Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

"But it's under observation! And there's the wire-"

"I don't think anyone outside will be able to see in, not while the sun's out. And I want to fetch some stuff. Come help me?"

Miriam tensed, then nodded.

Erasmus slowly walked into the front of the shop, staying well back from the windows. He paused between two rails of secondhand clothing. "That's interesting," he said quietly.

"What is it?"

He pointed at the door handle. "Look." The copper wire ran to the door frame, then round a nail and down to the floor where it disappeared into a small gray box, unobtrusively fastened to the skirting board. "What's that?"

Miriam peered at the box. It was in shadow, and it took her a few seconds to make sense of what she was seeing. "That's not a claymore-" She swallowed again.

"What is it?" he asked.

It was gray, with rounded edges-as alien to this world as a wooden automobile would be in her own. And the stubby antenna poking out of its top told another story. "I think it's a rad-a, uh, an electrograph." And it sure as hell wasn't manufactured over here. "It might be something else."

"How very interesting," Erasmus murmured, stooping further to retrieve the letters. "You were right, earlier," he added, glancing her way: "if this was planted by the men who followed us in New London, they're not looking for me. They're looking for you."

And they 're not the same as the men staking out the front door, damn it. She nodded. "Let's get your stuff and hit the road. I don't like this one little bit."

They hanged the servants beneath the warmth of the early afternoon sun, as Neuhalle's minstrel played a sprightly air on the hurdy-gurdy. It was hard work, and the men were drinking heavily during their frequent breaks. "It takes half the fun out of it, having to do all the heavy lifting yourself," Heidlor grumbled quietly as he filled his looted silver tankard from the cask of ale sitting on the cart.

Neuhalle nodded absently as another half-naked maid swung among the branches, bug-eyed and kicking. The bough groaned and swayed beneath its unprecedented crop, much of which was still twitching. "You don't have to," he pointed out. "Your men seem to be enjoying themselves."

"Maybe, but it's best to set a good example. Besides, they'll change their minds when they run out of beer."

The tree emitted another ominous creak, like the half-strangled belch of a one-eyed god. "Start another tree," Neuhalle ordered. "This one is satisfied. That one over there looks like he's willing to serve."

"Aye, sir."

"Sky Father will be grateful for your work today," Neuhalle added, and his sergeant's face split in a broad grin.

"Oh, aye, sir!"

It paid to put a pious face on such affairs, Otto reflected, to remind the men that the sobbing women and shivering, whey-faced lads they were dispatching were a necessary sacrifice to the health of the realm, a palliative for the ailment that had afflicted the royal dynasty for the past three generations. The servants of the tinker families- no, the clan of witches, Neuhalle reminded himself-weren't the problem: the real problem was the weakness of the dynasty and the debauched compliance of the nobility. Egon might be unable to sacrifice himself or another of the royal bloodline for the strength of the kingdom, but at least he could satisfy Sky Father by proxy. The old ways were bloody, true, but sometimes they provided a salutary lesson, strengthening the will of the state. And so these unfortunates' souls would be dedicated to Sky Father, the strength of their lives would escheat to the Crown, and their gold would pay for the royal army's progress.

Neuhalle was sitting on his camp chair with an empty cup, watching his soldiers man-handle a hog-tied and squalling matron towards the waiting tree, when a horseman rode up to the ale cart and dismounted. He cast about for a moment, then looped his reins around the wagon's shaft and walked towards Otto. Otto glanced at the fellow, and his eyes narrowed. He stood up: as he did so, his hand-men appeared, clearly taking an interest in the stranger with his royalist sash and polished breastplate.

"Sir, do I have the honor of addressing Otto, Baron Neuhalle?"

Second impressions were an improvement: the fellow was young, perhaps only twenty, and easily impressed- or maybe just stupid. "That would be me." Otto inclined his head. "And who arc you?" He kept his right hand away from his sword. A glance behind the fellow took in Jorg, ready to draw at a moment's notice, and he nodded slightly.

"I have the honor to be Eorl Geraunt voh Marlburg, second son of Baron voh Marlburg, my lord. I am here at the word of my liege his majesty-" He broke off, nonplussed, at a particularly loud outbreak of wailing and prayers from the corral. "-I'm sorry, my lord, I bear dispatches."

Otto relaxed slightly. "I would be happy to receive them." He snapped his lingers. "Jorg, fetch a tankard of ale for Eorl Geraunt, if you please." Jorg nodded and headed for the ale cart, his hand leaving his sword hilt as he turned, and the other hand-man, Hein, took a step back. "Have you had a difficult time finding us?"

"Not too difficult, sir." Geraunt bobbed his head: "I had but to follow the trail of wise trees." Behind Otto, the crying and praying was choked off abruptly as his men raised further tribute to Sky Father. "His majesty is less than a day's hard ride away."

Otto glanced at Geraunt's horse. He could take a hint. "Henryk, if you could find someone to see to the eorl's horse..." He turned back to Geraunt as his other hand-man strode off. "How fares his majesty?"

Sir Geraunt grinned excitedly. "He does great deeds!" A nod at the tree: "Not to belittle your own, my lord, but he sweeps through the countryside like the scythe of his grandsire, reaping the fields of disorder and uprooting weeds!" He reached into the leather purse dangling from his belt and pulled out a parchment envelope, sealed with wax along its edges. "His word, as I stand before you, my lord."

"Thank you." Otto accepted the letter, glanced at the seal, then slit it open with his small knife. Within, he found the crabbed handwriting of one of Egon's scribes. "Hmm."

The message was short and to the point. He glanced round, as Jorg returned with Geraunt's beer and Heidlor walked over.

"Sergeant. How long until you are finished with the prisoners?"

Heidlor shrugged. "Before sundown, I would say, sir. Perhaps in as little as one bell."

Otto frowned. This was taking too long. "We have orders to march. Much as it pains me to deprive Sky Father of his own, I think we'd better speed things up. So once the men have finished decorating that branch-"he pointed: there was barely room for another three bodies "-hmm, how many arc we left with? Two score'?" This particular house had been full of refugees, and the village with collaborators. "Strip them naked, whip them into the woods, and (ire the buildings with their clothes and chattels inside. We'll have to rely on winter to do the rest of our work here."

Sir Geraunt blanched. "Isn't that a bit harsh?" he asked.

"His majesty was most specific." Otto tapped his finger on the letter. "I don't have time to gently send them to their one-eyed father-you say his Majesty is a day's ride away? We have to meet with him by this time tomorrow. With my men."

"Oh, I see. If I may be permitted to ask, did he issue orders for my disposition, my lord? I am anxious to return-"

"You may ride with us." He turned and walked away, towards his tent. "I'm sure there'll be enough wise trees for everyone if he's right about this," he muttered to himself, for the summons was unequivocal: It is time to seek a concentration of fluxes, his majesty had ordained. To draw the tinker-witches into a real battle, by threatening a target they couldn't afford to lose with force they couldn't ignore. It would mean attacking a real target, not just another of these tedious manor estates. It would probably be either Fort Lofstrom or Castle Hjorth, and Otto would be willing to bet good money on the latter.