The Clan Corporate

Baron Henryk didn't reply at first. Instead, he looked up at the windows for a while, as if inspecting the quality of the plasterwork of the surrounds. "Interfering with the Clan post is a capital offense," he said, pushing back his chair. He stood up heavily and crossed the carpet to the far side of the room, limping slightly. Miriam stood as if rooted to the spot. "Just so that you understand how serious the situation is, I was not exaggerating when I said that execution warrant might be yours." Henryk turned and squinted at her across the room from between fingers held in a frame, like a cinematographer assessing a camera angle. "Hmm."

Miriam shivered involuntarily and took a step toward him. "Then why-"

"Because you are still useful to us," Henryk said calmly. "Stop, stand still." He walked across to the other corner of the room, looked at her from between crossed fingers. "That's good. As I was saying, you made a habit of sticking your nose into affairs where it has no business. Luckily this time we found out before it became common knowledge-otherwise I would have had to approve a great deal more death warrants in order to cover up your misbehavior, and your mother would never forgive me." He made the rectangle again.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm thinking of taking your portrait; be still." He squinted and shifted a little. "It's a hobby of mine, plate-glass daguerreotyping." He lowered his hands and limped back toward his desk. "The Queen Mother approves of you."

Miriam took another deep breath, distressed. "What's that got to do with things?"

"It suggests a way out of the dilemma." Henryk stopped, just out of arm's reach, and watched her. "Interfering with the post, Helge, isn't the only capital offense. Making the head of Clan Security look like an idiot-that is a capital offense, albeit a more subtle one for which the punishment is never made public. As for jeopardizing relations between the Clan and the Crown, that is really serious. Lese-majeste, possibly treason. Not that you're guilty of the latter two, not yet, but I wouldn't put it past you, given how you've got the crown prince's nose out of joint already." He chuckled quietly. "We can't afford to give you any more rope to play with, Helge, or you will succeed in hanging yourself. I'm afraid this is where the buck stops." He walked back to his desk and unfolded the black cloth, swearing mildly as he spilled his spectacles. "- 'Deferred pending overriding necessity,' Helge, that's all the slack I can buy you." He held up the folded paper. "So here's what is going to happen.

"You will speak to nobody about reading the post, without my permission, or that of the duke your uncle. The, ah, loose ends who might have deduced your activity have been tied off. If you do not speak of it, and we do not speak of it, it did not happen. This paper will remain on file for a few years, until we feel we can trust you. But." He paced back toward the other side of the room. "You will have nothing more to do with the Clan postal service ever again, Helge, ever again. This is the immediate consequence of your actions. You are to be permanently removed from the corvée, and temporarily deprived of the ability to walk between worlds." He grimaced. "Don't force us to make it permanent, there are ways and means short of execution that would achieve that end"-he picked up a pen-sized cylinder and held it for her to see, then put it down again-"do you see?"

Miriam swallowed. That's a laser! He's talking about blinding me! The idea of spending the rest of her life unable to see horrified her. "I understand," she managed to croak.

"Good." Baron Henryk looked slightly relieved. "I'm sure you appreciate that your position is somewhat fraught. But the Queen Mother approves of you." Pace, pace, pace: he was off again, as if he didn't want to face her. "She has requested your attendance upon her and her youngest surviving grandson at your convenience, Helge. I trust you know what this is about."

Miriam felt the blood draining from her face. "What?" she asked nervously.

"Face facts." Henryk could sound as fussily pedantic as any schoolteacher when he was upset. "You are a Clan lady of high birth, single, still of childbearing age. If you can't serve the commerce committee, how else may you serve us? There's not a lot else for you to do," he said, almost apologetically. "So you're going to go back to your residence and wait there, and work on your, what you think of as, your cover identity. Countess Helge voh Thorold d'Hjorth. You're not going to be allowed to be Miriam Beckstein again until we're sure we can trust you. We know about your dissociative tendencies, this unfortunate tendency toward imposter syndrome. It's time we gave you some help in breaking the habit. Think of it as an enforced vacation from the pressures of modern life, hein? Practice your hochsprache and persist with the gentle arts, and try not to overexert yourself too much. One way or the other, you're going to make yourself of use, even if only to give us another generation of world-walkers or a royal heir. It will go easier for you if you cooperate of your own free choice."

"You want to marry me off to the Idiot," she heard herself saying. "You want me to bear world-walking children who are in line for the throne. If Egon were to die-"

"That would be treason," Henryk said sharply, staring at her. "The Clan would never, ever, countenance treason."

The blood was roaring in Miriam's ears: You wouldn't dabble, but you might play at it in earnest, she thought. Get me out of here! A monstrous sense of claustrophobia pressed down on her, and her stomach twisted. "I feel sick," she said.

"Oh, I hope not." Henryk looked alarmed. "It's much too soon for that."

Forced Acculturation

The ferret was waiting outside with two men-at-arms. They handcuffed her wrists behind her back, then marched her back down the narrow staircase and out to a walled courtyard at the rear of the building where a carriage was waiting. The windows were shuttered, screens secured with padlocks. Miriam didn't resist as they loaded her in and bolted the door. What would be the point? Henryk was right about one thing-she'd screwed up completely, and before she tried to dig her way out of this mess it would be a good idea to think the consequences of her actions through very carefully indeed.

The carriage was small and stuffy and threw her around as it wandered interminably along. The noise of a busy street market reached her, muffled by the shutters. Then there was shouting, the clangor of hammers on metal. Smith Alley, she thought. Every time the carriage swayed across a rut in the cobblestone road surface it lurched from side to side, throwing her against the walls. It stank of leather, and stale sweat, and fear.

After a brief eternity the carriage lurched to a halt, and someone unlocked the door. The light was harsh: blinking, Miriam tried to stretch the kinks out of her back and legs. "This way," said the ferret.

It was another of those goddamn mansions with closed courtyards and separate servants' quarters. Miriam panted as she tried to keep up, half-dazzled by the glare of daylight. The ferret's two minions seized her by the elbows and half-dragged her to a small door. They propelled her up four flights of stairs-passing two servants who stood rigidly still, their faces turned to the wall so that they might not see her disgrace-then paused in front of a door. At least it's not the cellar, Miriam thought bleakly. She'd already seen what the Clan's dungeons looked like. The ferret paused and stared at her, then nodded minutely.

"These will be your quarters." He glanced at the door. "You may consider yourself under house arrest. Your belongings will be moved here, once we have searched them. Your maidservants likewise, and you may continue your activities as before, with reservations. I will pay attendance in the outer chamber. You will not leave your quarters without my approval, and I will accompany you wherever you go. Any messages you wish to send you will give to me for approval. You will not invite anyone to visit you without my approval. If you attempt to disobey these terms, then"-he shrugged-"I stand ready to do my duty."