The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1)

by Charles Stross

  EPILOGUE

  ‘Fourteen of them, you say?’ said Inspector Smith, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yessir. Nine coves and five queans all went into the shop mob-handed, like.’

  ‘Fourteen.’ The other eyebrow rose to join it. ‘Jobson never reported back.’

  ‘There’s no sign of blood, sir, or even a struggle,’ the inspector’s visitor said apologetically. ‘And they wasn’t in the premises when me and my squad went in, ten minutes later. Weren’t in the basement, neither. Nor any of the tunnels we’ve explored.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ Smith said with a tone of increasing disbelief.

  ‘Sir, we took fingerprints.’ The visitor sounded annoyed. ‘None of them except the Fletcher woman are in our files, and her prints were old. But we had a spook watching as they went in. The count is reliable: fourteen in and none of them came out again! It’s a very rum do, I’ll agree, but unless you have reason to suspect that a crime has been committed – ’

  ‘I have, dammit! Where’s Jobson?’ Smith stood up, visibly annoyed. ‘Are you telling me that one of my agents has disappeared and the people responsible aren’t to be found? Because if so, that sounds like a pretty bad sign to me, too.’

  ‘I’ll stand by it, sir.’ The regular thief-taker stood firm. ‘We took the entire block apart, brick by brick. You had the pawnbroker in custody at the time, need I remind you? And his lawyer muttering about habeas corpus all the while. There is, I repeat, no evidence of anything – except fourteen disappearing persons unknown, and a constable of the Defense Bureau who’s nowhere to be seen. Which is not entirely unprecedented, I hope you’ll concede.’

  ‘Bah!’ The inspector snorted. ‘Did you take the cellar walls apart?’ His eye gleamed, as if he expected to hear word of an anarchist cell crouched beneath every block.

  ‘We used Mr. Moore’s new sound-echo apparatus.’ The thief-taker stood up. ‘There are no hollow chambers, sir. You can have my hat and my badge if you uncover any, as I stand by my word.’

  ‘Bah. Get out.’ Smith glared at the superintendent of thief-takers. ‘I have a call to make.’ He waited for the door to bang shut behind the other man before he added, ‘Sir Roderick is going to be very annoyed. But I’ll make sure that damned woman gets her comeuppance soon enough . . .’

  *

  Weeks passed: days of pain, days of loss, days of mourning. Finally, an evening clear of snow beneath the winter skies over New London found Miriam standing in the foyer of the Brighton Hotel, dressed to the nines in black, smiling at the guests with a sweet solicitude she hardly felt. ‘Hello, Lord Macy! And hello to you too, Lady Macy! How have you been? Well, I trust?’ The line seemed to stretch around the block, although the red carpet stopped at the curb – many of the visitors were making a point of showing up in new Otto cars, the ones the Durant Motor Company was fitting with the new safety brakes.

  ‘Hello, my dear lady! You’re looking fine.’

  Her smile relaxed a bit, losing its grim determination. ‘I think I am, indeed,’ she admitted. ‘And yourself? Is this to your satisfaction?’

  ‘I think – ’ Sir Durant raised one eyebrow – ‘it will do, yes.’ He grinned, faintly amused. ‘It’s your party: Best enjoy it as much as you can. Or are you going to stand by your widowhood forever and a day?’

  He tipped his hat to her and ambled inside, to the dining room that Miriam’s money had taken over for a night of glittering celebration, and she managed to keep on smiling, holding the line against desolation and guilt. The party was indeed glittering, packed with the high and the mighty of the New London motor trade, and their wives and sons and daughters, and half the board of trade to boot.

  Miriam sighed quietly as the carpet emptied and the doors stopped revolving for a moment. ‘Busy, isn’t it?’ Brill remarked cheerfully behind her.

  ‘I’ll say.’ Miriam turned to face her. ‘You’re looking beautiful tonight,’ she mimicked, and pulled a face. ‘Anyone would think I was selling them pinup calendars, not brake shoes.’

  Brill grinned at her cheekily. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she began. ‘If you put out a calendar with yourself on it, that might improve sales – ’ She held out a full glass of something sparkling.

  ‘Here, give me that. It’s not suitable for young ladies!’ Miriam took it and raised it. ‘To . . . something or other.’ Her daringly bare shoulders slumped tiredly. ‘Success.’

  Brill raised the other glass: ‘Success. Hey, this isn’t bad.’ She took a big mouthful, then wiped her lips with the back of one glove. ‘Do you think they’re enjoying it?’

  ‘They will.’ Miriam looked at the dining room doors, then back at the front: It was almost time for the meal to begin. ‘Or else,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘You haven’t seen Lady Olga yet?’ asked Brill.

  ‘No – ’ Miriam caught her eye. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It was meant to be her surprise, that’s all. I shan’t give it away.’ Brill did her best impression of an innocent at large, nose in the air and glass in hand. ‘Success,’ she muttered. ‘Most women would be after true love or a rich husband, but this one wants to own skyscrapers.’

  ‘True love and a helmet will stop bullets,’ Miriam said bitterly.

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Brill looked at her askance. ‘Was it really true love?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Miriam drained her glass in one gulp, so that she wouldn’t have to explain. Was it? she wondered, confused, still numb. Damn it, he should be here, now. We had so much to talk about.

  ‘Owning skyscrapers makes the need for a rich husband irrelevant,’ Brill pointed out. ‘And anyway, you’re still young. True love is bound to – ’ She stopped. Another car was pulling up outside, and a small crowd of partygoers was climbing out.

  ‘Here, take this,’ Miriam said, passing her an empty glass. ‘Got to be the hostess again.’

  ‘That’s all right, don’t mind me.’ Brill took a step back as Miriam straightened her back and tried to bend her face into a welcoming mask once more. Only another five minutes.

  The door opened. ‘Olga!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘My dear!’ Olga swept forward and insisted on planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘I brought you a present!’

  ‘Huh?’ Miriam looked past her. The door was still revolving – slowly, for the occupant seemed to be having some trouble. Finally he shuffled out and slowly advanced. ‘Uncle, you aren’t supposed to be out – ’

  ‘Miriam.’ He stopped in front of her, looking faintly amused. His costume was, as ever, impeccable, even though he must have found it passing strange. ‘I thought I should come and see the new business that the prodigal has built for us.’ His smile slipped. ‘And to apologize for nursing that viper. I understand he cost you more than money can ever repay.’

  ‘Oh hell.’ She frowned at him. Easy for you to be gracious, now Roland’s dead and you don’t have to worry about your precious braids anymore – But somehow the harsh thoughts didn’t have any fire behind them. She crossed the six feet between them. ‘Uncle.’ He did his best to return the hug, although he winced somewhat. She leaned her chin on his shoulder. ‘I’m pleased to see you. I think.’

  ‘It was all her idea,’ he said, jerking his chin over his shoulder.

  ‘Her? Why – mother!’

  The revolving door ejected another late guest who seemed to be walking with a slight limp. Bundled in a voluminous gown and leaning heavily on a cane, she glowered truculently about the hall for a moment, then spotted Miriam and beamed.

  ‘Hello, dear! You’re looking every inch the princess tonight.’

  ‘Hah.’ Miriam walked forward and kissed her mother on the forehead. ‘Wait till you meet my disreputable friends.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear. We’ve got a family tradition to uphold, haven’t we?’

  ‘Indeed.’ A thought struck Miriam. ‘Where are you staying tonight? I’ve got a suite here. Olga, if you don’t mind – ’

 
; ‘I do mind,’ said Olga. ‘If you want me to give up the guest room, I demand the imperial suite here!’

  ‘But you know that’s booked – ’ Miriam began, then the doors revolved again and her eyes widened. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Is that any way to greet a friend?’ Paulette grinned widely as she looked around. ‘Hey, plush! I thought this was going to be all horse manure and steam engines!’

  ‘This is Brill’s fault,’ Olga confided. ‘When she heard about the party, she began plotting – ’

  ‘Yeah!’ Paulie agreed enthusiastically. ‘We couldn’t let you keep the limelight all to yourself. Say, is that really a gaslight chandelier? Isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘Children, you’ll be late for dinner!’ Brill interrupted. ‘Take it up some other time, huh? I don’t want to miss Sir Brakepad’s speech. Isn’t he cute?’

  She gently moved them in the direction of the dining room, steering Angbard discreetly. Miriam followed behind, arm in arm with her mother, and for the first time in months she dared to hope that the worst was behind her.

  Praise for the Merchant Princes series

  ‘A marvelous romp through this world and others, told by a master of the imaginative thrill-ride. These books will remain on my shelf for many years to come’

  Karl Schroeder

  ‘Inventive, irreverent, and delightful . . . an alternate world where business is simultaneously low and high tech, and where romance, murder, marriage, and business are hopelessly intertwined – and deadly.

  L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

  ‘Shocks, surprises, reversals, and elaborations keep tumbling from Stross’s nimble fingers . . . These books are immense fun’

  Locus

  ‘Fantasies with this much invention, wit and gusto don’t come along every day’

  SFX

  ‘Fans of the author’s previous work will recognize his trademark skill at world building – you can almost see the filth on the streets of New England, feel the closeted oppression of the Clan hierarchy, and experience Miriam’s terror at the horrifying circumstances she finds herself in’

  SciFiNow

  ‘Fast-moving action with a number of interesting characters . . . Stross’s ability to combine interesting ideas with solid plotting is one of his great strengths’

  Asimov’s Science Fiction

  ‘A rollicking, pacy read and delivers on the fun’

  Interzone

  ‘One of the defining phenomena of twenty-first century SF is Charles Stross, for the quality of his work at its best . . .’

  Time Out

  ‘For sheer inventiveness and energy, this cliffhanger-riddled serial remains difficult to top’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘An intriguing and thought-provoking world’

  Vector

  ‘It’s official – Charles Stross can do anything. And what he likes to do best is take hoary old chestnuts – say, the space opera or the alternate-Earth fantasy – and roast them over an open fire until the heat has cooked them into something deliciously new and strange . . . It’s never less than completely engrossing’

  SFReviews.net

  ‘He builds a steampunk future familiar from other sources – zeppelins, primitive automobiles and typewriters, etc. – yet with its own unique twists . . . Stross is having great fun with these books, and it’s contagious’

  SciFi.com

  ‘The Merchant Princes is easily one of the finest, most involved and inventive science-fiction series on the market. A very highly recommended series from a master storyteller’

  CivilianReader blog

  THE BLOODLINE FEUD

  Charles Stross was born in Leeds, England, in 1964. He has worked as a pharmacist, software engineer and freelance journalist, but now writes full-time. To date, Stross has won two Hugo awards and been nominated twelve times. He has also won the Locus Award for Best Novel, the Locus Award for Best Novella and has been shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke and Nebula Awards. In addition, his fiction has been translated into around a dozen languages.

  Stross lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife Feòrag, a couple of cats, several thousand books, and an ever-changing herd of obsolescent computers.

  By Charles Stross

  The Merchant Princes series

  The Bloodline Feud

  (Originally published as The Family Trade and The Hidden Family)

  The Traders’ War

  (Originally published as The Clan Corporate and The Merchants’ War)

  The Revolution Trade

  (Originally published as The Revolution Business and The Trade of Queens)

  Acknowledgments

  No novelist works in a creative vacuum. Whatever we do, we owe a debt to the giants upon whose shoulders we stand. This book might not have happened if I hadn’t read the works of H. Beam Piper and Roger Zelazny.

  Nor would this book have been written without the intervention of several other people. My agent, Caitlin Blaisdell, nudged me to make a radical change of direction from my previous novels. David Hartwell of Tor encouraged me further, and my wife, Feòrag, lent me her own inimitable support while I worked on it.

  Finally, I’d like to thank all those (too numerous to name) who helped by test-reading and typo-spotting at various times in the history of this book.

  The Family Trade first published 2004 by Tor, Tom Doherty Associates, NY

  First published in Great Britain 2007 by Tor

  The Hidden Family first published 2005 by Tor, Tom Doherty Associates, NY

  First published in Great Britain 2008 by Tor

  This electronic edition published 2013 by Tor

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-230-77173-4

  Copyright © Charles Stross 2013

  The right of Charles Stross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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