Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

Mike shut his eyes. I think my brain just exploded, he thought. "Who are the progressives?"

"Myself for one, to your very great good fortune. My half-brother for another, although he is as circumspect in public as befits the head of the Clan's external security organization-a seat of significant power on the council. There are others. You do not need to know who they are. If you're captured or tortured, what you don't know you can't give away."

"And the conservatives?"

"Miriam's great-uncle Henryk, if he's still alive. He was the late king's spymaster in chief. My mother, Hildegarde, who is also Miriam's grandmother. Baron Oliver Hjorth, about two thirds of the council... too many to enumerate."

"Okay. So you want me to set up a covert channel be tween you-your faction-and, my agency? Or just me?"

"Just you, at first." Iris's cheek twitched. "You're in lined. When you are back on your feet I will contact you. You will excuse me, but I am afraid I will require certain actions from you in order to demonstrate that you are trustworthy; Tokens of trust, if you like."

I don't like the sound of this. "Such as...?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." She relented slightly: "I can't do business with you if I can't trust you. But I won't ask you to do anything illegal unlike your superiors."

Mike shivered. She's got my number. "What makes you think they'd issue illegal orders?"

"Come now, Mr. Fleming, how stupid do I look? How did you get here? If your superiors could move more than one or two people at a time they'd have sent a division. They sent you because their transport capacity is tiny, probably because they're using captured-or renegade-world walkers. Probably the former, knowing this administration; (hey don't trust anyone they haven't bought for cold cash.'' Her expression shifted into one of outright distaste. "Honor is a luxury when you reach the top of the dung heap. Everybody wants it, but it's in short supply. That's even more true in Washington, D.C. than over on this side, because aristocrats have at least to keep up the appearance of it. Let me give you a tip to pass on to your bosses: if you mistreat your Clan prisoners, their relatives will revenge them. The political is taken very personally, here."

"That's- " he swallowed "-it may be true, but that's not how things work right now. Not since 9/11."

"Then they're going to regret it." Her gaze was level. "You must warn your superiors of this-the political is personal. If the conservatives think your government is mistreating their prisoners, they'll take revenge, horrible revenge. Timothy McVeigh and Mohamed Atta were rank amateurs compared to these people, and Clan security probably can't prevent an atrocity from happening if you provoke them. You need to warn your bosses, Mr. Fleming. They're playing with fire: or would you like to see a suicide bomber invite himself to the next White House reception?"

Whoops. Mike cringed at the images that sprang to mind. "They're that crazy?"

"They're not crazy!" Her vehemence startled him. "They just don't think about things the same way as you people. Your organization is trying to wage war on the Clan: all right, we understand that. But it is a point of honor to avenge blood debts, and that suicide bomber- that's the least of your worries." She paused for breath. When she continued, she was much less strident: "That's one of the things Miriam thought she could change, with her reform program. I tend to agree with her. That's one of the things we need to change-it's one of the reasons I reintroduced her to her relatives in the first place. I knew she'd react that way."

"But she's your daughter!" It was out before he could stop himself.

"Hah. I told you, but you didn't listen, did you? We don't work the way you think we do-and it's not just all about blood debts and honor. There's also a perpetual inter-generational conflict going on, mother against daughter, grandmother for grandchild. My mother is a pillar of the conservative faction: by raising Miriam where Hildegarde couldn't get her claws into her, I temporarily gained the upper hand. And-"she leaned forward again"-I would do anything to keep my granddaughter out of this mess."

"You don't have a granddaughter," Olga commented from the sidelines, "do you?"

Iris glanced sideways. "Miriam has not married a world-walker, so I do not have a granddaughter," she said coldly. "Is that understood?"

Olga swallowed. "Yes, my lady."

What was that about? The carriage bounced again, throwing Mike against the side of the seat and jarring his leg painfully. When he could focus again, he realized Iris had been talking for some time.

"- Stopping soon, and we will have to lock you in the carriage overnight. I hope you understand. When we get to the waypoint Olga will carry you across, put you somewhere safe, call for an ambulance, then leave. I hope you understand the need for this? Olga, if you would be so good..."

The Russian princess was holding a syringe. "No!" Mike tried to protest, but in his current state he was too weak to fight her off. And whatever was in the needle was strong enough that it stopped mattering very shortly afterwards.

Miriam had just been through two months under house arrest, preceded by three months in carefully cosseted isolation. Then she'd managed a fraught escape and then been imprisoned yet again, albeit for a matter of days. Walking the streets of New York again-even a strangely low-rise New York wrapped around the imperial palace and inner city of New London-felt like freedom. The sight of aircraft and streetcars and steam-powered automobiles and primitive flickering neon signs left her gaping at the sheer urban beauty of it all. As they moved closer to the center of the city the bustle of the crowds and the bright synthetic colors of the women's clothing caught her attention more than the gray-faced beggars in the suburbs. I'm in civilization again, she realized, half-dazed. Even if I'm not part of it. Erasmus paused, looking at a news vendor's stand displaying the stamp of the censor's office. "Buy me a newspaper, dear?" she asked, touching his arm.

Erasmus jerked slightly, then recovered. "Certainly. A copy of the Register, please."

"Aye, sorr. An' here you is."

He passed her the rolled-up news sheet as they moved up the high street. "What bit you?" he asked quietly.

"I've been out of touch for a long time. I just need to-" I need to connect, she thought, but before she could articulate it he nodded, grinning ironically.

"You were out of touch? Did your family have you on a tight leash?"

She shuddered. "I had nothing to read but a grammar book for two months. And that wasn't the worst of it." Now that she had company to talk to she could feel a mass of words bubbling up, ideas seeking torrential release.

"You'll have to tell me about it later. I was told there was a public salon here-ah, that's it. Your hair, Miriam. You can see to it yourself?"

He'd stopped again, opposite a diamond-paned window. Through it she could just about make out the seats and basins of a hairdresser: some things seemed to evolve towards convergence, however distinct they'd been at the start. "I think I can just about manage that." She tried to smile, but the knot of tension had gotten a toehold back and wouldn't let go. "This will probably take a couple of hours. Then I need to buy clothes. Why don't you just tell me where the hotel is, and I'll meet you there at six o'clock? How does that sound?"

"That sounds fine." He nodded, then pulled out a pocket-book and scribbled an address in it. "Here. Take care."

She smiled at him, and he ducked his head briefly, then turned his back. Miriam took a deep breath. A bell rattled on a chain as she pushed the door open; at the desk behind the window, a young woman looked up in surprise from the hardcover she'd been reading. "Can I help you?"