The Trade of Queens

not the kind you’re expecting. Let me see. Try this one: Why does honor come from filial obedience?”

“Because it does?” Lin rolled his eyes this time, making it clear that he was honoring his elder brother precisely inasmuch as the free beer required. “This is boring—”

“No it isn’t,” James said, quietly urgent. “Listen. Firstly, we obey because it’s the right and traditional thing to do. Secondly, we obey because it is what we shall want for ourselves, when we are elders. And thirdly, we obey because the old farts are usually right, and they are making decisions with our family’s best interests in mind. They know what they’re doing. Except when they don’t. So let me rephrase: If you found out that the elders were doing something really stupid, dangerously stupid, and you couldn’t talk them out of it—what would you do?”

A rattling clangor of gates and the shrill of a whistle: The dogs were off, bolting up the track in pursuit of the mechanical hare. “Oh brother.” Lin was uncharacteristically quiet. “This isn’t theoretical, is it?”

“No.” Shouting and hoarse cheering rose on all sides as the crowd urged their hounds on. “They’ve bet the family’s future on a wild black dog. Our future, Lin.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Lin said automatically. He raised his tankard, drank deeply as the gongs clashed and the crowd roared their approval. “Would they?” He wiped his mouth with the back of a hairless wrist.

“They would, and they did, with the best of intentions.” James shook his head. “Huh, there goes my three and six. But looks like you lucked out.”

“What have they done?” Lin asked as they queued to collect his winnings—not so much, for he’d bet on a favorite—from the men with clubs.

“Later.” James waited vigilantly while his younger brother swapped his ticket for five shillings; the tout’s men looked disapprovingly on, but made no move to pick a fight. They headed back to the dray for a refill, then over to the fence near the bleachers to watch. The racing dogs were kenneled, while dogs of another kind were brought out, along with a bear for them to bait in a wire-fenced enclosure in the middle of the track. “You met the enemy heir, Helge, Miriam. What did you think of her?”

Lin shook his head. “She’s a crazy woman,” he said admiringly. A shadow crossed his face. “I owe her, brother. It shames me to say.”

“The elders sent you to kill her, and she ended up saving your life. That’s a heavy obligation, isn’t it? What if I said the elders have settled on a harebrained scheme to make us safe and rich—but one that will kill her? Where’s your honor there, eh?”

“They wouldn’t do that!” Lin glanced from side to side. “That would restart the war, wouldn’t it?”

“They may not realize what they’re doing,” James said quietly. “They’re entering into an arrangement with one of her enemies, though, a man who she told me had wronged her grievously. Another of the cousins, their feuds are hard to keep track of … but what makes this different is that they’re also talking to a government man.” His younger brother’s eyes were bulging with disbelief. “I know, I know. I think they’ve taken leave of their senses, you know the rules—but Dad and Uncle Huan are agreed. They figure the revolution’s going to turn into a bloody civil war, and I think they’re probably right about that—and they think we need political patronage to survive it. Well, that goes against the old rules, but they’re the elders: They make the rules, and sometimes you have to throw out the old rules and bring in new rules. The trouble is, they’re hoping to use a mad scheme of Dr. ven Hjalmar’s to breed extra world- walkers—don’t ask me how it works, it’s magic medicine from the other world the cousins go to—and they’re hoping to use their political patron’s offices to make it work. Ven Hjalmar is poison: Miriam hates him. And the patron they’ve picked—” James shook his head. “I don’t trust him. Uncle doesn’t trust him either, but I think Uncle underestimates how untrustworthy he is. And ven Hjalmar. They’ll cut a deal behind our backs and we’ll be at their mercy.”

“A deal. What sort of deal? What do they want us to do?” Lin stared at his elder brother.

“Assassination. Spying. Smuggling. What do you think the Leveler’s secret Polis might want of us? And then they’ll own us, match, lock, and trigger. But more importantly—the cousins will be looking for sanctuary here, and this will put them at our throat, and we at theirs: The Polis won’t tolerate a different group of world-walkers beyond their control, once they learn of the cousins’ existence. We’ll be right back where we started, but this time under the thumb of the Polis—who despise us because we’re children of the Inner Kingdom.”

“We could go back there—” Lin stopped.

“Could we?” It was James’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Where would we be, if we couldn’t move freely through New Britain? How would we prosper? And that’s assuming we can go back there. What the cousins have stirred up—” He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t work. That’s why I’m asking you: Which comes first, your honor or your filial loyalty?”

Lin stared for a few seconds; then his shoulders slumped. He took a deep mouthful of beer. “I defer to your elder wisdom,” he finally said. Another pause. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to watch.” James whistled tunelessly between his front teeth. “Hopefully I won’t have to do anything. Hopefully Uncle is right and I am wrong. But if it turns out that Uncle Huan isn’t right … will you obey him to the end, or will you do what’s right for the family?”

Lin looked away. Then he looked back and nodded: a minute inclination of the head, but a significant one— the precise degree of submission that he might otherwise give his father. “What are you considering?”

“Nothing specific, as yet.” James raised his tankard. “But if the elders’ plans go astray—we’ll see.”

*   *   *

As he turned in to Miriam Beckstein’s street, Mike Fleming felt an uncontrollable shudder ripple up the small of his back: an intense sensation of guilt, as if he’d done something unforgivable. Which was ridiculous. Why do I feel like a stalker? he wondered ironically. I’m not the guy who’s been lurking in the bushes with a phone and a camera for the past six months, hoping she’ll come home. He drove carefully up the road, not slowing and not staring at the houses, trying to tag the parked cars as memories battered for his attention.

Mike had a history: not uncommon. Single cop, married to the job. He had another history, too: dates, girlfriends, brief excursions into the alien world of domesticity that never quite seemed to gain traction. Four or five years ago he’d met a woman journalist—how? he could remember the where, but not the why—and asked her out, or maybe she’d asked him to ask her out, or something. And they’d gotten to know each other and she’d asked him home and then it all seemed to cool off, over the space of a couple of months.

Nothing new there; and he could easily have written it off. She’s a civilian, it wasn’t going to work. But for some reason, he hadn’t gotten over her as easily as all that. He’d thought about looking her up. Seeing if he could make her change her mind. Then he realized he was getting into some creepy headspace, and asked himself if that was really who he wanted to be, took a vacation and went on a cruise, drank too much, and had a couple of one night stands. Which seemed to fix things, but he’d teetered on the fine edge of obsession for a few weeks, and now here he was driving down her street, and it felt weird. Creepy. Blame FTO for sucking him in and Miriam for concealing her secret other life from him—assuming that was what she’d been doing?—but this felt wrong. And what he was going to do next was even more wrong.

Burgling Ex-Girlfriend’s House 101: First make sure there’s nobody watching it, then make sure there’s nobody home. Mike took a long loop around the neighborhood, killing five minutes before he turned back and drove down the street in the opposite direction. One parked car had departed; of the remaining ones, two were occupied, but hadn’t been on his first pass. Ten minutes later, he made a third pass. A truck had parked up, with two workmen sitting inside, eating their lunch or something. Someone was messing with the trunk of another parked car. The two that had been occupied earlier were vacant. If there’s a watch they’re using a house or a camera. But not sitting in a car, waiting to pounce.

Mike pulled in, several doors down from Miriam’s. He’d stopped at a Kinkos on his way. Now he hung a laminated badge around his neck, and stuck a fat day planner under his left arm. The badge bore a photograph but gave a false name and identified him as working for a fictional market research company, and the bulging day planner’s zipped compartment held tools rather than papers, but to a casual bystander … well.

Now came the tricky part. He climbed out of his car and locked it; stretched; then walked up the street, trying not to hobble. He paused at the first door he came to, deliberately trying to look bored. There was a doorbell: J & P SUTHERLAND. He pushed it, waited, hoping nobody was in. If they were, he had a couple of spiels ready; but any exposure was a calculated risk. After a minute he pushed the buzzer again. The Sutherlands were obviously