The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (16 page)

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 out, 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 be most serious.’ 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? 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. ‘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. ‘Would you mind awfully . . . ?’

The Clan had plenty of quiet, disciplined men (and some women) who knew the Amtrak timetable inside out and had clean driving licenses, but precious few who had spent time in New Britain –
and they weren’t about to trust the hidden family with the crown jewels of their shipping service. It took time to acculturate new couriers to the point where they could be turned loose in a
strange country with a high-value cargo and expected to reliably deliver it to a destination that might change from day to day, reflecting the realities of where it was safe to make a delivery on
the other side of the wall of worlds. Which was why Miriam – a high lady of the Clan, a duchess’s eldest child – found herself standing on a suburban railway platform on the
outskirts of New London in a gray shalwar suit and shoulder cape, her broad-brimmed hat clasped to her head, tapping her heels as the small shunting engine huffed and panted, shoving a string of
three carriages up to the platform.
And all because I already knew how to read a gazetteer
, she thought whimsically.

Not that there was much to be whimsical about, she reflected as she waited for the first-class carriage to screech to a halt in front of her. New Britain was in the grip of a spy fever as
intense as the paranoia about terrorism currently gripping the United States, aggravated by the existence of genuine sub rosa revolutionary organizations, some of whom would deal with the devil
himself if it would advance their agenda. Things were, in some ways, much simpler here. The machinery of government was autocratic, and the world was polarized between two great superpowers much as
it had been during the Cold War. But political simplicity and the absence of sophisticated surveillance technology didn’t mean Miriam was safe. What the Constabulary (the special security
police, not the common or garden-variety thief-takers) lacked in bugging devices they more than made up for in informers and spies. Her papers were as good as the Clan’s fish-eyed forgers
could make them, and she was confident she knew her way. But if a nosy thief-taker or weasel-eyed constable decided to finger her, they’d be straight through her bag, and while she
wasn’t sure what it contained she was certain that it would prove incriminating. If that happened she’d have to world-walk at the drop of a hat – and hope she could make her own
way home from wherever she came out. The quid pro quo was itself trivial: a chance to spend some time in New Britain, a chance to replace the paranoia of court life in Niejwein with a different
source of stress.

The shunting engine wheezed and clanked, backing off from the carriages. Somewhere down the platform a conductor blew his whistle and waved a green flag, signaling that the train was ready for
boarding. Miriam stepped forward, grabbed a door handle, and pulled herself into one of the small, smoke-smelling sleeper compartments in the ladies’ first-class carriage.
Alone, I
hope
, she told herself.
Let me be alone . . . ?
She pulled the door shut behind her and, grunting quietly, heaved the heavy bag onto the overhead luggage net. With any luck it would
stay there undisturbed until Dunedin – near to Joliet, in the United States, there being no such city as Chicago in this timeline. All she had to do was ferry it to a certain suburban address
and exchange it for an identical bag, then return to New London. But Dunedin was over a thousand miles from New London. One good thing you could say about the New British railways was that the
overnight express service rattled along at seventy miles an hour. But if the train was full she might end up with company, and being kept awake by genteel snoring was not Miriam’s idea of
fun.

Clank
. The carriage bounced, almost throwing her out of her seat. A shrill whistle from the platform, and a distant asthmatic chuffing, followed by a jerk as the newly coupled
locomotive began to pull. Miriam relaxed enough to unbutton her cape.
It’s going to be all right
, she decided.
No snoring!

The corridor door opened: ‘Carnets, please, ma’am.’ The inspector tugged his hat as he scratched her name off on a chalkboard. ‘Ah, very good. Bed make-up will be at
eight bells, ma’am, and the dining car opens from seven. If you have any requests for breakfast, the cook will be glad to accommodate you.’ Miriam smiled as he backed out through the
door. First class definitely had some advantages.

Once he’d gone she pulled the slatted wooden shutters across the corridor window, and shot the bolt on the door.
Alone!
It was positively liberating, after weeks spent in the
hothouse atmosphere of the Niejwein aristocracy. Her cape went up on the overhead rack first, then she bent down to unbutton her ankle boots. First-class sleeper compartments had carpet and
kerosene heaters, not that she’d be needing the latter on this hot, dusty journey. Once the rows of gray, hunchbacked workers’ apartments petered out into open countryside, she pulled
her Palm Pilot out of her belt-purse. With four hours to go until dinner – and fifteen or sixteen until the train pulled into Dunedin station – she’d have plenty of time for
note-taking and reading.

Precisely half an hour later, the machine emitted a strangled squawking noise and switched itself off.

‘Bother.’ Miriam squeezed the power button without success, then stuck the stylus in the reset hole.
Beep
. The machine switched on again. Miriam breathed a sigh of relief,
then tried to open the file she’d been working on. It wasn’t there. A couple of minutes of feverish poking proved that the machine had reset itself to factory condition, erasing not
only the work she’d already done but all the other files she’d been meaning to read and edit. Miriam stared at it in dismay. ‘Fifteen
hours
?’ she complained to the
empty seat opposite: she hadn’t even brought a newspaper. For a moment she was so angry she actually considered throwing the machine out the window. ‘
Fucking
computers.’
She glanced over her shoulder guiltily, but she was alone. Alone with nothing but the parched New Britain countryside rolling past, a faint smoke trail off to one side hinting at the arid wind that
seemed to be plaguing the seaboard this summer.

If Miriam had one overwhelming personality flaw it was that she couldn’t abide inactivity. After ten minutes of tapping her right toe on the floor she found herself nodding along, trying
to make up a syncopated backbeat that followed the rhythm of the wheels as they clattered over the track joints.
Not even a book
, she thought. For a while she thought about leaving her
compartment in search of the conductor, but it would look odd, wouldn’t it? Single woman traveling alone, no reading matter: that was the sort of funny-peculiar thing that the Homeland
Security Directorate might be interested in. The idea of writing on her PDA had lost all its residual charm, in the absence of any guarantee that the faulty device wouldn’t consign long hours
of work to an electronic limbo. But not doing anything went right against the grain. Worse, it was an invitation to daydream. And when she caught herself daydreaming these days, it tended to be
about people she knew. Roland loomed heartbreakingly large in her thoughts.
I’ll go out of my mind if I don’t do something
, she realized. And almost without her willing it, her
eyes turned upward to gaze at the carpetbag.
It can’t do any harm to look, canit?