“You’re going to have to be a queen widow for a while,” the Duchess Patricia voh Hjorth d’Wu ab Thorold explained to her. Wearing a voluminous black silk dress that she had somehow squeezed into the seat of an electric wheelchair, which in turn must have taken two strapping couriers to carry across in pieces, she posed an incongruous sight. “Probably not forever, but you should plan on doing it for at least the next nine months. It’ll give you a lot of leverage, but don’t misunderstand—you won’t be ruling the country. There’s no tradition of rule by women in this culture. We—the junta—have agreed we’re going to present ourselves in public as a council of regents. They’ll be the ones who do the ruling—making policy decisions—but I’ve held out for you to have a seat on the council. You’ll have title and nobility in your own right, and the power of high justice, the ability to arraign and try nobles. You’ll sign laws agreed by the assembly of lords, as a member of the council of regents. Which in turn means the Clan council can’t ignore you.”
“Yes, Mom,” Helge said obediently.
“Don’t patronize me and I won’t patronize you, kid. The quid pro quo is that there’s a lot of ceremonial that goes with the job, a lot of face time. You’re going to have to be Helge in public for ninety percent of that. Also, the Clan council will expect you to issue decrees and perform administrative chores to order. They say rabbit, you hop—at least at first. How much input you manage to acquire into their decisions is up to you, but my advice would be to do it very slowly and carefully. Don’t risk overrunning your base, as you did last time. I’m going to be around to help. Our enemies won’t be expecting that. And you’ll have Brilliana. Olga and Riordan seem to like you, Sky Father only knows why, but that’s another immense advantage because those two are holding two whole branches of Security together right now. I’d advise against trying to swear them to you—nothing’s likely to scare the backwoods conservatives into doing something stupid like the fear that you’re trying to take over Clan Security—but Riordan leans our way and Olga is one of us.”
“Define us,” Helge challenged.
“Us is you and me and everyone else who wants to drag the Clan kicking and screaming into the modern world.” Her mother’s cheek dimpled. “Next stupid question?”
“So you tell me you’ve fixed up this situation where I’ll have a lot of leverage but I’m going to be a figurehead, and I have the power to basically try the nobility, even pass laws, but I can’t go head-to-head with the council, and if I push the limits too hard the reactionaries might try to assassinate me, and by the way, I’m going to be on public display almost all the time. Is that the picture?” Helge stood up. “What else am I missing?”
“Your own power base,” Patricia said crisply. She peered at Miriam. “Have you sworn Brilliana yet? Your head of security?”
“Yes—”
“That young whippersnapper Huw? Or his brother and his doxy?”
“Ma!—” She sat down again.
“You’re not thinking ahead. You need them on your side, they’re young and enthusiastic and willing—what’s stopping you?”
“Um. An opportunity?”
“Exactly! So manufacture one. Invite them to a party. Better still, invite all the progressives. Be visible.”
“But I don’t know who—”
“Brilliana does. Rely on her!”
“You think I can do that?” Helge asked disbelievingly.
“No.” Her mother grinned wickedly. “I know you can. You just need to make up your mind to do it.” The grin faded. “But. On to other matters. It’s been a long time since we talked about the birds and the bees, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, Ma.” Helge kicked her skirts out. “I’m not a teenager anymore.”
“Of course not.” Patricia nodded. “But you didn’t grow up here. Can I offer some blunt advice?”
“You’re going to, whether I want it or not, right?”
“Oh M- Helge. You kill me. Very well, it’s this: You’re a grown woman and you’ve got needs. And if you wait until the bun’s finished baking and are reasonably discreet, nobody will raise an eyebrow. Once you’ve been publicly acknowledged as the queen-widow, you’re . . . in effect you’re married, to a dead, absentee husband. Marriage is about property, and status, and rank, and if you’re fool enough you can throw it all away. So don’t do that, okay? Take a lover, but be discreet, use contraception. And whatever you do, don’t mess with the help, especially don’t mess with your sworn vassals. Pick a man who’s respectably married and owes you no obligation, and what you get up to harms no one. But unmarried men, or vassals? They’re trouble.”
Helge gaped, speechless. After a moment she managed to shut her mouth. “Mother!”
Patricia sighed. “Kid, the rules are different here. What have I been trying to beat into that thick skull of yours?”
“But, but—”
“You’re confusing love and marriage. That old song, love and marriage, horse and carriage? It’s rubbish.” She snorted dismissively. “At least, that’s not how any self-respecting aristocracy comports itself. You marry for power and heirs and you take your fun where you find it.” For a moment she looked wistfuclass="underline" “That’s one of the things I’m really going to miss about not living in the United States anymore. But just because a society runs on arranged marriages, it doesn’t mean people don’t fall in love. Just as long as they’re discreet in public.”
“Oh god.” Helge made to run a hand through her hair, stopped at the last moment as she touched the jeweled pins that held it in place. “That is just so screwed up. . . .”
“I realize it must seem that way to you.” The dowager grimaced. “The rules here are very different.”
“Ick.”
“It’s not that bad, kid.” Patricia’s grimace relaxed into a smile. “You’re a widow. You’ve graduated from the marriage market, summa cum laude.”
“I don’t need to hear this right now,” said Helge. “I am so not interested in men right now—”
“But you will be, and you need to know this stuff now, before it happens. Unless you want to let being a victim define you for the rest of your life, you’re going to look back on this one day and shrug and say, ‘but I moved on.’ ”
Helge stared at her mother sharply. “What do you mean?”
Patricia looked her in the eye. “Your—my husband—was a real piece of work. But I didn’t let that get between us, between you and me, kid.”
Helge looked away. “I’m not—”
“You’re my daughter. Mine, not his. That’s all the revenge that’s good for me.”
After a moment, Helge looked back at her mother. Her eyes were dark, glistening with unshed tears. “I had no idea.”
“I didn’t want you to. I really didn’t want to lay that on you.” Patricia held out a hand. After a moment, her daughter took it. “But you wanted to know why I want to change the Clan.”
“Oh, Mom.” Helge rose, then knelt in front of the wheelchair. She laid her head on her mother’s lap, hugging her. “I’m sorry.”
“Hush. It’s not your fault.”
“But I thought you—”
“Yeah, I know what you thought. It’s the usual Clan mother/daughter rivalry. But like I said, we’re not going to play by their rules. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” said Helge.
“Excellent.” Her mother stroked the nape of her neck lightly. “You and me, kid. Together we’ll make this thing work.”