The Clan Corporate

The air was close and the evening warm. Helge fa

After an interminable ride-which might have been five minutes or half an hour-the roadway smoothed, wheels crunching over gravel, and the carriage halted. Someone busied themselves with the padlock outside, then a glare of setting sunlight almost blinded Helge as she squeezed through the door.

"Milady." It was-what was his name? Some flunky of Henryk's, she decided. He handed her down the steps to a small gaggle of guards and ladies-in-waiting and general rubberneckers. "Please allow me to welcome you to the royal household. This is Sir Rybeck, master of the royal stables. And this is-"

It was a receiving line. For her. Helge offered her hand as she was gently moved along it, accepting bows and courtesies and strange lips on the back of her glove, smiling fixedly and trying not to bare her teeth. Two court ladies-in-waiting picked up the train of her cloak, and four guards in the red and gold of the royal troupe walked before her with long, viciously curved axes held aloft. This is public, she realized with a sinking feeling. They're saying publicly that I rate the respect due a member of the royal household! Which meant there'd have to be some kind of a

She'd never paid too much attention to royal etiquette in the past, and anything she'd accidentally read about in her old life was obviously inapplicable, but it was seriously intimidating. People were acting as if they were afraid of her. And if anyone thought her gown was unfashionable or noticed her bruised cheek under the veil, they were keeping quiet about it.

There was a huge banquet hall with several tables set up inside it, one of them on a raised platform at the back. People thronged the floor of the hall: as she entered the room there was a ripple of low-key conversation. Faces turned toward her. Butterflies flapped their wings in her stomach. "What now?" she asked her guide quietly, gripping his arm, forcing her hochsprache to perform.

"I escort you to the antechamber. You greet the king. You greet the prince. There will be drinks. Then there will be the meal." He kept his diction clear and his phrases short, speaking slowly out of deference to her poor language skills. To her surprise, Helge understood most of what he said.

"Is the duke here? Angbard? Or Baron Henryk?" she asked.

His reply was a small shrug. "Alas, matters of state keep both of them away."

"Oh." Right. Matters of state, it seemed, conspired to keep her from giving them a piece of her mind. She walked past the curious crowds-she smiled and nodded at enquiries, but kept her feet moving-then a door opened ahead of her. Guards grounded their axes. None of the nobles at this show were wearing swords. She went right ahead, then her escort stopped, a restraining hand on hers. Miriam paused, then recognized the sad-faced man in front of her. Her mind went blank. He's wearing a crown. You're supposed to be marrying his son. What am I supposed to do now? Helge bent her knee in a deep curtsey. "Your majesty. I am, it pleases, me to see you."

"Countess Helge. Your presence brings light to an old man's eye. Please, take our arm." He smiled hesitantly, his face wrinkling with the look of a man who'd born more cruel blows than anyone should face.

She bit her tongue and took the proffered arm gingerly. For an instant the urge to try a throw she'd learned in a self-defense class years ago taunted her. However, throwing the king over her shoulder might bear even less pleasant consequences than telling Baron Henryk to fuck off. "Yes, your majesty," she said meekly, falling back into the Helge role, and she allowed Alexis Nicholau III to lead her across the room toward the stooped figure of his mother the queen, and the equally stooped, but much huskier, figure of his son, Prince Creon.

"We understand you know why you are here?"

"I-" Helge tripped over her tongue. "I am to marry, yes?"

"That is the idea." The king frowned slightly. Then he reached up and lifted one corner of her veil. "Ah. We understand now." He let it fall. "We apologize for our curiosity. Was it serious?"

"I-" could break Henryk's career right now, for good, she realized. But that way it wouldn't be personal, would it? "I walk into bed-post," she said slowly. She felt a sudden stab of rage. Let him wonder when it's going to come. "Is nothing serious."

"Good." The frown lifted slightly. "We trust you will willingly uphold your party's side of the bargain, then?"

Bargain? What bargain? She looked at him blankly, then realized what he must be talking about. "I am the daughter of my mother."

"That is more than sufficient." He nodded. "A glass of wine for the countess," he casually dropped in the direction a baron, who hustled away to find a waiter. "Prince Creon is a troubling responsibility," he said.

"Responsibility?" It was a new word to Helge.

"Responsibility," he repeated in English. "Hmm. Your tongue comes along wonderfully. Soon few will think you a half-wit like my son."

Aha. "That is the veil, the, uh, cover, for the marriage?"

"For now." The king nodded. Miriam forced herself to unkink her fingers before she burst a seam in her gloves. They were curled into claws. They think I'm an idiot? "It is a useful fiction."

"But your son-"

"Can speak for himself." The king smiled sadly. "Can't you, Creon?"

"Muh-marriage?" Creon lurched toward Helge curiously, stopped when he was facing her.

Helge sighed. He wasn't ugly, that was the bad news. If you straightened his back, wiped away the string of drool, and unwound the genetic disorder that had left him wide-open to brain damage delivered by an assassin's dose of artificial sweetener in his food when he was a child, he'd be more than presentable: he'd be a catch, like his elder brother. The thought of the older one nearly made her shudder: she caught herself in time. Remember what they call them, the Idiot and the Pervert, she warned herself. "Hello, Creon," she said slowly.

"Muh-marriage?" he mumbled. "I'm hungry-"

It was a miracle he was still walking. Or conscious. She pitied him. "Do you know what that means?" she asked.

"Muh, muh-" He reached out a hand and she took it. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled as if by something far beyond his understanding, and squeezed. Helge yelped. Heads turned.

"We must apologize again," said the prince's father, stepping in to detach his hand from her wrist. He did so gently, then raised an eyebrow. "You are sure this is the prize you want?" he asked quietly.

Helge licked her lips. "So my mother tells me." And the rest of my long-lost family. At gunpoint.

"Ah well, on your head be it, just so long as you are gentle with him. He needs protecting. It is not his fault."

"I-" I'd like to find the assholes who did this to him and give them something in return. "I know that." As unwilling arranged marriages went, Creon looked unlikely to be a demanding husband. I just hope Doctor ven Hjalmar knows what he's doing, she thought. If he doesn't, if they expect me to sleep with Creon… all of a sudden, test tubes and turkey basters held a remarkable allure. A glass of sparkling wine appeared in her hand and she drank it down in one mouthful, then held out her glass for a refill. "I will look after him," she promised, and was surprised to find that it came easily. It's not his fault he's damaged goods, she thought, then did a double take. Is that what Henryk thinks I am?