“Yes. As long as nobody kills you first,” he said.
“Now, wait a minute!” She leaned forward. “Who would do that? And why?”
“Oh, several parties,” Angbard said with what Miriam found a distinctly unnerving tone of relish. “The crown, to maintain their grip on almost a tenth of our properties and revenues without forcing an outright war with their most powerful nobles. Whoever killed Patricia, for the same reason. Any of the younger generations of lineages Hjorth and Thorold, who must be hoping that the shares will escheat to them in due course should no pretender emerge and should those families re-create the braid of inheritance. And finally, the Drug Enforcement Agency.”
“What are they doing here?”
“They aren’t, I merely name them as another party who would take an instant dislike to you were they to become appraised of your existence.” He smiled humourlessly. “Think of it as a test, if you like.”
“Ri-i-ight,” she drawled. I already figured that much out for myself, thanks. “I believe I see where you’re coming from, Uncle. One question?”
“Ask away, by all means.”
“Roland. Does he have a motive?”
Angbard startled her by laughing loudly. “Roland the dreaming runaway?” He leaned back in his chair. “Roland, who tried to convince us all to sign away our lands to the peasantry and set up a banking system to loan them money? Roland the rebel He’s squandered all the credibility he might have built by refusing to play the game over here. I think Roland Lofstrom will make a suitable husband for Olga Thorold. And she should make him an excellent wife-she’ll slow him down and that’s necessary, he has disruptive tendencies. Once he’s yoked to the Clan, it might be time to revisit some of his ideas, but as things stand the council can’t afford to be seen taking him seriously-by rebelling in his youth he has automatically tainted any valid reformist ideas he may present. Which is a shame. Meanwhile, you are my direct niece. Patricia, your mother, was the daughter of my father’s first wife. Roland, in contrast, is the son of my half-brother, by my father’s third wife. He’s not a blood relative of yours-at least, not within four generations. Three wives, three children, three scandals! My father lent our affairs much complexity…
“Anyway, Roland will create another Thorold-Lofstrom braid, which will be of considerable use to my successor, whoever he is. But he’s not important and he has no stake in your disarray. In fact, that is why it was safe for him to know of your existence so early.”
Miriam shook her head. The family intricacies confused her, and she was left with nothing but a vague impression of plaited families and arranged marriages. “Have you asked Olga’s opinion about this?” she asked.
“Why would I? She’ll do as she’s told for the good of the Clan. She’s a sweet child.”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” Miriam said, nodding slightly and biting her cheek to keep a straight face.
“Which brings me to you, again,” Angbard nodded. “Obviously, you are not a sweet child. You’re an experienced dowager, I would say, and sharp as a razor. I approve of that. But I hope I have made it clear to you that your future is inextricably tied to the Clan. You can’t possibly go back into obscurity on the other side-your enemies would seek you out, whether you will it or no. Nor can you afford not to take sides and find a protector.”
“I see,” she stated, biting the words out sharply.
“I think it would be best for you to see something of the other families before we discuss this further,” Angbard continued, ignoring her coolness. “As it happens, Olga is summoned to pay attendance upon the person of the king for the next three months, who as it also happens is not one of us-it would be a good thing at this juncture for you to make your debut before the royal court and that part of the Clan that is in residence in the capital in her company. Your presence should lure certain lice out of the bedding in, ah, a controlled manner. Meanwhile you will not entirely be at a loose end, or without support, when you make the rounds of the eligible nobility before the annual grand meeting at Beltaigne, seven months hence. Olga can advise you on bloodlines and shareholdings and etiquette, and begin language lessons. I place no obligation upon you to make a hasty alliance, just so long as you understand your situation.”
“Right. So I’m to go looking for an alliance-a husband who meets with your approval-at court. When do you expect me to do this?” Miriam asked, with a forced brightness that concealed her slowly gathering anger. “I assume you’re planning on exhibiting me widely?”
“Olga departs tomorrow morning by stage,” Angbard announced. “You shall travel with her, and on arrival at court in Niejwein she will help you select your ladies-in-waiting-of low but family rank, not base servants such as you have had here. Your maids are already packing your bags, by the way.” He fixed her with a coldly unamused smile. “Think of it as a test, if you like. You do see this is for your own long-term good, don’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, I see, all right,” Miriam said and smiled at him, as sweet as cyanide-laced marzipan. “Yes, I see everything very clearly indeed.”
Miriam politely declined the duke’s invitation to lunch and returned to her apartment in a state of barely controlled fury. Her temper was not made better by the discovery that her maids had packed most of her clothes in heavy wooden trunks.
“Fuck!” She spat at the bathroom mirror. “You will be good, won’t you,” she muttered under her breath. “Patronizing bastard, my dear.”
Murderous bastard, a still small voice reminded her from inside. Duke Angbard was quite capable of killing people, Roland had said. Paulie’s words came back to haunt her: ‘If you back down, they own you; it’s as simple as that.’ And what the hell was that crack about luring lice out of the bedding meant to mean? She sobered up fast. I need advice, she decided. And then a thought struck her-a thought simultaneously wicked and so delicious that it brought a smile to her lips. A perfect scheme, really, one that would gain her exactly what she needed, while simultaneously sending an unequivocal message to the duke, if she went all the way through with it. She raised one middle digit: “Sit and swivel!” she whispered triumphantly. Yeah, that will work!
She headed back into the suite, chased her maids out, shut the door, and picked up the phone. “Put me through to Earl Roland,” she demanded in her most imperious voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” the operator confirmed. “One moment.”
“Roland?” she said, suddenly much less confident. ‘Roland the dreamer,’ his uncle called him. Roland the disruptive influence, who looked too good to be true. Did she go through with this? Just picking up the phone made her feel obscurely guilty. It also gave her a thrill of illicit anticipation.
“Miriam! What can I do for you?”
“Listen,” she said, licking her suddenly dry lower lip. “About yesterday. You invited me to… dinner? Does that invitation still stand?”
“You’ve seen the old man?” he asked.
“Yes.” She waited.
“Oh. Well, yes, the invitation still stands. Would you like to come?”
“As long as it’s just you and me. No servants, no company, no nothing.”
“Oh!” He sounded amused. “Miriam, have you any idea how fast word of that would get around, now that the palace is fully staffed again? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen you know. Not with servants.”
“It’s not like that: I need confidential advice,” she said. Lowering her voice, “They must know I’ve spent over thirty years on the other side. Can I catch a couple of hours with you, without anyone snooping?”
“Hmm.” He paused for a bit. “Only if you can manage to become invisible. Listen, I am in the suite on the floor above you, second along. I’ll have dinner laid out at six, then send the servants away. Still, it’ll be best if nobody sees you. It would cause tongues to wag-and give your enemies words to throw back at you.”
“I’ll think of a way,” she promised. “Lay on the wine and dress for dinner. I’ll be seeing you.”
The small town of Svarlberg squatted at the mouth of the Fall River on the coast, a day’s ride south of Fort Lofstrom. Overlooked by a crumbling but huge stone fortress built in the Romans model, brought to the western lands by survivors of the Roman Gothic war against the Turkic occupiers of Constantinople and now used as a bulwark against threat of invasion by sea, Svarlberg was home to a thriving fishing community and a harbour much used by coast-hugging merchants.
Not that many merchants would put into this harbour so late in the year. A few late stragglers coming down the coast from the icy trapping settlements up north, and perhaps an overdue ship braving the North Atlantic winter to make the last leap from the Ice Isles to western civilization-but winter was beginning to bite, and only rich fools or the truly desperate would brave the boreal gales this late in the year.
When the horseman reined in his tired mount outside the port-side inn, wearily slid out of the saddle, and banged on the door, it took a minute for the owner to open the hole and look out. “What are you wanting?” he
