The Merchants' War: Book Four of the Merchant Princes

by Charles Stross

  “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.”

  “Really?” He felt himself grinning in spite of himself. It wasn’t an expression of amusement. “I can imagine, your grace.” He glanced at the scaffolding. In a few minutes, it was quite possible that some or most of his platoon would be dead or injured. And right that moment, the idea of dragging the man who’d inflicted this shocking insult upon the Clan’s honor up before his liege was a great temptation to Helmut. “I shall do everything in my power to oblige you, my lord. I can’t promise it—not without knowing what is happening within the castle—but I’d like to make the bastards pay for everything they’ve done to us.”

  “Good.” Angbard took a step back, and then, to Helmut’s surprise, raised his fist in salute: “Lead your men to victory, knight-lieutenant! Gods speed your sword!”

  Helmut returned the salute, then checked the time. Minus one minute. He raised a hand and waved at Erik, pointing to the stopwatch. “One minute!”

  On the other side of the wall between the worlds, the timer would be counting down towards zero. Martyn and Jorg had packed the pre-drilled holes with blocks of C4 strung together on detcord, plugged in the timer, and synchronized it with the stopwatch in Helmut’s hand. In a few seconds time, the thin false wall would be blasted into splinters of stone, throwing a deadly rain of shrapnel across the guardroom. It was intended to kill anyone inside, clearing a path for the assault lance waiting on the siege tower above. Any second—

  Helmut raised his hand. “Time!”

  Twelve pairs of boots shuffled forward above his head. The rattle of M16s and M249s being cocked, like a junk-yard spirit clearing his throat: Erik’s lance flipping out the knotwork panels beside their sights, squinting along their barrels and shuffling forward.

  “Plus five!” called Helmut. “Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!”

  The platform juddered on its base as the soldiers flickered out of sight. Helmut took a deep breath and turned towards the map table where the duke was conferring with his officers. Raised voices, alarm. Helmut glanced at the sergeant standing with his men beside the ramp. “Frankl, you know the plan. When the eyeball reports, go if it’s clear. I’m—” the duke’s raised voice made up his mind “—checking something.”

  “Is this confirmed?” Angbard demanded: the signals officer hunched defensively before him. “Is it?”

  “Sir, all I have is Eorl-Major Riordan’s confirmed report on Lieutenant Menger’s overflight. If you want I can put you through to Castle Hjorth, but he’s already redeploying—”

  “Never mind.” Angbard cut him dead as he turned to face Helmut. “They’ve got M60s,” he said conversationally, although his cheeks showed two spots of color. “Your men need to know.”

  “M60s?” Helmut blanked for a moment. “Shit! The gatehouse!”

  “More than that,” the duke added. “It sounds like they captured a stockpile from one of the strategic villages. Eorl Riordan is redeploying his company. They should be arriving here within the next three hours.”

  “Right, right.” Helmut nodded. “Well, that puts a different picture on things.” He glanced at Angbard, anticipating the duke’s dismissal. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, my men need me?”

  He turned and trotted back towards the siege tower. Overhead, on the platform, the first lance’s messenger was shouting excitedly, something about the room being clear. “Listen up!” he called. “Change of plan. We’re going in now. Housecleaning only, new plan is to secure the upper floors, strictly indoors. Anyone who goes outdoors gets their ass shot off: the bad guys have got their hands on a couple of M60s, and until we pinpoint them we’re not going to be able to break out. Lance three, follow me in. Lance two, follow after.”

  He strode up the ramp as fast as he could, bringing his M16 down from his shoulder. The messenger was almost jumping from foot to foot. “It’s clear, sir! It went really well. Erik said to tell you he’s moving out into the upper gallery and will secure the roof line. Is that right?”

  “It was.” Five minutes ago, before we knew they had machine guns on the bastions. Helmut shook his head, an angry sense of injustice eating at his guts. Erik was probably already dead. “Okay, let’s go to work.” He glanced over his shoulder, at Irma and Martyn and the others in the lance he, personally, led: they were watching him, trusting him to lead them into the unknown. “For the glory of the Clan! Follow me…”

  14

  Doppelgangered

  Otto nearly didn’t make it out of the castle. He was in the courtyard with Sir Geraunt and his personal guards, supervising the withdrawal of the body of his forces to the gatehouse and the prepared positions outside the castle walls, when there was a deafeningly loud thud from inside the central keep. “What’s that?” Geraunt asked, stupidly.

  “Nothing I planned.” Otto turned to Heidlor, who was waiting for further instructions: “Stations! As I ordered!” The hand-man hurried off, and Otto met Sir Geraunt’s curious gaze. “It’ll be the enemy. Too damned early, blast them. Quickly, this way.”

  “But the fighting—”

  Otto bit back his first response. “A commander who gets himself killed in the first engagement isn’t terribly effective later in the battle,” he muttered. “Come on.” He hurried towards the gate tower’s postern door. “You there! Stand by!”

  A crackle of witch-gun fire echoed out of the central keep. On the top of the gate tower, and the tops of the four towers around the curtain wall, he saw the shields of the captured M60s swinging to bear on the keep.

  More gunfire, and screams—this time, the flat boom of his own men’s musketry, but far too little of it, too late. Gods, they’re good. He could see it in his mind’s eye: the witches appearing in the middle of a room, unable to enter in strength, surrounded by the cat’s cradle of ropes while his men hacked at them desperately with blade and club, trying to keep them from advancing into the keep before the welcome mat was ready—

  He paused at an arrow slit. A light blinked in one window high up in the keep, flashing a prearranged signal. He blinked, then swore. “What is it?” asked Sir Geraunt.

  “They had a back door,” Otto said tersely. Just as he feared: and they’d come through it hard and fast, hours sooner than his plan called for. “Every man of ours in the keep is as good as dead.” He turned from the window and stopped: Sir Geraunt was between him and the staircase leading up to the top of the gatehouse.

  “We must do something! Give me a score of men and I’ll force an entrance—”

  “No you won’t.” Otto breathed deeply. “Come on, follow me. It’s premature, but.” A grinding roar split the air overhead and he winced: it stopped for a moment, then started again, bursts of noise hammering at his ears like fists as the machine gun battery opened fire on the roofline of the keep, scything through the figures who had just appeared there. “Quickly!”

  Up on top of the gatehouse the stench of burned powder and the hammering racket of the guns were well-nigh unbearable. Otto headed for the hetman he’d left in charge. “Anders. Report.”

  “They’re pinned down!” Anders yelled over the guns. “They keep trying to take the roof and we keep sweeping them off it.” The machine gun paused as two of his men fumbled with gloves at the barrel, swearing as they inexpertly worked it free and tried to slot the replacement into position.

  “They seem to have learned to keep their heads down,” Otto said dryly. A spatter of gunfire from a window in the keep targeted the doorway to the northern tower: the heavy guns on the south and west replied, chipping lumps of stone out of the sides of the arrow slit. “K
eep them bottled up. Conserve your fire if you can.” He glared disapprovingly at the two other towers, whose gunners were pounding away at the enemy as if there was no shortage of ammunition. “Carry on.”

  He ducked back down the stairs towards the guardroom overlooking the gate tunnels. “March,” he said, spotting a sergeant: “What state did you leave the charges in?”

  “The barrels are in position, my lord.” March looked pleased with himself. “The cords were ready when I left.”

  “Good!” Otto nodded. He looked around: there was an entire lance of soldiers in the room. “Then let’s set the timers and fall back to our prepared positions.” He made the sign of the crone behind his back, where the men couldn’t see it: If this fails…It wasn’t just the king’s men who knew how to fill a wise tree.

  The duke was as tense as she had ever seen him: that worried Olga. Not that most of the junior nobility and officers scurrying between communications and intelligence tables would recognize the signs—Angbard was not one to fret obviously in public—but she had known him for years, almost as a favorite uncle, and had observed him in a variety of situations, and she’d seldom seen him as edgy as this. From the set of his shoulders to the way he held his hands behind his back as he listened to messengers and barked orders, the duke was clearly trying to conceal the extent of his ill-ease. Is it really that bad? she wondered.

  It had started with the messenger who arrived just minutes after the vanguard of the raiding group crossed over into the treason room: she’d been close enough to hear the news of the machine guns, and he could hardly fault the duke for being disturbed by that. But as time went by, and the minutes counted on from the incursion, the duke had become even more unhappy. The brief message from Brilliana—she’d been standing right behind him when he received it—had brightened his mood momentarily, but the lack of courier reports was obviously preying on his mind. Clan security didn’t have enough bodies to keep him supplied with a blow-by-blow account of the action, and he knew better than to micromanage a skilled subordinate, but his patience had limits. And so, she waited by the duke’s command table, keeping one eye on Eorl Hjorth—who she trusted as far as she could throw him. Hjorth’s testimony to the council might well decide whether the duke remained in charge of Clan Security. So we’ll have to make sure that his testimony is favorable, won’t we?

  “Sir, I have the hourly report from Eorl Riordan.” The messenger offered Angard a print-out to scrutinize. The duke glanced up. “Where’s Braun?” he demanded tensely.

  “Sir.” Braun—a wiry fellow, one of the distaff side of the Hjorth-Wu side—saluted.

  “Messenger for Helmut, or whoever’s in charge, immediate: sweep the cellars for explosive charges.” The duke paused for a moment. “He’s not to attempt to sally from the keep until Stefan’s unit is in place to take out the machine guns.” Olga glanced over her shoulder: the second platoon, with their heavy equipment, were already climbing the siege tower. “Instead, he’s to ensure there are no surprises in the cellars under the keep. I think the pretender’s trying to be clever.” He delivered the final word with contemptuous satisfaction. “What—”

  There was some kind of disturbance going on at the perimeter. Even as Braun charged off to brief a courier, and the heavy weapons platoon climbed the tower and vanished from its top deck three at a time, a distant noise reached Olga’s ears, like the throbbing growl of distant traffic. She glanced up. Lightning Child! Not here, not now! A pair of guards detached themselves from the group near the awning and trotted towards the table. Reflexively, she moved her right hand close to her jacket pocket, interposing herself.

  The first of the guards stopped three meters short and saluted. Olga relaxed slightly, for a moment. “Sir! We have hostiles in view. Sergeant Bjorg is calling a Threat Red.”

  “How many hostiles?” asked the duke, as if it was a minor point of interest.

  Olga cleared her throat. “Sir, I think we should evacuate now.”

  “Two choppers overhead at last sighting, sir, but it’s not looking good on the ground, either: there’ve been no cars or trucks for a couple of minutes now.” The throbbing was getting louder. Almost as if—

  The duke shook himself. “Get everyone across immediately!” he barked. He pointedly refrained from looking up. “Third platoon, provide covering fire if necessary. Olga!”

  “Your grace?” She stared at him.

  “You’re going across right now, with the headquarters staff. Keep an eye on Hjorth—he’s mostly got our interests at heart, if he’s smart enough to understand where they lie.” The duke gestured at the siege tower. “Get moving!”

  “But they’re—” The bass roar of rotor blades was unmistakable now: not just one set, but the throb of multiple helicopters. Olga set her jaw. “After you, my lord!”

  “You—” For a moment, the duke looked furious: then he nodded tightly, and stalked towards the tower. A squad from the third platoon raced to take up positions around the entrance and behind the low awning, as the duke’s staff hurriedly grabbed their papers and equipment and trotted towards the platform from which they could cross into the treason room.

  Olga ducked over to the side of the map table and retrieved her rifle and kit—a very non-standard item, more suitable for a sniper than a soldier—then followed the exodus towards the tower. The roof of the tent billowed beneath the thunder, and for a terrifying moment she wondered if she was about to see a SWAT team dropping right through the fabric roof on ropes—but no, the cops won’t do that: they’ll go for a siege. Unless—

  The voice of an angry god battered through the walls. “Come out with your hands up! You have ten seconds to comply!”

  Olga grimaced. Bastards, she thought absently. For a routine weekly briefing this was certainly turning out to be an interesting one. I wonder how they tracked us? It couldn’t be the phone Mike had given her—that wasn’t even in the same county.

  The queue at the tower had backed up, bottlenecked at the foot of the stairs, but it was moving fast, the world-walkers jumping as soon as they reached the top step with reckless disregard for whatever might be waiting for them on the other side. Olga could see the duke up ahead, near the top step. He glanced over his shoulder as if looking for her, then reached the platform and disappeared. She took a deep breath, relieved. The throbbing roar of rotor blades and the flapping of the canvas roof were making it hard to think: But we were negotiating: why attack now? she thought. Why? It made little sense. Unless they think—

  A punishingly loud blast of gunfire ripped through the side of the tent, slapping the fire team behind the main entrance into the ground. “We can see you. Drop your weapons and come out immediately!”

  Olga stared at the mangled bodies for a fraction of a second, then forced herself to palm her locket open and focus. Some of the surviving guards were shooting blind, suppressive fire through the walls of the tent, while ahead of her half the bodies in the queue were doing just as he was—trying to cross over blind, heedless of hazard. Some of them would make it, some wouldn’t, but at least the crush would clear. The design on the inside of her amulet spiraled and twisted, dragging her eyes down towards a vanishing point. Somewhere behind her, a concussive blast: and then she stumbled forward into a smoke-filled space, the air thick with suspended dust, her head pounding and her stomach coiling. I made it, she thought. Then: We’re mousetrapped.

  “Milady!” Her eyes widened as she turned towards the Clan soldier, lowering the pistol that had appeared in her hand before she consciously noticed his presence.

  “Where’s the duke?” she snapped.

  “This way.” He turned and she followed him, nearly tripping over some kind of obstruction. A fishing net? There was a raised runway above it, and bodies. Too many bodies, some of them in Clan uniforms. She took a step up onto the rough-cut planks, bringing her feet above the level of the netting.

  “What happened here?”

  “Rope trap, my lady. It’s a partial doppelgang
er, if they’d had time to complete it they’d have locked us out, but we used the treason room instead—”

  “I understand. Now take me to the duke. I’m meant to be guarding his life.”

  Her guide was already heading up the servants’ stairs, two steps and a time, and all she could do was follow. Behind her another body popped out of the air and doubled over, retching. It’s not all over yet, she realized.

  The former guardroom was a mess—one wall blown in, furniture splintered and chopped apart by shrapnel, the bodies of two defenders shoved into a corner and ignored—but at least it was in friendly hands. Angbard’s staff clustered around in groups, exchanging messages and orders, and—Where’s the duke? Olga headed for the biggest knot, who seemed to be bending over a table or something—

  “Your grace?” She gaped.

  Angbard glared at her with one side of his face. The other drooped, immobile. “G-get—” He struggled to speak.

  “My lady, please! Leave him to us.” A thick-set, fair-headed officer, one of the Clan Security hangers-on, Olga thought, struggling to recall his name, cradled the duke in his arms. “Where’s the corpsman?” he rumbled.

  “Your grace,” Olga repeated, dumbly. The world seemed to be crumbling under her feet. Sky Father, what are we going to do now? The abrupt shift in perspective, to having to confront this mess without him, was far more frightening than the bullets and bombs outside. “Try to rest. We made it across, and we hold the keep.”

  “Corpsman!” the officer called. “Milady, please move aside.” Olga stepped out of the way to let the medic through.

  Eorl Hjorth, lurking nearby, looked at her guiltily. “He was like this when I got here,” he mumbled. Olga stared at him. “I’m telling the truth!” He looked afraid. As well you might, she thought, looking away. If this turns to be anything other than Sky Father calling his own home…