The Merchants' War: Book Four of the Merchant Princes

by Charles Stross

  “But you forgot one thing,” Judith said slowly.

  “Oh, yes?” Rand looked interested.

  “Before you do anything, I want you to dust for fingerprints around the lock,” she said, barely believing her own words. “And you’d better hope we find prints from source GREENSLEEVES. Because if not…”

  “I don’t under—”

  She raised a hand. “If these people have stolen one nuke, who’s to say they haven’t stolen others?” She looked him in the eye and saw the fear beginning to take hold. “We might have found Matt’s blackmail weapon. But this isn’t over until we know that there aren’t any others missing.”

  Rudi hung above the forest with the wind in his teeth, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face (what little of it wasn’t numb with cold) and the engine of the ultralight sawing along behind his left ear like the world’s largest hornet. The airframe buzzed and shuddered, wires humming, but the vibration was acceptable and everything was holding together about as well as he’d hoped for. Unlike a larger or more sophisticated airplane, the trike was simple and light enough for one world-walker to shift in a week of spare time: and now Rudi was reaping his reward for all the headaches, upsets, reprimands, and other cold-sweat moments he’d put into it. “On top of the world!” He yelled at the treetops a thousand feet below him. “Yes!”

  The sky was as empty as a dead man’s skull; the sun burned down, casting sharp shadows over his right shoulder. Hanging below the triangular wing, with nothing below his feet but a thin fiberglass shell, Rudi could almost imagine that he was flying in his own body, not dangling from a contraption of aluminum and nylon powered by a jumped-up lawn mower engine. Of course, letting his imagination get away from him was not a survival-enhancing move up here, a thousand feet above the forests that skirted the foothills of the Appalachians in this world—but he could indulge his senses for a few seconds between instrument checks and map readings, saving the precious memories for later.

  “Is that the Wergat or the Ostwer?” he asked himself, seeing the glint of open water off to the northwest. He checked his compass, then glanced at the folded map. One advantage of using an ultralight: with an airspeed of fifty-five, tops, you didn’t wander off the page too fast. A few minutes later he got it pinned down. “It’s the Ostwer all right,” he told himself, penciling a loose ellipse on the map—his best estimate of his position, accurate to within a couple of miles. “Hmm.” He pushed gently on the control bar, keeping one eye on the air speed indicator as he began to climb.

  The hills and rivers of the western reaches of the Gruinmarkt spread out below Rudi like a map. Over the next half hour he crawled towards the winding tributary river—it felt like a crawl, even though he was traveling twice as fast as any race-bred steed could gallop—periodically scanning the landscape with his binoculars. Roads hereabout were little more than dirt tracks, seldom visible from above the trees, but a large body of men left signs of their own.

  That’s odd. He was nearly two thousand feet up, and a couple of miles short of the Ostwer—glancing over his left shoulder at a thin haze of high cloud that looked to be moving in—when a bright flash on the ground caught his eye. He stared for a moment, then picked up his binoculars.

  Out towards the bend in the river—after the merger that produced the Wergat, where the trees thinned out and the buildings and walls and fields of Wergatfurt sprouted—something flashed. And there was smoke over the town, a thin smudge of dirty brown that darkened the sky, like a latrine dug too close to a river. “Hmm.” Rudi leaned sideways, banking gently to bring the trike round onto a course towards the smoke, still climbing (there was no sense in overflying trouble at low altitude on one engine), and took a closer look with his binoculars.

  He was still several miles out, but he was close enough to recognize trouble when he saw it. The city gates were open, and one guardhouse was on fire—the source of the smoke.

  “Rudi here, Pappa One, do you read?”

  The reply took a few seconds to crackle in his earpiece: “Pappa One, we read.”

  “Overflying Wergatfurt, got smoke on the ground, repeat, smoke. Guardhouse is on fire. Over.”

  “Pappa One to Rudi, please repeat, over.”

  “Stand by…”

  Minutes passed, as Rudi checked his position against the river, and buzzed ever closer to the town and the palace three miles beyond it. The smoke was still rising as Rudi closed on the town, now at three thousand feet, safely out of range of arrows. He looked down, peering through binoculars, at a scene of chaos.

  “Rudi here, Pappa One. Confirm trouble in Wergatfurt, cavalry force, battalion level or stronger. Cannon emplaced in town square, northeast guard tower on fire, tents outside city walls. Now heading towards Hjalmar Palace, over.”

  “Pappa One, Rudi, please confirm number of troops, over.”

  Rudi looked down. A flash caught his eye, then another one.

  “Rudi here, am under fire from Wergatfurt, departing in haste, over.” His hands were clammy. Even though none of the musketry could possibly reach him, it was unnerving to be so exposed. He pulled back on the bar to nose gently down, gathering speed: the sooner he checked out the palace and got the hell away from this area, the happier he’d be.

  Tracking up the shining length of the river, Rudi headed towards the concentric walls of the castle overlooking the Wergat. The Hjalmar Palace was an enormous complex, sprawling across a hillside, surrounded on three sides by water. It stood in plain sight, proud of the trees that clothed the land around it. Rudi raised his glasses and stared at the walls. From a mile out, it looked perfectly normal. Certainly the cannon stationed in Wergatsfurt hadn’t bitten any chunks out of those walls yet.

  “Pappa One, Rudi, update please, over.”

  “Rudi here. Approaching Hjalmar Palace at two five hundred feet. Looks quiet. Over.”

  “Pappa One, Rudi, be advised palace has missed two watch rotations, over. Be alert for—”

  Rudi missed the rest. Down below, sparks were flashing from the gatehouse. Startled, he let go of the binoculars and threw himself to the left, side-slipping away from the tower. A faint crackling sound reached his ears, audible over the buzz of the engine. “Rudi, Pappa One, am under fire from the palace, over.” He leaned back to the right, feeling a bullet pluck at the fabric of his wing. This shouldn’t be happening, he told himself, disbelieving: the altimeter was still showing two thousand feet. How are they reaching me? A horrible suspicion took hold. “Pappa One, Rudi, they’ve got—shit!”

  For a moment he glanced down at the shattered casing of the radio, blinking stupidly. Then he leaned forward, trying to squeeze every shuddering mile per hour that was available out of the airframe, fuming and swearing at himself for not bringing a spare transceiver.

  His unwelcome news—that whoever had taken the Hjalmar Palace had also taken its heavy machine guns, and knew how to use them—would now be delayed until he returned to Castle Hjorth.

  It took them two hours to stagger back up the track to the waypoints blazed on the trees, and another half hour to reach the marked transit point. Walking in near-darkness with early flakes of snow whirling around them wasn’t Huw’s idea of a happy fun vacation: but his sense of urgency pushed him on, even though he was halfway to exhaustion. We’ve got to tell someone about this, he kept reminding himself. Important didn’t begin to describe the significance of the door into nowhere. We might not be the only people who can world-walk—or even the most effective at it.

  Eventually he staggered into the clearing where they’d pitched the tent—now a dark hump against a darker backdrop of trees, lonely and small in the nighttime forest. “You ready?” he asked Yul.

  “I think you should go first, bro,” his brother rumbled. “You’re the one who understands that stuff.”

  “Yes but—” He made a snap decision: “—Follow me at once, both of you. We can recover the camp later if we need to. I may need witnesses to back me up.”

  “I’
d kill for a bath!” Elena ended on a squeak. “Let’s go!”

  “Count of three,” said Huw. He bared his wrist to the chilly air and squinted. “One, two—”

  He lurched as the accustomed headache kicked in, then gasped as the humid evening air of home hit him in the face like a wet flannel. The noise of insects was almost deafening after the melancholy silence of the forest. To his left, Elena blinked into view and winced theatrically. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced, unslinging her P90. “I may be some time.”

  “Whatever.” Huw waited a few seconds before he turned to his brother, who was grinning like an idiot. “Is she always like this?”

  “What? Oh, you should see her in polite society, bro.” He stared after her longingly.

  Huw punched him on the arm. “Come on inside, I’ve got to report this immediately.”

  He headed for the front room, shedding his pack and boots and finally his jacket and outer waterproof trousers as he went. The mobile phone was where he’d left it, plugged in and fully charged. He picked it up and unlocked it, then dialed by hand a number he’d committed to memory. It took almost thirty seconds to connect, but rang only once before it was answered. “This is Huw. The word today is ‘interstitial.’ Yes, I’m well, thank you, and yourself, sir. I want to speak to the duke immediately, if you can arrange it.”

  Hulius watched him from the doorway, a faintly amused expression on his face. From upstairs, the sound of running water was barely audible.

  Huw frowned. “Please hold,” Carlos had said. He was the duke’s man; he would have been told that Huw was working on a project for him, surely?

  “Trouble?” asked Yul.

  “Too early to say.” Huw sat down on the bedroll, cradling the phone. “I’m on hold—oh. Yes, sir, I am. We’re all there. I have an urgent report—what? Yes. Um. Um. Can you repeat that, please? Yes. Okay, I guess. Transfer me.”

  He clamped his free hand over the mouthpiece and grimaced horribly at Yul. “Shit. We’ve been nobbled.”

  “What—” Yul began, but Huw’s face turned to an attentive mask before he could continue.

  “Yes? My lady? Yes, I remember. What’s going on? It’s about—oh, yes, indeed. You want—you want us to meet you where?—When?—Tomorrow? But that’s more than a thousand miles! We could fly—oh. Are you sure?” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, my lady. Um. We’ll have to get moving right away. Okay. You have my number? We’ll be there.”

  He hung up then put the phone down deceptively gently, as if he’d rather have thrown it out the window.

  “What was that about?”

  Huw looked up at his brother. “We’d better roust Elena out of her bath. Shit.” He shook his head.

  “Bro?”

  “That was my lady d’Ost—one of his grace’s agents. I got through to the duke’s office but he’s busy right now. Carlos passed on orders to submit a written report: meanwhile we’re to get moving at once. We’ve got to drive all the way to the west coast and back on some fucking stupid errand. We’re to take our guns, and we’ve got to be in Las Vegas by noon tomorrow, so we’re going to be moving out right now. There’s a private plane waiting for us near Richmond but we’ve got to get there first and it’s going to take eight hours to get where we’re going once we’re airborne. Some kind of shit has hit the fan and they’ve got my name down as one of the trustees to deal with it!” He trailed off plaintively. “What’s going on?”

  Hulius grunted. “Two and a half thousand miles, bro. They must really want you there badly.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. Hmm, Lady d’Ost. I wonder what she does for the duke?”

  Otto stared at the buzzing gnat in the distance, and swore.

  “Gregor, my compliments to Sir Geraunt and I request the pleasure of his company in the grand hall as a matter of urgency.”

  The hand-man dashed off without saluting, catching the edge in his voice. The faint hum of the dot in the sky, receding like a bad dream of witchcraft, put Otto in mind of an angry yellowjacket. He could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears; the morning smelled of brimstone and gunsmoke. Too early, he thought. He’d barely taken the inner keep an hour ago: he’d counted on having at least a day to arrange things to his advantage. “Heidlor,” he called.

  “Sir?” Heidlor had been saying something to one of the gunners, who was now hastily swabbing out the barrel of his weapon.

  “Get the fishermen into the grand hall and have them set their nets up between ankle and knee level, leaving areas free as I discussed. Once they’ve done the hall they’re to do the barracks room, the duke’s chambers, the kitchen, and the residences, in that order. The carpenters are to start on the runways in the grand hall as soon as the fishermen are finished, and to move on in the same order. This is of the utmost urgency, we can expect visitors at any time. Should any of the craftsmen perform poorly, make an example of them—nail their tools to their hands or something.”

  “Yes, sir.” Heidlor paused. “Anything else?”

  Otto swallowed his first impulse to snap at the man for hanging around: he had a point. “Find Anders and Zornhau. Their lances are to go on duty as soon as they are able. Station the men with the fishers and carpenters, one guard for each craftsman, with drawn steel. In the grand hall, place one man every ten feet, and a pistoleer in each corner. For the cleared spaces, position two guards atop a chair or table or something. Warn them to expect witches to manifest out of thin air at any moment. Rotate every hour.” He paused for a moment. “That’s all.”

  “Sir!” This time Heidlor didn’t dally.

  Otto turned on his heel and marched back towards the steps leading down from the battlements. He didn’t need to look to know that his bodyguard—Frantz and four hand-picked pistoleers, equally good with witch gun or wheel lock, and armed with cavalry swords besides—were falling into line behind him. The way the witches fought, by stealth and treachery, his own life was as much under threat as that of any of his soldiers, if not more so.

  The corkscrewing steps (spiraling widdershins, to give the advantage to a swordsman defending the upper floor) ended on the upper gallery of the great hall. Otto looked down on the fishermen and their guards, as they hastily strung their close-woven net across the floor at ankle height. Spikes, hammered heedlessly into the wooden paneling, provided support for the mesh of ropes. The carpenters were busy assembling crude runways on trestles above the netting, so that the guards could move between rooms without touching the floor. At the far end, near the western door that opened onto the grand staircase, there was a carefully planned open area: a killing ground for the witches who would be unable to enter from any other direction.

  Sir Geraunt, the royal courier, was standing directly below him, looking around in obvious puzzlement. “Sir Geraunt!” Otto boomed over the balcony: “Will you join me up here directly?”

  A pale face turned up towards him in surprise. “Sir, I would be delighted to do so, but this cat’s cradle your artisans are weaving is in my way. If you would permit me to cut the knot—”

  “No sir, you may not. But if you proceed through the door to your left, you will find the stairway accessible—for now.”

  A minute later Sir Geraunt emerged onto the balcony, shaking his head. A couple of weavers also emerged, lugging a roll of netting between them, but Otto sent them a wave of dismissal. “We are in less danger from the witches the higher we go, but the balcony must be netted in due course,” he explained, for the younger man was still staring at the work in the room below with an expression of profound bafflement.

  “My lord, I fail to understand what you are doing here. Is it some ritual?”

  “In a way,” Otto said easily. He walked to the edge of the balcony, and pointed down. “What do you see there?”

  “A mess—” Sir Geraunt visibly forced himself to focus. “Nets strung across the floor, and walkways for your men. The witches appear from the land of shadows, do they not? Is this some kind of snare?” />
  “Yes.” Otto nodded. It wouldn’t do to let the witches retake the castle too easily—his majesty’s little plan wasn’t the kind of trick you could play twice. “Observe the open area, and the position of the guards—who are free to move where they will. I am informed by an unimpeachable source that the witches cannot arrive inside another object: that is, they may be able to appear within the building, but if the exact spot they desire to occupy is filled by a piece of furniture or a tree or another body, they are blocked. The netting is close enough to prevent them arriving anywhere on the covered floor. Thus, if they wish to pay us a visit, they must do so on the ground I leave to them. Where, you will note, my soldiers are awaiting them.”

  Sir Geraunt’s eyes widened. “Truly, his majesty chose wisely in placing his faith in you!”

  “Perhaps. We’ll see when the foe arrive. That was why I called for you, as a matter of fact: the witches have unforeseen resources. A most peculiar carriage just overflew us, carrying a man who is now, without a doubt, hastening to their headquarters with word of our presence. I had counted on having an entire day to prepare the defenses here, and the surprise outside. To make matters worse, my guards fired on the intruder—and missed. His majesty is still a day away. I therefore expect the witches to attack within a matter of hours.”