The Revolution Business Read online

  Huw reached for the knife. “It’s funny . . . there are a bunch of foreign students at MIT? You can’t go there and not know a couple of them. We had a lot in common. It’s like, we all got used to the amenities and advantages of living over here, but it’s not home. The Chinese and Middle-Eastern and developing-nation students all wanted to spend time over here, earning a stake, maybe settle down. It’s a deprivation thing. I didn’t see that with the European students—there weren’t as many of them, either—but then, you wouldn’t. The difference in standards of living isn’t so pronounced. But you want to know about my generation? There are those who’ve never spent much time over here—a minority, these days—and they don’t know any better, but there’s an outright majority who’d be over the wall in an instant if they could keep visitation rights. And if you promised to install electricity and running water and start Niejwein developing, they’d elect you pope-emperor. Shame that’s not going to happen, of course. I’d have liked to see you on the throne in the Summer Palace, taking names and kicking butt. I think you’d have been good at it.”

  “You think.” Miriam gnawed at a fresh chunk of pizza. “Well, we’ve got a bigger problem now.”

  “Yes, I was just thinking that. . . .” Huw slid another portion onto her plate. “Here, have a chunk of mine. Um. So what’s your life’s ambition?”

  “Uh?” Miriam stared at him, a chunk of pizza crust held in one hand. “Excuse me?”

  “Go on.” Huw grinned. “There must be something, right? Or someone?”

  “I—uh.” She lowered the piece of crust very carefully, as if it had suddenly been replaced by high explosive. “You know,” she continued, in a thoughtful tone of voice, “I really have absolutely no idea.” She cleared her throat. “Is there anything to drink?”

  “Wine, or Diet Coke?”

  “Ugh. Wine, I think, just not too much of it. . . .”

  “Okay.” Huw fetched a pair of glasses and a bottle.

  “I used to think I had the normal kinds of ambition,” she said thoughtfully. “Married, kids, the family thing. Finish college, get a job. Except it didn’t quite work out right, whatever I did. I did everything the wrong way round, the kid came too soon and I gave her up for adoption because things were . . . fucked up right then? Yes, that’s about the size of it. Mom suggested it, I think.” Her face froze for a moment. “I wonder why,” she said softly.

  Huw slid a glass in front of her. “I didn’t know you had a child?”

  “Most people don’t.” She sipped briefly, then took a mouthful of wine. “I married him. The father. Afterwards, I mean. And it didn’t work out and we got divorced.” She stifled an unhappy laugh. That’s what I mean about doing things in the wrong order. And before you ask, no, I’m not in contact with the adoptive parents. Mom might know how to trace them, but I bet”—she looked thoughtful—“she won’t have made it easy. For blackmail, you see. So anyway, after my marriage fell apart I had a career for a decade until some slime in a vice president’s office flushed it down the toilet. And I’d still have a career, a freelance one, except I discovered I had a family, and they wanted me to get married and have a baby, preferably in the right order, thanks, electricity and running water strictly optional. Oh, and my mother is an alien in both senses of the word; the first man I met in ten years who I thought I’d be willing to risk the marriage thing with was shot dead in front of me; the boyfriend before that, who I dropped because of the thousand-yard stare, turns out to be a government spy who’s got my number; I’m probably pregnant with a different dead man’s baby; and the whole world’s turned to shit.” She was gripping the glass much too tightly, she realized. “I just want it to stop.”

  Huw was staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. Poor kid, she thought. Still at the mooning after girlfriends stage, not sure what he wants—why did I dump all that on him? Now she knew what to look for—now she knew the pressure that had broken Roland—she could see what was looming in his future, the inevitable collision between youthful optimism and brutal realpolitik. Did I really just say all that?

  While she was trying to work it out, Huw reached across the breakfast bar and laid a finger on the back of her hand. “You’ve been bottling that up for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “I’m twenty-seven,” he said calmly, taking her by surprise: He had five years on her estimate. “And I hear what you’re not saying. You’re what, thirty? Thirty-one? And—”

  “Thirty-four,” she heard herself saying.

  “—Thirty-four is a hard age to be finding out about the Clan for the first time, and even harder if you’re a woman. It’s a shame you’re not ten or fifteen years older,” he continued, tilting his head to one side as he stared at her, “because they understand old maids; they wouldn’t bother trying to marry you off.” He shook his head abruptly. “I’m sorry, I’m treating your life like a puzzle, but it’s . . .”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Ah, thank you.” He paused for a few seconds. “I shall forget whatever you wish me to, of course.”

  “Um?” Miriam blinked.

  “I assume you don’t want your confidences written up and mailed to every gossip and scandalmonger in the Gruinmarkt?” He raised a wicked eyebrow.

  “Of course not!” Catching the gleam in his eye: “You wouldn’t. Right?”

  “I’m not suicidal.” He calmly reached out and took the final wedge of her pizza. “I bribe easily.”

  “Here’s to wine and pizza!” She raised her glass, trying to cover her rattled nerves with a veneer of flippancy. Damn, he’s not that unsophisticated at all. Why do I keep getting these people wrong?

  “Wine and pizza.” Huw let her off the hook gracefully.

  “You wanted to know what my life’s ambitions were,” she said slowly. “May I ask why?”

  Huw stopped chewing, then swallowed. “I’d like to know what motivates the leader I’m betting my life on.” He looked at her quizzically. “That heavy enough for you?”

  “Whoa!” She put her glass down slightly too hard. “I’m not leading anyone!” But Brill’s words, earlier, returned to her memory. Your mother intends to put you on the throne; and we intend to make sure you’re not just there for show. “I’m—” She stopped, at a loss for words.

  “You’re going to end up leading us whether you like it or not,” Huw said mildly. “I’m not going to shove you into it, or anything like that. You’re just in the right position at the right time, and if you don’t, we’ll all hang. Or worse.”

  “What do you mean?” She leaned forward.

  Huw turned his head and looked at the window, his expression shuttered. “The duke has been holding the Clan together, through ClanSec, for a generation. He’s, he’s a modernizer, in his own way. But there aren’t enough of us, and he’s aging. He’s also a fascist.” Huw held up a finger: “I say that in the strict technical sense of the word—he’s what you get when you take the principle of aristocratic exceptionalism and push it down a level onto the bourgeoisie, and throw in a big dose of the subordination of the will of the individual to the needs of the collective. Ahem.”

  He took a sip of wine. “Sorry, Political Econ 301, back before I ended up in MIT. The Clan—we’re only five generations removed from folks who remember being itinerant tinkers. We are the nearest thing that the Gruinmarkt has thrown up to a middle class, and it’s the lack of any effective alternative that had our great-grandparents buying titles of nobility and living it up. Anyway, the duke has taken a bunch of warring, feuding extended families and given them a security organization that guards them all. He’s kicked butt and taken names, and secured a truce, and virtually everyone now agrees it’s a good thing. But he’s a single point of failure. When he goes, who’s going to be the next generalissimo? Your trouble is that you’re his niece, by his red-headed wildcat stepsister. More importantly, you’re the only surviving one in the direct line of succession—the attrit
ion rate forty years ago was fearsome. So if you decide not to play your cards you’d better be ready to run like hell. Whichever of the conservative hard-liners comes out on top will figure you’re a mortal threat.”

  “Hang on, whichever? Conservatives? Aren’t you jumping the gun—”

  “No, because we’re not ready. Give us another few years and maybe Earl Riordan could do it. Or Olga, Baroness Thorold, although she’s even younger. There are others: Kennard Heilbrunner ven Arnesen, Albericht Hjalmar-Hjorth. But they’re not in position. You’re in an unusual spot: You’re young but not too young, you’ve got different experience, you demonstrated a remarkable ability to innovate under pressure, and—the icing on the cake—assuming you’re pregnant, you’re carrying a legitimate heir to the throne. Or at least one who everyone who survived the betrothal will swear is legitimate, and that’s what counts. And they’ll swear to it because, while the old nobility wouldn’t know a DNA paternity test from a hole in the ground, the Clan nobility have heard of it, and even the old folks have a near-superstitious respect for the products of science.”

  “But I’m not”—Miriam stopped. She picked up her glass again, rolling it between her palms. “Did Brill tell you the details of Dr. ven Hjalmar’s creepy plan?” Huw nodded. “Good. But you know something? I’m old, and not all pregnancies come to term, and I am really not fucking happy about being turned into a brood mare. And I completed enough of pre-med that if—that’s an if—I decide to lose it, you—that’s a collective you—are going to have to keep me in a straitjacket for the next nine months if you want your precious heir. Assuming it exists and it’s a boy. And I haven’t made my mind up yet. And as for what ven Hjalmar’s got coming, if he isn’t dead, if I ever see him again . . .”

  Silence. Then Huw spoke, in a low voice, as if talking to himself: “Miriam, if you are pregnant and you decide you don’t want to go through with it, I would consider it a matter of my personal honor to help you end it. Just as long as you keep it quiet . . . the old folks, they wouldn’t understand. But I won’t be party to keeping you in a straitjacket.”

  “Uh. I. Er.” Miriam drained her wineglass, trying to cover her confusion. “What you just offered. You know what you just said?”

  “Yes.” Huw nodded. “I will either get you the appropriate medication, or, if it’s too late for that, help you get to an abortion clinic.” He paused. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve helped a girl out that way.”

  “Uh.” Miriam stared at him. Just when I think I’m getting to understand them . . . “No offense, but you made it sound like organizing a shopping trip. . . .”

  “I may be an MIT graduate student, but I’m from the Gruinmarkt.” Huw visibly searched for words. “We don’t place much stock in a babe ‘til it’s born, usually. Which is perhaps a good thing. You wouldn’t want it to be born if it would trigger a blood feud that would claim its own—and its parents’—lives, would you?”

  “But—you said it was leverage—”

  “Yes, I did.” He looked back at her. “But it’s not the only lever you’ve got. The duke’s accident elevates your rank in the game. You might still have a chance, even if you throw it away.” He slid off his bar stool and picked up the dirty plates. “Just try to give the rest of us some warning when you make your mind up, huh?”

  “I know what this looks like.” She was still gripping the wineglass tightly, she realized, tightly enough to stop her hands shaking. “I am not going to flip. I’ve been here before, a long time ago.”

  “But”—Huw peered at her—”you’re doing fine, so far.”

  “It’s a control thing.” Miriam forced herself to let go of the glass. “You never know, I might not be pregnant. I need a test kit. And then I need some space to think, to get my head around this.” She paused. “Were you serious about that offer?”

  Huw hesitated for a few seconds before answering. “All the plans anyone’s making—they all rely on your active participation. We need you to trust us. Therefore”—he shrugged uncomfortably—“having made that offer I’m bound by it; if I forswear myself you’ll never trust me, or any of us, ever again. And we, my faction, need you to show us what to do. That’s more important than any crazy plan Henryk hatched to manipulate the succession. We need your trust. And that’s something that can only be bought with our own.”

  Three o’clock in the morning.

  The occasional crack of heavy-caliber gunfire, punctuated by the boom of a black-powder cannon, split the nighttime quiet outside the castle walls. Nobody was getting much sleep, least of all the guards who hunkered down in the courtyard around the central keep, night-vision goggles active, waiting for a sign.

  The sign, when it came, was a mere flickering in the shadows near the dynamited well house. Two of the guards spotted it at once, lowered their guns, and darted out across the open ground towards it. Their target bent over, emptying his stomach on the hard-packed cobblestones. “This way, sir! We need to get under cover.”

  The traveler nodded weakly, straightening up. “Take. This.” He held out a shoulder bag. “I’ll mark the spot. It’s crowded around there.” His clothing was unfamiliar, but not his face; the sergeant nodded and took his bag.

  “You sit down and wait, then. We’ll be along presently.” He glanced at the sky: So far the enemy forces hadn’t tried lobbing shells into the courtyard at random, but it was only a matter of time before they got bored with sniping at window casements. “Try to stay close to the wall.”

  He dashed back towards the keep, not bothering to jink—they held the walls so far, Lightning Child be praised—going flat-out with the shoulder bag clenched in both hands.

  Carl was waiting in the grand hall with his staff. By lamplight, his face was heavily lined. He seemed, to the sergeant’s eye, to have aged a decade in the past two days. “Let’s see that,” he suggested.

  “Sir.”

  The guard up-ended the bag’s contents in the middle of the table with a thin clatter of plastic. Carl picked one of the cards up and carefully angled it for a glance. He drew breath sharply. “What do you think?”

  Oliver Hjorth took the card and squinted at it. “Yes, this looks like the right thing.” He glanced at the guard. “You recognized the courier.”

  “It’s Morgan du Hjalmar, somewhat the worse for wear.”

  The baron thought for a moment. “He’ll be wanting a ride back over, won’t he.”

  Carl nodded. “See to it,” he told the sergeant, then glanced sideways at Helmut Anders, his lieutenant. “Get everyone moving out. The recon lance first, as planned, then if the insertion is cold the, the casualty and his party”—he couldn’t bring himself to refer to the duke by name—“followed by everyone else. My lord Hjorth, if you’d care to accompany my headquarters staff . . . Let’s get a move on, people!”

  The crowd gathered around the table scattered, except for the core of officers and Helmut, who carefully removed his helmet and scooped the laminated plastic cards into it, being careful to avert his eyes. He moved to stand by the door, waiting for the clatter and clump of boots as the recon lance descended the grand staircase, weapons ready.

  “Take a card, move on out, Morgan over by the well house will show you the transit spot,” he told them, holding the helmet before him. “You know what to do.”

  “Secure the area!” Erik grinned at Helmut, his enthusiasm evidently barely dampened by the disaster on the rooftop two days ago.

  “They’re supposed to be friendly,” Helmut chided him. “So use your discretion.”

  “Aye!” Erik took a card and stepped forward. “Come on, you guys. Party’s this way.”

  Olga watched from the back of the hall as the recon lance marched towards the well house and an appointment with an uncertain world. Better them than me, she told herself. There were any number of things that could go wrong. They might have the wrong knotwork, a subtle flaw in the design, and go . . . somewhere. Or the long-lost cousins of the hidden family might decide to use
this opportunity to settle their old score against the eastern families. Any number of nasty little possibilities lay in that particular direction. Morgan’s appearance suggested otherwise, but Olga had no great faith in his abilities, especially after what Helge—Miriam—had told her about the way he’d run her works in New Britain into the ground. Whatever can go wrong, probably has already gone wrong, and there’s no point worrying about it. She tried the thought for size and decided it was an ill-fit for her anxiety. There’s nothing to be done but wait and see. . . .

  Minutes passed, then there was another flicker in the shadows, out in the courtyard. A brief pause, then a figure trotted back towards the great hall.

  “Sir! The area was as described, and Cornet du Thorold sends word that he has secured the perimeter.” The soldier looked slightly pale, but otherwise in good shape—he’d made his first transit on a comrade’s back, specifically so he’d be able to make a quick return dash. “To my eye it’s looking good. There are four covered trucks waiting, and eight men, not obviously armed, with your cousin Leonhard.”

  “Good.” Captain Wu nodded. Then he glanced Olga’s way. “Your cue, milady.”

  “Indeed.” Olga turned back to the side chamber where her small team was waiting. They’d brought the duke downstairs earlier. Now he lay on a stretcher, eyes closed, breathing so slowly that she had to watch him closely to be sure he was still alive. “Come on,” she told Irma, Gerd, Martyn, and the four soldiers she’d roped in. “Let’s get him to safety.”

  The slow march out to the moonlit well house, matching her pace to the stretcher beside her, the smooth touch of the laminated card between her fingers: Olga felt herself winding tight as a watch spring. The gun slung across her shoulder was a familiar presence, but for once it was oppressive: If she found herself using it in the next few minutes, then the duke’s life—and by extension, the stable governance of the Clan—would be in mortal jeopardy. This has to work. Because if it doesn’t . . .