The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2)

by Charles Stross

  ‘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 . . . 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,’ 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 doppelgängered – 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 guardroom on the second floor of the north wing. That is, it had been part of the guardroom 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 platform.

  ‘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 laya
bouts, 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.’

  ‘Really?’ He grinned 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 guide 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 C-4 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 junkyard spirit clearing its 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. ‘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 jerkily. ‘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 roofline. 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 and his men were 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 . . .’

  DOPPELGÄNGERED

  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 blast 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, damn 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 said. ‘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 had 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. O
tto 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. ‘Keep 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 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 decorate the branches of 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.