The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1)

by Charles Stross

  ‘Me too, kid. So we’re not going to plan on me not coming back, are we? Instead, we’re going to plan on us both going over, spending the night at a coaching house, and then walking down the road to the next one. They’re only about twenty miles apart – it’s a fair hike, but not impossible. Along the way, I disappear, and catch up with you later. We spend the night there, then we turn back – and cross back here. How does that sound?’

  ‘Three days? And you’ll bring me back here?’

  ‘Of course.’ Miriam brooded for a moment. ‘I think I want some more tea,’ she decided. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Brilliana sat up eagerly. ‘Is there any of Earl Grey’s own blend?’

  ‘I’ll just check.’ Miriam wandered into Paulette’s kitchen, her mind spinning gears like a car in neutral. She filled the kettle, set it on the hob to boil, began searching for tea. There’s got to be a way to make this work better, she thought. The real problem was mobility. If she could just arrange how to meet up with Brill fifteen miles down the road without having to walk the distance herself – ‘Oh,’ she said, as the kettle began to boil.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Brill, behind her.

  ‘It’s so obvious!’ Miriam said as she picked the kettle up. ‘I should have figured it out before.’

  ‘Figured? What ails you?’

  She poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘A form of speech. I meant, I’ve worked out what I need to do.’ She put the lid on the pot, moved it onto a tray, and carried it back into the living room. ‘It’s quite simple. I’ve been worrying about having to camp in the woods in winter, or make myself understood, or keep up appearances with you. That’s wrong. What I should have been thinking about is how I can move myself about, over there, to somewhere where there’s shelter, without involving anyone else. Right?’

  ‘That makes sense. But how are you going to do that, unless you walk? You couldn’t take a horse through. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any horses here – ’

  Miriam took a deep breath. ‘Brill, when Paulie gets back I think we’re going to go shopping. For an all-terrain bicycle, a pair of night-vision goggles, a sewing machine, and some fabric . . .’

  *

  The devil was in the details. In the end it took Miriam two days to buy her bicycle. She spent the first day holed up with cycle magazines, spokehead websites, and the TV blaring extreme sports at her. The second day consisted of being patronized in successive shops by men in skintight neon Lycra bodysuits, to Brill’s quietly scandalized amusement. In the end, the vehicle of Miriam’s desire turned out to be a Dahon folding mountain bike, built out of chromed aluminum tubes. It wasn’t very light, but at thirty pounds – including carrying case and toolset – she could carry it across easily enough, and it wasn’t a toy. It was a real mountain bike that folded down into something she could haul in a backpack and, more importantly, something that could carry herself and a full load over dirt trails as fast as a horse.

  ‘What is that thing?’ Brill asked, when she finished unfolding it on a spread of newspapers on Paulette’s living room carpet. ‘It looks like something you torture people with.’

  ‘That’s a fair assessment.’ Miriam grimaced as she worked the alien keys on the saddle post, trying to get it locked at a comfortable height. ‘I haven’t ridden a bike in years. Hope I haven’t forgotten how.’

  ‘When you sit on that thing, you can’t possibly be modest.’

  ‘Well, no,’ Miriam admitted. ‘I plan to only use it out of sight of other people.’ She finished on the saddle and began hunting for an attachment place for the toolkit. ‘The Swiss army used to have a regiment of soldiers who rode these things, as mounted infantry – not cavalry. They could cover two hundred miles a day on roads, seventy a day in the mountains. I’m no soldier, but I figure this will get me around faster than my feet.’

  ‘You’ll still need clothing,’ Brill pointed out. ‘And so will I. What I came across in isn’t suitable for stamping around in the forest in winter! And we couldn’t possibly be seen wearing your camping gear if we expect to stay in a coaching inn.’

  ‘Yup. Which is where this machine comes in.’ Miriam pointed to the other big box, occupying a large chunk of the floor. ‘I take it there’s no chance that you already know how to use an overlocker?’

  The overlocker took them most of the rest of the day to figure out, and it nearly drove Paulette to distraction when she came home from the errand she’d been running to find Miriam oiling a bicycle in the hall and Brill puzzling out the manual for an industrial sewing machine and a bunch of costume patterns Miriam had bought. ‘You’re turning my house into an asylum!’ she accused Miriam, after kicking her shoes off.

  ‘Yeah, I am. How’s the office hunt going?’

  ‘Badly,’ snapped Paulette. Her voice changed: ‘Offices, oy, have we got offices! You should see our offices, such wonderful offices you have never imagined! By the way, how long have you been in business? There’ll be a deposit if it’s less than two years.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Miriam nodded. ‘How big a deposit?’

  ‘Six months’ rent. For two thousand square feet with a loading bay and a thousand feet of office above it, that comes to about thirty thousand bucks. Plus municipal tax, sewer, electric, and gas. And the broadband you want.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Miriam nodded to herself, then hit the quick-release bolts. The bike folded in on itself like an intricate origami sculpture and she locked it down in its most compact position, then eased the carrying case over it.

  ‘Hey, that’s real neat,’ Paulette said admiringly. ‘You turning into a fitness freak in your old age?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’ Miriam grunted, then upended the case and zipped it shut. Folded, the bike was a beast. She could get the thing comfortably on her back but would be hard put to carry anything else. Hmm. ‘Back in a minute.’ She shouldered the bike pack and marched to the back door that opened on Paulette’s yard. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she muttered, and pulled out her locket.

  Half an hour later she was back without the bike, staggering slightly, shivering with cold, and rubbing her sore forehead. ‘Oh, I really don’t need to do that so fast,’ she groaned.

  ‘If you will do that with no preparation – ’

  ‘No, no. I took my pills, boss, honest. It’s just really cold over there.’

  ‘Where did you stash it?’ Paulie asked practically.

  ‘Where your back wall is, over on the other side, where there’s nothing but forest. Brrr. Up against a tree, I cut a gash in the bark.’ She brandished her knife. ‘Won’t be hard to find if we go over from here: Main thing will be walking to the road, the nearest one is about half a mile away. Better go in the morning.’

  ‘Right,’ Paulette said skeptically. ‘About the rent.’

  ‘Yeah. Look, give me fifteen minutes to recover and I’ll get my coat. Then we can go look at the building, and if it’s right we’ll go straight to the bank and move another whack of cash so you can wave a deposit under their nose.’ She straightened up. ‘We’ll take Brill. There’s a theatrical costume shop we need to check out; it might speed things up a bit.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I’m tired of waiting, and the longer this drags on the harder it’ll be to explain it to Angbard. If I don’t get in touch soon, I figure he’ll cut off my credit until I surface. So it’s time to hit the road.’

  *

  Two days later, a frigid morning found Miriam dozing fitfully on a lumpy, misshapen mattress with a quietly snoring lump to her left. She opened her eyes. Where am I? she wondered for a moment, then memory rescued the day. Oh. A pile of canvas bags before her nose formed a hump up against the rough, unpainted planks of the wall. The snoring lump twitched, pushing her closer to the edge. The light streamed in through a small window, its triangular tiles of glass uneven and bubbled. She’d slept fully dressed except for her boots and cloak, and she felt filthy. To make matters worse, something had bitten her in the night, found her to its taste, and in
vited its family and friends along for Thanksgiving dinner.

  ‘Aargh.’ She sat up and swung her feet out, onto the floor. Even through her wool stockings the boards felt cold as ice. The thunder-mug under the bed was freezing cold too, she discovered as she squatted over it to piss. In fact, the air was so chilly it leached all the heat out of any part of her anatomy she exposed to it. She finished her business fast and shoved the pot back under the bed to freeze.

  ‘Wake up,’ she called softly to Brilliana. ‘Rise and shine! We’ve got a good day ahead!’

  ‘Oh, my head.’ Brill surfaced bleary-eyed and disheveled from under the quilt. ‘Your hostelries aren’t like this.’

  ‘Well, this one won’t stay like this for long if I get my way. My mouth tastes like something died in it. Let me get my boots on and warm my toes up a bit.’

  ‘Hah.’ Brilliana’s expression was pessimistic. ‘They let the fire run low, I’d say.’ She found the chamber pot. Miriam nodded and looked away. So much for en suite bathrooms, she thought. ‘You stand up, now,’ Brill ordered after a minute.

  ‘Okay. How do I look?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Hmm. I think you will pass. Don’t brush your hair until we are out of sight, though. It’s too clean to be seen in daylight, from all those marvelous soaps everyone uses on the other side, and we don’t want to attract attention. Humph. So what shall we do today, my lady?’

  ‘Well, I think we’ll start by eating breakfast and paying the nice man.’ Nice was not an adjective Miriam would normally use on a hotelier like the one lurking downstairs – back home she’d be more inclined to call the police – but standards of personal service varied wildly in the Gruinmarkt. ‘Let’s hit the road to Hasleholm. As soon as we’re out of sight, I’m going to vanish. You have your pistol?’

  Brill nodded.

  ‘Okay, then you’re set up. It should just be a quiet day’s walk for you. If you run into trouble, first try to get off the road, then shoot – I don’t want you taking any chances, even if there isn’t much of a bandit problem around these parts in winter. Luckily you’re more heavily armed than anyone you could possibly meet except a Clan caravan.’

  ‘Right.’ Brill nodded uncertainly. ‘You’re sure that strange contraption will work?’

  ‘Yes. Trust me.’

  Breakfast below consisted of two chipped wooden bowls of oatmeal porridge, salted, eaten in the kitchen under the watchful (if squinting) eyes of the publican’s wife – which made it harder for Miriam to palm her pills. She made a song and dance of reciting some kind of grace prayer over the bowls. Miriam waited patiently, moving her lips randomly – her mute and uncomprehending condition explained by Brill, in her capacity as long-suffering daughter.

  Barely half an hour later, Miriam and Brill were on the road again, heading toward the coast, breath steaming in the frigid morning air. It was bitterly dry. A heavy frost had fallen overnight, but not much snow. Miriam hunched beneath a heavy canvas knapsack that held her bicycle and extra supplies. Brill, too, bore a heavy bag, for Miriam had made two trips through to cache essential supplies before they began this trip. Although they’d come only two miles from Paulette’s house, they were centuries away in the most important way imaginable. Out here, even a minor injury such as a twisted ankle could be a disaster. But they had certain advantages that normally only the Clan and its constituent families would have – from their modern hiking boots to the hefty automatic pistol Brill carried in a holster concealed beneath her Thinsulate-lined cloak.

  ‘This had better work.’ Miriam’s teeth chattered slightly as she spoke. ‘I’m going to feel really stupid if it turns out that this locket doesn’t work here, either.’

  ‘My mother said you could tell if they’re dead. Have you looked at it since we came through?’

  ‘No.’ Miriam fumbled in her pouch for it. It clicked open easily and she shut it at once. ‘Ick. It’ll work, all right, if I don’t spill my guts. It feels rougher than the other one.’

  Frozen leaf skeletons crunched beneath their boots. The post house was soon out of sight, the road empty and almost untraveled in winter. Bare trees thrust limbs out above them, bleak and barren in the harsh light of morning. ‘Are we out of sight, yet?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Yes.’ Brill stopped. ‘Might as well get an early start.’

  Miriam paused beside her. She shuffled her feet. ‘Don’t wait long. If I don’t return within about five minutes, assume it means everything’s all right. Just keep walking and I’ll join you at the post house. If you hear anyone coming on the road, hide. If I’m late, wait over for one day then buy a horse or mule, head for Fort Lofstrom, and ask to be taken to Angbard. Clear?’

  ‘Clear.’ For a moment Brill froze, then she leaned forward and embraced Miriam. ‘Sky Father protect you,’ she whispered.

  ‘And you,’ said Miriam, more surprised than anything else. She hugged Brill back. ‘Take care.’ Then she pulled away, pulled out the assassin’s locket, and, standing in the middle of the road, stared into its writhing depths.

  *

  It was twelve o’clock, and all the church bells in Boston were chiming noon.

  The strange woman received nothing more than covert glances as she walked along The Mall, eyes flickering to either side. True, she wore a heavy backpack – somewhat singular for a woman – and a most peculiar cap, and her dress was about as far from fashionable as it was possible to be without street urchins harassing her with accusations of vile popery; but she walked with an air of granite determination that boded ill for anyone who got in her way.

  Traffic was light but fast, and she seemed self-conscious as she looked both ways repeatedly before crossing the street. An open Jolly-car rumbled past behind her, iron wheels striking sparks from the cobblestones. There was a burst of raucous laughter from the tars within, returning to the North Station for the journey back to the royal dockyards. She dodged nimbly, then reached the safety of the sidewalk.

  The pedestrian traffic was thicker near the fish market and the chandlers and other merchant suppliers. The woman glanced at a winter chestnut seller, raised her nose as she sidestepped a senescent pure-collector mumbling over his sack of dogshit, then paused on the corner of The Mall and Jefferson Street, glancing briefly over one shoulder before muttering into her scarf.

  ‘Memo: This is not Boston – at least, not the Boston I know. All the street names are wrong and the buildings are stone and brick, not wood or concrete. Traffic drives on the left and the automobiles – there aren’t many – they’ve got chimneys, like steam locomotives. But the signs are in English and the roads are made of cobblestones or asphalt and it feels like Boston. Weird, really weird. It’s more like home than Niejwein, anyway.’

  She carried on down the street, mumbling into the tie-clip microphone pinned inside her scarf. A brisk wind wheezed down the street, threatening to raise it from her head: She tugged down briskly, holding it in place.

  ‘I see both men and women in public – more men than women. Dress style is – hmm. Victorian doesn’t describe it, exactly. Post-Victorian, maybe? Men wear cravats or scarves over high collars, with collarless double-breasted suits and big greatcoats. Hats all round, lots of hats, but I’m seeing suit jackets with yellow and blue stripes, or even louder schemes.’ She strode on, past a baroque fire hydrant featuring cast-iron Chinese dragons poised ready to belch a stream of water. ‘Women’s costume is tightly tailored jackets and long skirts. Except lots of the younger ones are wearing trousers under knee-length skirts. Sort of Oriental in style.’ A woman pedaled past her on a bicycle, primly upright. The bike was a black bone-shaker. ‘Hm. For cycling, baggy trousers and something like a Pakistani tunic. Everyone wears a hat or scarf.’ She glanced left. ‘Shop prices marked in the windows. I just passed a cobbler’s with a row of metal lasts and leather samples on display and – Jesus Christ – ’

  She paused and doubled back to stare into the small, grimy windows of the shop she’d nearly passed. A distant buzzing filled h
er ears. ‘A mechanical adding machine – electric motor drive, with nixie tubes for a display. That’s a divide key, what, nineteen-thirties tech? Punched cards? Forties? Wish I’d paid more attention in the museum. These guys are a long way ahead of the Gruinmarkt. Hey, that looks like an Edison phonograph, but there’s no trumpet and those are tubes at the back. And a speaker.’ She stared closer. The price . . . ‘Price in pounds, shillings, and pennies,’ she breathed into her microphone.

  Miriam paused. A sense of awe stole over her. This isn’t Boston, she realized. This is something else again. A whole new world, one that had vacuum tubes and adding machines and steam cars – a shadow fell across her. She glanced up and the breath caught in her throat. And airships, she thought. ‘Airship!’ she muttered. It was glorious, improbably streamlined, the color of old gold in the winter sunshine, engines rattling the window glass as it rumbled overhead, pointing into the wind. I can really work here, she realized, excitedly. She paused, looking in the window of a shipping agent: Greenbaum et Pty, ‘Gateways to the world’.

  ‘’Scuse me, ma’am. Can I help you with anything?’

  She looked down, hurriedly. A big, red-faced man with a bushy moustache and a uniform, flat-topped blue helmet – Oops, she thought. ‘I hope so,’ she said timidly. Gulp. Try to fake a French accent? ‘I am newly arrived in, ah, town. Can you, kind sir, direct me to a decent and fair pawnbroker?’

  ‘Newly arrived?’ The cop looked her up and down dubiously, but made no move toward either his billy club or the brass whistle that hung on a chain around his neck. Something about her made up his mind for him. Maybe it was the lack of patching or dirt on her clothes, or the absence of obvious malnutrition. ‘Well now, a pawnbroker – you’ll not want to be destitute within city limits by nightfall, hear? The poorhouse is near to overflowing this season and you wouldn’t want a run-in with the bench, now, would ye?’

  Miriam bobbed her head. ‘Thank you kindly, sir, but I’ll be well looked after if I can just raise enough money to contact my sister. She and her husband sent for me to help with the children.’