Charles Stross - MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

"I believe so. I don't think he told Eldest any outright untruths, but nothing he said was quite right, either. He was telling the truth when he said he was the personal physician to many of the Eastern cousins' womenfolk, but he was also . . . not as put-upon as he would have you believe. He said he earned the undying hatred of the woman Helge—and he was telling the truth there, too. But Helge didn't impress me as being anybody's fool. She's neither naive nor stupid, and when we had time to talk—there's something unpleasant underneath this excess of servility on his part, Father. I can't tell you precisely what he's hiding, but he's hiding

something."

"That much was obvious from his performance." Shen took a sip of whisky. "I don't think Mei is serious about finding him a wife—unless she means to set the Widow Ting on him." James flinched; avoiding cousin Ting and her dangerous games had been one of his wiser moves. "I gather she's itching to marry again. That would make . . . three? Four? No matter. It is perfectly clear that the doctor is as twisty as a hangman's noose. What your uncle would like to know is—can he deliver what he offered?"

"I don't know." James paused. "You may know more than I, Father. Is it true that Helge is with child?"

For a long moment his father stared into his tumbler. "It might be so."

"Because." James licked his lips. "Before the Per—before the youngest son's rebellion, she was held prisoner and securely chaperoned. And I met the heir to whom she was betrothed.

He

wasn't going to do any begetting on her. There was unsavory whispering about some of yen Hjalmar's works, among the servants I cultivated. Some said that the man was an abortionist. Others accused him of drugging and raping noblewomen—a story I find incredible, under the circumstances described. What is true is that the Clan's ladies, whom he served, made use of a hospital or clinic in the United States, which he helped run. I know

that

much. And Helge was leashed for poking her nose into some business that sounds very like this baby clinic he offered to elder Yuan. So: I believe he is mostly telling the truth—again, only mostly."

"What do you think he plans ?"

"What he—" James stopped. "You can't be thinking of working with him! He's a viper. He's stung two masters already, why would he stop short of making it three? It's in his nature!"

"Calm down, boy, I'm not making that decision!"

"I'm sorry, Father."

"That is good. Don't worry unduly—we trust him no more than you do. But we need to have some idea of his goals before we can decide whether to make use of him or not. If he can deliver what he offers—perhaps as many as five hundred world-walkers within ten years—that is a matter of enormous significance! We would not have to worry about the Eastern cousins after that. It would open up new business possibilities, ways of making ourselves useful to those in authority—whoever they may be, when the current incivility dies down—new blood in our thinning arteries.

Can he do it?

That is what my brother asks. If he can, then we can use him: tie him down, shadow his work, and eventually take it over. But if he's a mere charlatan"—Shen made a dismissive gesture, casting the shadow of ven Hjalmar over his left shoulder—"we know how to deal with that, too."

James tried again: "I think it's unwise—"

"You have made that clear already!" his father snapped. "Your opinion is

noted.

But the decision-making is for your elders; they must balance the safety and needs of the family against the risks involved in taking this asp to our breast. All my brother needs from you now is an assessment—is what he says

possible?"

James took a deep breath, embarrassment and anger warring. "I . . . I can't deny it. From what the Eastern cousins were saying, when they had no reason to guard their tongues—yes, very possibly."

"Thank you." Shen lifted his tumbler. "I think it best if we do not include you in the discussion; you are, perhaps, too close to its subjects. I agree with your assessment of the doctor's character—but even serial traitors may be useful to us on occasion. Especially if we know their weaknesses. Which is why I ask again: What do you believe his goals are?"

James frowned. "What goals? Beside keeping his head on his shoulders?"

Shen leaned forward. "Has it gone that far?"

"He did something to Helge that angered her greatly. And she is pregnant, with an heir to the throne of Gruinmarkt that is universally acknowledged as such by the Eastern cousins, who say something about a, uh,

DNA paternity check,

whatever that might be. Are they fools, Father? Is

she

a fool? I think those rumors about drugs and rape are . . . not true, exactly, but close. Ven Hjalmar got Lady Helge pregnant with seed from the royal line—then his patron died, and he must run for his life. He wants money, sanctuary, and time to continue his work—which is this breeding program. He wants to use us, Father, that's what I think."

"Ah." His father relaxed, smiling at last. He raised his glass.

"And you think that's all?"

"I wouldn't swear to it, but—"

"It'll do." Shen took a sip. "Thank you, son. I think I can discuss this with Eldest now."

James's shoulders sank. "You think Uncle will take Dr. ven Hjalmar on."

"Yes." Shen's smile widened. "But don't worry. He will be under control. . ."

The second thing to catch Miriam's attention was the mingled smells of scorched wood and warm blood. The first was managing to control her fall; being carried piggyback was hard enough when the steed was a strapping young soldier, never mind a physically fit but lightly built younger woman. As Miriam and Olga disentangled themselves, Miriam looked around curiously. They'd come through in the target area once a deeply relieved Brill had confirmed that the zone was secure, and it was Miriam's first chance to see the havoc that the Pervert's army had inflicted on the Clan's outlying minor steadings.

One farmhouse looked much like another to her eye—in the Gruinmarkt they tended to be thick-walled, made from heavy logs or clay bricks depending on the locally available materials—but this one bore clear signs of battle. The roof of one wing was scorched and blackened, and the window shutters on the central building had been wrecked. More to the point—

"Who—" she began, as Olga raised a hand and waved at the armed man standing guard by the door.

"My lady!" He went to one knee. "Lord Riordan awaits you in the west wing."

"Rise, Thom. Where are Knuth and Thorson?" Olga was all business, despite what had to be a splitting headache.

"We haven't seen ear nor tail of them since they crossed over yesterday." The guard's eyes widened as he looked at Miriam: "Is this—"

"Yes, and you don't need to make a scene over me," she said hastily. Turning to Olga: "The other two—they're your missing guards?"

"Let us discuss that indoors." Olga nodded at the farmstead's front door, which stood ajar. Thom followed behind like an overeager dog, happy his mistress was home. "I think Knuth and Thorson are probably dead," she said quietly. "The two who were waiting for us definitely weren't them."

Miriam nodded, jerkily. "So they were assassins? Just there to kill whoever turned up?"

"Whoever turned up at the duty staff officer's primary evacuation point, yes." The picture was clear enough. The evac point had been guarded by a lance of soldiers, two on the American side and six in the Gruinmarkt. The assassins had murdered the two guards in the state park, then planned on catching Earl Riordan and his colleagues as they arrived, one by one. They hadn't anticipated a group who, forewarned, arrived expecting skullduggery. "I expect Lady d'Ost will try and find where they hid the bodies before she comes hither to report. Come on inside, my lady."