“I think that shows a necessary level of discretion,” he replied after a moment. “Now. What is your opinion of the business? And of your own relationship to it?”

“It makes a lot of sense for a group of families in the position that ours so clearly occupies,” she said, carefully trying to avoid giving the wrong impression. “I can see why you might want to test a new, ah, family member. As businesses go it is neatly orchestrated and appears to be efficiently ran.” She shrugged, biting back the urge to add: for an eighteenth-century family concern. As business organizations go, it’s still in the dark ages… “And it’s hardly appropriate for me to comment on where that platinum credit card came from, is it?”

“Indeed not,” he said acerbically. “But you seem to be clear on your position.” A sudden tightening of the skin around his eyes. “Are you a drug user?” he asked.

“Me?” She laughed, mentally crossing her fingers. “No! Never.” At least, not heroin or crack. Please don’t let him ask about anything else. Like many students, she’d acquired a passing familiarity with marijuana, but had mostly given it up some time ago. And she didn’t think he was the type to count coffee, cigars, or whiskey as drugs.

“That’s good,” he said seriously. “Most users are indiscreet. Can’t keep secrets. Bad for business.”

“Sobriety is next to godliness,” she agreed, nodding enthusiastically, then wondered if she’d overdone it when he fixed her with a slightly jaundiced stare. Oops, five glasses of wine, she remembered—and shrugged self-deprecatingly. His glare slowly faded.

“You have your mother’s sly tongue,” he commented. “But I didn’t call you here to ask you questions about your opinion of our business. I gather that Roland has been filling in a few of the gaps in your education—some of them, like a working knowledge of high tongue, will take a long time to remedy—but I dare say he has not been forthcoming in full with the details of your position in the Clan. Is that the case?”

Miriam could feel her forehead wrinkle. “He said I was rich and of very high position. But he didn’t explain in detail, no. Why?”

“Well, then,” said the duke, “perhaps I had better hasten to explain. You see, you are in a unique position—two unique positions.”

“Really? What kind?” she asked brightly. Missionary or…

“You know that there are five families in the Clan,” Angbard began. “These are Lofstrom—the senior family—Thorold, Hjorth, Wu, Arnesen, and Hjalmar. Yes, I know that’s six. The familial name does not necessarily correspond to a lineage. Our families are the descendants of the children of the founder, Angmar Lofstrom. He had many children, but the blood ran thin—only when their children married and the great-grandchildren showed the family trait were we able to come together to form the Clan.”

He cleared his throat. “Wu is not the name of one of our original ancestors; it is a name that the second son of line Arnesen took upon emigrating to the Outer Kingdom, two thousand miles to the west, perhaps a hundred and twenty years ago. The idea was that family Wu would become our western arm, trading with us by way of the Union Pacific Railroad, to mutual benefit. That wasn’t the first attempt, by the way. Angmar the elder’s youngest son, Marc, tried to cross the wilderness far earlier, but the attempt came to nothing and Marc was lost. So, we have branches on both sides of the Continental Divide. And a history of other families. Once there were seven lineages—but I digress.”

“But how does it all work?” Miriam asked. “How does the Clan come out of all this?”

“The Clan is not what you’d call a limited liability company—it is a partnership. A family firm, if you like. You see, we hold our lands and riches and titles in common trust for the Clan, which operates in concert and receives the profits from all our ventures. The Clan makes use of all who have the world-walking talent—the members of the inner families—and arranges or authorizes marriages that braid the families together across generations, avoiding both out-breeding and too many close kin marriages. It also controls the outer family—those who lack the talent, but whose children might possess it if they marry like with like—and finds jobs for them over here. For example, Matthias cannot ever visit Boston on his own—but he has a talent for security, and makes a most excellent mailed fist. We number almost five hundred world-walkers now, and with two thousand in the outer families the pickings at the lower ranks are slim.”

He coughed. “One iron rule is that family members are required to marry into another family lineage—otherwise the blood runs thin within a generation. The only exceptions are by prior dispensation of the council, to permit an alliance outside the Clan, such as adoption into the nobility. The second iron rule is that inheritance follows Clan shareholdings, not lineage or family. If you die, your children inherit whatever the Clan allocates to them—you hold your estates from the Clan, they don’t belong to you because without the Clan you would be nothing. The system is supposed to encourage cooperation and it usually succeeds, but there are exceptions. Sixty years ago, a war broke out within the Clan, between families—Wu and Hjorth on one side, Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen, and Hjalmar on the other. Nobody is certain what started it any more—those who knew died early on—but my personal supposition is that the Wu family, in their ambition to climb into the eternal palace itself, exposed themselves to court intrigue and were turned into a weapon against us by the palace of the Outer Kingdom, which considered the Wu lineage to be a threat. In any event, it was a bloody period in our history. During the war years, our numbers fell from perhaps a thousand of the true blood to fewer than two hundred. The war ended thirty-five years ago with a treaty, solemnized by the marriage of Patricia Lofstrom Thorold to Alfredo Wu. Patricia was my half-sister, and I inherited custody of the Lofstrom estates.”

He paused to clear his throat. “Your mother’s death is now confirmed, although neither her nor Alfredo’s body was recovered. Since then, there has been no pretender to the estates of the Thorold-Hjorth shareholding, which were therefore administered as a trusteeship under the order of the high crown.”

“ ‘The high crown?’”

“Yes, the royal family,” he said irritably. “You don’t have one, I know. We have to put up with them, and they can be a blithering nuisance!”

“Ah, I think I begin to see.” She crossed her ankles. “So. There’s a big shareholding in the Clan enterprise, under the control of an external party who knows who and what you are. Then I come along and offer you a lever to take it back under the family’s control. Is that right?”

“Yes. As long as nobody kills you first,” he said.

“Now, wait a minute!” She leaned forward. “Who would do that? And why?”

“Oh, several parties,” Angbard said with what Miriam found a distinctly unnerving tone of relish. “The crown, to maintain their grip on almost a tenth of our properties and revenues without forcing an outright war with their most powerful nobles. Whoever killed Patricia, for the same reason. Any of the younger generations of lineages Hjorth and Thorold, who must be hoping that the shares will escheat to them in due course should no pretender emerge and should those families re-create the braid of inheritance. And finally, the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

“What are they doing here?”

“They aren’t, I merely name them as another party who would take an instant dislike to you were they to become appraised of your existence.” He smiled humourlessly. “Think of it as a test, if you like.”

“Ri-i-ight,” she drawled. I already figured that much out for myself, thanks. “I believe I see where you’re coming from, Uncle. One question?”