Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

"That would be-ah." He nodded. "Yes, I remember her. A very formidable young woman."

"Right." Miriam managed a smile. "If she shows up in Boston in a week's time, you'll know what it means. If she tells me it's safe to come in from the cold, then and only then I'll be able to talk to my relatives. So. What do you think?"

"I think you ought to send that letter." Erasmus nodded again. "What will you do if a different relative shows up looking for you?"

"That's when I have to go to ground." She twitched:

"I've got to try. Otherwise I'll end up spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, always keeping an eye open for assassins."

"Who doesn't?" he said ironically, then reached up and pulled the bell rope. "The steward will post the letter for you. Now let's get some breakfast..."

Despite the summer heat, the grand dining hall in the castle harbored something of a damp chill. Perhaps it was the memory of all the spilled blood that had run like water down the years: despite the eighty-degree afternoon outside, the atmosphere in the hall made Eorl Riordan shiver.

"Erik, Carl, Rudi. Your thoughts?"

Carl cleared his throat. Unlike the other two, he was attired in local style, although his chain shirt would have won few plaudits at a Renaissance Faire on the other side. Machine-woven titanium links backing a Kevlar breastplate and U.S. Army-pattern helmet-the whole ensemble painted in something not unlike urban camo pattern- would send entirely the wrong, functional message. Even without the P90 submachine gun strapped to his chest, and the sword at his hip.

"I think he'd be stupid to invest us. The fort's built well, nobody's ever taken it in the past three hundred years, and it has a commanding view of the river and land approaches. Even with cannon, it'll take him a while to breach the outer curtains. I've inspected the outer works and Villem was right-we've got a clear field of beaten (ire over the six hundred yards around the apron. If he had American artillery, maybe, or if we give him time to emplace bombards behind the ridge line-but a frontal investment would be a fruitless waste of lives. And the pretender may be many things, but I will not insult his victims by calling him stupid."

"What about treachery?" asked Erik. A younger ClanSec courtier of the goatee-and-dreadlocks variety, his dress was GAP-casual except for the Glock, the saber, and the bulky walkie-talkie hanging from his belt.

Eorl Riordan looked disapproving. "That's only one of the possibilities." He held up a hand and began counting off fingers. "One, the pretender really is stupid, or has taken leave of his senses. Two, it's a tactical diversion, planned to lie us up defending a strategic necessity while he does something else. Three, treachery. Four, weapons or tactics we haven't anticipated. Five... two or more of the above. My assessment of the Pretender is the same as yours, Sieur Carl: He's crazy like a rat. I forgot to bring a sixth linger, so kindly use your imaginations-but I think he is playing a game with the duke's intelligence, and he wants us here for some reason that will not rebound to our benefit. So. Let's set up a surprise, shall we? Rudi, how are the scouts doing?"

"Nothing to report." Rudi was another of the younger generation, wiry and gangling in hoodie and cutoffs. "They're checking in regularly but we've only got twelve of them between here and Isjlemeer: he could march an army between them and we might never know. I can't give you what you want unless you let me use Butterfly, whatever the duke thinks of it." He grinned, knowingly.

Riordan snorted. "You and your kite. You know about the duke's... feelings?"

"Yep." Rudi just stood there, hands in pockets. Riordan, about to take him to task, noticed the oversized watch on Rudi's skinny left arm and paused. "It's too late to get started today but, weather permitting, I could give you what you want tomorrow."

It was a tempting offer. Riordan considered it. Normally he'd have been down on the ass of a junior officer who suggested such a thing like a mountain lion, but he'd been given a very specific job to get done, and Rudi wasn't wrong. He made a quick executive decision. "You can do your thing tomorrow on my authority, if we haven't made contact first. The duke will forget to be angry if you get results. But." He shook a finger at Rudi: "There will be consequences if you make an exhibition of your craft. Do you understand?"

"Uh, yes, sir. There won't be any problems. Apart from the weather, and, worst case, we've still got the scouts."

"Go get it ready," Riordan said tersely. Rudi nodded, almost bowing, and scurried out of the room in the direction of the stables. Riordan didn't need telepathy to know what was going through his mind: the duke had almost hit the roof back when Rudi had first admitted to smuggling his obsession across, one component at a time, and it had been all Riordan and Roland had been able to do to talk Angbard out of burning the machine and giving the lad a severe flogging. It wasn't Rudi's fault that forty years ago a premature attempt to introduce aviation to the Gruin-markt had triggered a witchcraft panic-superstitious peasants and "dragons" were a volatile combination-but his pigheaded persistence in trying to get his ultralight off the ground flew in the face of established security doctrine. Riordan glanced at Carl. "Yes, I know. But I don't think it can make the situation any worse at this point, and it might do some good. Now, the defensive works. We've got a couple of hours to go until sunset. Think your men will be expecting a surprise inspection...?"

Brill realized she was being watched as soon as she turned to lock the front door of the shop behind her.

She'd spent a frustrating hour in Burgeson's establishment. The monitor on the door was working exactly as intended-she couldn't fault Morgan for that-but the fact remained, it hadn't been triggered. And it didn't take her long to figure out that somebody had been in the shop recently. The drawers in the desk in the back office were open, someone had been rummaging through the stock, and the dust at the top of the cellar stairs was disturbed. She'd looked down the steps into the darkness and cursed, realizing exactly what had happened. Morgan had secured the front door, and even the back door onto the yard behind the shop, but it hadn't occurred to him that a slippery customer like Burgeson might have a rat run out through the cellar. Belter check it out, she thought grimly, extracting a pocket flashlight from her handbag.

The cellar showed more signs of recent visitors: disturbed dust, a suspicious freshness to the air. She glanced around tensely, aiming the flashlight left-handed at the nooks and crannies of the cellar. The floor... she focused the beam, following a scuffed trail in the dust. Right. The trail led through a side door into another cellar room full of furniture, and dead-ended against a wooden cabinet full of labeled cloth bundles. Brill walked towards it, staring. The back of the cabinet was dark, too dark. "Clever," she muttered, peering past a bundle: there was a gap between the cabinet and the side wall, and behind it, she saw another wall-two feet farther in. The smell of dust, and damp, and something else-something oily and aromatic, naggingly familiar-tugged at her nostrils. She took a sharp breath, then slipped behind the cabinet and edged along it, through the hole in the bricks at the other end of the cellar, into the tunnel. There was a side door into another, hidden back room: the smell was stronger here. Tarpaulins covered wooden barrels, a thin layer of dust caking them. She raised a cover, glanced inside, and nodded to herself. If someone-Burgeson?