Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

"Indeed not." Egon inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. Innsford sniffed, but his sinuses-chronically congested, the aftermath of a broken nose in his youth- stubbornly refused to disclose the cause of Egon's blissful expression. The king opened his eyes: "I have some-problems. I believe you might be able to assist me in their resolution."

Ah. Here it comes. Innsford had lived through the reign of two kings before this young upstart: nevertheless, his stomach tingled and he felt a shiver of fear, as if a black cat walked across his future grave. "I am at your command, your majesty."

"While I am on campaign, I must look to the good cultivation of my earthly held." Niejwein and territories, Innsford translated. "I must also look to the good administration of my army. Who am I to trust, in the halls of power while I am elsewhere?" For a moment the royal gaze fell on Innsford, unblinking and cold as any snake. "His grace of Niejwein is under threat from the tinker knives if he stays in the capital whose name he bears: perhaps he would be safer were he to undertake a pilgrimage to the southern estates? His eldest son will be all too pleased to look to the household's duties in his father's absence, while his grace could earn my gratitude by looking to the good management of those provinces."

Innsford stiffened. But Niejwein's your man! he thought indignantly. Then he unpacked Egon's plan further. Niejwein's too powerful, here. Send him away from his power base while keeping his son-inexperienced - as a hostage, and he can serve your ends safely. Is that what you plan? "You have a task in mind for me." It was an admission, but denying any awareness of the deeper political realities would merely suggest to Egon that he was loo stupid to be of any use. And Innsford had a nasty inkling that being pigeonholed as useless by King Egon was unlikely to be conducive to a peaceful and prosperous old age. Especially if one was of high enough birth to conceivably be a threat.

"Indeed." Egon smiled again, that disturbing smirk with a telltale narrowing of the eyes. "Laurens-the next Duke of Niejwein, I should say-is none too bright himself. He'll need his hand holding and his back watching." The smirk faded. "The defense of Niejwein is no minor task, your grace, because I am certain the tinkers will attempt to retake the city. Their holdings arc not well adapted to support a war of maneuver, and they are by instinct and upbringing cosmopolitans. Furthermore, Niejwein is the key to their necromantic trade with the land of shades. There are locations in this city that they need. I must assign an army to the defense of the capital, but I would be a thrice-damned fool to leave it in his grace of Niejwein's own hands. Will you take it?"

"I- " Innsford swallowed. "You surprise me."

"Not really!" Egon said lightly. "You know as well as I the value of a certain-reputation." His own reputation for bloody-handed fits of rage had served well enough at court to keep his enemies fearful. "Should you accept this task, then this palace will be yours-and your son Franz? He is well, I trust? I will be needing a page. Franz will accompany me and win glory on the battlefield, and in due course he will inherit the second finest palace in the land from his father's prudence in this matter."

Innsford stared. "I wo-would be delighted to accept your gracious offer," he forced out. You're going to leave me in charge of this death trap while you take my son as your page? The audacity was offensive, but as an act of positioning it was a masterstroke: rebel against the king and Egon would already hold his firstborn hostage. But meanwhile... thoughts whirled in his head. "You expect the linkers to try to retake the city, my liege?" he asked: "Is there sound intelligence to this effect?"

"Oh, indeed." Egon's reply was equally casual in tone, and just as false. "I have my ways." He smirked again. "Well, truth be told, I have my spies." He chuckled dryly. "You understand more than you can politely say, my lord, so I shall say it for you: I trust no one. No one. But don't let that fool you. The rewards for being true and constant to my service will be great and in time you'll come round to my way of thinking, I'm sure. It is no blind ambition that desires my impression of your son: I have a nation to rid of witchcraft and nightmares, to make fit for men such as your son to live in. He will eventually play a privileged role at court; I would like to meet him sooner rather than later. But now-" He gestured at the orange grove around them. "-I have arrangements to make. There is a war to conduct, and once I have seen to my defense I must look to my arms." He took another deep breath. "If success smells half so sweet as this, I shall count myself a lucky man."

The bench seat stank of leather, old sweat, gunpowder, and a cloying reek of fear. It rattled and bounced beneath Mike, to the accompaniment of a metallic squeaking like damaged car shock absorbers. His leg ached abominably below the knee, and whenever he tried to move it into a less painful position it felt as if a pack of rabid weasels was chewing on it. His face pressed up against the rear cushion of the seat as the contraption swayed from side to side, bouncing over the deep ruts in the cobblestone surface of the road.

Despite the discomfort, he was calm: everything was distant, walled off from him by a barrier of placid equanimity, as if he was wrapped in cotton wool. They'll kill me when they find out, he told himself, but the thought held no fear. Wow, whatever Hastert stuck me with is really smooth.

Not that life was entirely a bed of roses. He winced at a particularly loud burst of gunfire rattling past the carriage window. One of the women on the other bench seat rattled off something in hochsprache: he couldn't follow it but she sounded scared. The old one tut-tutted. "Sit down, you'll only get your head blown off if you give them a target," she said in English.

More hochsprache: something about duty, Mike thought vaguely.

"No, you shouldn't..."

The distinctive sound of a charging handle being worked, followed by a gust of cold air.

Crack. The sound of a rifle firing less than a meter from his ear penetrated Mike's haze. He pushed back against the seat back, rolling onto his back just as a particularly violent pot-hole tried to swallow one of the carriage's rear wheels, and the shooter fired again: a hot brass cartridge case pinged off the back of the seat and landed on his hand. Curiously, it hurt.

"Ow- " He twitched, shaking the thing off, wincing repeatedly as the woman in the fur coat leaning out of the carriage window methodically squeezed off another three shots. What's the word for... ? "My leg, it hurts," he tried.

"Speak English, your accent's atrocious," said the old woman. "It won't fool anyone."

Mike stared at her. In the semi-darkness of the carriage her face seemed to hover in the darkness, disembodied. Outside the window, men shouted at each other. The carriage lurched sideways, then bounced forward, accelerating. The shooter withdrew her head and shoulders from the window. "That is all of them for now, I believe," she announced, with an accent of her own that could have passed for German. She glanced at Mike, mistrustfully, and adjusted her grip on the gun. The real moon, outside, scattered platinum highlights off her hair: for a moment he saw her face side-lit, young and striking, like a Russian princess in a story, pursued by wolves.

"Close the window, you don't want to make a target of yourself," said the old biddy from beneath the pile of rugs. "And I don't want to catch my death of cold." A cane appeared from somewhere under the heap, ascending until it battered against the carriage roof. "Shtoppan nicht, gehen'su halt!" She was old, but her lungs were good. She glanced at Mike. "So you're awake, are you?"