The Merchants’ War tmp-4

by Charles Stross

  But Miriam’s potential value to Colonel Smith lay in her connection to the Clan hierarchy; and everything had gone to pieces. “They’ve got my mom,” she’d said conversationally, right after he’d shot the soldier who was trying to murder her. And the royal they’d been trying to marry her off to against her wishes was dead—what the hell was going on? “O’Neil?” he whispered.

  “Over here, sir. Keep down.”

  O’Neil was crouched behind a deadfall. “What’s going on?”

  “Looks like they’re making whoopee.” His grin was a ghostly crescent in the darkness. “Don’t you worry, we’ll get you out of here.”

  A moment of rustling and crunching, and Sergeant Hastert appeared. “Sitrep, Pete.”

  “Sam’s on point.” O’Neil gestured farther into the trees, where the ground fell away from the low hill on which the palace had stood. “He’s seen no sign of anybody in the woods. Bad news is, the aggressor faction have got sentries out and they’re covering the approaches from the road. There’s maybe thirty of them and they’ve got riders—we’re cut off.”

  “Get him back here, then.”

  O’Neil vanished into the darkness. “How bad is it?” asked Mike.

  “Could be worse: nobody’s shooting at us.” Hastert turned to look at him. “But we’d better be out of here by dawn. Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Yes and no.” Mike hunkered down. “Everything we thought we knew about what was going on here is out of date. I got to talk to my contact, but she’s in deep shit herself—didn’t have much time, they were trying to kill her—”

  A noise like a door the size of a mountain slamming shut a hundred meters away rocked Mike back on his heels.

  “Down!” Hastert lurched against him, shoving Mike’s face down on a matted bed of branches. Moments later, debris thudded off the branches above their heads, spattering down on the summer-dry soil. “Get moving, we’re too close.”

  The next hour passed in a nightmarish crawl through the dark forest, heading always away from the boom and crash of gunfire and the shouts of the combatants. The royal palace, although nominally within the city of Niejwein, was surrounded by a walled garden the size of a large park—large enough that the palace itself was out of easy gunshot range of its neighbors. But in the chaos of the apparent coup, the shooters seemed to be inside the compound. Stray shots periodically came tearing through the treetops, so that Mike needed no urging to keep his head close to the dirt.

  After an interminable crawl, Hastert tapped him on he shoulder. “Stop here, wait till I get back.” He vanished into the darkness as silently as a ghost. Mike shivered violently. Trouble? he wondered. There was nothing he could do; on this part of the mission he was baggage, as much as Miriam would have been if he’d tried to extract her from whatever the hell that weird scene back at the palace had been about. I can’t believe I shot that guy without warning.

  Mike reran the scene in his mind’s eye; the perp—even now, he couldn’t drop the law enforcement outlook—with the knife, trying to stab the woman in the black gown, the stink of burning wood, snarling fear, taking the time to aim carefully, waiting for a clear shot as the woman shoved back hard against her assailant…then the shock of recognition. It’s her! Despite the longer, intricately coiled hair, the drawn expression, the bruise on her cheek, and the rich Victorian widow’s weeds, it was like nothing had changed since that ambiguous last dinner at Wang’s, just off Kendall Square. The shock of recognition was still with him: the realization that, all along, the world he moved in was smaller than he’d realized, that during the whole fruitless search for the east coast phantom network he’d been dating a woman who could have—if she herself had known what she was—put him right on top of it. If. Getting involved hadn’t been good for her. They’ve got Mom. And something about an arranged marriage. The smell of raw sewage running through the gutters in the middle of the unpaved road—

  “Wake up.” A hand touched his shoulder.

  “I’m awake.” Mike looked round. Hastert crouched beside him.

  “There’s an open area about fifty yards wide before the wall, which is eight feet high. Just the other side of the wall there’s a road. O’Neil’s setting up a distraction. We have”—Hastert glanced at his watch—“six minutes to get to the edge of the apron and wait. Then we have thirty seconds to get over the wall and across the road. Take the second alley on the left, proceed down it for twenty yards then take the right turn, fourth door on the left is transit house gamma. You ready?”

  Mike nodded. “Guess so.”

  “Then let’s get going.”

  Translated Transcript Begins:

  “Shit. He didn’t.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  (Sigh.) “That means we’re down by what, two? Three? Seats on the council. And the king. This is an absolute disaster. Who else have we lost?”

  (Pause.) “Of our party, most of them. The dowager Hildegarde is yammering her head off, but she survived, as did her daughter. James Lee, we rescued. He’s concussed but will live—”

  “Small mercies. Damn her for—damn her!”

  “It’s not your fault, your grace, or hers, that this had to happen at the worst time.”

  (Sigh.) “Continue.”

  “We lost Wilem, Maris, Erik, three juniors of Hjorth-Arnesen’s cadet branch, and four others of middling rank. We lost her majesty the queen mother, and the cadet branch of the royal family in the person of Prince Creon. He’s a confirmed kill, by the way. About thirty retainers and outer family members, but that’s by the by. The main losses are the royal family—except for the crown prince—and Henryk, Wilem, Maris, Erik, and others.”

  (Long pause.)

  “Shit.”

  “We’ve taken worse—”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s the little shit. The Pervert. What’s he up to?”

  “Holed up with Niejwein on the back lawn, scheming about something. Everyone with half a clue is rushing over to offer their firstborn to him.”

  “Has he sent up any smoke signals yet?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. That confirms it, he’s got what he wants and we’re going to get the blame. He’s hated us all along, since he learned about Creon’s latency, and if he’s listening to that snake Niejwein…”

  “Your grace?”

  (Sigh.) “I know, I’m rambling. What’s your analysis?”

  “I think we’re in the shit, sir. I think—” (pause)—he’s going to try to roll us over. All of us. Niejwein and Sudtmann and that crowd have been feeling their oats and they will take this opportunity once and for all to put us in our place. And the Pervert will use us as a lever to consolidate his power over them. He doesn’t trust anyone, sir, and the rumors—”

  “I don’t care if he shags goats or rapes virgins, what I care about is us. Sky Father, this is a fifty-year setback!” (Inaudible muttering.) “Yes, yes, I already thought of that. Oliver, I know we see eye to eye over very little—”

  “Your grace is overstating matters—”

  “Permit an old man his moment of humor in the chaos: if you please? Good. I believe we do see eye to eye on the fundamentals. This is a war to the knife. We have a rogue king on the throne and even after we remove him from it we shall have civil war for the next decade—not family against family, but Clan against all. Do you agree?”

  (Pause.) “Damn you.”

  “Indeed: I am damned.”

  (Pause.) “What do you propose to do?”

  “Whatever I can. First, we must take our own to safety—then we must prepare to defend our possessions. Identify our allies, I should add. But if we can no longer count on being able to run our caravans up the coast in safety we must look for alternatives.”

  “The upstart bitch’s plan.”

  “Be careful what you call my late niece, sir.”

  “I—” (Pause.) “—Please accept my apologies, your grace. You did not inform me of your bereavement. I had assumed she was resc
ued.”

  “She was not. She’s not among those confirmed to be dead, but after the palace burned…” (Pause.) “I had high hopes for her.”

  “But her plan! Come now. You can’t really believe it will work?”

  (Sigh.) “No. I don’t believe it will work. But I believe we should try it, in any event, with whatever energy we can divert from our defenses. Because if our ability to traffic in this realm is disrupted for any length of time, what other options do we have?”

  (END TRANSLATION TRANSCRIPT)

  First Light

  A narrow spiral staircase wormed upwards through the guts of a building, its grimy windowpanes opening onto a space that might once have been an alleyway but was now enclosed on all four sides by building extensions, so that it formed a wholly enclosed shaft at the bottom of which a pile of noisome debris had accumulated over the years. Other windows also opened onto the tiny courtyard; windows that provided ventilation and light to rooms that could not be seen from any street, or reached other than by the twisting staircase, which was concealed at ground level by a false partition in the back of a scullery closet. Almost a quarter of the rooms in the building were concealed in this fashion from the outside world. And in a garret at the top of the secret stairwell, a middle-aged woman sat working at a desk.

  Bent over her wooden writing box, she systematically read her way through a thick stack of papers. Periodically she reached over to one side to pick up a pen and scrawl cryptic marginalia upon them. Less frequently, her brow furrowing, she would pick up a clean sheet of writing paper and dash off a sharp inquiry to one of her correspondents. Somewhat less frequently, she would consign a report—too hot to handle—to the glowing coals in the fireplace. The underground postal service that moved this mail was slow and expensive and prone to disruption: it might strike an ignorant observer as odd that Margaret, Lady Bishop would treat its fruits so casually. But to be caught in possession of much of this material would guarantee the holder a date with the hangman. Every use of the Movement’s post was a gamble with a postman’s life: and so she took pains to file the most important matters only in her memory, where they would not—if she had any say on the matter—be exposed to the enemy.

  The darkness outside the window was complete and the stack of files before her was visibly shrinking when there came a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called sharply: there was no possibility of a surprise police raid here, not without gunshots and explosions to telegraph their arrival.

  The door opened and the rough-looking fellow outside cleared his throat. “Got a problem downstairs. Woman at the door, asking for you by name. Says Burgeson sent her.”

  “Was she followed?” Lady Bishop asked sharply.

  “She said not, and I had a couple of the lads go ’ave a word with the hack what brought her. Nothing to fear on that account.”

  “Good.” Lady Bishop breathed slightly easier. “Who is she? What does she want?”

  “Figured we’d best leave that for you. She’s not one such as I’d recognize, and she’s dressed odd, like: Mal took her for a madwoman at first, but when she used your name and mentioned Burgeson I figured she was too dangerous to let go. So we stashed her in the cellar while we made arrangements.”

  “Right. Right.” Lady Bishop nodded to herself, her face grim. “Is the Miller prepared?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Then I suppose you’d better bring her up here and we can get to the bottom of this, Ed. I shall start with an interview—to give the poor woman a chance to excuse herself. But when you come, bring Mal. In case we have to send her down.”

  She spent the minutes before Ed’s return with the prisoner methodically prioritizing her remaining correspondence. Then she carefully moved the manila paper folders to a desk drawer, closed and locked her writing case, and tried to compose herself. In truth, Lady Bishop hated interrogations. However necessary it might be for the pursuit of the declaration, the process invariably left her feeling soiled.

  The rap at the door, when it came, was loud and confident. “Enter,” she called. Edmund opened the door; behind him waited a woman, and behind her, the shadow of Mal the doorman. “Come in,” she added, and pointed to a rough stool on the opposite side of her desk: “and sit down.”

  The woman was indeed oddly dressed. Is she an actress? Margaret wondered. It seemed unlikely. And her outfit, while outlandish, was in any case both too well tailored and too dirty for a stage costume. Then Lady Bishop took a good look at the woman’s face, and paused. The bruise on her cheek told a story: and so, when the woman opened her mouth, did the startling perfection of her dentistry.

  “Are you Lady Bishop?”

  Margaret, Lady Bishop stared at the woman for a moment, then nodded. “I am.” She had the most peculiar feeling that the woman on the stool opposite her was studying her right back, showing a degree of self-assurance she’d have expected from a judge, not a prisoner. Titled? Or a lord’s by-blow?

  “I’m Miriam Beckstein,” said the woman. “I believe Erasmus has told you something about me.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how much he’s told you, but there’s been a change in the situation.”

  Lady Bishop froze, surprise stabbing at her. You’re the Beckstein woman? She turned to look at her assistants: “Ed, Mal, wait outside.”

  Ed looked perturbed. “Are you sure, ma’am?”

  She gave him a hard stare: “you don’t need to hear this.” Why in Christ’s name didn’t you say it was her in the first place? She wanted to add, but not at risk of tipping off the prisoner about her place in the scheme of things.

  Ed backed out of the room hastily and pulled the door shut. Margaret turned back to her unexpected visitor. “I’m sorry; we weren’t expecting you, so nobody told them to be on the lookout. Do you know who struck you?”

  Beckstein looked startled for a moment, then raised a hand to her cheek. “This? Oh, it’s nothing to do with your men.” A distant expression crossed her face: “The man who hit me died earlier this evening. Before I continue—did Erasmus tell you where I come from?”

  Lady Bishop considered feigning ignorance for a moment. “He said something about a different version of our world. Sounded like nonsense at first, but then the trinkets started showing up.” Her expression hardened. “If you think we can be bought and sold for glass beads—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Beckstein paused. “But, uh, I needed to know. What he’d told you. The thing is, I ran into some trouble. I was able to escape, but I came here because it was all I could do—I got away with only the clothes on my back. I need to get back to Boston and contact some people to let them know I’m alright before they, before I can get everything back under control. I was hoping…” She ran out of words.

  Lady Bishop watched her intently. Do you really think I’m that naive? she asked silently, permitting herself a moment’s cold anger. Did you really think you could simply march in and demand assistance? Then a second thought struck her: or maybe you don’t know who you’re dealing with…?

  “Did Erasmus tell you anything about me? Or who I am associated with?” she asked.

  Beckstein blinked. “He implied—oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

  Lady Bishop stifled a sigh of exasperation. Indelicacy on top of naivety? A very odd mixture indeed.

  The Beckstein woman stared at her. “Erasmus didn’t tell me enough…”

  Margaret made up her mind. “I can see that,” she said, which was true enough—just not the absolution it might be mistaken for. Either you’re really down on your luck and you thought I might be an easy touch, or perhaps you’re really ignorant and in trouble. Which is it? “Tell me who you think I am,” she coaxed, “and I’ll tell you if you’re right or wrong.”

  “Okay,” said Beckstein. Margaret made a mental note—what does that word mean?—then nodded encouragement. “I think you’re a member of the Levelers’ first circle. Probably involved in strategy and planning. And Erasmus was thinking about brok
ering a much higher-level arrangement between you and my, my, the people I represent. Represented.” She swallowed. “Are you going to kill me?” she asked, only a faint quaver in her voice.

  “If you were entirely right in every particular, then I would absolutely have to kill you.” Margaret smiled to take the sting out of her words before she continued. “Luckily you’re just wrong enough to be safe. But,” she paused, to give herself time to prepare her next words carefully: “I don’t think you’re telling me the entire truth. And given your suspicions about my vocation, don’t you think that might not be very clever? I want the truth, Miss Beckstein. And nothing but the truth.”

  “I”—Beckstein swallowed. Her eyes flickered from side to side, as if seeking a way out: Margaret realized that she was shaking. “I’m not sure. Whether you’d believe me, and whether it would be a good thing if you did.”

  This was getting harder to deal with by the minute, Margaret realized. The woman was clearly close to the end of her tether. She’d put a good face on things at first, but there was more to this than met the eye. “I’ve seen Erasmus,” said Margaret. “He told me about the medicine you procured for him.” She watched the Beckstein woman closely: “and he showed me the disc-playing machine. The, ah, DVD player. One miracle might be an accident, but two suggest an interesting pattern. You needn’t worry about me mistaking you for a madwoman.

  “But you must tell me exactly what has happened to you. Right now, at once, with no dissembling. Otherwise I will not be able to save you…”

  BAM.

  Judith Herz tensed unconsciously, steeling herself for the explosion, and crossed her fingers as the four SWAT team officers swung the battering ram back for a second knock. Not that tensing would do any good if there was a bomb in the self-storage room…