Miriam-Helge-turned her head. "I am-well," she managed in her halting hochsprache. "What is it?"
The servant, a maid of the bedchamber-evidently of a higher status than a common or garden serving woman-studiously ignored her reddened eyes. "Milady? I beg you to receive a visitor downstairs?" The maid continued for another sentence, but Helge's hochsprache was too patchy to catch more than a feminine prefix and an implication of status.
"In a, a minute." Helge reached for one of the canopy posts and levered herself upright. "Speak, tell, her I will see them." She took a step towards the heavy oak dresser with the water jug and bowl that stood in for a sink. The door closed behind her. "Ouch." She'd kept the ankle boots she'd acquired in New London because they fit her feet better than any shoes in milady's wardrobe, but she'd been wearing them all day and her feet were complaining. She examined her face ruefully in the precious aluminum-framed mirror. "I'm a mess," she told it, and it winced, agreeing. "Better clean up."
Five minutes later, Helge closed her door and marched onto the landing at the head of the grand staircase, a wide wooden platform that circled the inside wall of the central hall. She gripped the handrail tightly as she descended. It wouldn't do to fall downstairs, I might lose the baby. She tried not to succumb to the fit of dark humor: She had a feeling that if she aired that particular joke she might scare people. Not, she was determined, that she was going to bond even remotely with the kid. That would be too much like collusion. I wonder who wants to see me?
The butler, or equerry or whatever, was waiting at the foot of the stairs with a gaggle of maidservants lined up behind him. "Milady." He bowed, almost sweeping the floor. "Her ladyship awaits you in the green lounge."
Miriam nodded acknowledgement. Who? Two unfamiliar servants waited outside the door he indicated, standing at ease with almost military precision. "Introduce me," she said.
"Aye, milady." The equerry walked towards the door, which opened before him. "This is Lady Thorold-"
"We've met," said Helge. She swept past the startled equerry. Olga met her halfway in a hug. "Helge! You look well. Have they been looking after you?"
"Well enough so far." She hugged Olga back, then took a deep breath and stepped aside to look at her. With her hair up, wearing an embroidered riding habit, Olga almost looked like the blond ingenue Miriam had mistaken her for when they'd first met, almost a year ago. "You're looking good yourself." She took another deep breath, feeling the knot of anxiety begin to loosen. "But how have you been? Brill tried to bring me up to date on some of the details, but…"
"It has been difficult." Olga looked slightly pained for a moment, then her brows wrinkled into a thunderous frown. "But leave that for later! I come to see you, and I find you in a yokel's barn with peasants for attendants and no guards for your back-how long have you been left alone here?"
"Oh, I've only been here since this morning-"
"Only this morning? Well then, I probably need not execute anyone just yet-"
"Wait!" She held up a hand. "Brill was sorting things out for me. What are you going on about?"
"It was Lady d'Ost?" Olga's anger faded. "She told me about your… arrangement. She left you here?"
"Yeah. But she was supposed to be back later in the day. Think she ran into trouble?"
"Possibly." Olga walked over to the heavy oak sideboard that stood against one wall and opened a small valise to pull out a CB handset. "I'll just check. One-two, one-two. Stefan, wer' ist?" A burst of crackling hochsprache answered her. Miriam didn't even try to follow the conversation, but after a minute's back and forth Olga was content to shove the radio back in her bag. "My men will ask, when they finish walking the perimeter. It could be just one of those things…" Olga shrugged, delicately. "But we cannot leave you here without a staff, especially once the servants work out who you are. At a minimum you need your own ladies-in-waiting-at least two of them, to supervise the servants and look to your needs. I am able to detach Lady Brilliana from other duties, so she can serve, again… Then you need a lance of guards under a suitable officer, and a communications officer with a courier or two at his disposal. I'd be happier if we could add a doctor or at least a properly trained paramedic, a coachman and two grooms, and either a full kitchen staff or at least a poison-taster. The full household we can leave until later, this is an essential minimum-"
"Olga." Miriam-shoving Helge out of her mind-took a deep breath. "Why?"
"Why?" Olga raised an eyebrow. "Because you're carrying the heir, dear. We have a special word for a woman who does that. We call her the queen."
"This glorious nation of ours was not built by the landed gentry or the bastard sons of George; it was built by the sweat and love of men like you. And its future is in your hands."
Erasmus squinted at the faces behind the fulminating glare of the limelights as the scripted applause rolled on, trying to hold an impassive expression of determination on his face. "Thank you, citizens! And long live the commonwealth!"
The applause grew louder, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. Hungry men clinging to their best hope of a solid meal, a cynical corner of his mind observed as he bowed his head, then stepped back from the lectern and walked to the back of the stage to make way for the next speaker.
"I thought that was well enough received," he told the fellow on the bench seat behind the backstage curtain. "What do you think?"
Ronald Smith, the Assistant Commissioner for Justice, nodded thoughtfully. "A good tub-thumping rant doesn't go amiss," he conceded. "Who's on next?"
"Brian MacDougal." Burgeson frowned as he sat beside Smith. "Which means he'll harangue them for three hours on the price of flour while their stomachs are rumbling."
"I ought to go back to the front bench." Smith showed no sign of moving.
"I ought to go back to the office." Burgeson's frown deepened. "There'll be new slanders and rumors from the Patriot Club to rebut before the congress is over, if I don't mistake myself…"
"No, you don't." Smith fumbled in his coat pocket for a while before pulling out a villainously stained clay pipe. "They're getting ready for something big. I can feel it in my bones. We'll have to break some heads before long, or they'll be electing a king to ride us like nags. Francis or Sir Hubert, most likely." Both of whom were popular with the elitist thugs of the Patriot Club and their opportunist red-shirted street runners-the shirts were dyed to conceal the bloodstains of their victims, as Burgeson had announced in one of his more lurid editorials, and for once he was making none of it up.
"They'll break the assembly if they do that."
"The assembly's doomed anyway, Erasmus. As long as Sir Adam sticks to his and our principles and the New Club continue to demand amnesty for John Frederick, there's going to be no compromise, and the taller the debate grows, the more bitter its fruit will be."
"You sound as if you want to compromise. Or am I misunderstanding you?"
Smith grunted as he fumbled with his lighter. "No, I believe there will be a compromise, eventually, whether we want it or no; the only question is, whose terms will it favor? The alternative is open strife, and as that would only benefit our enemies…"
He pulled the trigger. Sparks snapped and fell into the barrel of his pipe.
"I think you underestimate our resources and our prowess," Erasmus murmured as Smith drew on his weed. "We have a majority of the navy behind us." The rigid stratification and harsh discipline of the service, combined with a recent decline in the quality of rations and an influx of conscripts, had turned the navy into a tinderbox of pro-Leveler sentiment. "In fact, I think we'd have a majority of the people behind us, if the assembly would get round to holding the elections we were promised for our support." Erasmus smiled thinly. "We know we hold the people's mandate, that's why they're carrying on this rearguard action in the popular committees. And the sooner we stop gassing at each other and patting ourselves on the back"-his nod towards the front of the stage, where citizen MacDougal had commenced his peroration on the price of bread, took in the invisible audience of party delegates-"the better. This is what did for us the last time round, and if we don't seize the day it'll do for us-"