The Family Trade

“Highness? What are you talking about?” Miriam could hear her voice rising, out of control, but she couldn’t get it under control. “What are you on? Look, I’m a business journalist covering the Masspike corridor, not some kind of feudal noble! I don’t know about any of this stuff!” She was on her feet in front of the desk. “What’s world-walking, and what does it have to do—”

“Your highness,” Angbard said firmly, “you were a business journalist, on the other side of the wall of worlds. But world-walking is how you came here. It is the defining talent of our Clan, of the families who constitute the Clan. It is in the blood, and you are one of us, whether you will it or no. Over here, you are the eldest heir to a countess and a magistrate-prince of the outer kingdom, both senior members of their families, and however much you might wish to walk away from that fact, it will follow you around. Even if you go back over there.”

He turned to Roland, ignoring her stu

Miriam glared at him, speechless. “I have only your best interests at heart,” the duke said mildly. “Roland.”

“Sir.” Roland took her arm.

“Proceed.”

Roland turned and marched from the office, and Miriam hurried to keep up, angry and embarrassed and trying not to show it. You bastard! she thought. Out in the corridor: “You’re hurting me,” she hissed, trying not to trip. “Slow down.”

Roland slowed and—mercy of mercies—let go of her arm. He glanced behind, and an invisible tension left his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re sorry?” she replied, disbelievingly. “You nearly twisted my arm out of its socket!” She rubbed her elbow and winced.

“I said I’m sorry. Angbard isn’t used to being disobeyed. I’ve never seen anyone take such liberties with him and escape punishment!”

“Punishment—” she stopped. “You weren’t kidding about him being the head of secret police, were you?”

“He’s got many more titles than he told you about. He’s responsible for the security of the entire Clan. If you like, think of him as the head of the FBI here. There was a civil war before you or I were born. He’s probably ordered more hangings than you or I have had hot di

Miriam stumbled. “Ow, shit!” She leaned against the wall. “That’ll teach me to keep my eye on where I’m going.” She glanced at him. “So you’re telling me I wasn’t paying enough attention?”

“You’ll be all right,” Roland said slowly, “if you can adapt to it. I imagine it must be a great shock, coming into your inheritance so suddenly.”

“Is that so?” She looked him up and down carefully, unsure how to interpret the raised eyebrow—Is he trying to tell me something or just having a joke at my expense?—then a second thought struck her. “I think I’m missing something here,” she said, deliberately casually.

“Nothing around here is what it seems,” Roland said with a little shrug. His expression was guarded. “But if the duke is right, if you really are Patricia’s long-lost heir—”

Miriam recognized the expression in his eyes: It was belief. He really believes I’m some kind of fairy-tale princess, she realized with dawning horror. What have I got myself into?

“You’ll have to tell me all about it. In my chambers.”

Cinderella 2.0

Roland led her back to her suite and followed her into the huge reception room at its heart. He wandered over to the windows and stood there with his hands clasped behind his back. Miriam kicked her heels off and sat down in the huge, enveloping leather sofa opposite the window.

“When did you discover the locket?” he asked.

She watched him curiously. “Less than a week ago.”

“And until then you’d grown up in ignorance of your family,” he said. “Amazing!” He turned around. His face was set in a faintly wistful expression.

“Are you going to just stand there?” she asked.

“It would be impertinent to sit down without an invitation,” he replied. “I know it’s the case on the other side, but here, the elders tend to stand on points of etiquette.”

“Well—” her eyes narrowed. “Sit down if you want to. You’re making me nervous. You look as if you’re afraid I’ll bite.”

“Um.” He sat down uneasily on the arm of the big chair opposite her. “Well, it’s irregular, to say the least, to be here. You being unwed, that is.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” she snapped. “I’m divorced. Is that another of the things you people are touchy about?”

“ ‘Divorced?’ “ He stared at her hand, as if looking for a ring. “I don’t know.” Suddenly he looked thoughtful. “Customs here are distinctly different from the other side. This is not a Christ-worshiping land.” Another thought struck him. “Are you, uh … ?”

“Does Miriam Beckstein sound Christian to you?”

“It’s sometimes hard to tell with people from the other side. Christ worship isn’t a religion here,” he said seriously. “But you are divorced. And a world-walker.” He leaned forward. “What that means is you are automatically a Clan shareholder of the first rank, eligible, unwed, and liable to displace a dozen minor distant relatives from their Clan shares, which they thought safe. Your children will displace theirs, too. Do you know, you are probably a great-aunt already?”

To Miriam this was insupportable. “I don’t want a huge bunch of feuding cousins and ancestors and children! I’m quite happy on my own.”

“It’s not as simple as that.” A momentary flash of irritation surfaced: “Our personal happiness has nothing to do with the Clan’s view of our position in life. I don’t like it either, but you’ve got to understand that there are people out there whose plans will be disrupted by the mere knowledge of your existence, and other people who will make plans for you, regardless of your wishes!”

“I—” she stopped. “Look, I don’t think we’ve got this straight. I may be related to your family by genetics, but I’m not one of you. I don’t know how the hell you think or what your etiquette is like and I don’t care about being the orphan of a countess. It doesn’t mean anything to me.” She sighed. “There’s been some huge mistake. The sooner we get it over with and I can go back to being a journalist, the better.”

“If you want it that way.” For almost a minute he brooded, staring at the floor in front of her. Miriam hooked one foot over the other and tried to relax enough to force her shoulders back into the sofa. “You might last six weeks,” he said finally.

“Huh?”

He frowned at a parquet tile. “You can ignore your relatives, but they can’t ignore you. To them you’re an unknown quantity. The Clan shareholders all have the ability to walk the worlds, to cross over and follow you. Over here they’re rich and powerful—but your current situation makes them insecure because you’re unpredictable. If you do what’s expected of you, you merely disrupt several inheritances worth a baron’s estate. If you try to leave, they will think you are trying to form a new schismatic family, maybe even lure away family splinters to set up your own Clan to rival ours. How do you think the rich and powerful deal with threats to their existence?” He looked grave. “I’d rather not measure you for a coffin so soon after discovering you. It’s not every day I find a new second cousin, especially one who’s as educated and intelligent as you seem to be. There’s a shortage of good conversation here, you know.”