The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (36 page)

‘And kill myself by accident.’ She shook her head. ‘Listen, do you really want me depressed to the point of suicide? Because this, this –’ The phrase
sensory
deprivation
sprung to mind, but that wasn’t quite right. ‘This
emptiness
is driving me crazy. I don’t know whose idea keeping me here was, but I’m not used to
inactivity. And I’m rubbish at tapestry or needlepoint. And the staff aren’t exactly good for practicing conversational Hochsprache.’

He stood up. ‘I will see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Now go away.’ And she did.

*

Two days later a leather-bound notebook and a pen materialized on her dresser. There was a note in the book:
Remember you are thirty feet up
, it said. The ferret
insisted on holding it whenever she went downstairs to walk in the garden. But at least it was progress. Miriam drew a viciously complicated three-loop Möbius strip on the first page, just to
deter the ferret from snooping inside, then found herself blocked, unable to write anything.
I should have studied shorthand
, she thought bitterly. Privacy, it seemed, was a phenomenon
dependent on trust – and if there was one thing she didn’t have these days, it was the confidence of her relatives.

One foggy morning, almost two weeks after Kara’s arranged wedding, there was a knock at the door to her reception room. Miriam looked up: this usually meant the ferret wanted to see her.
Today, though, the ferret tiptoed in and stood to one side as two tough-looking men in business suits and dark glasses – Secret Service chic – entered and rapidly searched the
apartment. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, but the ferret ignored her.

One of the guards stepped outside. A moment later, the door opened again. It was Henryk, leaning heavily on a walking stick. The ferret scurried to fetch a padded stool for the baron,
positioning it in front of Miriam’s seat in the window bay. Miriam stared at Henryk. Her heart pounded and she felt slightly sick, but she stayed seated.
I’m not going to beg
,
she told herself uncertainly.
What does the old bastard want?

‘Good morning, my dear Helge. I hope you are keeping well?’ He spoke in Hochsprache, but the phrases were stock.

‘I am well. I thank you,’ she said haltingly, frowning.
I’m not going to let him show me up –

‘Good.’ He turned to the ferret: ‘Clear the room. Now.’

Thirty seconds later they were alone. ‘What require – do you
want
?’ she asked.

‘Hmm.’ He tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘Your accent is atrocious.’ She must have looked blank: he repeated himself in English. ‘We can continue in this tongue if
you’d rather.’

‘Okay.’ She nodded reluctantly.

‘Tonight there will be a private family reception at the summer palace,’ Henryk said without preamble. ‘A dinner, to be followed by dancing. Let me explain your role in it.
Your mother will be there, as will her half-brother, the duke. His majesty, and the Queen Mother, and his youngest son, will also be there. There will be a number of other notables present as
guests, but you are being given a signal honor as a personal guest of his majesty. You will be seated with them at the high table, and you will behave with the utmost circumspection. This means,
basically,
think
before you open your mouth.’ He paused. ‘And don’t talk out of turn.’

‘Huh.’ Miriam frowned. ‘What about the crown prince? Is he going to be there?’

‘Egon?’ Henryk looked bemused. ‘No, why should he be? He’s off on a hunting trip somewhere, I think.’

‘Oh.’
One less thing to worry about
, Miriam thought. ‘Is that all?’

‘Not quite.’ Henryk paused again, as if uncertain how to continue. ‘You know what our plans for you are,’ he said slowly. ‘There are some facts you need to
understand. The younger prince – you have met him.’ Miriam nodded, suppressing a shudder. The prince belonged in a hospital ward with nursing attendants and a special restricted diet.
Brain damage
. ‘He’s a little slow, but he is not a vegetable, Helge. You should respect him. If he had not been poisoned –’ A shadow crossed his face.

‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘I expect you to marry him and bear his children.’ Henryk looked pained at being made to spell it out. ‘Nothing more and nothing less, and it is not just what
I
expect
of you – the Clan proposes and the Clan disposes. But you can do this the easy way, if you like. Go through the ceremony, then Dr. ven Hjalmar will sort you out. You don’t need to worry
about bedding the imbecile, if that thought upsets you: the doctor can arrange for artificial insemination. You’ll be pregnant, but you’ll have the best antenatal care we can provide,
and a private maternity clinic on the other side for the delivery. The well-being of your child will be a matter of state security. Once you are mother to a male child in the line of succession, a
certain piece of paper can be discreetly buried. Two or more children would be better, but I shall leave that as a matter for you and your doctor to decide upon – your age, after all, is an
issue.’

‘Um.’ Miriam swallowed her distaste.
Spitting would send entirely the wrong message
, she thought, her head spinning. And besides, she’d been angry about this for weeks
already, to the point where the indignation and fury had lost their immediate edge. It wasn’t simply the thought of pregnancy – although she hadn’t enjoyed her one and only
experience of it more than ten years ago – but the idea of compulsion. The idea that you could be compelled to bear a child was deeply repugnant. She’d never been one for getting too
exercised over the abortion debate, but Henryk’s bald-faced orders brought it into tight focus.
You
will
be pregnant. Huh. And how would you like it if I told you that you were
going to be anally probed by aliens, baron?
‘And what’s your position on this?’ she asked.

‘My position?’ Henryk seemed puzzled. ‘I don’t
have
a position, my dear. I just want you to have a happy and fruitful marriage to the second heir to the throne
– and to keep out of trouble. Which, thankfully, won’t be a problem for a while once you’re pregnant, and afterwards . . .’ He looked at her penetratingly. ‘I think
you’d make a very good mother, once you come to terms with your situation.’

Not if you and everybody blackmail me into it
, she thought. ‘Is that the only option you see for me?’

‘Truthfully, yes. It’s that or, well, we’re not unreasonable. You’d just go to sleep one night in your bed and not wake up in the morning. Case completed.’

Miriam stared at him. Everything was gray for a while; finally some atavistic reflex buried deep in her spine remembered she needed to breathe, and she inhaled explosively.
‘
Well
,’ she said. ‘I just want to make sure that I’ve got it straight. I go through with this – marry the imbecile, get pregnant, bear at least one child. Or
I tell you to fuck off, and you kill me. Is that the whole picture?’

‘No.’ Henryk regarded her thoughtfully for a while. ‘I wish it were. Unfortunately, your history suggests that you don’t take well to being coerced. So additional
pressure is needed. If you refuse to go through with this, we will withdraw your mother’s medication. I repeat: If you don’t cooperate, you will be responsible for her death, as well as
your own. Because we need an heir to the royal blood who is one of us much more badly than we need you, or her, or indeed anyone else. Do you understand?’

Miriam was halfway out of her chair before she knew it, and Henryk’s hands were raised protectively across his face. She managed to regain her control a split second short of striking him.
That would be a mistake
, she realized coldly, through a haze of outrage. She wanted to hurt him, so badly that it was almost a physical need. ‘You fucking
bastard
,’
she spat in Hochsprache. Henryk turned white. Olga had taught her those words:
bastard
was worse than
cunt
in English, much worse.

‘If you were a man I’d demand satisfaction for that.’ Henryk backhanded her across the face. Miriam staggered backward until she fell across the window seat. Henryk leaned over
her: ‘You are an adult – it’s time you behaved like one, not a spoiled brat,’ he spat at her, quivering with rage. She licked her lips, tasting blood. ‘You have a
family. You have responsibilities! This foolish pursuit of independence will hurt them – worse, it may
kill
them – if you continue to indulge it. You disgust me!’

He was breathing deeply, his hands twisted around the head of his cane. Miriam felt sticky dampness on her lip: her nose was bleeding. After a moment Henryk took a step back, breathing
heavily.

‘I hate you,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not going to forget this.’

‘I don’t expect you to.’ He straightened up, adjusting his short cape. ‘I’d be disappointed in you if you did. But I’m doing this for everyone’s good.
Once the Queen Mother placed her youngest grandson in play . . . well, one day you’ll know enough to understand I was right, although I don’t ever expect you to thank me for it, or even
admit it.’ He glanced at the window. ‘You have enough time to get ready. A coach will be waiting for you at nine. It’s up to you whether you go willingly, or in
leg-irons.’

‘Did Angbard approve this scheme?’
Would he really sacrifice Mom?
His half-sister?

Henryk nodded. His cheek twitched. ‘It wasn’t his idea, and he doesn’t like it, but he believes it is essential to bring you to heel. And he agreed that this was the one threat
that you would take seriously. Good day.’ He turned and strode toward the door, leaving her to gape after him, slack-jawed with helpless fury.