The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (45 page)

A noise like a door the size of a mountain slamming shut a hundred meters away rocked Mike back on his heels.

‘Down!’ Hastert lurched against him, shoving Mike’s face down on a matted bed of branches. Moments later, debris thudded off the branches above their heads, spattering down on
the summer-dry soil. ‘Get moving, we’re too close.’

The next hour passed in a nightmarish crawl through the dark forest, heading always away from the boom and crash of gunfire and the shouts of the combatants. The royal palace, although nominally
within the city of Niejwein, was surrounded by a walled garden the size of a large park – large enough that the palace itself was out of easy gunshot range of its neighbors. But in the chaos
of the apparent coup, the shooters were inside the compound. Stray shots periodically came tearing through the treetops, so that Mike needed no urging to keep his head close to the dirt.

After an interminable crawl, Hastert tapped him on he shoulder. ‘Stop here, wait till I get back.’ He vanished into the darkness as silently as a ghost. Mike shivered violently.
Trouble?
he wondered. There was nothing he could do; on this part of the mission he was baggage, as much as Miriam would have been if he’d tried to extract her from whatever the hell
that weird scene back at the palace had been about.
I can’t believe I shot that guy without warning.

Mike reran the scene in his mind’s eye; the perp – even now, he couldn’t drop the law enforcement outlook – with the knife, trying to stab the woman in black, the stink
of burning wood, snarling fear, taking the time to aim carefully, waiting for a clear shot as the woman shoved back hard against her assailant . . . then the shock of recognition.
It’s
her!
It was like nothing had changed since that ambiguous last dinner at Wang’s, just off Kendall Square. The shock of recognition was still with him: the realization that, all along,
the world he moved in was smaller than he’d realized, that during the whole fruitless search for the east coast phantom network he’d been dating a woman who could have – if she
herself had known what she was – put him right on top of it.
If.
Getting involved hadn’t been good for her.
They’ve got Mom.
And an arranged marriage. The smell
of raw sewage running through the gutters in the middle of the unpaved road –

‘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.’

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 worked 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. 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: Mal 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 a cell while we made arrangements.’

‘Right, right.’ Lady Bishop nodded to herself. ‘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 Mal. In case we have to switch her off.’

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 hated interrogations. However necessary it might be for the pursuit of the declaration, the process always
left her feeling soiled.

The rap at the door, when it came, was loud and confident. ‘Enter,’ she called. Edward opened the door; behind him waited a woman, and behind her, the shadow of Mal the doorman.
‘Come in,’ she added, and pointed to a rough stool on the opposite side of her desk: ‘and sit down.’

The woman was indeed oddly dressed.
Is she an actress?
Margaret wondered. It seemed unlikely. And her outfit, while outlandish, was in any case both too well tailored and too dirty for
a stage costume. Then Lady Bishop took a good look at the woman’s face, and paused. The bruise on her cheek told a story: and so, when the woman opened her mouth, did the startling perfection
of her dentistry.

‘Are you Lady Bishop?’

Margaret, Lady Bishop, stared at the woman for a moment, then nodded. ‘I am.’ She had the most peculiar feeling that the woman on the stool opposite her was studying her right back,
showing a degree of self-assurance she’d have expected from a judge, not a prisoner.
Titled? Or a lord’s by-blow?

‘I’m Miriam Beckstein,’ said the woman. ‘I believe Erasmus has told you something about me.’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t know how much he’s told you,
but there’s been a change in the situation.’

Lady Bishop froze, surprise stabbing at her.
You’re the
Beckstein
woman?
She turned to look at her assistants: ‘Ed, Mal, wait outside.’

Ed looked perturbed. ‘Are you sure, ma’am?’

‘You don’t need to hear this.’
Why in Christ’s name didn’t you say it was her in the first place?
She wanted to add, but not at risk of tipping off the
prisoner about her place in the scheme of things.

Ed backed out of the room hastily and pulled the door shut. Margaret turned back to her unexpected visitor. ‘I’m sorry; we weren’t expecting you, so nobody told them to be on
the lookout. Do you know who struck you?’

Beckstein looked startled for a moment, then raised a hand to her cheek. ‘This? Oh, it’s nothing to do with your men.’ A distant expression crossed her face: ‘The man who
hit me died earlier this evening. Before I continue – did Erasmus tell you where I come from?’

Lady Bishop considered feigning ignorance for a moment. ‘He said something about a different version of our world. Sounded like nonsense at first, but then the trinkets started showing
up.’ Her expression hardened. ‘If you think we can be bought and sold for glass beads – ’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! But, uh, I needed to know. What he’d told you. The thing is, I ran into some trouble. I was able to escape, but I came here because it was all I could
do – I got away with only the clothes on my back. I need to get back to Boston and contact some people to let them know I’m all right before they, before I can get everything back under
control. I was hoping . . .’ She ran out of words.

Lady Bishop watched her intently.
Do you really think I’m that naive?
she asked silently, permitting herself a moment’s cold anger.
Did you really think you could simply
march in and demand assistance?
Then a second thought struck her:
Or maybe you don’t know who you’re dealing with . . . ?

‘Did Erasmus tell you anything about me? Or who I am associated with?’ she asked.

Beckstein blinked. ‘He implied – oh.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh shit.’

Lady Bishop stifled a sigh of exasperation. Indelicacy on top of naivety? A very odd mixture indeed.

The Beckstein woman stared at her. ‘Erasmus clearly didn’t tell me enough . . .’

Margaret made up her mind. ‘I can see that,’ she said, which was true enough – just not the absolution it might be mistaken for.
Either you’re really down on your
luck and you thought I might be an easy touch, or perhaps you’re truly ignorant and in trouble. Which is it?
‘Tell me who you think I am, and I’ll tell you if you’re
right or wrong.’