The Merchants’ War

by Stross, Charles

  There were some benefits to rule by royal edict, Erasmus decided. The movement was lying low, and the number of skulls being crushed by truncheons was consequently small right now, but with the dismissal of the congress, everyone now knew exactly who to blame whenever anything bad happened. There was no more room for false optimism, no more room for wishful thinking that the Crown might take the side of the people against his servants. The movement’s cautious testing of the waters of public opinion (cautious because you never knew which affable drinking companion might be an agent provocateur sent to consign you to the timber camps, and in this time of gathering war time hysteria any number of ordinarily reasonable folks had been caught up in the most bizarre excesses of anti-French and anti-Turkish hysteria) suggested that, while the king’s popularity rose whenever he took decisive action, he could easily hemorrhage support by taking responsibility for the actions usually carried out by the home secretary in his name. No more lying democracy: no more hope that if you could just raise your thousand-pound landholder’s bond you could take your place on the electoral register, merging your voice with the elite.

  The journey went fast, and he’d only just started reading the small-print section near the back (proceedings of divorce and blasphemy trials; obituaries of public officials and nobility; church appointments; stock prices) when the train began to slow for the final haul into Queen Josephina Station. Erasmus shook his head, relieved that he hadn’t finished the paper, and disembarked impatiently. He pushed through the turbulent bazaar of the station concourse as fast as he could, hailed a cab, and directed it straight to a perfectly decent hotel just around the corner from Hogarth Villas.

  Half an hour later, after a tense walk-past to check for signs that all was in order, he was relaxing in a parlor at the back of the licensed brothel with a cup of tea and a plate of deep-fried whitebait, and reflecting that whatever else could be said about Lady Bishop’s establishment, the kitchen was up to scratch. As he put the teacup down, the side door opened. He rose: “Margaret?”

  “Sit down.” There were bags under her eyes and her back was stooped, as if from too many hours spent cramped over a writing desk. She lowered herself into an overpadded armchair gratefully and pulled a wry smile from some hidden reservoir of affect: “How was your journey?”

  “Mixed. I made good time.” His eyes traveled around the pelmet rail taking in the decorative knick-knacks: cheap framed prints of music hall divas and dolly-mops, bone china pipe-stands, a pair of antique pistols. “The news is—well, you’d know better than I.” He turned his head to look at her. “Is it urgent?”

  “I don’t know.” Lady Bishop frowned. There was a discreet knock at the door, and a break in the conversation while one of the girls came in with a tea tray for her. When she left, Lady Bishop resumed: “You know Adam is coming back?”

  Erasmus jolted upright. “He’s what? That’s stupid! If they catch him—” That didn’t bear thinking about. He’s coming back? The very idea of it filled his mind with the distant roar of remembered crowds. Inconceivable—

  “He seems to think the risk is worth running, given the nature of the current crisis, and you know what he’s like. He said he doesn’t want to be away from the capital when the engine of history puts on steam. He’s landing late next week, on a freighter from New Shetland that’s putting into Fort Petrograd, and I want you to meet him and make sure he has a safe journey back here. Willie’s putting together the paperwork, but I want someone who he knows to meet him, and you’re the only one I could think of who isn’t holding a ring or breaking rocks.”

  He nodded, thoughtfully. “I can see that. It’s been a long time,” he said, with a vertiginous sense of lost time. It must be close on twenty years since I last heard him speak. For a disturbing moment he felt the years fall away. “He really thinks it’s time?” He asked, still not sure that it could be real.

  “I’m not sure I agree with him…but, yes. Will you do it?”

  “Try and stop me!” He meant it, he realized. Years in the camps, and everything that had gone with that…and he still meant it. Adam’s coming back, at last. And the nations of men would tremble.

  “We’re setting up a safe house for him. And a meeting of the Central Executive Committee, a month from now. There will be presses to turn,” she said warningly. “He’ll need a staff. Are you going to be fit for it?”

  “My health—it’s miraculous. I can’t say as how I’ll ever have the energy of a sixteen-year-old again, but I’m not an invalid any more, Margaret.” He thumped his chest lightly. “And I’ve got lost time to make up for.”

  Lady Bishop nodded, then took a sip of her tea.

  “There’s another matter, I needed to speak with you about,” She said. “It’s about your friend Miss Beckstein.”

  “Yes?” Erasmus leaned forward. “I haven’t heard anything from her for nearly two months—”

  “A woman claiming to be her turned up on my doorstep three nights ago: we’ve spent the time since then questioning her. I have no way of identifying her positively, and if her story is correct she’s in serious trouble.”

  “I can tell you—” Erasmus paused. “What kind of trouble?”

  Margaret’s frown deepened. “First, I want you to look at this portrait.” She pulled a small photograph from the pocket of her shalwar suit. “Is this her?”

  Erasmus stared at it for a moment. “Yes.” It was slightly blurred but even though she was looking away from the camera, as if captured through the eye of a spy hole, he recognized her as Miriam. He looked more closely. Her costume was even more outlandish than when she’d first shown up on his doorstep, and either the lighting was poor or there was a bruise below one eye, but it was definitely her. “That’s her, all right.”

  “Good.”

  He glanced up sharply. “You were expecting a Polis agent?”

  “No.” She reached for the picture and he let her take it. “I was expecting a Clan agent.”

  “A—” Erasmus stopped. He picked up his teacup again to disguise his nervousness. “Please explain,” he said carefully. “Whatever I am permitted to know.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not under restriction.” Lady Bishop’s frown momentarily quirked into a smile. “Unfortunately, if Miss Beckstein is telling the truth, it’s very bad news indeed. It appears she fell into disfavor with her family of the first estate—to the point where they imprisoned her, and then attempted to marry her off. But the arranged marriage provoked a violent backlash from the swain’s elder brother, and it seems she is now destitute and in search of a safe harbor. Her family doesn’t even know if she’s still alive, and she believes many of them are dead. Which leaves me with a very pressing dilemma, Erasmus. If this was subterfuge or skulduggery, some kind of plot to pressure us by her relatives, it would be easy enough to address. But under the circumstances, what should I do with her?”

  Burgeson opened his mouth to speak, then froze. Think very carefully, because your next words might condemn her. “I, ah, that is to say—” He paused, feeling the chilly fingers of mortal responsibility grasp the scruff of his neck like a hangman’s noose. “You invited me here to be her advocate,” he accused.

  Lady Bishop nodded. “Somebody has to do it.”

  The situation was clear enough. The movement existed from day to day in mortal peril, and had no room for deadweight. Prisons were a luxury that only governments could afford. At least she invited me here to speak, he realized. It was a generous gesture, taken at no small risk given the exigencies of communication discipline and the omnipresent threat of the royal security Polis. Despite the organization’s long-standing policies, Lady Bishop was evidently looking for an excuse not to have Miriam liquidated. Heartened by this realization, Erasmus relaxed a little. “You said she turned up on your doorstep. Did she come here voluntarily?”

  “Yes.” Lady Bishop nodded again.

  “Ah. Then that would imply that she views us as allies, or at least as possible saviors. Ass
uming she isn’t working for the Polis and this isn’t an ambush—but after three days I think that unlikely, don’t you? If she is then, well, the ball is up for us both. But she’s got a story and she’s been sticking to it for three days…? Under extraordinary pressure?”

  “No pressure. At least, nothing but her own isolation.”

  Erasmus came to a decision. “She’s been a major asset in the past, and I am sure that she isn’t a government sympathizer. If we take her in, I’m certain we can make use of her special talents.” He put his teacup down. “Killing her would be a—” tragic “—waste.”

  Lady Bishop stared at him for a few seconds, her expression still. Then she nodded yet again, thoughtfully. “I concur,” she said briskly.

  “Well, I confess I am relieved.” He scratched his head, staring at the picture she still held.

  “I value your opinions, Erasmus, you must know that. I needed a second on this matter; my first leaning was to find a use for her, but you know her best and if you had turned your thumb down—” she paused. “Is there a personal interest I should know about?”

  He looked up. “Not really. I consider her a friend, and I find her company refreshing, but there’s nothing more.” Nothing more, he echoed ironically in the safety of his own head. “I incline towards leniency for all those who are not agents of the state—I think it unchristian and indecent to mete out such punishment as I have been on the receiving end of—but if I thought for an instant that she was a threat to the movement I’d do the deed myself.” And that was the bald unvarnished truth—a successful spy would condemn dozens, even hundreds, to the gallows and labor camps. But it was not the entire truth, for it would be a harsh act to live with afterwards: conceivably an impossible one.

  Lady Bishop sipped her tea again. “Then I think you’ll be the best man for the job.”

  “What job?”

  “Finding a use for her, of course. In your copious spare time, when you’re not off being Sir Adam’s errand boy.”

  Erasmus blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I’d have thought it obvious.” She put her teacup down. “We can’t keep her here. Her inexperience would render her dangerous, her strange ideas and ways would be hazardous and hard to conceal in the front of the house, and, bluntly, I think she’d draw unwelcome attention to herself. If we’re not to send her to the Miller, it’s essential to put her somewhere safe. You’re the only person she knows or trusts here, so you drew the short straw. Moreover, I suspect you know more about how to make use of her unique ability than I do. So, unless you protest, I’m going to assign her to you as an additional responsibility, after you see to Adam’s travel arrangements. Take her in and establish how we can use her. What do you say?”

  “I say—um.” His head was spinning: Erasmus blinked again. “That is to say, that makes sense, but—”

  Lady Bishop clapped her hands together before he could muster a coherent objection. “Excellent!” She smiled. “I’ll have Edward sort out documents and some suitable clothing for her, and you can take her back to Boston as soon as possible. What do you say?”

  “But—” The servant’s room is full of furniture in hock, the second bedroom doesn’t have room to swing a cat for all the old clothing and books I’ve got stored in it, and the old biddies up the street will wag their tongues so fast their jaws explode—“I think the word Miss Beckstein would use is ‘okay.’” He sighed. “This is going to be interesting.”

  His Majesty King Egon the Third had convened his special assizes in the grand hall of the Thorold Palace—still smoking, and somewhat battered by his soldiers in their enthusiasm to drive out the enemy—precisely thirty-six hours after the explosion and subsequent attack on his father. “By parties of great treachery in league with the Tinker tribe,” as the gebanes dispatched by royal messenger to all his vassal lords put it: “Let all know that by decree of this court in accordance with the doctrine of outlawry the afore-named families are declared outwith the law, and their chattels and holdings hereby escheat to the Crown.” The writs were flying by courier to all quarters of the kingdom; now his majesty was dictating a codicil.

  “This ague at the heart of our kingdom pains us grievously, but we are young and healthy enough that it shall soon be overcome and the canker cut out,” his majesty said. “To this end, an half of all real properties and chattels recovered from the outlaw band is hereby granted to whosoever shall yield those properties to the Crown.” He frowned: “is that clear enough do you suppose, Innsford?”

  “Absolutely clear, my lord.” His excellency the duke of Innsford bobbed his head like a hungry duck plowing a mill pond. “As clear as temple glass!” Whether it is wise is another matter, he thought, but held his counsel. Egon might be eager to rid himself of the tinker clan, and declaring them outlaw and promising half their estates to whoever killed them was a good way to go about the job, but in the long run it might come back to haunt him: other kings had been overthrown by ambitious dukes, with coffers filled and estates bloated by the spoils of a civil war fought by proxy. Innsford harbored no such ambitions—his old man’s plans did not call for a desperate all-or-nothing gamble to take the throne—but others might think differently. Meanwhile, the scribe seated at the table behind him scratched on, his pen bobbing between ink pot and paper as he committed the King’s speech to paper.

  His majesty glanced up at the huge, clear windows overhead, frames occupied by flawless sheets of plate imported from the shadowlands by the tinkers. “May Sky Father adorn his tree with them.” In the wan morning light his expression was almost hungry. Innsford nodded again. The king—a golden youth only a handful of years ago, now come into his full power as a young man, handsome as an eagle and strong as an ox—was not someone anyone would disagree with openly. He was fast to laugh, but his cruel streak was rarely far below the surface and his mind was both deceptively sharp and coldly untrusting. He kept his openness for a small coterie of friends, their loyalty honed beyond question by bleak years of complicity during the decade when his father had held him at arm’s reach, suspicious of the brain rot inflicted on his younger brother Creon during a sly assassination attempt. The other courtiers (of whom there were no small number, Duke Innsford among them) would have a long wait until they earned his confidence.

  And as Egon had demonstrated already, losing the royal confidence could be a fatal blunder.

  Egon glanced at the scribe: “That’s enough for now.” He stood up, shifting his weight from foot to foot to restore the circulation that the hard wooden chair had slowed. “My lord Innsford, attend us, please. And you, my lord Carlsen, and you, Sir Markus.”

  The middle-aged duke rose to his feet and half-bowed, then followed as the young monarch walked towards the inner doors. Four bodyguards paced ahead of him, and two to the rear—the latter spending more time looking over their shoulders than observing their royal charge—with the courtiers Carlsen and Markus, and their attendant bodyguards, and Innsford’s own retainers and guards taking up the tail end of the party. His majesty affected a scandalous disregard for propriety, dressing in exactly the same livery and chain mail jerkin as his escorts, distinguishable only by his chain of office—and even that was draped around his neck, almost completely hidden by his tunic. It was almost as if, the duke mused, his majesty was afraid of demonic assassins who might spring out of the thin air at any moment. As if. And now that the duke noticed it, even Egon’s courtiers wore some variation on the royal livery…

  “Markus, Carl, we go outside. I believe there is an orangery?”

  “Certainly, sire.” Carlsen—another overmuscled blond hopeful—looked slightly alarmed. “But snipers—”

  “That’s what our guards are for,” Egon said dismissively. “The ones you don’t see are more important than the ones you do. We are at greater risk in this ghastly haunted pile—from tinker witches sneaking back in from the shadowlands to slip a knife in my ribs—than in any garden. The less they know of our royal whereabouts, the happier
I’ll be.”

  “The land of shadows?” Innsford bit his tongue immediately, but surprise had caught him unawares: does he really believe they come from the domain of the damned? How much does he know?

  The king glanced round and grinned at him lopsidedly, catching him unawares. It was a frighteningly intimate expression. “Where did you think they came from? They’re the spawn of air and darkness. I’ve seen it myself: one moment they’re there, the next…” He snapped his fingers. “They walk between worlds and return to this one loaded with eldritch treasure, weapons beyond the ken of our royal artificers and alchemists: they buy influence and insidiously but instinctively pollute the purity of our noble bloodlines with their changeling get!” His grin turned to a glare. “I learned of this from my grandmother, the old witch—luckily I did not inherit her bloodline, but my brother was another matter. Had Creon not been poisoned in his infancy there is no doubt that once he reached his majority I should shortly have met with an accident.”

  He paused for a minute while his guards opened the thick oak side door and checked the garden for threats. Then he turned and strode through into the light summer rain, his face upturned towards the sky.

  The formal gardens in the grounds of the Thorold Palace had been a byword for splendor among the aristocracy of the Gruinmarkt for decades. The hugely rich clan of tinker families had spared no expense in building and furnishing their residence in the capital: individuals might dress to impress, but stone and rampart were the gowns of dynasties. Some might even think that Egon had brought his court to the captured palace because it was (in the aftermath of the fighting that had damaged the Summer Palace) the most fitting royal residence in the city of Niejwein. Rows of carefully cultivated trees marched alongside the high walls around the garden; rose beds, fantastically sculpted, blossomed before the windowed balconies fronting the noble house. A pool, surmounted by a grotesque fountain, squatted in the midst of a compass rose of gravel paths: beyond it, a low curved building glinted oddly through the falling rain. The walls were made of glass, huge slabs of it, unbelievably even in thickness and clear of hue, held in a framework of cast iron. Green vegetation shimmered beyond the windows, whole trees clearly visible like a glimpse into some fantastic tropical world. Egon strode towards it, not once glancing to either side, while his guards nervously paced alongside, eyes swiveling in every direction.