“Well, maybe—” Olga paused. She glanced around. “Look, Miriam. I think it’s safe to tell you this, all right? But don’t talk about it in front of anybody else.” She took a deep breath. “You are being kept away from your operation in New Britain. It’s a security thing, but not, not Matthias. I think her grace was finding out what you think about marriage because that’s the fastest way to clear things up. If you were—unambiguously—part of the Clan, there’d be fewer grounds to worry about you.”
“About me?” Miriam managed to control her voice. “What do you think—”
“Hush, it’s not what I think that’s the problem!”
Miriam paused. “I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology, dear friend. No, it’s—the problem is, you’ve been too successful too fast. On your own. Think about Roland, think about what he tried to do years ago. Bluntly, they’re afraid that a lot of young tearaways will look at your example and think, ‘I could do that,’ and, well, copy everything except the way you came home to face a council hearing and explain what you were doing.”
Miriam looked blank for a moment. “You mean, they’re afraid youngsters would use me as an object lesson and strike out on their own. Defect. Leave the Clan.”
“Yes, Helge. I think that’s what they’re afraid of. You’ve handed them a huge opportunity on a plate, but it’s also a threat to their survival as an institution. And there’s already a crisis in train for them to worry about. Frightened people act harshly . . . your mother has every reason to be scared witless, on your behalf. Do you see?”
“That’s hard to believe.” Eyes downcast, Helge slowly began to walk back along the path. “Bastards,” she muttered quietly under her breath. “Lying bastards.”
Olga trotted to catch up. “Come along to the garden party tonight,” she suggested. “Try to enjoy it? You’ll meet lots of eligible gentles there, I’m sure.” A quiet giggle: “If they’re not overawed by your reputation!”
“Enjoy it?” Helge stopped dead, a pained expression on her face. “Last time I attended one of those events Matthias tried to blackmail me, his majesty insisted on introducing me to his idiot younger son, and two different factions tried to assassinate me! I’m just hoping that his majesty’s too drunk to recognize me, otherwise—”
“This time will be different,” Olga said confidently, offering her hand. “You’ll see!”
TRANSLATED TRANSCRIPT BEGINS
“A most excellent evening, your grace.”
“Any evening at court is a most excellent one, Otto. Blessed by the presence of our royal sun, as it were. Ah, you—a glass for the baron, here!”
(Pause.)
“That’s very fine, the, ah, Sudten new grape? This year’s, fresh from the cask?”
“Absolutely. His majesty’s vintners are conscientious as always. I understand we can expect this crop to arrive in our own cellars presently, in perhaps a few weeks—as the ships work their way into port, weather permitting.”
“As the—oh. How do they do it?”
“Witchcraft of some description, no doubt, though the how of it hardly matters as much as the why, Otto.” (Pause.) “Are you still having problems with your new neighbor?”
“Why that—one-legged whore’s son of a bloated tick! I’m sorry, your grace. Sky Father rot his eyes in his head, yes! It continues. As the circuit assizes will attest this high summer. And he’s got the sworn men to compurge his case before the justiciars, claiming with their lying hands on the altar that every inch of the forest he’s cleared has been in his family since time immemorial. Which it has not, on account of his family being jumped-up peddlers—”
“Not so loudly if you please, Otto. Another glass?”
“My—discreetly! Discreetly does it indeed, sir, I must apologize; it is just that the subject causes me no little inflammation of the senses. My grief is not at the ennoblement of the line, which it must be admitted happened in my grandfather’s day, but his attitude is insufferable! To raze the choicest forest is bad enough, but to sow it with weeds, and then to erect fences and bar his fields to the hunt in breach of ancient right is a personal affront. And his claim to be under the instruction of his liege is . . .”
“Quite true, Otto.”
“I most humbly beg your pardon, your grace, but I find that hard to credit.”
(Pause.)
“It is entirely true, Otto. The merchants own considerable estates, and fully a tenth of them were turned over to this crop last spring. With considerable hardship to their tenants, I might add; an unseemly lack of care will see many of them starving. Evidently red and purple flowers mean more to them than the health of their peasants, unless by some more of their magic they can transform poppies into bread by midwinter’s eve.”
“Idiots.” (Inarticulate muttering.) “It wouldn’t be the first idiocy they’ve been guilty of, of course, but to damage the yeomanry adds an insult to the blow.”
“Exactly his thought.”
“He—” (Pause.) “The rising sun is of this thought?”
“Indeed. Even while our father sips his new wine, imported by tinker trickery, and raises them in his esteem without questioning their custody of the lands he’s granted them, our future king asks hard questions. He’s a born leader, and we are lucky to have his like.”
“I’ll drink to that. Long live the king!”
“Long live . . . and long live the prince!”
“Indeed, long live the prince!”
“And may we live to see the day when he succeeds his father to the throne.”
“May we—” (Coughing.) (Pause.) “Indeed, my lord. Absolutely, unquestionably. Neither too early nor too late nor—ahem. Yes, I shall treasure your confidence.”
“These are dangerous times, Otto.”
“You can—count on me. Sir. Should it come to that—”
“I hope that it will not. We all hope that it will not, do you understand? But youth grows impatient with corruption, as dusk grows impatient with dawn and as you grow impatient with your jumped-up peddler of a neighbor. There have been vile rumors about the succession, even as to the disposition of the young prince, and the suitability of the lion of the nation for the role of shepherd . . .”
(Spluttering.) “Insupportable!”
“Yes. I merely mention it to you so that you understand how the land lies. As one of my most trusted clients . . . Well, Otto, I must be moving on. People to see, favors to bestow. But if I may leave you with one observation, it is that it might be to your advantage and my pleasure for you to present yourself to his grace of Innsford before the evening is old. In his capacity as secretary to the prince, you understand, he is most interested in collecting accounts of insults presented to the old blood by the new. Against the reckoning of future years, gods willing.”
“Why, thank you, your grace! Gods willing.”
“My pleasure.”
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
RUMORS OF WAR
Meanwhile, a transfinite distance and a split second away, the king-emperor of New Britain was having a bad day.
“Damn your eyes, Farnsworth.” He hunched over his work-glass, tweezers in hand, one intricate gear wheel clasped delicately between its jaws. “Didn’t I tell you not to disturb me at the bench?”
The unfortunate Farnsworth cleared his throat apologetically. A skinny fellow in the first graying of middle age, clad in the knee breeches and tailcoat of a royal equerry, his position as companion of the king’s bedchamber made him the first point of contact for anyone who wanted some of the king’s time—and also the lightning conductor for his majesty’s occasional pique. “Indeed you did, your majesty.” He stood on the threshold of the royal workshop, flanked on either side by the two soldiers of the Horse Guards who held the door, his attention focused on the royal watchmaker. King John the Fourth of New Britain was clearly annoyed, his plump cheeks florid and his blond curls damp with perspiration from hours of focus directed toward the tiny mechanism clamped to his workbench.