The Merchants’ War

by Stross, Charles

  Judith blinked, then focused on a group of men in armor, lugging heavy kit bags in through the door of the marquee. “This doesn’t add up—” she began. Then one of the armored figures lifted the awning higher, to help his mates: and she got a glimpse at what was going on inside.

  “Officers, we’re not dressed for this party and I think we should get out of here right now.”

  “But they—” began Pike.

  “Listen to the agent.” O’Grady grimaced and started the engine. “Okay, where do you want me to go, ma’am?”

  “Let’s just get out of the line of sight. Keep moving, within a couple of blocks. I’m going to phone for backup.”

  “Is it a terror cell? Here?”

  She met his worried eyes in the mirror. “Not as such,” she said grimly, “but it’s nothing your department can handle. Once you drop me off you’re going to be throwing up a cordon around the area: my people will take it from here.” She hit a different speed-dial button. “Colonel? Herz. You were right about what’s going on here. I’m pulling out now, and you’re good to go in thirty…”

  Rudi squinted into the sunlight and swore as he tried to gauge the wind speed. The walls of Castle Hjorth loomed before him like granite thunderclouds—except they’re far too close to the ground, aren’t they? He shook his head, fatigue adding its leaden burden to his neck muscles, and glanced at the air speed indicator once more. Thirty-two miles per hour, just above stall speed, too high… the nasty buzzing, flapping noise from the left wing was quieter, though, the ripstop nylon holding. He leaned into the control bar, banking to lose height. Small figures scurried around the courtyard below him as he spotted the crude wind sock he’d improvised over by the pump house. Okay, let’s get this over with.

  The ultralight bounced hard on the cobblestones, rattling him painfully from spine to teeth, and he killed the engine. For a frightening few seconds he wondered if he’d misjudged the rollout, taking it too near the carriages drawn up outside the stables—but the crude brakes bit home in time, stopping him with several meters to spare. “Phew,” he croaked. His lips weren’t working properly and his shoulders felt as stiff as planks: he cleared his throat and spat experimentally, aiming for a pile of droppings.

  Rudi had originally intended to go and find Riordan and make his report as soon as he landed, but as he took his hands off the control bar he felt a wave of fatigue settle over his shoulders like a leaden blanket. Flying the ultralight was a very physical experience—no autopilots here!—and he’d been up for just over three hours, holding the thing on course in the sky with his upper arms. His hands ached, his face felt as if it was frozen solid, and his shoulders were stiff—though not as stiff as they’d have been without his exercise routine. He unstrapped himself slowly, like an eighty-year-old getting out of a car, took off his helmet, and was just starting on his post-flight checklist when he heard a shout from behind. “Rudi!”

  He looked round. It was, of course, Eorl Riordan, in company with a couple of guards. He didn’t look happy. “Sir.” He stood up as straight as he could.

  “Why didn’t you report in?” demanded the eorl.

  Rudi pointed mutely at the remains of the radio taped to the side of the trike. “I came as fast as I could. Let me make this safe, and I’ll report.”

  “Talk while you work,” said Riordan, a trifle less aggressively. “What happened?”

  Rudi unplugged the magneto—no point risking some poor fool chopping their arm off by playing with the prop—and began to check the engine for signs of damage. “They shot at me from the battlements and the gate-house,” he said, kneeling down to inspect the mounting brackets. “Took out the radio, put some holes in the wing. I was two thousand feet up—they’ve got their hands on modern weapons from somewhere.” He shook his head. Shit. “If anyone’s going in—”

  “Too late.”

  Rudi looked up. Riordan’s face was white. “Joachim, signal to the duke: defenders at the Hjalmar Palace have guns. No, wait.” Riordan stared at Rudi. “Could you identify them?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rudi stood up laboriously. “Wait up.” He walked round the wing—tipped forward so that the central spar lay on the ground—and found the holes he was looking for. “Shit. Looks like something relatively large. They were automatic, sir, machine guns most likely. Didn’t we get rid of the last of the M60s a long time ago?”

  Riordan leaned over him to inspect the bullet holes. “Yes.” He turned to the messenger: “Joachim, signal the duke, defenders at the Hjalmar Palace have at least one—”

  “Two, sir.”

  “Two heavy machine guns. Go now!”

  Joachim trotted away at the double, heading for the keep. A couple more guards were approaching, accompanying one of Riordan’s officers. For his part, the eorl was inspecting the damage to the ultralight. “You did well,” he said quietly. “Next time, though, don’t get so close.”

  Rudi swallowed. He counted four holes in the port wing, and the wrecked radio. He walked round the aircraft and began to go over the trike’s body. There was a hole in the fiberglass shroud, only inches away from where his left leg had been. “That’s good advice, sir. If I’d known what they had I’d have given them a wider berth.” It was hard to focus on anything other than the damage to his aircraft. “What’s happening?”

  “Helmut and his men went in half an hour ago.” Riordan took a deep breath. “When will you be ready to fly again?”

  Whoa! Rudi straightened up again and stretched, experimentally. Something in his neck popped. “I need to check my bird thoroughly, and I need to patch the holes, but that’ll take a day to do properly. If it’s an emergency and if there’s no other damage I can fly again within the hour, but—” he glanced at the sky “—there’re only about three more flying hours in the day, sir. And I’ve only got enough fuel here for one more flight, anyway. It’s not hard to get on the other side, but I wasn’t exactly building a large stockpile. To be honest, it would help if we had another pilot and airframe available.” He shrugged.

  Riordan leaned close. “If we survive the next week, I think that’ll be high on his grace’s plans for us,” he admitted. “But right now, the problem we face is knowing what’s going on. You didn’t see any sign of the pretender’s army, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t out there. Get your work done, get some food, then stand by to go out again before evening—even if it’s only for an hour, we need to know whether there’s an army marching down our throat here or whether the Hjalmar Palace is the focus of his attack.”

  Brill was one of the last people Miriam had expected to meet in California—and she seemed to have brought a bunch of others with her. “You’re unhurt?” Brill asked again, anxiously.

  The trio of Clan agents she’d turned up with—two men and a woman, sweating and outlandish in North Face outdoor gear—as if they’d just parachuted in from a camping expedition somewhere in the Rockies, in winter—had taken up positions outside the station. One of them Miriam half-recognized: Isn’t he the MIT postgrad? Perhaps, but it was hard for her to keep track of all the convoluted relationships in the Clan, and right now—covering the approach track with a light machine gun from behind a bullet-riddled steam car—he didn’t exactly look scholarly. Brilliana was at least dressed appropriately for New British customs.

  “I’m unhurt, Brill.” Miriam tried to hold her voice steady, tried not to notice Erasmus staring, his head swiveling like a bird, as he took in the scattered bodies and the odd-looking machine pistols Brill and the other woman carried. The Polis inspector and his men had tried to put up a fight, but revolvers and rifles against attackers with automatic weapons appearing out of thin air behind them “—Just got a bit of a headache.” She sat down heavily on the waiting room bench.

  “Wonderful! I feared you might attempt to world-walk.” Brill looked concerned. “I must say, I was not expecting you to get this far. You led us a merry chase! But your letter reached me in time, and a very good thing too. His grace has b
een most concerned for your well-being. We shall have to get you out of here at once—”

  Miriam noticed Brill’s sidelong glance at Burgeson. “I owe him,” she warned.

  Erasmus chuckled dryly. “Leave me alive and I’ll consider the debt settled in my favor.”

  “I think we can do better than that!” Brill drew breath. “I remember you.” She glanced at Miriam. “How much does he know?”

  “How much do you think?” Miriam stared back at her. This was a side to Brill that she didn’t know well, and didn’t like: a coldly calculating woman who came from a place where life was very cheap indeed. “They were lying in wait for us because they intercepted your telegram. The least we can do is get him to his destination. Leave him in this, and…” She shrugged.

  Brill nodded. “I’ll get him out of here safely. Now, will you come home willingly?” she asked.

  The silence stretched out. “What will I find if I do?” Miriam finally replied.

  “You need not worry about Baron Henryk anymore.” Brill frowned. “He’s dead; but were he not, the way he dealt with you would certainly earn him the disfavor of the council. He overplayed his hand monstrously with the aid of Dr. ven Hjalmar. The duke is minded to sweep certain, ah, events into the midden should you willingly agree to a plan he has in mind for you.” Her distant expression cracked: “Have you been sick lately? Been unable to world-walk? Is your period late?”

  Miriam blinked. “Yes, I—” she raised a hand to her mouth in dawning horror. “Fuck.”

  Brill knelt down beside her. “You have borne a child before, did you not?”

  “But I haven’t slept with—” Miriam stopped. “That fucking quack. What did he do to me?”

  “Miriam.” She looked down. Brill was holding her hands. “Ven Hjalmar’s dead. Henryk is dead. Creon is dead. But we’ve got living witnesses who will swear blind that you were married to the crown prince at that ceremony, and this was the real reason why Prince Egon rebelled. Ven Hjalmar, with the queen mother’s connivance…it’s unconscionable! But we’re at war, Miriam. We’re at war with half the nobility of the Gruinmarkt, and you’re carrying the heir to the throne. You’re not a pawn on Angbard’s chessboard anymore, Miriam, you’re his queen. Whatever you want, whatever it takes, he’ll give you—”

  Miriam shook her head. “There’s only one thing I truly want,” she said tiredly, “and he can’t give it to me.” The claustrophobic sense of losing control that she’d fled from weeks ago was back, crushingly heavy. She lowered one hand to her belly, self-consciously: Why didn’t I think of this earlier? she wondered. All those examinations…Shit. Then another thought struck her, and she chuckled.

  “What ails you?” Brilliana asked anxiously.

  “Oh, nothing.” Miriam tried to regain control. “It’s just that being figurehead queen mother or whatever scheme Angbard’s penciled in for me isn’t exactly a job with a secure future ahead of it. Even if you get this rebellion under control.”

  “My lady?”

  “I was planning on bargaining,” Miriam tried to explain. “But I don’t need to, so I guess you want to know this anyway: it’s too late. I ran into an old acquaintance on my way out of the burning palace. His people had been watching it when the shit hit the fan. It’s the U.S. government. They’ve got agents into the Gruinmarkt, and it’s only a matter of time before—”

  “Oh, that,” Brill snorted dismissively and stood up. “That’s under control for now; your mother’s running the negotiations.”

  Miriam held a hand before her eyes. Make it stop, she thought faintly. Too much!

  “In any event, we have worse things to worry about now,” she added. “Sir Huw was sent to do a little job for the duke that I think you suggested—he’ll brief you about what he found on the flight home. The CIA or the DEA and their friends are the least of our worries now.” Brill laid a hand on her shoulder. Quietly, she added: “We need you, Miriam. Helge. Or whoever you want to be. It’s not going to be the same this time round. The old guard have taken a beating: and some of us understand what you’re trying to do, and we’re with you all the way. Come home with me, Miriam, and we’ll take good care of you. We need you to lead us…”

  The treason room was a simple innovation that Angbard’s last-but-two predecessor had installed in each of the major Clan holdings: a secret back door against the day when (may it never arrive) Clan Security found itself locked out of the front. Like almost all Clan holdings of any significance, the Hjalmar Palace was doppelgangered—that is, the Clan owned, and in most cases had built on, the land in the other world that any world-walker would need to cross over from in order to penetrate its security.

  For an empty field, the location where they’d set up the HISTORY FAIRE had a remarkably sophisticated security system, and the apparently decrepit barns at the far end of the field, collocated with the palatial eastern wing, were anything but easy to break into.

  The treason room in the Hjalmar Palace had once been part of a guard room on the second floor of the north wing. That is, it had been part of the guard room until Clan Security had moved everybody out one summer, installed certain innovative features, then built a false wall to conceal it. The cover story was that they’d been installing plumbing for the nobs upstairs. In fact, the treason room, its precise location surveyed to within inches, was an empty space hidden behind a false wall, located twenty feet above the ground. The precise coordinates of the treason rooms were divided between the head of Clan Security, and the office of the secretary of the Clan’s commerce committee, and their very existence was a dark secret from most people.

  Now, Helmut watched tensely as two of his men ascended towards the middle of the tent on a hydraulic lift.

  “Ready!” That was Martyn. Big and beefy, he waved at Helmut.

  “Me too,” called Jorg. He pulled the oxygen mask over his head and made a show of adjusting the flow from his tank, then gave a thumbs-up while Martyn was still fiddling with his chin straps.

  “Move out when you’re both ready,” Helmut called.

  Martyn turned, lumbering, and switched on the tactical light clamped under the barrel of the MP5 he wore in a chest sling. Then he knelt down. Jorg climbed onto his back. The platform creaked and its motor revved slightly as he stood up, raising his left wrist to eye level before him. Silently and without any fuss, they disappeared from sight: a perfect circus trick.

  Helmut nodded to the platform’s operator. “Take it down three inches.” The platform whirred quietly as it lowered. It wouldn’t do for the returning world-walker to be blocked by the lift. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds. The drill was simple. Jorg would drop off Martyn’s back, Martyn would swing round, and if there was any company he’d take them out while Jorg came right back over. If not, they’d inspect the room, plant the charges in the pre-drilled holes, set the timer to blow in half an hour, and then Jorg would carry Martyn back. After which, the next group through wouldn’t need the masks—they wouldn’t be entering a room that had been filled with carbon dioxide and sealed off behind a gas-tight membrane for fifty years.

  Elapsed time, two minutes. Helmut shook his head, dizzy with tension. If they’ve found the treason room and booby-trapped it…He’d known Jorg as a kid. This wasn’t something he wanted to have to explain to his mother.

  “It’s going to work,” a voice at his shoulder said quietly.

  Helmut managed not to jump. “I hope so, sir.”

  “It had better, because this is the real treason room, not the decoy.” Angbard cast him a brief feral grin. “Unless my adversary is a mind reader…”

  The thud of boots landing on metal dragged Helmut’s head round. “Yo!” Jorg waved from the platform, which swayed alarmingly. He pulled his oxygen mask up: “It’s clean!” Behind him, Martyn staggered slightly, fumbling with the lift controls. The platform began to descend, and Helmut drew in a breath of relief.

  “Stand down,” he told the guards who still stood with M16s aimed at the platfo
rm.

  “Aw, can’t I shoot him?” asked Irma. “Just a little?”

  “You’re going in next,” Helmut said, deadpan. Now he was tense for an entirely different reason: anticipation, not fear. On the other side of the tent, Poul’s couriers were already wheeling the siege tower forward. The aluminum scaffold on wheels didn’t look very traditional, but with its broad staircase and the electric winch for hauling up supply packs it served the same purpose—a quick way into an enemy-held fortress. He looked up at Martyn. “Time check!”

  “Catch.”

  Martyn tossed underarm and Helmut grabbed the grip-coated stopwatch out of the air. He stared at the countdown. “Listen up! Eighteen minutes and thirty seconds on my mark…Mark! First lance, Erik, lead off at plus ten seconds. I want an eyeball report no later than T plus thirty. Second lance, Frankl, you’re in after the eyeball clears the deck. Third lance, you idle layabouts, we’re going in thirty seconds after that. Line up, line up! Take your tickets for the fairground ride!” He headed off around the tent, checking that everyone knew their assigned role and nothing was out of place.

  Minutes passed. The siege tower was finally set up on the carefully surveyed spot below the treason room. The couriers were still hammering stabilizer stakes into the ground around it as Erik led his lance up the ramp to the jump platform. The medical team was moving into position, maneuvering stretchers into position next to the winch: an ambulance sat next to one of the side doors to the tent, ready to go. Helmut checked the stopwatch.

  “Sir Lieutenant.” He glanced round, as Angbard nodded at him. The old man had a disturbing way of moving silently and unobtrusively. He straightened as the duke continued: “I don’t intend to jog your elbow. You have complete discretion here. However, if there is an opportunity to take the commanding officer of the attacking force, or one of his lieutenants, alive, without additional risk to yourself or your men, then I would be most interested in asking him certain questions.”