Charles Stross - MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

"Are you sure?" the bodyguard asked edgily.

James smiled tightly. "We're safer here than we were on the way," he pointed out. Which was true: Three men who would be taken as foreigners driving an expensive motor through a British city in time of revolution—"They won't lay a finger on us, Chang. They don't know what we are capable of. And besides, I am an honored guest." He closed the car door and walked towards the gate as it swung open.

The house Miriam had purchased for her first foray into the business world in New Britain was large enough to conceal a myriad of sins, and James Lee was not surprised when the suspiciously unobsequious butler who met him at the front door rushed him into a parlor off to one side. "If you'd wait here, sir, her—my lady sends her apologies, and she will see you shortly." He began to move towards the door, then paused. "Can I fetch you anything? Tea, coffee, whisky?"

James smiled. "I am perfectly all right," he said blandly. The not-butler frowned, then bowed briskly and hurried out of the room. He was clearly unused to playing this role; his stockings were creased and his periwig lamentably disordered. James sat in the solitary armchair, glancing round curiously. Aside from the presence of the armchair and a small box attached to the wall close to one ceiling corner, there was nothing particularly unusual about the room—for a butler's pantry.

Someone is not used to entertaining,

he decided.

Now, what does that signify?

As it happened, he didn't have long to wait. Barely ten minutes later, the not-butler threw the door open in a rush. "They're ready for you now," he explained. "In the morning room. If you'll follow me, sir."

"Certainly." James stood and followed the fellow out into a gloomy passage, then out into a wood-paneled hall and through a doorway into a daylit room dominated by a large mahogany table set out with nearly a dozen seats.

Dining table or conference table?

He nodded politely at the occupants, reserving a small smile for their leader. "Good morning, Your Majesty—your grace—however I should address you? I must say, I'm glad to see you looking so well."

Well

was questionable; she looked as if she had recently been seriously unwell, and was not yet back to full health.

She nodded. "Thank you, my lord baron. Uh—we are trying to make a practice of avoiding titles here; the neighbors are less than understanding. You may call me Miriam and I shall call you James, or Mr. Lee, whichever you prefer. Unless you insist on formalities?"

"As you wish." The not-butler stepped forward, drawing out a chair for him. "Perhaps you could introduce your companions? I don't believe we've all met."

"Sure. Have a seat—everybody? Brilliana I think you've met. This is Sir—uh, Alasdair, my—"

"Chief of security," the man-mountain rumbled mildly. He, too, sat down. "Your men are being taken care of with all due hospitality," he added.

"Thank you."

Message received.

James nodded and concentrated on remembering names as Miriam—the former Duchess Helge—introduced another five members of the six traitor brothers' families—Stop

that,

he reminded himself. It was a bad habit, born of a hundred and fifty and more years of tradition built on the unfortunate belief that his ancestor had been abandoned to his fate by his wicked siblings. A belief which might or might not be true, but which was singularly unhelpful in the current day and age. . . .

"I assume you're here because of my letter," Miriam finished after the naming of names. Then she simply sat back, watching him expectantly.

"Ah—yes."

Damn.

He hadn't expected quite such an abrupt interrogation. He smiled experimentally. "My father was most intrigued by it—especially by what it left unsaid. What is this threat you referred to?"

Miriam took a deep breath. "I don't want to mince words. The Clan fucked up."

Brilliana—Miriam's chief of staff, as far as he could tell—glanced at her liege. "Should you be telling—"

Miriam shook her head. "Leave this to me, Brill." She looked back at James Lee, her shoulders slumping slightly. "You know about our factional splits." He nodded cautiously. The blame game might be easy enough to play at this point; gods knew, his parents and grandparents had done their best to aggravate those disputes in decades past. "But you don't know much about the Clan's trade in the United States."

He cocked his head attentively. "No. Not having been there, I couldn't say."

More euphemisms; the Lee family knotwork enabled them to travel between the worlds of the Gruinmarkt and New Britain, while the Clan's knot had provided them with access to the semi-mythical United States.

"The US government discovered the Clan," Miriam said carefully. "The Clan has earned its power over there through criminal enterprise—smuggling. The US government sent them a message by means of an, a, a superweapon. The conservatives decided to send one right back using stolen weapons of the same class—and at the same time to decapitate the Clan security apparatus and council. Their coup failed, but they

really

got the attention of the US authorities. Like climbing over the railings at a zoo and stamping on the tail of a sleeping tiger."

James tried not to wince visibly. "But what can they do?"

"Quite a lot." Miriam frowned and glanced at the skinny young fellow called Huw. "Huw? Tell him about the project my uncle gave you."

Huw fidgeted with his oddly styled spectacles. "I was detailed to test other knotwork designs and to systematically explore the possibility of other worlds." He rested a hand on a strange device molded out of resin that lay on the table before him. "I can show you—"

"No," Miriam interrupted. "Just the summary."

"Okay. We found and visited three other worlds before the coup attempt—and identified fifteen different candidate knots that look promising. One of the worlds was accessible using your, the Lee family, knotwork from the United States. We found ruins, but very high-tech ruins. Still slightly

radioactive."

James squinted slightly at the unfamiliar jargon. "The others were all stranger. Upshot: The three worlds we know of are only the tip of an iceberg."

"Let me put Huw's high technology in perspective." Miriam's smile tightened with a moue of distaste: "He means high tech in comparison to the United States. Which is about as far ahead of New Britain as New Britain is ahead of the Gruinmarkt. There is strange stuff out there, and no mistake."

"Perhaps, but of what use is it?" James shrugged, trying to feign disinterest.

"Well, perhaps the fact that the United States government has threatened us, and appears to have the ability to build machines that can move between worlds, will be of interest to you?" Miriam looked at him expectantly.

"Not really. They can't find us here, after all." James crossed his arms. "Unless you've told them where to look . . . ?"

"We haven't—we wouldn't know who to talk to, or how." James froze.

"Why are you

here?"

Alasdair asked pointedly.

Miriam held up a warning hand. "Stop," she told him. Looking back at James: "Let me see. This

might

just be a social visit." She looked amused. "But on balance, no, I don't think so. You're here to deliver a message."

James nodded.

"From your elders—" Miriam stopped, registering his expression. "Oh shit. You're

not

here on your uncle's behalf?"

"You are not the only people with a problem," James confessed ruefully. "I am afraid my elders have made an error of judgment, one that is in nobody's best interests—not ours, nor yours."