Charles Stross: The Hidden Family

The door opened, stemming his tirade in full flood. The older courier straightened up; the young one just flushed, his mouth running down in a frightened stammer. “Uh, yessir, uh, going back, uh—”

“Shut up,” Matthias said coldly.

One more squeak and the kid fell silent. Matthias nodded at Martijn, the older one. “You ready?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well.” Matthias didn’t smile, but some of the tension went out of his shoulders. He wore a leather flying jacket and jeans, with gloves on his hands and a day pack slung over one arm. “Kid. You are going to carry me across. Ready?”

“Uh.” Gulp. “Yessir. Yes. Sir.”

“Hah.” Matthias glanced at the older one. “Go on, then.” He advanced on the youth. “I’m heavier than any load you’re used to. You will need to have your key ready in one hand. When you are ready, speak, and I’ll climb on your back. Try not to break.”

“Yessir!”

A minute later they were in another post room. This one was slightly smaller, its shelves less full, and a row of wheeled suitcases were parked on the opposite wall inside an area painted with yellow stripes. The kid collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath while Matthias looked around for the older courier. “Martijn. You have your orders?”

“Yes. My lord.”

“Execute them.”

Matthias removed a briefcase from the rack on one wall then walked toward the exit from the room. He unlocked it then waved Martijn and the younger courier through. Once they were in me elevator to the upper floors, Matthias shut the door—then turned on his heel and headed for the emergency stairs to the garage.

The silver-blue BMW convertible was waiting for him, just as he’d ordered. Finally, Matthias cracked a smile, thin-lipped and humorless. There was barely room for the briefcase in the trunk, and his day pack went on the passenger seat. He fired up the engine as he hit the “door open” button on the dash, accelerating up the ramp and into the daylight beyond.

“Fifteen minutes,” he whispered to himself as he merged with the traffic on the Cambridge turnpike. “Give me fifteen minutes!”

The time passed rapidly. Waiting at an intersection, Matthias pulled out a cheap anonymous mobile phone and speed-dialed a number. It rang three times before the person at the other end answered.

“Who is this?” they asked.

“This is Judas. Listen, I will say this once. The address you want is …” he rattled through the details of the location he’d just left. “Got that?”

“Yes. Who are you and—”

Matthias casually flipped the phone out of the half-open window then accelerated away. Moments later, an eighteen-wheeler reduced it to plastic shrapnel.

“Fuck you very much,” he muttered, a savage joy in his eyes. “You can’t fire me: I quit!”

It wasn’t until he was nearly at the airport with his wallet full of bearer bonds and a briefcase full of Clan secrets that he began to think about what to do next.

A ghastly silence fell across the grand hall as Miriam stepped out of the doorway. She took a deep breath and smiled as brightly as she could. “Don’t mind me!” she said.

“That’s right,” Iris whispered, “mind me, you back-stabbing faux-aristocratic bastards!”

“Mother!” she hissed, keeping a straight face only with considerable effort.

“Oligarchic parasites. Hah.” Louder: “Steer left, if you please, can’t you tell left from right? That’s better. Now, who do I have to bribe to get a glass of Pinot Noir around here?”

Iris’s chatter seemed to break an invisible curtain of suspense. Conversations started up again around the room, and a pair of anxious liveried servants hurried forward, bearing trays with glasses.

Iris hooked a glass of red wine with a slightly wobbly hand and took a suspicious sniff. “It’ll pass,” she declared. “Help yourself while you’re at it,” she told Miriam. “Don’t just stand there like a rabbit in the headlights.”

“Um. Are you sure it’s wise to drink?”

“I’ve always had difficulty coping with my relatives sober. But yes, I take your point.” Iris took a moderate sip. “I won’t let the side down.”

“Okay, Mom.” Miriam took a glass. She looked up just in time to see Kara across the room, looking frightened, standing beside an unfamiliar man in late middle age. “Hmm. Looks like the rats are deserting or something. Olga?”

Beside her and following her gaze, Olga had tensed. “That’s Peffer Hjorth. What’s she doing talking to him, the minx?”

“Peffer Hjorth?”

“The baron’s uncle. Outer family, not a member.”

Iris whistled tunelessly. “Well, well, well. One of yours?” she asked Miriam.

“I thought so.” Miriam took a sip of wine. Her mouth felt bitter, ashy.

“Lady Helge, what a story! Fascinating! And your mother—why, Patricia? It’s been such a long time!”

She looked around, found Iris craning her neck, too. “Turn me, please, Miriam—” Iris was looking up and down: “Mors Hjalmar! Long time indeed. How are you doing?”

The plumpish man with a neatly trimmed beard and hair just covering his collar—like a middle-aged hippy uncomfortably squeezed into a dark suit for a funeral or court appearance—grinned happily. “I’m doing well, Patricia, well!” His expression sank slightly. “I was doing better before this blew up, I think. They mostly ignore me.” He rubbed his left cheek thoughtfully. “Which is no bad thing.” He looked at Olga, askance. “And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“This is Lady Olga Thorold,” Iris offered.

“And you are of the same party as these, ah, elusive Thorold-Hjorths?”

“Indeed I am!” Olga said tightly.

“Oh. Well, then.” He shrugged. “I mean no offense, but it’s sometimes hard to tell who’s helping who, don’t you know?”

“Lady Olga has only our best interests at heart,” Miriam replied. “You knew my mother?”

Iris had been looking up at Mors all this time, her mouth open slightly, as if surprised to see him. Now she shook her head. “Thirty years,” she muttered darkly. “And they haven’t murdered you yet?” Suddenly she smiled. “Maybe there’s hope for me after all.”

“Do you know what she means?” Miriam asked Olga, puzzled.

“I, ahem, led an eccentric life many years ago,” said Mors.

Iris shook her head. “Mors was the first of our generation to actually demand—and get—a proper education. Yale Law School, but they made him sign away his right of seniority, if I remember rightly. Wasn’t that so?” she asked.

“Approximately.” Mors smiled slightly. “It took them a few years to realize that the Clan badly needed its own attorney on the other side.” His smile broadened by inches.

“What?” Iris looked almost appalled. “No, I can’t see it.”

“So don’t.” He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Is it true?” His eyes were fixed on Iris.

“If she says it’s true, it’s true,” Iris insisted, jerking her head slightly in Miriam’s direction. “A credit to the family.” She pulled a face. “Not that that’s what I wanted, but—”

“—We don’t always get what we want,” Mors finished for her, nodding. “I think I see.” He looked thoughtful. Then he looked at Miriam. “If you need any legal advice, here’s my card,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Miriam, pocketing it. “But I think I may need a different kind of help right now.” All too damned true, she thought, seeing what was bearing down on them. Nemesis had two heads and four arms, and both heads wore haughty expressions of utmost disdain, carefully tempered for maximum intransigence.