The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (50 page)

‘I don’t know.’ Lady Bishop frowned. There was a discreet knock at the door, and a break in the conversation while one of the girls came in with a tea tray for her. When she
left, Lady Bishop resumed: ‘Did you know Adam is coming back?’

Erasmus jolted upright. ‘He’s
what
? That’s insane! If they catch him –’ That didn’t bear thinking about.
He’s coming back?
The very
idea of it filled his mind with the distant roar of remembered crowds.
Inconceivable
–

‘He seems to think the risk is worth running, given the nature of the current crisis, and you know what he’s like. He said he doesn’t want to be away from the capital when the
engine of history puts on steam. He’s landing late next week, on a freighter from New Shetland that’s putting into Fort Petrograd, and I want you to meet him and make sure he has a safe
journey back here. Willie’s putting together the paperwork, but I want someone whom he knows to meet him, and you’re the only one I could think of who isn’t holding a ring or
breaking rocks.’

He nodded, thoughtfully. ‘I can see that. It’s been a long time,’ he said, with a vertiginous sense of lost decades.
It must be close on twenty years since I last heard him
speak.
For a disturbing moment he felt those years fall away. ‘He really thinks it’s time?’ he asked, still not sure that it could be real.

‘I’m not sure I agree with him . . . but, yes. Will you do it?’

‘Try and stop me!’ He meant it, he realized. Despite most of a decade in the camps, and everything that had gone with that . . . and he still meant it.
Adam’s coming back,
at last.
And the nations of men would tremble.

‘We’re setting up a safe house for him. And a meeting of the Central Executive Committee, a month from now. There will be presses to turn,’ she warned. ‘He’ll need
a staff. Are you going to be fit for it?’

‘My health – it’s miraculous. I can’t say as how I’ll ever have the energy of a sixteen-year-old again, but I’m not an invalid any more, Margaret.’ He
thumped his chest lightly. ‘And I’ve got lost time to make up for.’

Lady Bishop nodded, then took a sip of her tea.

‘There’s another matter, I needed to speak with you about,’ She said. ‘It’s about your friend Miss Beckstein.’

‘Yes?’ Erasmus leaned forward. ‘I haven’t heard anything from her for nearly two months – ’

‘A woman claiming to be her turned up on my doorstep three nights ago: we’ve spent the time since then questioning her. I have no way of identifying her positively, and if her story
is correct she’s in serious trouble.’

‘I can tell you –’ Erasmus paused. ‘What kind of trouble?’

Margaret’s frown deepened. ‘First, I want you to look at this portrait.’ She pulled a small photograph from the pocket of her shalwar suit. ‘Is this her?’

Erasmus stared at it for a moment. ‘Yes.’ It was slightly blurred but even though she was looking away from the camera, as if captured through the eye of a spy hole, he recognized
her as Miriam. He looked more closely. Her costume was even more outlandish than when she’d first shown up on his doorstep, and either the lighting was poor or there was a bruise below one
eye, but it was definitely her. ‘That’s her, all right.’

‘Good.’

He glanced up. ‘You were expecting a Polis agent?’

‘No.’ She reached for the picture and he let her take it. ‘I was expecting a Clan agent.’

‘A –’ Erasmus stopped. He picked up his teacup again to disguise his nervousness. ‘Please explain,’ he said carefully. ‘Whatever I am permitted to
know.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re not under restriction. Unfortunately, if Miss Beckstein is telling the truth, it’s very bad news indeed. It appears she fell into disfavor with her
family of the first estate – to the point where they imprisoned her, and then attempted to marry her off. But the arranged marriage provoked a violent backlash from the swain’s elder
brother, and it seems she is now destitute and in search of a safe harbor. Her family doesn’t even know she’s still alive, and she believes many of them are dead. Which leaves me with a
very pressing dilemma, Erasmus. If this was subterfuge or skullduggery, some kind of plot to pressure us by her relatives, it would be easy enough to address. But under the circumstances, what
should I do with her?’

Burgeson opened his mouth to speak, then froze.
Think very carefully, because your next words might condemn her.
‘I, ah, that is to say –’ He paused, feeling the
chilly fingers of mortal responsibility grasp the scruff of his neck like a hangman’s noose. ‘You invited me here to be her advocate.’

Lady Bishop nodded. ‘Somebody has to do it.’

The situation was clear enough. The movement existed from day to day in mortal peril, and had no room for deadweight. Prisons were a luxury that only governments could afford.
At least
Margaret invited me here to speak
. It was a generous gesture, taken at no small risk given the exigencies of communication discipline and the omnipresent threat of the royal security Polis.
Despite the organization’s long-standing policies, Lady Bishop was evidently looking for an excuse
not
to have Miriam liquidated. Heartened by this realization, Erasmus relaxed a
little. ‘You said she turned up on your doorstep. Did she come here voluntarily?’

‘Yes.’ Lady Bishop nodded again.

‘Ah. Then that would imply that she views us as allies, or at least as possible saviors. Assuming she isn’t working for the Polis and this isn’t an ambush – but after
three days I think that unlikely, don’t you? If she is then, well, the ball is up for us both. But she’s got a story and she’s been sticking to it for three days . . . ? Under
extraordinary pressure?’

‘No pressure. At least, nothing but her own isolation.’

Erasmus came to a decision. ‘She’s been a major asset in the past, and I am sure that she isn’t a government sympathizer. If we take her in, I’m certain we can make use
of her special talents.’ He put his teacup down. ‘Killing her would be a –’
tragic
‘– waste.’

Lady Bishop stared at him for a few seconds, her expression still. Then she nodded again. ‘I concur,’ she said briskly.

‘Well, I confess I am relieved.’ He scratched his head, staring at the picture she still held.

‘I value your opinions, Erasmus, you must know that. I needed a second on this matter; my first leaning was to find a use for her, but you know her best and if you had turned your thumb
down –’ She paused. ‘Is there a personal interest I should know about?’

He looked up. ‘Not really. I consider her a friend, and I find her company refreshing, but there’s nothing more.’
Nothing more,
he echoed ironically in the safety of
his own head. ‘I incline towards leniency for all those who are not agents of the state – I think it unchristian and indecent to mete out such punishment as I have been on the receiving
end of – but if I thought for an instant that she was a threat to the movement I’d do the deed myself.’ And that was the bald unvarnished truth – a successful spy would
condemn dozens, even hundreds, to the gallows and labor camps. But it was not the entire truth, for it would be a harsh act to live with afterwards: conceivably an impossible one.

Lady Bishop sipped her tea again. ‘Then I think you’ll be the best man for the job.’

‘What job?’

‘Finding a use for her, of course. In your copious spare time, while you’re off being Sir Adam’s errand boy.’

Erasmus blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I’d have thought it obvious.’ She put her teacup down. ‘We can’t keep her here. Her inexperience would render her dangerous, her strange ideas and ways would be
hazardous and hard to conceal in the front of the house, and, bluntly, I think she’d draw unwelcome attention to herself. If we’re not to send her to the Miller, it’s essential to
put her somewhere safe. You’re the only person she knows or trusts here, so you drew the short straw. Moreover, I suspect you know more about how to make use of her unique ability than I do.
So, unless you object, I’m going to assign her to you as an additional responsibility, after you see to Adam’s travel arrangements. Take her in and establish how we can use her. What do
you say?’

‘I say – um.’ His head was spinning: Erasmus blinked again. ‘That is to say, that makes sense, but – ’

Lady Bishop clapped her hands together before he could muster a coherent objection. ‘Excellent!’ She smiled. ‘I’ll have Edward sort out documents and some suitable
clothing for her, and you can take her back to Boston as soon as possible. What do you say?’

‘But –’
The servant’s room is full of furniture in hock, the second bedroom doesn’t have room to swing a cat for all the old clothing and books I’ve got
stored in it, and the old biddies up the street will wag their tongues so hard their jaws explode
– ‘I think the word Miss Beckstein would use is “okay”.’ He
cleared his throat. ‘This is going to be interesting.’

*

His Majesty King Egon the Third had convened his special assizes in the grand hall of the Thorold Palace – still smoking, and somewhat battered by his soldiers in their
enthusiasm to drive out the enemy – precisely thirty-six hours after the explosion and subsequent attack on his father. ‘By parties of great treachery in league with the tinker
tribe,’ as the gebanes dispatched by royal messenger to all his vassal lords put it: ‘Let all know that by decree of this court in accordance with the doctrine of outlawry the
afore-named families are declared outwith the law, and their chattels and holdings hereby escheat to the Crown.’ The writs were flying by courier to all quarters of the kingdom; now his
majesty was dictating a codicil.

‘This ague at the heart of our kingdom pains us grievously, but we are young and healthy enough that it shall soon be overcome and the canker cut out,’ his majesty said. ‘To
this end, a half of all real properties and chattels recovered from the outlaw band is hereby granted to whosoever shall yield those properties to the Crown.’ He frowned: ‘Is that clear
enough do you suppose, Innsford?’

‘Absolutely clear, my lord.’ His excellency the duke of Innsford bobbed his head like a hungry duck plowing a mill pond. ‘As clear as temple glass!’
Whether it is
wise is another matter,
he thought, but held his counsel. Egon might be eager to rid himself of the tinker clan, and declaring them outlaw and promising half their estates to whoever killed
them was a good way to go about the job, but in the long run it might come back to haunt him: other kings had been overthrown by ambitious dukes, with coffers filled and estates bloated by the
spoils of a civil war fought by proxy. Innsford harbored no such ambitions – his old man’s plans did not call for a desperate all-or-nothing gamble to take the throne – but others
might think differently. Meanwhile, the scribe seated at the table behind him scratched on, his pen bobbing between ink pot and manuscript as he committed the King’s speech to paper.

His majesty glanced up at the huge, clear windows overhead, frames occupied by flawless sheets of plate imported from the shadowlands by the tinkers. ‘May Sky Father adorn his tree with
them.’ In the wan morning light his expression was almost hungry. Innsford nodded again. The king – a golden youth only a handful of years ago, now come into his full power as a young
man, handsome as an eagle and strong as an ox – was not someone anyone would disagree with openly. He was fast to laugh, but his cruel streak was rarely far below the surface and his mind was
both deceptively sharp and coldly untrusting. He kept his openness for a small coterie of friends, their loyalty honed beyond question by bleak years of complicity during the decade when his father
had held him at arm’s reach, suspicious of the brain rot inflicted on his younger brother Creon during a sly assassination attempt. The other courtiers (of whom there were no small number,
Duke Innsford among them) would have a long wait until they earned his confidence.

And as Egon had demonstrated already, losing the royal confidence could be a fatal blunder.

Egon glanced at the scribe: ‘That’s enough for now.’ He stood up, shifting his weight from foot to foot to restore the circulation that the hard wooden chair had slowed.
‘My lord Innsford, attend us, please. And you, my lord Carlsen, and you, Sir Markus.’

The middle-aged duke rose to his feet and half-bowed, then followed as the young monarch walked towards the inner doors. Four bodyguards paced ahead of him, and two to the rear – the
latter spending more time looking over their shoulders than observing their royal charge – with the courtiers Carlsen and Markus, and their attendant bodyguards, and Innsford’s own
retainers and guards taking up the tail end of the party. His majesty affected a scandalous disregard for propriety, dressing in exactly the same livery and chain-mail jerkin as his escorts,
distinguishable only by his chain of office – and even that was draped around his neck, almost completely hidden by his tunic. It was almost as if, the duke mused, his majesty was afraid of
demonic assassins who might spring out of the thin air at any moment.
As if.
And now that the duke noticed it, even Egon’s courtiers wore some variation on the royal livery . . .

‘Markus, Carl, we go outside. I believe there is an orangery?’

‘Certainly, sire.’ Carlsen – another overmuscled blond hopeful – looked slightly alarmed. ‘But snipers – ’

‘That’s what our guards are for,’ Egon said dismissively. ‘The ones you don’t see are more important than the ones you do. We are at greater risk in this ghastly
haunted pile – from tinker witches sneaking back in from the shadowlands to slip a knife in my ribs – than in any garden. The less they know of our royal whereabouts, the happier
I’ll be.’

‘The land of shadows?’ Innsford bit his tongue immediately, but surprise had caught him unawares:
does he really believe they come from the domain of the damned? How much
does
he know?

The king glanced round and grinned at him lopsidedly, catching him unawares. It was an intimate expression, rendered frightening by the power of the crown. ‘Where did
you
think
they came from? They’re the spawn of air and darkness. I’ve seen it myself: one moment they’re there, the next . . .’ He snapped his fingers. ‘They walk between worlds
and return to this one loaded with eldritch treasure, weapons beyond the ken of our royal artificers and alchemists: they buy influence and insidiously but instinctively pollute the purity of our
noble bloodlines with their changeling get!’ His grin turned to a glare. ‘I learned of this from my grandmother, the old witch – luckily I did not inherit her bloodline, but my
brother was another matter. Had Creon not been poisoned in his infancy there is no doubt that once he reached his majority I should shortly have met with an accident.’