"Stross, Charles - [Merchant Princes 03] - The Clan Corporate " - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

"Right. Angbard isn't answering his mail. In fact, I can't even get a letter through to him. Same goes for everyone I know in his security operation. Which isn't to say that stuff doesn't come in the other direction, but . . . I've got a company to run, in New Britain, haven't I? They pulled me out two months ago, saying it wasn't safe, and I've been cooling my heels ever since. When is it going to be safe? They don't seem to realize business doesn't stop just because they're worried about Matthias having left some surprises behind, or the Lees are still thinking about signing the papers. I could be going bankrupt over there!"
"Absolutely true." Henryk took a sip of wine. "It's incontrovertible. Yes, I think I see what the problem is. You were absolutely right to come to me." He put his glass down. "Although next time I would appreciate a little bit more notice."
"Um, I'm sorry about that." For the first time Miriam noticed that the top of the desk wasn't leather, it was a black velvet cloth, hastily laid over whatever papers Henryk didn't want her intruding upon. "I'd exhausted all the regular channels."
"Yes, well, I'll be having words with Walther." A brief flicker of smile: "He needs to learn to be firmer."
"But you were free to see me at short notice."
"Not completely free, as you can see." His languid wave took in the cluttered desk. "Never mind. If in future you need to see me, have your secretary make an appointment and flag it for my eyes-it will make everything run much more smoothly. In particular, if you attach an agenda it will be dealt with before things reach this state. Your secretary should-"
"You keep saying, have your secretary do this. I don't have a secretary, uncle!"
Henryk raised an eyebrow. "Then who was the young lady who came with you?"
"That's Kara, she's-oh. You mean she's supposed to be able to handle appointments?" Miriam covered her mouth.
Baron Henryk frowned. "No, not her. You were supposed to be assigned an assistant. Who was, ahem, ah-oh yes." He jerked his chin in an abrupt nod. "That would be the Lady Brilliana, would it not? And I presume you haven't seen her for some weeks?"
"She's meant to be a secretary?" Miriam boggled at the thought. "Well, yes, but . . ." Brill probably would make a decent administrative assistant, now that she thought about it. Anyone who didn't take her bullet points seriously would find themselves facing real ones, sure enough. Brill was mature, competent, sensible-in the way that Kara was not-and missing, unlike Kara. "I haven't seen her since I arrived here."
"That will almost certainly be because of the security flap," Henryk agreed. "I'll try to do something about that. Lady Brilliana is your right hand, Helge. Perhaps her earlier duties-yes, you need her watching your back while you're here more than Angbard needs another sergeant at arms."
"Another what-oh. Okay." Miriam nodded. That Angbard had planted Brill in her household as a spy (and bodyguard) wasn't exactly a secret anymore, but it hadn't occurred to her that it was meant to be permanent, or that Brilliana had other duties, as Henryk put it. Sergeant at arms! Well. "That would help."
"She knows what strings to pull," Henryk said. "She can teach you what to do when she's not there to pull them for you. But as a matter of general guidance, it's usually best to tug gently. You never know what might be on the other end," he added.
Miriam's ears flushed. "I didn't mean to kick the anthill over," she said defensively, "but my business wasn't designed to run on autopilot. I've been given the cold shoulder so comprehensively that it feels like I'm being cut out of things deliberately."
"How do you know you aren't?" asked Henryk.
"But, if I'm-" She stopped. "Okay, back to basics. Why would anyone cut me out of running the New Britain operation, when it won't run without me? I'm not doing any good here, I mean, apart from learning to ride a horse and not look a complete idiot on a dance floor. And basic grammar. All I'm asking for is an occasional update. Why is nobody answering?"
"Because they don't trust you," Henryk replied. He put his glass down and stared at her. "Why do you think they should let you out where they can't keep an eye on you?"
"I-" Miriam stopped dead. "They don't trust me?" she asked, and even to herself she sounded slightly stupid. "Well, no shit. They've got my mother as a hostage, there's no way I can go back home until we know if Matt's blown my original identity, Angbard knows just where I live on the New Britain side-what do they think I'm going to do? Walk into a Royal Constabulary office and say, 'Look, there's a conspiracy of subversives from another world trying to invade you' or something? Ask the DEA to stick me in a witness protection program?" She realized she was getting agitated and tried to control her gestures. "I'm on side, Henryk! I had this argument with Angbard last year. I chewed it over with, with Roland. Think we didn't discuss the possibility of quietly disappearing on you? Guess what: we didn't! Because in the final analysis, you're family. And I've got no reason good enough to make me run away. It's not like the old days when Patricia had to put up with an abusive husband for the good of the Clan, is it? So yes, they should be able to trust me. About the only way they can expect me to be untrustworthy is if they treat me like this."
She ran down, breathing heavily. Somewhere in the middle of things, she realized, she'd spilled a couple of drops of wine on the polished walnut top of Henryk's desk. She leaned forward and blotted them up with the cuff of her jacket.
"You make a persuasive case," Henryk said thoughtfully.
Yes, but do you buy it? Miriam froze inside. What have I put my foot in here?
"Personally, I believe you. But I hope you can see, I have met you. I can see that you are a lady of considerable personal integrity and completely honorable in all your dealings. But the Clan is at this moment battling for its very survival, and the people who make such decisions-not Angbard, he directs, his perch is very high up the tree indeed-don't know you from, from your lady-in-waiting out there. All they see is a dossier that says 'feral infant, raised by runaway on other side, tendency toward erratic entrepreneurial behavior, feminist, unproven reliability.' They know you came back to the fold once, of your own accord, and that is marked down in your favor already, isn't it? You're living in the lap of luxury, taking in the social season and pursuing the remedial studies you need in order to learn how to live among us. Expecting anything more, in the middle of a crisis, is pushing things a little hard."
"You're telling me I'm a prisoner," Miriam said evenly.
"No!" Henryk looked shocked. "You're not a prisoner! You're-" He paused. "A probationer. Promising but unproven. If you keep to your studies, cultivate the right people, go through channels, and show the right signs of trustworthiness, then sooner rather than later you'll get exactly what you want. All you need to do is convince the security adjutants charged with your safety that you are loyal and moderately predictable-that you will at least notify them before you engage in potentially dangerous endeavors-and they will bow down before you." He frowned, then sniffed. "Your glass is empty, my dear. A refill, perhaps?"
"Yes, please." Miriam sat very still while Henryk paced over to the sideboard and refilled both glasses, her mind whirling. They see me as a probationer. Right. It wasn't a nice idea, but it explained a lot of things that had been happening lately. "If I'm on probation, then what about my mother? What about Patricia?"
"Oh, she's in terrible trouble," Henryk said reassuringly. "Absolutely terrible! Ghastly beyond belief!" He said it with relish as he passed her the glass. "Go on, ask me why, you know you're dying to."
"Um. Is it relevant?"
"Absolutely." Henryk nodded. "You know how we normally deal with defectors around here."
"I-" Miriam stopped. Defection was one of the unforgivable crimes. The Clan's ability to function as an organization devoted to trade between worlds scaled as a function of the number of couriers it could mobilize. Leaving, running away, didn't merely remove the defector from the Clan's control; it reduced the ability of the Clan as a whole to function. Below a certain size, networks of world-walkers were vulnerable and weak, as the Lee family (stranded unknowingly in New Britain two centuries ago) had discovered. "Go on."
"Your mother has unusual extenuating circumstances to thank for her predicament," Henryk stated coolly. "If not for which, she would probably be dead. Angbard swears blind that her disappearance was planned, intended, to draw the faction of murderers out, and that she remained in contact with him at all times. A sleeper agent, in other words." Henryk's cheek twitched. "Nobody is going to tell the duke that he's lying to his face. Besides which, if Patricia hadn't disappeared when she did, the killing would have continued. When she returned to the fold"-a minute shrug-"she brought you with her. A life for a life, if you like. Even her mother can see the value of not asking too many pointed questions at this time, of letting sleeping secrets lie. And besides, the story might even be true. Stranger things happened during the war."
Henryk paused for a sip of wine. "But as you can see, your background does not inspire trust."
"Oh." Miriam frowned. "But that's not my fault!"
"Of course not." Henryk put his glass down. "But you can't escape it. We're a young aristocracy, Helge, rough-cut and uncivilized. This is a marcher kingdom, second sons hunting their fortune on the edges of the great forest. The entire population of this kingdom is perhaps five million, did you know that? You could drop the entire population of Niejwein into Boston and lose them. The Boston you grew up in, that is. Without us, without the Clan, Gruinmarkt culture and high society would make England in the fifteenth century look cosmopolitan and sophisticated. It's true that there are enormous riches on display in the palaces and castles of the aristocracy, but it's superficial-what you see on display is everything there is. Not like America, where wealth is so overwhelming that the truly rich store their assets in enormous bank vaults and amuse themselves by aping the dress and manners of the poor. You're a fish out of water, and you're understandably disoriented. The more so because you had no inkling of your place in the great chain of existence until perhaps six months ago. But you must realize, people here do not labor under your misconceptions. They know you for a child of your parents, your thuggish dead father and your unreliable tearaway mother, and they don't expect any better of you because they know that blood will out."
Miriam stared at her white-haired, hollow-cheeked great-uncle. "That's all I am, is it?" she asked in a thin voice. "An ornament on the family tree? And an untrustworthy one, at that?"
"By no means." Henryk leaned back in his chair. "But behavior like this, this display of indecorous-" He paused. "It doesn't help your case," he said tensely. "I understand. Others would not. It's them you have to convince. But you've chosen the middle of a crisis to do it in-not the best of timing! Some would consider it evidence of guile, to make a bid for independence when all hands are at the breach. I don't for a minute believe you would act in such a manner, but again: it is not me who you must convince. You need to learn to act within the constraints of your position, not against them. Then you'll have something to work with."
"Um. I should be going, then." She rubbed the palm of one hand nervously on her thigh. "I guess I should apologize to you for taking up your time." She paused for a moment and forced herself to swallow her pride. "Do you have any specific advice for me, about how to proceed?"
"Hmm." Baron Henryk stood and slowly walked over to the window casement. "That's an interesting question." He turned, so that his face was shadowed against the bright daylight outside. "What do you want to achieve?"
"What do I-" Miriam's mouth snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed against the glare. "I think I made myself clear enough at the extraordinary meeting three months ago," she said slowly.
"That's not what I asked." It was hard to tell, but Henryk seemed to be smiling. "Why don't you go and think about that question? When you have a better idea, we should talk again. If you'd like to join me for dinner, in a couple of weeks? Have your confidante write to my secretary to arrange things. Meanwhile, I'll try to find out what has happened to your assistant, and I'll ask someone in the security directorate to look into your affairs in New Britain so that you can go back to them as soon as possible. But if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to deal with right now."
Miriam rose. "Thank you for finding some time for me," she said stiffly. Halfway to the door she paused. "By the way, what is it you do exactly?"
Henryk stood. "Oh, this and that," he said lightly. "Remember to write."
Outside in the corridor, Miriam found a nervous Kara shifting from foot to foot impatiently. "Oh, milady! Can we go now?"
"Sure." Miriam walked toward the staircase, her expression pensive. "Kara, do you know what Baron Henryk does here?"
"Milady!" Kara stared at Miriam, her eyes wide. "I thought you knew!"
"Knew? Knew what?" Miriam shook her head.
Kara scurried closer before whispering loudly. "The baron is his majesty's master of spies! He collects intelligence for the crown, from countries far and wide, even from across the eastern ocean! I thought you knew . . ."
Miriam stopped dead, halfway down the first flight of stairs. I just barged in on the Director of Central Intelligence, she thought sickly. And he told me I'm under house arrest. Then: "Hang on, you mean he's the king's spymaster? Not the Clan's?"
"Well, yes! He's a sworn baron, milady, sworn to his majesty, or hadn't you noticed?" Kara's attempt at sarcasm fell flat, undermined by her frightened expression. "We're all his majesty's loyal subjects, here, aren't we? Aren't we?"
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