The Trade of Queens

“Dr. ven Hjalmar.”

“Would someone,” Erasmus said quietly but forcefully, “explain to me what exactly is happening?”

“I think I can put it together,” said Miriam. “Lin, Dr. ven Hjalmar is working with Commissioner Reynolds, isn’t he? No need to confirm or deny anything—your brother and I had a conversation.”

Lin nodded. “I was sent to remove a, a party radical who was opposed to our ends, in the doctor’s words.” He stared at Erasmus. “What will you do now?”

“Have you met Stephen Reynolds?” Erasmus asked quietly. “He isn’t one for whom loyalty is a two-way street.”

“I’ve discussed this with James,” said Miriam. “Lin, I’ve been negotiating a, a deal with Mr. Burgeson here. It’s similar to the arrangement your elders came to with the security commissioner.”

“The difference is, I don’t send death squads to murder my rivals,” Erasmus added.

Miriam looked straight at Lin: “That’s why I’ve been dealing with him. The arrangement can be extended to include your relatives. But not if you shoot him, or hand us over to the Internal Security directorate. Or Dr. ven Hjalmar.”

Lin looked straight back at her. “You say this man is a friend of yours,” he said. “Do you mean that? Are you claiming privilege of kinship? Or is it just a business arrangement to which no honor attaches?”

Miriam blinked. She tightened her grip on Erasmus’s shoulder as she felt him breathe in, preparing to say something potentially disastrous—“Erasmus is a personal friend of mine, Lin. This isn’t just business.” Which was true, she realized as she said it; not that they had gotten up to anything, not that there was substance to the cover story Burgeson’s bodyguards and enemies believed, but she could conceive of it, at some future time. “So yes, I claim privilege of kinship, and if you touch one hair on his head I’ll claim blood feud on you and yours. Is that what you want?”

Lin looked away, then shook his head.

“Good. We understand each other, I hope? Do you and yours claim Dr. ven Hjalmar?”

Lin’s eyes widened. “Not yet. Nan was talking about finding him a wife, but—”

“Then you have no claim if I declare him outlaw and anathema and deal with him accordingly?”

He began to smile. “If your arrangement for the security of your clan can stretch to some more bodies—none whatsoever. What do you have in mind?”

“First, I think we need to deliver Mr. Burgeson safely to South Station, where a train is waiting for him.” She felt Erasmus preparing to speak again. “And then I, and my sworn retainers, have an appointment with Dr. ven Hjalmar, and possibly with Commissioner Reynolds. Would you like to come along?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Lin said gravely. He looked directly at Erasmus. “If you’d both care to come downstairs, my cousins and I have a wagon waiting on the other side of the wall of worlds. We were to use it to dispose of the evidence, but I think it will work just as well with living passengers.” He returned his pistol to a pocket holster, then raised an eyebrow. “Which platform do you want?”

*   *   *

The miracles of modern communication technology: With two-way radios, the survivors of Reynolds’s simultaneous raids called in and made contact within an hour. Miriam, her head pounding, hugged Erasmus briefly. “Try to take care,” she murmured in his ear.

“My dear, I have every intention of doing so.” He grinned lopsidedly.

“What are you going to do?”

“Get to my train on time, with the help of these fine fellows.” Behind her, Lin was filling two of his fellows in on the turn events had taken. “Then I shall first signal Sir Adam. Stephen’s gone too far this time—setting up a parallel arrangement with these cousins of yours and trying to frame me for subversion. I have my own supporters within the Freedom Guard; if necessary we can take it to the street.” He looked worried. “But that has its own price. What do you intend?”

“I’m going to find my people,” she told him. “And then we’re going to take out the trash. Stay away from the old Polis headquarters building for a couple of hours, Erasmus. You might want to turn up later—around six, maybe—to take charge of the cleanup operation and to assemble a cover story.” She bit her lip. “It’s not going to be pretty. Reynolds is a problem, but the doctor is a worse one: a sociopath with the background and intellect to raise his own version of the Clan, given half a chance.”

“You think your doctor is more important than Reynolds?”

“I know it.” She looked him in the eye. “You and your boss can deal with Reynolds; he’s an attack dog, but if you put a chain on his collar you can keep him under control. But ven Hjalmar doesn’t wear a collar in the first place.”

“Then you should take care,” he said gravely. “I should be going. But … take care. I would very much like to see you again.”

“You too.” She leaned forward and, trying not to think too hard about her intentions, kissed him. She was aiming for his cheek, but he turned, and for a moment their lips touched. “Oh. Go on.”

“Until this evening,” he said, coloring slightly as he took a step backwards, turning towards the cart, his temporary chauffeurs, and the somnolent mule between the traces.

Miriam waited until he looked away, then walked over to Lin’s side. “Let’s do it,” she said. “My people first; then the Polis building.”

*   *   *

Three o’clock in the afternoon, and for Commissioner Reynolds the day was not going terribly well.

In the communications room downstairs the telautographs were buzzing and clattering like deranged locusts; telespeakers clutching their earpieces hammered away on their keyboards, transcribing incoming messages from the snatch squads and the delivery teams charged with ferrying the detainees to the Burke. Periodically one of the supervisors or overofficers would collate a list of the most important updates and hurry them upstairs, where Reynolds would receive them in stony silence.

“Ninety-six subjects isolated at Irongate and consigned for detention. Thirty-one confirmed as received by the Burke, the others still being in transit. Slow, too slow. Site B in Boston, heavy gunfire— damn you, man, what do you mean, heavy gunfire returned? That group has gun carriers! What’s going on out there?”

The doctor, placidly munching on a dessert platter, paused to dab at his lips with a napkin. “I told you to expect organized resistance from that crowd,” he reminded Reynolds.

“What is Site B putting up against our people?” Reynolds demanded.

The overstaffofficer paled: “Sir, there is word of machine-gun fire from inside the grounds. Casualties are three dead and eight injured so far; the supervisor-lieutenant on site has cordoned off the area and our men are exchanging fire with the defenders. One of the gun carriers was damaged by some sort of artillery piece when it tried to force the front gates.”

“Damaged, by god?” Reynolds glared at him. “This was how long ago? Why haven’t you called on the navy?”

“Sir, I can’t order a shore bombardment of one of our own cities! If you want to request one it has to go up to the Joint Command Council for authorization—”

Reynolds cut him off with a chopping gesture. “Later. They’re pinned down for now, yes? What about Site C?”

“Site C was overrun on schedule, sir. One casualty, apparently self-inflicted—negligent discharge. Six prisoners consigned for detention and received by the Burke. Two dead, killed resisting arrest or attempting to flee.”

“Good.” Reynolds nodded jerkily. “Site S?”

“I don’t have a report for Site S, sir.” The overstaffofficer riffled through his message sheets, increasingly concerned. “Sir, by your leave—”

“Go. Find out what happened. Report back. Dismissed.” Reynolds turned to ven Hjalmar as his adjutant made himself scarce. “Damn it, you’d almost think—”

“They have radio—telautograph, I think you call it? Between sites. Between people.” Ven Hjalmar was clearly irritated. “I told you that timing was essential.”

“But how can they have notified the—my men cut all the wires! The transmission wires are vulnerable, yes?”