The Family Trade

“Evidence that might point to your faction’s existence.”

“Exactly.”

Servants were invisible, Miriam realized, as she hurried through the narrow rough-walled corridor below stairs. Take this particular servant, for example. She was wearing the long black skirt, white blouse, and starched apron of a parlour maid, hurrying along beneath a tray with a pot of coffee on it. Nobody paid her a second glance. Maybe they should have, she decided, carefully putting one foot in front of another. The servant outfit was inauthentic, machine-woven, obviously wrong if anyone had looked closely, and bulked up from hiding something underneath. But the house was still in upheaval, individual servants were mostly beneath notice to the noble occupants, and the staff was large enough that she didn’t expect to be noticed by the real maids. This is going to be really useful, Miriam decided, balancing the tray carefully as she mounted the staircase.

The tight spiral steps were a trial, but she managed not to tread on her hem as she wound her way up to the floor above. Once she squeezed against the wall to let an equerry by: He glanced at her in mild disgust and continued on. Score one to the invisible woman, she told herself. She stalked along the corridor, edgy with anticipation. Pla

She found the right door and entered without knocking. It was another private apartment, seemingly empty. She put the tray down on the sideboard beside the door, then looked around. One of the side doors opened: “I didn’t order—oh.”

“We meet again.” She gri

Roland looked her up and down in mild disbelief. “The mistress of disguise? It’s a good thing I swept the room earlier. For bugs,” he added, catching her raised eyebrow.

“Well, that was prudent. You look great, too.” He’d dressed in a black tuxedo, she noted with relief. He’d taken her seriously; she’d been a little worried. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Through there.” He looked doubtful.

“Back in a minute,” she said, ducking inside.

She closed the door, hastily untied her servant’s apron, shook her hair out of the borrowed mob cap, then spent a minute fumbling with her waistband. She stripped off the servant’s outerwear, then paused to look in a mirror. “Go kill him, girl,” she told herself. She deftly rolled on a coat of lip gloss, installed earrings and a single string of pearls. Finally she pulled on her black evening gloves, did an experimental twirl that set two thousand dollars’ worth of evening dress swirling, blew herself a kiss in the mirror, and stepped out.

Roland was waiting outside, holding a goblet of wine out toward her: He nearly dropped it when he saw her. “You look absolutely spectacular,” he said, finally. “How did you do it?”

“Oh, it wasn’t hard.” She shrugged her shoulders, which were bare. “You could conceal an arsenal under one of those maids’ uniforms.” I know. I did. She took the glass from him, then took his hand, led him to the sofa. “Sit.” She sat herself, then patted the leather seat next to her. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” He followed her, looking slightly dazzled.

She felt a stab of tenderness mixed with regret, unsettling and unexpected.  What am I really doing here? she half-wondered, then shoved the thought aside. “Come on. Sit down.” He sat in the opposite corner of the huge leather sofa, one arm over the back, the other cradling his glass in front of him, almost hiding behind it. “I had my chat with Angbard today.”

“Ah.” He looked defensive.

She took a sip from the glass and smiled at him. The wine was more than good, it was excellent, a rich, fruity vintage with a subtle aftertaste that reminded her of strawberries and freshly mowed lawns. She fired another smile at him, and he cracked, took a mouthful, and tried to smile back.

“Roland, I think the duke may be lying to us—separately. Or merely being economical with the truth.”

“Ah, ‘lying’?” He looked cautiously defensive.

“Lying.” She sighed, then looked at him sidelong. “I’m going to tell you what he told me, then you can tell me if that’s what he told you. Do you think you can do that? No need to reveal any secrets …”

“ ‘Secrets,’” he echoed. A shadow flickered across his face. “Miriam, there are things I’m not allowed to tell you, and I don’t like it, but it’s possible that—well, some of them may be seeds.”

‘“Seeds’?”

“Tests, for me, to see if I can keep secrets.” He took a mouthful of the Cabernet. “Stuff that, if I tell you, will probably make you do something predictable, so that he’ll know I told you. Do you understand? I’m not considered trustworthy. I came back with ideas about, well, about trying to change the way things are done. Ideas that upset a lot of people. The duke seems to like me—or at least think some of my ideas could be useful—but he certainly doesn’t trust me. That’s why he keeps me so close at hand.”

“Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully. Her opinion of him rose yet again: He doesn’t lie to himself. “I guessed that. Which is why I’m going to tell you what he told me and you’re just going to decide whether to confirm it if it’s true.”

“Uh, okay.” He was intensely focused on her. Good, she thought, feeling a little thrill. She slid one leg over the other, let a calf encased in sheer black stocking sneak out. The game’s afoot, she thought to herself, then noticed his response and felt her breath catch in her throat. Then again, maybe it’s not all a game.

“Okay, this is what he told me. He says I’m in an exposed position and liable to be attacked, maybe murdered, if I don’t dig myself inextricably into the Clan power structure as soon as possible. He says I have some discretion, but I ought to marry within the families and do it soon. Which I think is bullshit, but I let him lead me on. So he’s sending me to the royal court with Olga, for a formal presentation and coming-out. We leave tomorrow.” When she said tomorrow he frowned.

“There’s more.” She paused to drink, then put her empty glass down. Her stomach felt warm, relaxed. She met his eyes. “Is what he told me about expecting me to find a husband among the families what you heard?”

“Yes.” Roland nodded. “I didn’t know you were to leave tomorrow, though,” he said, sounding a little disappointed.

Miriam straightened up and leaned toward him. “Yes, well, he also discussed you,” she said. “He said he’s going to marry you off to Olga.”

“Bastard—” Roland’s raised his glass to hide his expression, then drank its contents straight down.

“What, no comment?” Miriam asked, her heart pounding. This was the critical moment—

“I’m sorry. Not your fault,” he said hoarsely. “I’d guessed he was going to try something to tie me down, but not that crude.” He shook his head frustratedly. “Stupid.” He took a deep breath, visibly struggling for control.

“I take it that’s a no.”

He put his glass down on the low table beside the sofa. As he straightened up, Miriam laid one hand on his arm. “What you told me the other day—he wants you nailed to a perch, just an obedient little branch on the family tree,” she said urgently. “Angbard wants you to make an appropriate marriage and breed lots of little Thorold—Lofstroms to look after him in his old age. With Olga.”

“Yes.” Roland shook his head. He didn’t seem to notice her hand on his arm. “I thought he was at least still interested in—¦ shit. Olga’s loyal. It means he’s been stringing me along with his warnings to shut up and play the political game—all along, all the time.” He stood up and paced across the room agitatedly. “He’s been keeping me here on ice to stop me getting my point across.” He reached the fireplace and paused, thumping the heel of his right hand into his left palm. “Bastard.”