The Merchants’ War tmp-4

by Charles Stross

  Eric glanced at his desk. It’d mean another couple of nights away from Gillian and the boys, and more apologies and tense silences at home, but it needed to be done. “As long I can be back here by Friday—if nothing new comes up in the meantime—I should be able to fit it in.” Briefly, he let his bitterness show: “it’s not as if I’m needed for the post-CLEANSWEEP debrief, or to report CLANCY as closed out.”

  “Then you’ll accompany me.” Doctor James rose abruptly, his expression as warm as any killer robot’s. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment it wouldn’t do to be late to…”

  Begin Transcript:

  “You called for me, sir.”

  “Indeed I did, indeed I did. I trust you’ve been keeping well. Any trouble getting here?”

  “Only the—not really. Not given the prevailing afflictions. I was most surprised to be summoned, though. Under the circumstances.”

  “Well, you’re here now. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable, this may take some time—I must apologize in advance for any interruptions, I am somewhat busy at present.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for, sir.”

  “Ah, but there will be. I’m afraid I’ve got another delicate task for you. One that will require you to visit the new world and spend some considerable length of time working there on your own initiative.”

  “But, the fighting! Surely I’m of use there?”

  (Clink of glassware.) “Glass of wine?”

  “Ah—yes, thank you sir.”

  (More clinking of glassware.) “Your health, my lady.”

  “And yours, your grace. Sir. I don’t understand. Is this more urgent than dealing with the pretender? As a need of immediacy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” (Pause.) “Then I’ll do it, of course. Whatever mysterious task you have in mind.”

  “I wouldn’t be so fast to accept. You may hear me out and deem it a conflict of loyalty.”

  “Conflict of—” (Pause.) “Oh.”

  “Yes. I am afraid you’re not going to like this.”

  “It’s about her grace, isn’t it?”

  “Partly. No, let me be honest: mostly. But, hmm, let me think…how clear are you on her current circumstances?”

  (Tensely.) “She didn’t tell me anything. Before—whatever.”

  “Indeed not, and I did not summon you to accuse you of any misdeeds. But. What is your understanding of what she did?”

  (Pause.) “Lady Helge has many bad habits, but her incurable curiosity is by far the worst of them. I was led to believe that she stuck her nose into some business or other of Henryk’s, and he slapped her down for it. Confinement to a supervised apartment under house arrest, no contact with anyone who might conspire with her, living on bread and water, that kind of thing. Is there more to it?”

  “Yes, you could say that.” (Sigh.) “You could hold me responsible, as well. I—placed certain evidence where I expected her to encounter it. It was in the context of a larger operation which you are not privy to. I expected her to rattle some cages and shake loose some useful fruit that were previously hanging out of reach. She has a tendency to stir things up, you will agree?”

  “I’m afraid so…”

  “The trouble is, she—well, she used unacceptable methods of inquiry: and worse, she allowed herself to be caught. Which indeed drew out certain conspirators at court, but not the ones I was looking for and not in the manner I had hoped. I trust this will go no further than your ears, but…she tampered with the Post.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish I was.”

  (Pause.) (Muttered expletive.)

  “I didn’t hear that, my lady.”

  “I’m sorry sir, my tongue must have stumbled…that’s terrible! I can see why she didn’t talk to me first, if that is what she was thinking of doing, but how could she?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the important question right now. Why-ever and however, she did it and was caught. Henryk had no option but to act fast to secure her obedience, even though that cost us any use we could hope to have made of her in the original plan: as it is, he has been accused of undue leniency by certain elderly parties, and I have had to call in many favors to placate the postal commission—or in some cases, to buy their silence. She has not been charged with the offense, and will not be: instead, Henryk offered her a way out—if she would bring us a child in the direct line of succession. She was as reluctant as you can imagine, but agreed to his proposal in the end.”

  “I had no idea!”

  “You weren’t meant to: the groundwork was prepared in the deepest secrecy, and her marriage to Prince Creon announced—”

  “Creon? The Idiot?”

  “Please—sit down! Sit down at once, I say!…I’m not going to repeat myself!”

  (Pause.) “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No you’re not. You’re outraged, aren’t you? It offends you because like all young women who’ve spent overmuch time in the other world you have absorbed some of their expectations, and the idea of an arranged marriage—no, let me be blunt, a forced marriage—is a personal affront to you. Am I right?”

  (Sullen.) “Yes.”

  “Well, so it may be. And the idea of tampering with the Post does not also offend you?”

  (Pause.) “But that’s—that’s—”

  “Need I remind you of the normal punishment for tampering with the Post?”

  “No.” Heavily. “I understand.”

  “Are you sure? Let me be blunt: the countess Helge committed a serious crime, for which she might have been executed. She could not be trusted with the corvee anymore. Baron Henryk managed to make an alternative arrangement, by which the countess might be of sufficient use to us to justify sparing her, and might in time redeem the stain from her honor. As a punishment, I will concede that it was severe. But she was given the choice: and she accepted it of her own free will, albeit without grace.”

  “Huh! I can’t imagine she’d have taken such an imposition lightly. But Creon of all people—”

  “Creon’s grandmother, the queen mother, was one of us. Creon, unlike his brother the pretender, was outer family. The progeny of Creon and Helge would have been outer family beyond doubt, and half likely world-walkers as well.”

  “But he’s defective! How do we know they wouldn’t have inherited the—”

  “We know. We know why he was defective, too. He was poisoned as a child, not born that way. But it’s irrelevant now. Creon—and the queen mother—died when the pretender made his move. I believe they, and Helge, were in fact the real targets of the attack.”

  “Surely, he’s the legitimate heir in any case? He didn’t need to do that!”

  “You are too well meaning to make a politician, my lady. If Helge had borne children to Creon, Egon would have good reason to fear for his life. Not necessarily from us, but there are factions with fewer scruples…and if Egon’s reading of our consensus was that we wanted to place one of our own upon the throne, then his action was ruthless but entirely rational.”

  “So Creon is dead? And the queen mother? What about Helge?”

  “Ah. Well, you see, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. There are more important tasks for you to be about than preparing a doppelgangered ambush for the pretender to the throne.”

  (Pause.) “You’ve lost her. Haven’t you?”

  “I very much fear that you are right.”

  “Shit.”

  “I do not know that she is still alive. But she has not been confirmed dead; her body was not found in the wreckage. And there are other reasons to hope she survived. She was reported to be speaking to James Lee, the hostage, shortly before the attack: he passed her something small.”

  “Oh. You think she’s in New Britain somewhere?”

  “That would be the logical deduction. And were circumstances different I would expect her to report in within a day or two. But right now—well. She was told, in regrettably unequivocal terms, that if she
world-walked without permission she would be killed. And we have systematically alienated her affections.”

  “Why, damn it, sir? I mean, what purpose did it serve?”

  (Pause.) “As I indicated, I hoped she would—suitably motivated—lead me to something I wanted. But she is a dangerous weapon to wield, and in this case, she misfired. Then circumstances spun out of my independent control, and…you see how things are?”

  (Long pause.) “What do you want me to do?” (Pause.) “I assume you want me to find her, wherever she’s gone to ground, and bring her back?”

  “You are one of the few people she is likely to trust. So that would be a logical deduction, would it not?”

  (Suspiciously.) “What else?”

  (Pause.) “I trust that you will do everything within your ability to find her and bring her back into the fold. To convince her, you may convey to her my assurances that she will face no retribution for having fled on this occasion—given the circumstances, it was entirely understandable. You may also remind her that Creon is dead, and the arrangement made on his behalf is therefore terminated. The events of the past week are swept away as if they never transpired.” (Pause.) “You may also want to tell her that Baron Henryk was killed in the fighting. If she cooperates, she has my personal guarantee of her safety.”

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  (Long pause.) “No.”

  “Then…?”

  “I very much fear that Helge will not return willingly. She may want to go to ground on her own—or she might make overtures to the lost cousins. Worse, she might go back to her compulsive digging. She stumbled across a project that is not yet politically admissible: if she exposes it before the council, it could do immense damage. And worst of all, she might seek to obtain a copy of the primary knot and use it to return to her own Boston, then contact the authorities. They will believe her if she goes to them, and she is in a position to do even more damage than Matthias if she wants.”

  (Pause.) “You want me to kill her if she’s turned traitor.”

  “I don’t want you to kill her. However, it is absolutely vital that she be prevented from defecting to the new agency the Americans have set up. She could do us immense—immeasurable—damage if she did, and I would rather see her dead than turned into a weapon against us. Do you see now why I warned that you might see this as a conflict of loyalty?”

  (Long pause.) “Oh yes, indeed, sir.” (Pause.) “If I say no, what happens?”

  “Then I will have to send someone else. I don’t know who, yet—we are grievously shorthanded in this task, are we not? Likely it will be someone who doesn’t know her well, and doesn’t care whether she can be salvaged.” (Pause.) “I am not sending you to kill her, I am sending you to salvage her if at all possible. But I will not send you unless you are prepared to do your duty to the Clan, should it be necessary. Do you swear to me that you will do so?”

  “I—yes, your grace. My liege. I so swear: I will do everything in my power to return Lady Helge voh Thorold d’Hjorth to your custody, alive. And I will take any measure necessary to prevent her adding her number to our enemies. Any—” (Pause.) “—measure.”

  “Good. Your starting point is inconveniently located—she will have crossed over near the palace, from Niejwein—but I am sure you are equal to the task of hunting her down. You may draw any necessary resources from second security directorate funds; talk to the desk officer. Harald is running things today. You’ll want a support team for the insertion, and a disguise.”

  “I have a working cover identity on the other side already, sir. Was there anything else I should know?”

  “Oh yes, as a matter of fact there is. It nearly slipped my mind. Hmm.”

  “Sir?” (Pause.) “Your grace?”

  “Ah. Definitely a problem.” (Pause.) “The arrangement with Creon…before the betrothal, she was visited more than once by Doctor ven Hjalmar. At the behest of Baron Henryk, I thought, but when I made inquiries I discovered it had been suggested by none other than Patricia.”

  “Patricia? What’s she doing suggesting—hey, isn’t Ven Hjalmar the fertility specialist?”

  “Yes, Brilliana, and the treatment he subjected the countess Helge to is absolutely unconscionable: but I believe it was intended as insurance against the Idiot being unable to…you know. Be that as it may, he did it. Consequently, you have about twelve weeks to find Helge and bring her back. After that time…well, you know what happens to women who world-walk while they’re pregnant, don’t you?”

  END TRANSCRIPT

  Travelers

  It was a warm day in New London, beneath the overcast. A slow onshore breeze was blowing, but the air remained humid and close beneath a stifling inversion layer that trapped the sooty, smelly effusions of a hundred thousand oil-burning engines too close to the ground for the comfort of tired lungs.

  Two figures walked up the street that led away from Hogarth Villas, arm in arm: a tall, stooped man, his hair prematurely graying, and a woman, her shoulder-length black hair bundled up beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat. The man carried a valise in his free hand. They were dressed respectably but boringly, his suit clean but slightly shiny at elbows and seat, her outfit clearly well worn.

  “Where now?” Miriam asked as they reached the end of the row of brick villas and paused at the curb, waiting for a streetcar to jangle and buzz past with a whine of hot electric motors. “Are we going straight back to Boston, or do you have business to attend to first?”

  “Come on.” He stepped out into the street and crossed hastily.

  She followed: “Well?”

  “We need to take the Northside ’car, three miles or so downtown.” He was staring at a wooden post with a streetcar timetable pasted to a board hanging from it. “Then a New Line car to St. Peter’s Cross. I think there’s a salon there.” He glanced sidelong at her hair. “By the time we’ve got that out of the way—well, unless we find a mail express, I don’t think we’ll get back to Boston tonight, so I suggest we take a room in one of the station hotels and entrain at first light tomorrow.”

  “Right.” She shrugged, slightly uncomfortably. “Erasmus, when I crossed over, I, um, I didn’t bring any money…”

  He glanced up and down the street, then reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a battered wallet. “One, two—all right. Five pounds.” He curled the large banknotes between bony fingertips and slipped them into her hand. “Try not to spend it all at once.”

  Miriam swallowed. One pound—the larger unit of currency here—had what felt like the purchasing power of a couple of hundred dollars back home. “You’re very generous.”

  He smiled at her. “I owe you.”

  “No, you—” She paused, trying to get a grip on the sense of embarrassed gratitude. “Are you still taking the tablets?”

  “Yes. It’s amazing.” He shook his head. “But that’s not what I meant. I still owe you for the last consignment you sold me.” A shadow crossed his face. “You needn’t worry about money for the time being. There are lockouts and beggars defying the poor laws on every other street corner. Nobody has money to spend. If I was truly dependent on my business for a living I would be as thin as a sheet of paper by now.”

  “There’s no money?” She took his arm again. “What’s the economy doing?”

  “Nothing good. We’re effectively at war, which means there’s a blockade of our Atlantic trade and shipping raiders in the Pacific, so it’s hit overseas trade badly. His majesty dismissed parliament and congress last month, you know. He’s trying to run things directly, and the treasury’s near empty: we’ll likely as not be stopped at the Excise bench as we arrive in Boston, you know, just to see if there’s a silver teapot hiding in this valise that could be better used to buy armor plate for the fleet.”

  “That’s not good.” Miriam blinked, feeling stupid. How not good? she wondered uneasily. “Is the currency deflating?”

  “I’d have said yes, but prices are going up too. And unemployme
nt.” Burgeson smiled humorlessly. “This war crisis is simply too damned soon after the last one, and the harvest last year was a disaster, and the army is over-stretched dealing with civil disorder—they mean local rebellions against the tax inspectorate—on the great plains and down south.” It took Miriam a moment to remember that down south didn’t mean the southern United States—it meant the former Portuguese and Spanish colonies that the New British crown had taken by force in the early nineteenth century, annexing to the empire around the time they’d been rebelling against their colonial masters across the ocean in the world she’d grown up in. “And the price of oil is going up. It’s doubled since this time last year.”

  Miriam blinked again. The dust and the smelly urban air were getting to her eyes. That, and something about Burgeson’s complaint sounded familiar…“How’s the government coping?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “It isn’t: the king dismissed it. We’re back into the days of fiat reale, like the way King Frederick the Second ran things during the civil war.” He noticed her expression and did a double take. “Seventeen ninety-seven to eighteen hundred and four,” he murmured. “I can find you a book on it if it interests you. Long and the short is, there was a war across the Atlantic and the states of Carolina, Virginia, and Columbia tried to rebel against the Crown, in collusion with the French. They nearly mustered a parliamentary majority for secession, too: invited in a French pretender to take their crown. So Frederick dissolved the traitor parliament and went through the plantation states with fire and the sword. He wasn’t merciful, like your, ah, Mister Lincoln. Frederick was not stupid, though: he recognized the snares of unencumbered absolute power, and he reconvened the estates and allowed them to elect a new parliament—once he’d gibbeted the traitors every twenty feet along the road from Georgetown to New London.”

  “That’s martial law, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s worse: it’s the feudal skull showing through the mummified skin of our constitutional settlement.” Erasmus stared into the near distance, then stuck his arm out in the direction of the street. A moment later a streetcar lumbered into view round the curve of the road, wheels grinding against the rails as it trundled to a halt next to the stop. “After you, ma’am.”