Charles Stross - MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

"We have a name for this enemy: They call themselves the Clan, and they rule a despotic kingdom called Gruinmarkt. And we know what to do to them, for they attacked us without warning on the sixteenth of July, a date that will live in infamy with 9/11, and 12/7, for as long as there is a United States of America.

"To you of the Clan, the cabal of thieves and drug smugglers who have attacked America, I have a simple message: If you surrender now, without preconditions, I will guarantee you a fair trial before the military tribunals now convened at Guantanamo Bay. Only those of you who are guilty of crimes against the United States need fear our justice. But you should think fast. This offer expires one week from today. And then, in the words of my predecessor, Harry S Truman, you face prompt and utter annihilation.

"Think about it.

"Good night, and God bless America."

END RECORDING

Bed rest

It was beyond belief, how far things could change in just a week. Sir Huw, beanpole-skinny and a bit gawky, reined his horse in and dismounted painfully while he was still a hundred yards short of the farmstead. He stretched, trying to iron the kinks out of his thigh and calf muscles.

"Is this it, bro?" rumbled the man-mountain driving the cart and pair behind him. "In the middle of nowhere?"

Huw glanced around. "On the other side, we're near Edison," he said. "I'll go first. We're expected, but . . ." No point saying it:

The guards are jumpy.

Because this week and forevermore,

all

the guards were jumpy.

Probably expecting Delta Force to drop in,

Huw mused idly. Not, in his estimate, that likely just yet—although in the long run it couldn't be ruled out. Anxiety battled caution, and set his feet in motion. "I wonder how Her Majesty is."

"Nearly three months gone by now," chirped another voice from the back of the cart, emanating from beneath a blanket that covered its passenger and a mound of wheeled luggage—all Tumi branded, expensive but ultralightweight ballistic nylon. "Sick as a mule on a coaster." Huw didn't look round: Trust Elena to interpret it as a political question. Because Miriam's pregnancy

was

political—and that was all it was. "Did you pack the books?"

"Yes." Huw had, in fact, packed the books. Two hundred kilograms of them, paper that was worth far more than its weight in gold, or cocaine, where they were going. The Rubber Bible, the Merck Manual, the US Pharmacopoeia; and more recondite references, science and engineering and medicine all, with a side order of mathematics and maps. They weighed a bundle, but when he'd messaged ahead to ask if they should go digital, the reply had been a terse

no.

Which made a certain sense. CDROMs and computers weren't durable enough for what Miriam was planning—if, in fact, he was reading her intentions aright.

Huw walked towards the farmyard, leading his horse. It was a hedge-laird's place; the hearth smoke of a small village rose beyond it, and he could see stooped backs in the fields, some of them pausing and turning to stare at the visitors. But then two guards stepped out in front of him from the barn, and he stopped. The middle-aged sergeant raised a hand: "Who hails?" The other stood by tensely, his rifle pointed at the ground before Huw's feet.

"Sir Huw Thorns, lieutenant by order of his grace, accompanied by Hulius Thorns and the lady Elena of Holdt, in the service of the Council." He halted; his horse exhaled noisily, neck drooping.

"Approach and be identified." Huw took a step forward. The sergeant peered at him, then glanced at a clipboard cautiously. "You are welcome, sir."

Huw stood where he was. "The password of the day is 'banquet,'" he stated.

"Now

can we come in? The horses are tired."

The armsman with the rifle relaxed visibly as his sergeant nodded. "Very good, sir, the countersign is 'mullet.'" He gestured tiredly towards the stables. "We'll be pleased to sort you out. Sorry about the precautions—you can't be too careful these days."

Huw grimaced, then waved a hand at the machine gun dug in just inside the tree line, ready to enfilade the approach to the farm. "Any rebels try you so far?"

"Not yet, sir. Ah, your companions. If you don't mind—"

Elena and Yul climbed down from the cart and consented to be inspected and compared to their photographs. "Is it that bad?" She asked brightly, shaking out her skirts.

"Some of Lord Ganskwert's retainers attacked the house at Doveswood last night, using a carriage and disguises to cover their approach. Three dead, plus the traitors of course. We can't be too careful."

"Indeed." Elena grinned alarmingly, and flashed the sergeant a glimpse of what she had inside her capacious shoulder bag. He blanched. "Sleep tight!" She added, "We're on your side!"

"Lightning Child, can't you keep it to yourself for even a minute?" Huw complained. To the sergeant: "We won't be staying overnight—we're wanted by Her Majesty, as soon as possible."

"Ah, we'll do our best, sir. I'll have to confirm that first." His tone didn't brook argument.

"We can wait awhile," Huw conceded. "Got to sort out the horses first, grab something to eat if possible, that sort of thing."

"There is bread and sausages in the kitchen. If you'd like to wait inside I can have my men deal with your mounts? I take it they're security livery?"

"Yes," Huw confirmed. "All yours." He handed his reins to the man. "We'll be inside if you need us."

"Excellent," added Yul, following his elder brother towards the farm building.

Huw and his small team had been well away from the excitement when the putsch by the conservatives and the lords of the Postal Service broke; following up a task assigned to him by Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, back before his stroke—the urgency of which had only become greater since. Huw had been in a rented house outside Macon, recovering from an exploration run, when Elena had erupted into the living room shouting about something on the television and waking up Yul (who had a post-walk hangover of doom). He'd begun to chastise her, only to fall silent as the mushroom cloud, red-lit from within, roiled skyward behind a rain of damaged-camera static.

They'd spent the first hour in shock, but then had come Riordan's Plan Black; and that had presented Huw with a problem, because they were nearly a thousand miles from the nearest evacuation point. Flights were grounded; police and national guard units were hogging the highways. It had taken them three days to make the drive, avoiding interstates and major cities. Finally they'd reached the outskirts of Providence and crossed over, taking another four days to finish the journey from Huw's family estates to this transit point, barely seventy miles away. A thousand miles—two hours by air. Or three days by back roads in the United States. Seventy miles—four days, in the Gruinmarkt. It was an object lesson in the source of the Clan's power—and a warning.

They didn't have long to wait; true to his word, the sergeant ducked in through the kitchen door barely half an hour later. "By your leave, sir, we have confirmed your permission to travel. If you are ready to go now . . . ?"

"I suppose so," said Yul, reluctantly setting aside a mug of game soup and a half-eaten cornbread roll. Elena was already on her feet, impatient; Huw set down his wine—a half-drained glass, itself exotic and valuable in this place—and stood.

"Have you got a level stage?" he asked. "We need to take the cart's contents."

"We have something better, sir." The guard turned and headed towards the barn. Huw followed him. Opposite the stalls—he saw a lad busily rubbing down the horses—someone had installed a raised platform, planks stretched across aluminum scaffolding. A ramp led up to it, and at the bottom—