Charles Stross - MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

"Really." Hildegarde didn't bother to feign interest.

"They're working on a

machine,

Mother dearest. A machine that does what we do, a machine for walking between worlds. Yes, they told us this. Also that it might take months or years, but when they succeeded, they would come here, and how they would treat with us would depend entirely on how we treated with

them."

"And you believed that?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I did—and do. You've never really lived among them. You don't know what they're capable of."

Hildegarde sniffed. "Well, it will probably never happen. And if it does, we'll think of something. But for now, our internal factional dispute is settled. The Security apparat is back in its box, we have found a satisfactory solution to Angbard's silly little breeding program, and we—you and I—are back on course to meet our braid's long-term goal. Your diversion has had no real long-term effect. That's always been your besetting problem—always wanting to hare off and do things your own way, even when it forces you to do something silly, like hide yourself away in a foreign scholar's hovel for thirty years instead of enjoying the rightful fruits due to one of your rank. I know, you're not going to apologize. I don't expect you to. Will you believe me if I tell you that I bear you no ill will? Or your daughter? Or

her

child, be they boy or girl? But you have been a sore trial to your elderly mother, these years, more even than the prodigal stepson. Even now. Not even asking why I wanted to see you."

There was an uncomfortable pause. "Why?" Patricia finally asked.

"Because I'm dying," Hildegarde said, so offhandedly that it took Patricia a moment to do a double take. "Nothing that the Anglischprache doctors can repair, I assure you—I have been poked and prodded by Drs. yen Skorzeman and yen Hjalmar, and they have attempted to convince me to visit the other side for blood treatments that will make my hair fall out and my gums bleed, to no avail. I am a goodly age, Patricia. I may even live to see a world-walking great-grandchild of mine take the throne, which is more than my half-sister managed. And I never managed to settle my affairs with Angelin. So there is a canker in my guts and I should not want to impose overlong on your patience, but I am an old and impatient woman and I ask you to indulge my sentiment."

Patricia stared at the dowager. "But Angelin refused to speak to you—"

"She might have eventually, had she not died at the hands of her own grandchild's men." Hildegarde turned unfocussed eyes on the window. "Which just goes to show the unwisdom of schooling our young in alien ways: Never forget that—we are foreigners wherever we live, whether we be ruler or servant. Angelin failed to look to Egon's schooling. She left him to go native. You . . . made the opposite error with Helge. I never took the time to set things right with my sister. So, I thought I should at least make a gesture . . . don't make me reconsider the wisdom of this meeting."

"Oh, Mother." Patricia put her wineglass down. "This is most harsh, this news." A hesitancy crept into her voice.

"Bear with me." Hildegarde raised a slightly shaky hand and closed her eyes, as Patricia picked up the decanter with both hands and refilled their glasses. "I have always acted for what I perceived to be the best interests of our braid. I had hoped you would understand that, and at least not stand in my way, but by poisoning my natural heir against me . . . well, it's too late to undo that." She opened her eyes and blinked rheumily at her daughter. "May you have better luck with your grandchild. Angelin's great-grandchild."

"If it arrives. Consanguinuity—"

"It will be all right, child. Helge and Creon were first cousins once removed, and Creon's ailment was a consequence of poisoning, not inbreeding. We risk worse with every twist of the braid. The hazard is minimal."

"Miriam won't see it that way, you know."

"Miriam—what

an odd name. Where did you get it from?"

Patricia smiled tightly. "The same place I got Iris. And Beckstein. She answers to it, you know. You might have gotten better results from her if you'd called her by the name she prefers."

"Perhaps. But it's not her name, it's a disguise. Where would we be if people could pick and choose their name? Nobody need recognize their seniors—there would be anarchy! Or another strong man like Angbard would grab everybody by the throat and rule by force majeure. A rogue, that boy. But listen, I have a few months, perhaps a year or two. And seeing that Angbard was ill, I decided to move now, to detach his slippery followers' fingers from the reins of power and hand them back to their rightful owner—a woman of the line, or a lord working as her agent, as is right and proper. You, Patricia. You have a grandchild in the great game, or you will soon—you will act in their name. Once the hangers-on and opportunists are purged, once Angbard's security apparatus is emptied of dangerous innovators and cut back to its original size and scope, you will inherit the full power of my position, and they'll love you. Complete freedom of action. I never had that, girl, but

you will."

Patricia stared at Hildegarde for almost a minute. Presently, she closed her mouth. "You're not joking."

"You know me, girl. Do I ever joke?"

Patricia opened her mouth for a moment, then closed it again. "Let me get this straight. You had your granddaughter forcibly inseminated with your sister's grandson's sperm so that you could reassert our cadet branch's claim to the throne. You had me kidnapped and brought here so that we could kiss and make up. You're dying of cancer, so you decided to set up Miriam's kid for the throne by destroying Angbard's security organization, just as the old nobility are getting over the civil war and wondering what we're going to unleash on them next. And you nuked the White House, just to send a message to WARBUCKS. Am I missing anything?"

"Yes." Hildegarde looked smug. "Who do you think taunted Egon about his younger brother's marriage? Someone had to do it—otherwise we'd never have pried his useless ass off the throne! It would have set us back at least two generations."

Patricia picked up her wineglass and drained it for the second time. "Mother, I have a confession to make. Miriam once told me she thought you were a scheming bitch, and I'm afraid I defended your honor. I take it all back. You're completely insane."

"Let us pray that it runs in the family, then. As for your confession—consider yourself forgiven. I shall be relying on your cunning once I surrender to you, you realize." Hildegarde reached out and pulled the bell rope—"More

wine, damn your eyes! I

insist on getting drunk with my daughter at least once before I die. Yes, I'm insane. If insanity is defined by wanting to put my great-grandchild on the throne, I'm mad. If it's crazy to want to strangle the ghouls that crowd the royal crib and break the private army that threatens our autonomy, I'm all of that. I bent the Clan and the Kingdom to serve you and your line, Patricia, and I find at the end of my days that I regret nothing. So. Once you are in charge of the Clan, what do you think you will do with it?"

"I haven't made my confession yet, Mother." Patricia looked at the dowager oddly. "It would have been good to have had this heart-to-heart a little earlier—perhaps a year ago. I'm afraid we're both too late. . . ."

An hour after Miriam and her guards and allies arrived at the farmstead, the place was abuzz with Clan Security. There were several safe transfer locations in the state forest, and one of Earl-Major Riordan's first orders had been to summon every available soldier—not already committed to point defense or the pursuit of the renegade elements of the Postal Service and the Conservative Club—to establish a security cordon.