The Merchants’ War

supply. That’s even more true in Washington, D.C. than over on this side, because aristocrats have at least to keep up the appearance of it. Let me give you a tip to pass on to your bosses: if you mistreat your Clan prisoners, their relatives will revenge them. The political is taken very personally, here.”

“That’s—” he swallowed “—it may be true, but that’s not how things work right now. Not since 9/11.”

“Then they’re going to regret it.” Her gaze was level. “You must warn your superiors of this—the political is personal. If the conservatives think your government is mistreating their prisoners, they’ll take revenge, horrible revenge. Timothy McVeigh and Mohamed Atta were rank amateurs compared to these people, and Clan security probably can’t prevent an atrocity from happening if you provoke them. You need to warn your bosses, Mr. Fleming. They’re playing with fire: or would you like to see a suicide bomber invite himself to the next White House reception?”

Whoops. Mike cringed at the images that sprang to mind. “They’re that crazy?”

“They’re not crazy!” Her vehemence startled him. “They just don’t think about things the same way as you people. Your organization is trying to wage war on the Clan: all right, we understand that. But it is a point of honor to avenge blood debts, and that suicide bomber—that’s the least of your worries.” She paused for breath. When she continued, she was much less strident: “That’s one of the things Miriam thought she could change, with her reform program. I tend to agree with her. That’s one of the things we need to change—it’s one of the reasons I reintroduced her to her relatives in the first place. I knew she’d react that way.”

“But she’s your daughter!” It was out before he could stop himself.

“Hah. I told you, but you didn’t listen, did you? We don’t work the way you think we do—and it’s not just all about blood debts and honor. There’s also a perpetual inter-generational conflict going on, mother against daughter, grandmother for grandchild. My mother is a pillar of the conservative faction: by raising Miriam where Hildegarde couldn’t get her claws into her, I temporarily gained the upper hand. And—” she leaned forward again “—I would do anything to keep my granddaughter out of this mess.”

“You don’t have a granddaughter,” Olga commented from the sidelines, “do you?”

Iris glanced sideways. “Miriam has not married a world-walker, so I do not have a granddaughter,” she said coldly. “Is that understood?”

Olga swallowed. “Yes, my lady.”

What was that about? The carriage bounced again, throwing Mike against the side of the seat and jarring his leg painfully. When he could focus again, he realized Iris had been talking for some time.

“—Stopping soon, and we will have to lock you in the carriage overnight. I hope you understand. When we get to the waypoint Olga will carry you across, put you somewhere safe, call for an ambulance, then leave. I hope you understand the need for this? Olga, if you would be so good…”

The Russian princess was holding a syringe. “No!” Mike tried to protest, but in his current state he was too weak to fight her off. And whatever was in the needle was strong enough that it stopped mattering very shortly afterwards.

Miriam had just been through two months under house arrest, preceded by three months in carefully cosseted isolation. Then she’d managed a fraught escape and then been imprisoned yet again, albeit for a matter of days. Walking the streets of New York again—even a strangely low-rise New York wrapped around the imperial palace and inner city of New London—felt like freedom. The sight of aircraft and streetcars and steam-powered automobiles and primitive flickering neon signs left her gaping at the sheer urban beauty of it all. As they moved closer to the center of the city the bustle of the crowds and the bright synthetic colors of the women’s clothing caught her attention more than the gray-faced beggars in the suburbs. I’m in civilization again, she realized, half-dazed. Even if I’m not part of it. Erasmus paused, looking at a news vendor’s stand displaying the stamp of the censor’s office. “Buy me a newspaper, dear?” she asked, touching his arm.

Erasmus jerked slightly, then recovered. “Certainly. A copy of the Register, please.”

“Aye, sorr. An’ here you is.”

He passed her the rolled-up news sheet as they moved up the high street. “What bit you?” he asked quietly.

“I’ve been out of touch for a long time. I just need to—” I need to connect, she thought, but before she could articulate it he nodded, grinning ironically.

“You were out of touch? Did your family have you on a tight leash?”

She shuddered. “I had nothing to read but a grammar book for two months. And that wasn’t the worst of it.” Now that she had company to talk to she could feel a mass of words bubbling up, ideas seeking torrential release.

“You’ll have to tell me about it later. I was told there was a public salon here—ah, that’s it. Your hair, Miriam. You can see to it yourself?”

He’d stopped again, opposite a diamond-paned window. Through it she could just about make out the seats and basins of a hairdresser: some things seemed to evolve towards convergence, however distinct they’d been at the start. “I think I can just about manage that.” She tried to smile, but the knot of tension had gotten a toehold back and wouldn’t let go. “This will probably take a couple of hours. Then I need to buy clothes. Why don’t you just tell me where the hotel is, and I’ll meet you there at six o’clock? How does that sound?”

“That sounds fine.” He nodded, then pulled out a pocket book and scribbled an address in it. “Here. Take care.”

She smiled at him, and he ducked his head briefly, then turned his back. Miriam took a deep breath. A bell rattled on a chain as she pushed the door open; at the desk behind the window, a young woman looked up in surprise from the hardcover she’d been reading. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Miriam forced a smile. “I need a new hairstyle, and I need it now.”

Six hours later, footsore and exhausted from the constant bombardment of strangeness that the city kept hurling at her, Miriam clambered down from the back of a cab outside the Great Northern Hotel, clutching her parcels in both hands. The new shoes pinched at toe and heel, and she was sweating from the summer weather: but she was more presentable than she’d have been in the shabby out-fit they’d passed off on her at Hogarth Villas, and the footman leapt to open the doors for her. “Thank you!” She smiled tightly. “The front desk, I’m meeting my husband—”

“This way, ma’am.”

Miriam was halfway to the desk when a newspaper rattled behind her. She glanced round to see Burgeson unfolding himself from a heavily padded chair. “Miriam! My dear.” He nodded. “Let me help you with those parcels.” He deftly extricated her from the footman, guided her past the front desk towards an elevator, and relieved her of the most troublesome parcel. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said quietly. “You’ve done a good job.”

“It feels really strange, being a blonde. People look at you differently. And it’s so heavily lacquered it feels like my head’s embedded in a wicker basket. It’ll probably crack and fall off when I go to bed.”

“Come on inside.” He held the door for her, then dialed the sixth floor. As the door closed, he added: “That’s a nice outfit. Almost too smart to be seen with the likes of me.”

She pursed her lips. “Looking like a million dollars tends to get you treated better by the kind of people those million dollars hire.” She’d ended up in something not unlike a department store, buying a conservatively cut black two-piece outfit. It was a lot less strange than some of the stuff she’d seen in the shops: New London’s fashion, at least for those who still had money to spend, was more experimental than Boston’s. The lift bell chimed. “Where are we staying?”

“This way.” He led her along a corridor like any other hotel corridor back home (except for the flickering tungsten bulbs), then used an old-fashioned key to unlock a bedroom door.

“There’s, uh, only one bed, Erasmus.”

“We’re supposed to be married, Miriam. I’ll take the chaise.”

She blinked at the acrid bite of his words. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed his forehead. “Blame Margaret’s sense of humor.” He looked at her again, appraisingly: “With hair that color, and curly, and—you’ve been using paints, haven’t you? Yes, looking like that, I