she announced, entering the reception room. “Where is that, that idle—”

  “Right here.” The front door was open, the ferret standing beside it. “My, how mysterious.”

  “Is the coach ready?”

  “If you would care to follow me . . .”

  She managed to descend the staircase without tripping, and she clambered into the coach that was waiting. A sealed coach, with shuttered windows, she observed. Still a prisoner, I see, she noted ironically. Someone doesn’t trust me.

  The air was close and the evening warm. Helge fanned herself as the coach clattered and swayed out of the courtyard and across the streets. Alone in the dark, she brooded listlessly. Is this the right thing to do? she wondered, then felt like kicking herself: See any alternatives, stupid? She felt stiff and defensive, her dress constricting and hot—more like a suit of armor than a display of glamour and wealth. I’m going to look like an idiot, she thought, preposterously frumpy. A moment later: Why should I care what they think? Bah.

  After an interminable ride—which might have been five minutes or half an hour—the roadway smoothed, wheels crunching over gravel, and the carriage halted. Someone busied themselves with the padlock outside, then a glare of setting sunlight almost blinded Helge as she squeezed through the door.

  “Milady.” It was—what was his name? Some flunky of Henryk’s, she decided. He handed her down the steps to a small gaggle of guards and ladies-in-waiting and general rubberneckers. “Please allow me to welcome you to the royal household. This is Sir Rybeck, master of the royal stables. And this is—”

  It was a receiving line. For her. Helge offered her hand as she was gently moved along it, accepting bows and courtesies and strange lips on the back of her glove, smiling fixedly and trying not to bare her teeth. Two court ladies-in-waiting picked up the train of her cloak, and four guards in the red and gold of the royal troupe walked before her with long, viciously curved axes held aloft. This is public, she realized with a sinking feeling. They’re saying publicly that I rate the respect due a member of the royal household! Which meant there’d have to be some kind of announcement soon. Which in turn meant that they were definitely going through with it.

  She’d never paid too much attention to royal etiquette in the past, and anything she’d accidentally read about in her old life was obviously inapplicable, but it was seriously intimidating. People were acting as if they were afraid of her. And if anyone thought her gown was unfashionable or noticed her bruised cheek under the veil, they were keeping quiet about it.

  There was a huge banquet hall with several tables set up inside it, one of them on a raised platform at the back. People thronged the floor of the hall: as she entered the room there was a ripple of low-key conversation. Faces turned toward her. Butterflies flapped their wings in her stomach. “What now?” she asked her guide quietly, gripping his arm, forcing her hochsprache to perform.

  “I escort you to the antechamber. You greet the king. You greet the prince. There will be drinks. Then there will be the meal.” He kept his diction clear and his phrases short, speaking slowly out of deference to her poor language skills. To her surprise, Helge understood most of what he said.

  “Is the duke here? Angbard? Or Baron Henryk?” she asked.

  His reply was a small shrug. “Alas, matters of state keep both of them away.”

  “Oh.” Right. Matters of state, it seemed, conspired to keep her from giving them a piece of her mind. She walked past the curious crowds—she smiled and nodded at enquiries, but kept her feet moving—then a door opened ahead of her. Guards grounded their axes. None of the nobles at this show were wearing swords. She went right ahead, then her escort stopped, a restraining hand on hers. Miriam paused, then recognized the sad-faced man in front of her. Her min
d went blank. He’s wearing a crown. You’re supposed to be marrying his son. What am I supposed to do now? Helge bent her knee in a deep curtsey. “Your majesty. I am, it pleases, me to see you.”

  “Countess Helge. Your presence brings light to an old man’s eye. Please, take our arm.” He smiled hesitantly, his face wrinkling with the look of a man who’d born more cruel blows than anyone should face.

  She bit her tongue and took the proffered arm gingerly. For an instant the urge to try a throw she’d learned in a self-defense class years ago taunted her. However, throwing the king over her shoulder might bear even less pleasant consequences than telling Baron Henryk to fuck off. “Yes, your majesty,” she said meekly, falling back into the Helge role, and she allowed Alexis Nicholau III to lead her across the room toward the stooped figure of his mother the queen, and the equally stooped, but much huskier, figure of his son, Prince Creon.

  “We understand you know why you are here?”

  “I—” Helge tripped over her tongue. “I am to marry, yes?”

  “That is the idea.” The king frowned slightly. Then he reached up and lifted one corner of her veil. “Ah. We understand now.” He let it fall. “We apologize for our curiosity. Was it serious?”

  “I—”could break Henryk’s career right now, for good, she realized. But that way it wouldn’t be personal, would it? “I walk into bed-post,” she said slowly. She felt a sudden stab of rage. Let him wonder when it’s going to come. “Is nothing serious.”

  “Good.” The frown lifted slightly. “We trust you will willingly uphold your party’s side of the bargain, then?”

  Bargain? What bargain? She looked at him blankly, then realized what he must be talking about. “I am the daughter of my mother.”

  “That is more than sufficient.” He nodded. “A glass of wine for the countess,” he casually dropped in the direction a baron, who hustled away to find a waiter. “Prince Creon is a troubling responsibility,” he said.

  “Responsibility?” It was a new word to Helge.

  “Responsibility,” he repeated in English. “Hmm. Your tongue comes along wonderfully. Soon few will think you a half-wit like my son.”

  Aha. “That is the veil, the, uh, cover, for the marriage?”

  “For now.” The king nodded. Miriam forced herself to un-kink her fingers before she burst a seam in her gloves. They were curled into claws. They think I’m an idiot? “It is a useful fiction.”

  “But your son—”

  “Can speak for himself.” The king smiled sadly. “Can’t you, Creon?”

  “Muh-marriage?” Creon lurched toward Helge curiously, stopped when he was facing her.

  Helge sighed. He wasn’t ugly, that was the bad news. If you straightened his back, wiped away the string of drool, and unwound the genetic disorder that had left him wide-open to brain damage delivered by an assassin’s dose of artificial sweetener in his food when he was a child, he’d be more than presentable: he’d be a catch, like his elder brother. The thought of the older one nearly made her shudder: she caught herself in time. Remember what they call them, the Idiot and the Pervert, she warned herself. “Hello, Creon,” she said slowly.

  “Muh-marriage?” he mumbled. “I’m hungry—”

  It was a miracle he was still walking. Or conscious. She pitied him. “Do you know what that means?” she asked.

  “Muh, muh—” He reached out a hand and she took it. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled as if by something far beyond his understanding, and squeezed. Helge yelped. Heads turned.

  “We must apologize again,” said the prince’s father, stepping in to detach his hand from her wrist. He did so gently, then raised an eyebrow. “You are sure this is the prize you want?” he asked quietly.

  Helge licked her lips. “So my mother tells me.” And the rest of my long-lost family. At gunpoint.

  “Ah well, on your head be it, just so long as you are gentle with him. He needs protecting. It is not his fault.”

  “I—” I’d like to find the assholes who did this to him and give them something in return. “I know that.” As unwilling arranged marriages went, Creon looked unlikely to be a demanding husband. I just hope Doctor ven Hjalmar knows what he’s doing, she thought. If he doesn’t, if they expect me to sleep with Creon . . . all of a sudden, test tubes and turkey basters held a remarkable allure. A glass of sparkling wine appeared in her hand and she drank it down in one mouthful, then held out her glass for a refill. “I will look after him,” she promised, and was surprised to find that it came easily. It’s not his fault he’s damaged goods, she thought, then did a double take. Is that what Henryk thinks I am?

  The king nodded. “We must circulate,” he said. “At dinner, you will be seated to our left.” Then he disappeared, leaving her with Creon and his discreet minders, and the Queen Mother. Which latter worthy grimaced at her horribly—or perhaps it was intended as an impish grin—and hobbled over.

  “It will go well,” she insisted, gripping Helge’s wrist. “You are a modest young woman, I see. Good for you, Helge. You have good hips, too.” She winked. “You will enjoy the fruits, if not the planting.”

  “Uh. Thank you,” Helge said carefully, and detached herself as soon as she could, which turned out to be when Angelin’s glass ran dry. She glanced around, wondering if she could find somewhere to hide. Her disguise wasn’t exactly helping make her inconspicuous. Then she spotted a familiar face across the room. She slid along the wall toward his corner. His eyes slid past her at first: What’s wrong? she wondered. Then she realized. Oh, he doesn’t recognize me. She pushed back the veil and nodded at him, and James Lee started. “Hi,” she said, reverting to English.

  “Hi yourself.” He eyed her up and down. “How—modest?”

  “I’m supposed to be saving myself for my husband.” She pulled a face. “Not that he’d notice.”

  “Hah. I didn’t know you were married.”

  “I’m not. Yet. Are you?”

  “Oh, absolutely not. So where’s the lucky man?” He looked mildly irritated. So, have I got your interest? Miriam wondered idly.

  “Over there.” She tilted her head, then spotted the Queen Mother looking round. “ ’Scuse me.” She dropped her veil.

  “You’re not—” He looked aghast. “You’re going to marry the Idiot?”

  She sighed. “I wish people wouldn’t call him that.”

  “But you—” He stopped. “You are. You’re going to do it.”

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “I have a shortage of alternative offers, in case you’d forgotten. A woman of my age and status needs to be grateful for what she can get”—and for her relatives refraining from poisoning her mother—“and all that.”

  “Ha. I’d marry you, if you asked,” said Lee. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye.

  “If—” She took a deep breath, constrained by the armor of her role. “I am required to produce royal offspring,” she said bitterly.

  Lee glanced away. “The traditional penalty for indiscretions with the wives of royalty is rather drastic,” he murmured.

  She snorted quietly. “I wasn’t offering.” Yet. “I’m not in the market.” But get back to me after I’ve been married to Creon for a year or two. By then, even the goats will be looking attractive. “Listen, did you remember what I asked for?”

  “Oh, this?” A twist of his hand, and a gleam of silver: a small locket on a chain slid into his palm.

  Helge’s breath caught. Freedom in a capsule. It was almost painful. If she took it she could desert all her responsibilities, her duty to Patricia, her impending marriage to the damaged cadet branch of the monarchy—“What do you want for it?” she asked quietly.

  “From you?” Lee stared at her for a long second. “One kiss, my lady.”

  The spell broke. She reached out and folded his fingers around the chain. “Not now,” she said gently. “You’ve no idea what it costs me to say that. But—”

  He laid a finger on the back of her hand. “Take
it now.”

  “Really?”

  “Just say you will let me petition for my fee later, that’s all I ask.”

  She breathed out slowly. Her knees suddenly felt like jelly. Wow, you’re a sweet-talker. “You know you’re asking for something dangerous.”

  “For you, no risk is too great.” He smiled, challenging her to deny it.

  She took another deep breath. “Yes, then.”

  He tilted his hand upside-down and she felt the locket and its chain pour into her gloved hand. She fumbled hastily with the buttons at her wrist, then slid the family treasure inside and re-fastened the sleeve. “Have you any idea what this means to me?” she asked.

  “It’s the key to a prison cell.” He raised his wineglass. “I’ve been in that cell too. If I wanted to leave badly enough—”

  “Oh. Oh. I see.” The hell of it was, he was telling the truth: he could violate his status as a hostage anytime he felt like it—anytime he felt like restarting a war that his own family could only lose. She felt a sudden stab of empathy for him. That’s dangerous, part of her realized. Another part of her remembered Roland, and felt betrayed. But Roland was dead, and she was still alive, and seemingly destined for a loveless marriage: why shouldn’t she enjoy a discreet fling on the side? But not now, she rationalized. Not right under the eyes of the royal dynasty, not with half the Clan waiting outside for a grand dinner at which a betrothal would be announced. Not until after the royal wedding, and the pregnancy—her mind shied away from thinking of it as her pregnancy—and the birth of the heir. The heir to the throne who’d be a W* heterozygote and on whose behalf Henryk wouldn’t, bless him, even dream of treason. After all, as the old epigram put it, Treason doth never prosper: what’s the reason? Why if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

  A bell rang, breaking through the quiet conversation. “That means dinner,” said Lee, bowing slightly, then turning to slip away. “I’ll see you later.”