Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

"Wake up." A hand touched his shoulder.

"I'm awake." Mike looked round. Hastert crouched beside him.

"There's an open area about fifty yards wide before the wall, which is eight feet high. Just the other side of the wall there's a road. O'Neil's setting up a distraction. We have"-Hastert glanced at his watch-"six minutes to get to the edge of the apron and wait. Then we have thirty seconds to get over the wall and across the road. Take the second alley on the left, proceed down it for twenty yards then take the right turn, fourth door on the left is transit house gamma. You ready?"

Mike nodded. "Guess so."

"Then let's get going."

TRANSLATED TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:

"Shit. He didn't."

"I'm afraid so."

(Sigh.) "That means we're down by what, two? Three? Seats on the council. And the king. This is an absolute disaster. Who else have we lost?"

(Pause.) "Of our party, most of them. The dowager Hildegarde is yammering her head off, but she survived, as did her daughter. James Lee, we rescued. He's concussed but will live-"

"Small mercies. Damn her for-damn her!"

"It's not your fault, your grace, elf hers, that this had to happen at the worst time."

(Sigh.) "Continue."

"We lost Wilem, Maris, Erik, three juniors of Hjorth-Arnesen's cadet branch, and four others of middling rank.

We lost her majesty the queen mother, and the cadet branch of the royal family in the person of Prince Creon. He's a confirmed kill, by the way. About thirty retainers and outer family members, but that's by the by. The main losses are the royal family-except for the crown prince-and Henryk, Wilem, Maris, Erik, and others."

(Long pause.)

"Shit."

"We've taken worse-"

"No, it's not that. It's the little shit. The Pervert. What's he up to?"

"Holed up with Niejwein on the back lawn, scheming about something. Everyone with half a clue is rushing over to offer their firstborn to him."

"Has he sent up any smoke signals yet?"

"No."

"Damn. That confirms it, he's got what he wants and we're going to get the blame. He's hated us all along, since he learned about Creon's latency, and if he's listening to that snake Niejwein..."

"Your grace?"

(Sigh.) "I know, I'm rambling. What's your analysis?"

"I think we're in the shit, sir. I think-" (pause)- he's going to try to roll us over. All of us. Niejwein and Sudtmann) and that crowd have been feeling their oats and they will take this opportunity once and for all to put us in our place. And the Pervert will use us as a lever to consolidate his power over them. He doesn't trust anyone, sir, and the rumors-"

"I don't care if he shags goats or rapes virgins, what I care about is us. Sky Father, this is a fifty-year setback!" (Inaudible muttering.) "Yes, yes, I already thought of that. Oliver, I know we see eye to eye over very little-"

"Your grace is overstating matters-"

"Permit an old man his moment of humor in the chaos: if you please'? Good. I believe we do see eye to eye on the fundamentals. This is a war to the knife. We have a rogue king on the throne and even after we remove him from it we shall have civil war for the next decade-not family against family, but Clan against all. Do you agree?"

(Pause.) "Damn you."

"Indeed: I am damned."

(Pause.) "What do you propose to do?"

"Whatever I can. First, we must take our own to safety-then we must prepare to defend our possessions. Identify our allies, I should add. But if we can no longer count on being able to run our caravans up the coast in safety we must look for alternatives."

"The upstart bitch's plan."

"Be careful what you call my late niece, sir."

"I- " (Pause.) "-Please accept my apologies, your grace. You did not inform me of your bereavement. I had assumed she was rescued."

"She was not. She's not among those confirmed to be dead, but after the palace burned..." (Pause.) "I had high hopes for her."

"But her plan! Come now. You can't really believe it will work?"

(Sigh.) "No. I don't believe it will work. But I believe we should try it, in any event, with whatever energy wc can divert from our defenses. Because if our ability to traffic in this realm is disrupted for any length of time, what other options do we have?"

(END TRANSLATION TRANSCRIPT)

A narrow spiral staircase wormed upwards through the guts of a building, its grimy windowpanes opening onto a space that might once have been an alleyway but was now enclosed on all four sides by building extensions, so that it formed a wholly enclosed shaft at the bottom of which a pile of noisome debris had accumulated over the years. Other Windows also opened onto the tiny courtyard; windows that provided ventilation and light to rooms that could not be seen from any street, or reached other than by the twisting staircase, which was concealed at ground level by a false partition in the back of a scullery closet. Almost a quarter of the rooms in the building were concealed in this fashion from the outside world. And in a garret at the top of the secret stairwell, a middle-aged Woman sat working at a desk.

Bent over her wooden writing box, she systematically read her way through a thick stack of papers. Periodically she reached over to one side to pick up a pen and scrawl cryptic marginalia upon them. Less frequently, her brow furrowing, she would pick up a clean sheet of writing paper and dash off a sharp inquiry to one of her correspondents. Somewhat less frequently, she would consign a report-too hot to handle-to the glowing coals in the fireplace. The underground postal service that moved this mail was slow and expensive and prone to disruption: it might strike an ignorant observer as odd that Margaret, Lady Bishop would treat its fruits so casually. But to be caught in possession of much of this material would guarantee the holder a date with the hangman. Every use of the Movement's post was a gamble with a postman's life: and so she took pains to file the most important matters only in her memory, where they would not-if she had any say on the matter-be exposed to the enemy.

The darkness outside the window was complete and the stack of files before her was visibly shrinking when there came a knock at the door. "Come in," she called sharply: there was no possibility of a surprise police raid here, not without gunshots and explosions to telegraph their arrival.

The door opened and the rough-looking fellow outside cleared his throat. "Got a problem downstairs. Woman at the door, asking for you by name. Says Burgeson sent her."

"Was she followed?" Lady Bishop asked sharply.

"She said not, and I had a couple of the lads go 'ave a word with the hack what brought her. Nothing to fear on that account."

"Good." Lady Bishop breathed slightly easier. "Who is she? What does she want?"

"Figured we'd best leave that for you. She's not one such as I'd recognize, and she's dressed odd, like: Mai took her for a madwoman at first, but when she used your name and mentioned Burgeson I figured she was too dangerous to let go. So we stashed her in the cellar while we made arrangements."

"Right. Right." Lady Bishop nodded to herself, her face grim. "Is the Miller prepared?" "Oh, aye."

"Then I suppose you'd better bring her up here and we can get to the bottom of this, Ed. I shall start with an interview-to give the poor woman a chance to excuse herself. But when you come, bring Mai. In case we have to send her down."

She spent the minutes before Ed's return with the prisoner methodically prioritizing her remaining correspondence. Then she carefully moved the manila paper folders to a desk drawer, closed and locked her writing case, and tried to compose herself. In truth, Lady Bishop haled interrogations. However necessary it might be for I he pursuit of the declaration, the process invariably left her feeling soiled.