"I thought you were in favor of marrying her off? Integrating her as fast as possible," Oliver accused.
"That was then, this is now." Iris shrugged. And what you think has very little to do with the truth of the matter… "You don't still think I'm trying to undercut your inheritance?"
"Ach." Oliver shook his head. "That's of secondary importance, compared to the mess we've got to clean up! I am prepared to set the matter aside for a period of, say, a year and a day, then submit it to mutually agreed arbitration. In the interests of ensuring that there is a future in which I can peacefully enjoy my inheritance, you understand. If you think her claim can be made to stick-"
"We've got some extra help there."
Riordan spoke up. "The betrothal was witnessed. Not just by our relatives, and it seems there were survivors. No less a notable than the Duke of Niejwein himself, although how he got away-and he kept what he knew to himself when Egon came calling-"
"Ah." Julius looked relieved. "So we have a friendly witness."
"Not exactly." Riordan looked pained. "Lady Olga?…"
"We've got him in a lockup in this world. I had him brought over here as a security precaution-he's less likely to escape."
"Have him witness publicly before his execution," Iris suggested. "Offer him amnesty for his family and estates if he cooperates."
"I know Oskar ven Niejwein," Oliver muttered darkly. His eldest living son, Iris realized. "Better hang 'em all afterwards. It's the only way you'd be safe from him."
"No!" Iris's head whipped round as Riordan spoke. "What does royalty trade in?" he asked, meeting her surprised gaze. "Royalty trades in power." -
"Huh." His frown deepened. "I don't think so. Oliver?"
"It trades in law," Earl Hjorth said easily, "its ability to rule well."
"No, that's wrong, too." Riordan glanced at Olga. "What do you think?"
"Consistency?" she offered, with a raised eyebrow.
"Close." Riordan straightened in his chair. "Royalty trades on belief. A king is just one man, but if everybody in the kingdom believes in him, with the blessing of the gods, he reigns. We know this-we have been touched by this Anglischprache world-even if our benighted countrymen remain ignorant. Kings only reign if people believe they are kings. The belief follows the actions, often as not-the exercise of power, the issuing of laws-and is encouraged by consistency in leadership.
"We need Niejwein alive and believing we hold the throne by right of inheritance, not conquest, and reminding anyone who asks. If he's dead, people will forget his words if it conveniences them to do so. So I second Patricia Thorold-Hjorth's recommendation that Countess Helge be offered a seat on the security committee. And while we can and must make an example of some of the rebels, Niejwein must live."
"So do we have a general agreement?" Iris asked. "An ad hoc policy committee to sit for six months until relieved by a full council session, ruling in the name of Helge's unborn child, with Helge co-opted as a member of the committee and responsibility for Clan security resting with the major?"
Riordan glanced at the agenda in front of him. "There's a lot more to it than that," he pointed out.
"Yes. But the rest is small print-these are the big issues. I call for an informal show of hands: Is a solution along the lines I just outlined acceptable in principle to you all?"
She glanced around the table. Riordan nodded. "Votes, please. Non-binding, subject to further negotiation on the details," he added, heavily. "So we know whether it is worth our while to continue with this meeting."
Hands began to go up. Iris raised hers; a moment later, Oliver Hjorth grimaced and raised his.
"I see nobody objects." Riordan nodded. "In that case, let us start on the, ah, small print. I believe you submitted a draft list of actions, my lord Julius?…"
9
It had been a busy three weeks for Mike Fleming. An enforced week of idleness at home-idleness that was curiously unrestful, punctuated by cold-sweat fear-awakenings at dead of night when something creaked or rattled in the elderly apartment-was followed by a week of presenteeism in the office, hobbling around with a lightweight cast on his foot and a walking stick in his hand, doing make-work to ease him back into the establishment. Then one morning they'd come for him: two unsmiling internal affairs officers with handcuff eyes, who told him that his security clearance was being revalidated and escorted him to an interview suite on the thirteenth floor of an FTO-rented office building.
The polygraph test itself was almost anticlimactic. It wasn't the first time that Mike had been through one; and I've done nothing to be ashamed of, he reminded himself as they hooked him up. He focused on the self-righteous truth: Unless the system was so corrupted that sharing honest concerns with his superior officer was now an offense, he was in the clear.
So the questions about his alcohol consumption, political leanings, and TV viewing habits came as something of an anticlimax.
They sent him home afterwards, but early the next day a courier dropped by with a priority letter and a new identity badge, clearing him to return to duty. So Mike hobbled out to his car again and drove to work, arriving late, to find he'd missed a scheduled meeting with Dr. James and that there was a secret memo-one he wouldn't have been allowed to set eyes on two days earlier-waiting for him to arrive at his desk.
"I'm supposed to give you access to the GREEN SKY files," Marilyn Shipman said, her lips pursed in prim disapproval. Mike couldn't tell whether it was him she disapproved of, or merely the general idea of giving someone, anyone, access to the files. "For transcription purposes only. Room 4117 is set up with a stand-alone PC for you to use, and I can bring the files to you there one at a time."
"Ah, right." Mike gestured at his desk. "I've got a lexicon and some other research materials. Can I bring them along?"
"Only if you don't mind leaving them there." Shipman paused. "Paper goes into the room but nothing comes out until it's been approved by the classification committee. Depending on their classification, I could make an authorized copy and have it added to the room's permanent inventory. But if they're another codeword project…"
"I don't think so, but I'll have to check." Mike suppressed a momentary smile at her expression of shock. Some of the spooks who'd ended up in FTO were halfway human, but others seemed to take the form of their procedures more seriously than the actual substance. Like Ms. Shipman, who-he had a mental bet going with his evil twin self-would probably be less offended if he exposed himself to her than by his momentary forgetfulness about the classification level of his own notebook.
An entire working day (and three meetings) later, Mike finally got the keys to Room 4117 and its contents, including his carefully photocopied lexicon and handwritten notes on hochsprache. There was other material, too: an intimidating row of nonclassified but obscure works on proto-Germanic and Norse linguistics. The room itself was sparsely furnished and windowless, half filled by the single desk. The PC, and an audio-typist's tape deck, were fastened to it by steel cables, and as if to drive home the point, a framed print on the wall behind the PC reproached him: SECURITY, IT'S MORE THAN YOUR JOB THAT'S AT STAKE.
Then Marilyn brought him the box of material he was supposed to be working with.
"You're kidding me. I've got to sign for a bunch of cassette tapes?"
"You got it. Here and here." She pointed to the relevant lines on the form.