The Family Trade

“You are mistaken.” Matthias’s eyes glinted by candlelight. “To get here, I left the duke’s side this morning.”

“Oh, I get it. Someone gave you a lift across and you caught the train.”

“Yes.” Matthias nodded. “And here is something else you should understand, your ladyship. I am not of high birth. Or rather, but for an accident of heredity … but like many of my relatives I have reached an accommodation with the Clan.” He took her arm. “I know a little about your history. Not everyone who lives here is entirely happy with the status quo, the way the Clan council is run. You have a history of digging—”

“Let go of my wrist,” Miriam said quietly.

“Certainly.” Matthias dropped his grip. “Please accept my apologies. I did not intend to give offence.”

Miriam paused for a moment. “Accepted.”

“Very well.” Matthias glanced away. “Would you care to hear some advice, my lady?”

“It depends,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal, trying to stay in control. First a hostile grandmother, now what…? She felt slightly dizzy, punch-drunk from too much information, much of it unwelcome. “In what spirit is the advice offered?”

Matthias’s face was as stiff and controlled as a mask. “In a spirit of friendly solicitude and perfect altruism,” he murmured.

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, then, I suppose I should take it in the ma

Matthias lowered his voice. “The Clan has many secrets, as you have probably realized, and there are things here that you should avoid showing a conspicuous interest in. In particular, the alignment of i

“Do you know who’s threatening me? Are you threatening me?” she asked.

“No and no. I am simply attempting to educate you. There are more factions here than anyone will admit to.” He shook his head. “I will visit you tomorrow and see to your guards—if that meets with your approval. I can provide you with a degree of protection if you choose to accept it. Do you?”

“Hah. We’ll see.” Miriam backed away from him, trying to cover her confusion. She retreated back into the flood of light shed by the enormous chandeliers overhead, back toward the torrent of faces babbling in their endless arrogant status games and power plays, just as Brilliana came hurrying up to her. “You have a summons!” Brill said hastily. “His royal highness would like you to present before him.”

“Present what, exactly? My hitherto-undiscovered family tree, a miracle of fratricidal squabbles and—”

“No, your credentials.” Brilliana frowned. “He gave them to you?”

Miriam held up the small scroll and examined the seal. It was similar to the one Olga had shown her, but different in detail.

“Yes,” she said, finally.

“Was that all he wanted?” Brilliana asked.

“No.” Miriam shook her head. “Time for that later. You’d better take me to his majesty.”

The royal party held their space in another window bay backed by curtains and shutters. All the cloth didn’t completely block the chill that exuded from the stonework. Miriam approached the long as she’d been shown, Brilliana—and a Kara she’d found somewhere—in tow, and made the deepest curtsy she could manage.

“Rise,” said his high majesty, Alexis Nicholau III. “I believe we have met? The night before last?”

He smelled of stale wine and old sweat. “Yes, your majesty.” She offered her scroll to him. “This is for you.”

He cracked the seal with a shaky hand, unrolled it, then nodded to himself and handed it to a page. “Well, if you’re good enough for Angbard, you’re good enough for me.”

“Um. Your majesty?”

He waved vaguely at the curtains. “Angbard says you’ll do, and what he says has a habit of sticking.” One of the two princes sidled up behind him, trailing a couple of attendants. “So I’ve got m’self a new countess.”

“It would appear so, your majesty.”

“You’re his heir,” said the king, relishing the last word.

Miriam’s jaw dropped. “M-majesty?”

“Well, he says so,” said King Alexis. “Says so right there.” He stabbed a finger at the page who held the parchment. “ ’N, who d’you think really runs this place?”

“Pardon me, please. He hadn’t told me.”

“Well, I’m telling you,” said the king. The prince—was it Creon or Egon? She couldn’t tell them apart yet—leaned over his majesty’s shoulder and stared at her frankly. “Doesn’t matter much.” The king sniffed. “You won’t fill that man’s shoes, girl. The man you marry might, though. If you both live long enough.”

“I see,” she said. The prince was clearly in his twenties, had long dark hair, an embroidered gold blouse, and a knife at his belt that looked to be a solid mass of gemstones. He regarded her with an expression of slack-jawed vacancy. What is this? Miriam wondered with growing fear. Shit, I knew it! They ‘re trying to set me up!

“There’s one way of seeing to that,” the king added. “I believe you’ve not been introduced to my son Creon?”

“Delighted, absolutely delighted!” Miriam tried to smile at him. Creon nodded back at her happily.

“Creon is long past an age to marry,” the king said thoughtfully. “Of course, whoever he took to wife would be a royal princess, you realize?” He looked down his nose at her. “Of course anyone who would be pledged to a royal household would need a very special dowry—” his glance was dark and full of veiled significance—“but I believe Angbard’s relatives might find the price affordable. And the prince would benefit from the intelligent self-interest of an understanding wife.”

“Uh-huh.” She looked past the king, at Prince Creon. The prince beamed at her, a delighted, friendly expression that was nevertheless undermined by the way he simultaneously drooled on his collar. “I’d be delighted to meet with the prince later, under more appropriate circumstances,” she gushed. “Delighted! Of course!” She beamed, desperately racking her brain for platitudes recovered from a thousand and one a

“Yes, yes, that’s enough.” The king beamed at her. “There’s no need for sycophancy. I have heard so much I am far beyond its reach, and he—” he nodded—“will never be within it.”

Gulp. “I see, your majesty.”

“Yes, he’s an idiot,” King Alexis said genially. “And you’re too old.” Some instinct for self-preservation made Miriam swallow an automatic protest. “But he’s my idiot, and were he to marry his child would be third in line to the throne, at least until Egon’s wife bears issue. I urge you to think on this, young lady: Should you meet anyone suitable, I would be most interested to hear of them. Now begone with you, to these vastly important strangers who fascinate you so conspicuously. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Uh—thank you! Thank you most kindly!” Miriam fled in disarray, outmanoeuvred for the third time this evening. Just what is it with these people? she wondered. The king’s overture was undoubtedly well-meant; just alarming and demoralizing, for it highlighted the depths of her own inadequacy in trying to play power politics with these sharks. The king wants to marry his son into the Clan, and he thinks I’m a useful person to talk to? It was desperately confusing. And why had Angbard named her his heir? That was the real question. Without an answer, nothing else seemed to make sense. What was he trying to achieve? Didn’t it make her some kind of target?