The Merchant’s War полностью

"Just you, at first." Iris's cheek twitched. "You're in lined. When you are back on your feet I will contact you. You will excuse me, but I am afraid I will require certain actions from you in order to demonstrate that you are trustworthy; Tokens of trust, if you like."

I don't like the sound of this. "Such as...?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." She relented slightly: "I can't do business with you if I can't trust you. But I won't ask you to do anything illegal unlike your superiors."

Mike shivered. She's got my number. "What makes you think they'd issue illegal orders?"

"Come now, Mr. Fleming, how stupid do I look? How did you get here? If your superiors could move more than one or two people at a time they'd have sent a division. They sent you because their transport capacity is tiny, probably because they're using captured-or renegade-world walkers. Probably the former, knowing this administration; (hey don't trust anyone they haven't bought for cold cash.'' Her expression shifted into one of outright distaste. "Honor is a luxury when you reach the top of the dung heap. Everybody wants it, but it's in short supply. That's even more true in Washington, D.C. than over on this side, because aristocrats have at least to keep up the appearance of it. Let me give you a tip to pass on to your bosses: if you mistreat your Clan prisoners, their relatives will revenge them. The political is taken very personally, here."

"That's- " he swallowed "-it may be true, but that's not how things work right now. Not since 9/11."

"Then they're going to regret it." Her gaze was level. "You must warn your superiors of this-the political is personal. If the conservatives think your government is mistreating their prisoners, they'll take revenge, horrible revenge. Timothy McVeigh and Mohamed Atta were rank amateurs compared to these people, and Clan security probably can't prevent an atrocity from happening if you provoke them. You need to warn your bosses, Mr. Fleming. They're playing with fire: or would you like to see a suicide bomber invite himself to the next White House reception?"

Whoops. Mike cringed at the images that sprang to mind. "They're that crazy?"

"They're not crazy!" Her vehemence startled him. "They just don't think about things the same way as you people. Your organization is trying to wage war on the Clan: all right, we understand that. But it is a point of honor to avenge blood debts, and that suicide bomber- that's the least of your worries." She paused for breath. When she continued, she was much less strident: "That's one of the things Miriam thought she could change, with her reform program. I tend to agree with her. That's one of the things we need to change-it's one of the reasons I reintroduced her to her relatives in the first place. I knew she'd react that way."

"But she's your daughter!" It was out before he could stop himself.

"Hah. I told you, but you didn't listen, did you? We don't work the way you think we do-and it's not just all about blood debts and honor. There's also a perpetual inter-generational conflict going on, mother against daughter, grandmother for grandchild. My mother is a pillar of the conservative faction: by raising Miriam where Hildegarde couldn't get her claws into her, I temporarily gained the upper hand. And-"she leaned forward again"-I would do anything to keep my granddaughter out of this mess."

"You don't have a granddaughter," Olga commented from the sidelines, "do you?"

Iris glanced sideways. "Miriam has not married a world-walker, so I do not have a granddaughter," she said coldly. "Is that understood?"

Olga swallowed. "Yes, my lady."

What was that about? The carriage bounced again, throwing Mike against the side of the seat and jarring his leg painfully. When he could focus again, he realized Iris had been talking for some time.

"- Stopping soon, and we will have to lock you in the carriage overnight. I hope you understand. When we get to the waypoint Olga will carry you across, put you somewhere safe, call for an ambulance, then leave. I hope you understand the need for this? Olga, if you would be so good..."

The Russian princess was holding a syringe. "No!" Mike tried to protest, but in his current state he was too weak to fight her off. And whatever was in the needle was strong enough that it stopped mattering very shortly afterwards.