The Clan Corporate

"Because they don't trust you," Henryk replied. He put his glass down and stared at her. "Why do you think they should let you out where they can't keep an eye on you?"

"I-" Miriam stopped dead. "They don't trust me?" she asked, and even to herself she sounded slightly stupid. "Well, no shit. They've got my mother as a hostage, there's no way I can go back home until we know if Matt's blown my original identity, Angbard knows just where I live on the New Britain side-what do they think I'm going to do? Walk into a Royal Constabulary office and say, 'Look, there's a conspiracy of subversives from another world trying to invade you' or something? Ask the DEA to stick me in a witness protection program?" She realized she was getting agitated and tried to control her gestures. "I'm on side, Henryk! I had this argument with Angbard last year. I chewed it over with, with Roland. Think we didn't discuss the possibility of quietly disappearing on you? Guess what: we didn't! Because in the final analysis, you're family. And I've got no reason good enough to make me run away. It's not like the old days when Patricia had to put up with an abusive husband for the good of the Clan, is it? So yes, they should be able to trust me. About the only way they can expect me to be untrustworthy is if they treat me like this."

She ran down, breathing heavily. Somewhere in the middle of things, she realized, she'd spilled a couple of drops of wine on the polished walnut top of Henryk's desk. She leaned forward and blotted them up with the cuff of her jacket.

"You make a persuasive case," Henryk said thoughtfully.

Yes, but do you buy it? Miriam froze inside. What have I put my foot in here?

"Personally, I believe you. But I hope you can see, I have met you. I can see that you are a lady of considerable personal integrity and completely honorable in all your dealings. But the Clan is at this moment battling for its very survival, and the people who make such decisions-not Angbard, he directs, his perch is very high up the tree indeed-don't know you from, from your lady-in-waiting out there. All they see is a dossier that says 'feral infant, raised by runaway on other side, tendency toward erratic entrepreneurial behavior, feminist, unproven reliability.' They know you came back to the fold once, of your own accord, and that is marked down in your favor already, isn't it? You're living in the lap of luxury, taking in the social season and pursuing the remedial studies you need in order to learn how to live among us. Expecting anything more, in the middle of a crisis, is pushing things a little hard."

"You're telling me I'm a prisoner," Miriam said evenly.

"No!" Henryk looked shocked. "You're not a prisoner! You're-" He paused. "A probationer. Promising but unproven. If you keep to your studies, cultivate the right people, go through cha

"Yes, please." Miriam sat very still while Henryk paced over to the sideboard and refilled both glasses, her mind whirling. They see me as a probationer. Right. It wasn't a nice idea, but it explained a lot of things that had been happening lately. "If I'm on probation, then what about my mother? What about Patricia?"

"Oh, she's in terrible trouble," Henryk said reassuringly. "Absolutely terrible! Ghastly beyond belief!" He said it with relish as he passed her the glass. "Go on, ask me why, you know you're dying to."

"Um. Is it relevant?"

"Absolutely." Henryk nodded. "You know how we normally deal with defectors around here."

"I-" Miriam stopped. Defection was one of the unforgivable crimes. The Clan's ability to function as an organization devoted to trade between worlds scaled as a function of the number of couriers it could mobilize. Leaving, ru

"Your mother has unusual extenuating circumstances to thank for her predicament," Henryk stated coolly. "If not for which, she would probably be dead. Angbard swears blind that her disappearance was pla

Henryk paused for a sip of wine. "But as you can see, your background does not inspire trust."

"Oh." Miriam frowned. "But that's not my fault!"

"Of course not." Henryk put his glass down. "But you can't escape it. We're a young aristocracy, Helge, rough-cut and uncivilized. This is a marcher kingdom, second sons hunting their fortune on the edges of the great forest. The entire population of this kingdom is perhaps five million, did you know that? You could drop the entire population of Niejwein into Boston and lose them. The Boston you grew up in, that is. Without us, without the Clan, Gruinmarkt culture and high society would make England in the fifteenth century look cosmopolitan and sophisticated. It's true that there are enormous riches on display in the palaces and castles of the aristocracy, but it's superficial-what you see on display is everything there is. Not like America, where wealth is so overwhelming that the truly rich store their assets in enormous bank vaults and amuse themselves by aping the dress and ma

Miriam stared at her white-haired, hollow-cheeked great-uncle. "That's all I am, is it?" she asked in a thin voice. "An ornament on the family tree? And an untrustworthy one, at that?"

"By no means." Henryk leaned back in his chair. "But behavior like this, this display of indecorous-" He paused. "It doesn't help your case," he said tensely. "I understand. Others would not. It's them you have to convince. But you've chosen the middle of a crisis to do it in-not the best of timing! Some would consider it evidence of guile, to make a bid for independence when all hands are at the breach. I don't for a minute believe you would act in such a ma

"Um. I should be going, then." She rubbed the palm of one hand nervously on her thigh. "I guess I should apologize to you for taking up your time." She paused for a moment and forced herself to swallow her pride. "Do you have any specific advice for me, about how to proceed?"