The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (75 page)

The house – Miriam’s house, according to the deeds of ownership, not that it mattered much once she’d allowed her start-up submarine to surface in the harbor of the
Clan’s Council deliberations – was a stately lump of shingle-fronted stonework with a view out over the harbor. But over here the building was distinctly utilitarian, overshadowed by a
row of office towers. The architecture in New Britain was stunted by relatively high material and transport costs: planting fifty-thousand-ton lumps of concrete and steel on top of landfill was a
relatively recent innovation in New Britain, and hadn’t corrupted their skyline yet. But this one was different.

Oskar was waiting outside the door to the rear office. He looked bored. The cut of his jacket failed to conceal his shoulder holster. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘I came to see Morgan.’ She stared at him. ‘Then I need to cross over, get changed into native garb, and draw funds. I may be some time. It depends.’

‘Cross over. Right.’ Oskar twitched. ‘You know there’s a problem.’

‘Problem?’

‘You’d better ask the boss.’ Oskar backed up, rapped on the door twice, then opened it for her.

‘Who –’ Morgan looked up. He had his feet up on the mahogany desk, a half-eaten burger at his right hand, and judging by his expression her appearance was deeply unwelcome.

‘Hello there. Don’t let me keep you from your food.’

‘Lady Brilliana!’ He swung his feet down hastily, almost knocking his chair over in his hurry to stand up.

‘Sit down.’ She walked around the desk and pulled out the chair on his right, then sat beside him. ‘Oskar tells me there’s a
problem
. On the other
side.’

Morgan twitched even more violently than Oskar had. ‘You’re telling me. Have you come to fix it?’

‘Tell me about it first.’

‘You don’t know –’ He swallowed his words, but the look of dismay was genuine enough in her estimate.

‘I need to cross over and run a search in New Britain,’ she said evenly. ‘If there’s a problem with our main safe house in Boston, I need to know it.’

‘The Polis – the security cops? They raided the house. We barely pulled everybody out in time.’

Brilliana swallowed a curse. ‘When was this?’

‘Three days ago. I thought everyone knew – ’

‘Was it coordinated action?’ she demanded.

Morgan shook himself, visibly trying to pull himself together. ‘I don’t think so,’ he admitted. ‘The situation over there’s been going to the midden, frankly, and
the Polis are running around looking for saboteurs and spies under every table. Six weeks ago they turned over the workshop and shut it down: some of the staff were arrested for sedition. We were
already lying low – ’

‘What about Burgeson?’ Brill demanded.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That.’

‘Yes,
that.
’ She nodded. ‘I came as soon as I heard. How long has the watch been running?’

‘All week, since before the raid. I can’t be sure, my lady, but I think our activities might be what attracted the interest of the Polis. We were using the house as a staging post,
and when he went down to New York . . .’ His shrug was eloquent.

‘I see.’ Brilliana paused for a moment.
It would fit the picture,
she considered. If the Polis were already watching the house, and strangers based there keeping watch on a
suspect would get their attention.
And if Burgeson headed for the capital and the strangers followed him
. . . That would be when they’d bring down the hammer, right enough.
‘But you lost the trail in Man – New London.’

‘He started evading,’ Morgan protested. ‘Like a seasoned agent!’

‘He was last seen with a female companion,’ Brilliana pointed out coldly. ‘Which was the whole point of the watch on him.’

‘It’s not her,’ Morgan dismissed her concern. ‘Some bint he picked up from a brothel in New London – ’

‘You sound awfully sure of that. Would you like to place a wager on it? Either way? The last joint on your left little finger, against mine?’

He turned white. ‘No, no, it’d be just my luck if – look, he was deliberately trying to throw his tail, that’s what Joseph said! And the business with them changing
trains? I had Oskar and Georg waiting at the station but Burgeson and his companion weren’t on it when it pulled in.’

‘Morgan.
Morgan.
’ Brill smiled again, baring her teeth. The way it made Morgan wince was truly wonderful. He probably thought she was reporting direct to the thin white
duke. ‘I already know that you’re undermanned and don’t have enough pairs of boots on the ground. And you’ve lost your forward base, due to enemy action, not
negligence.’ At least, not
active
negligence. Nobody could accuse Morgan of spontaneous activity – he might be stupid, but at least he was lazy. His sins were seldom those of
commission. ‘So why are you trying so hard to convince me it’s not your fault? Anyone would think you were trying to hide something! Whereas if it’s just Burgeson giving you the
slip . . .’ She shrugged.

‘It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is.’ He squinted at her suspiciously. ‘And I know what you think of me.’

You do? Really?
The temptation to tell him what she
really
thought of him was hard to resist, but she managed to restrain herself.
Later
. ‘The shop. You’ve
checked the door alarm, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve had it staked out since the train departed.’ Morgan looked pleased with himself.

‘Right. Team in the street? A wire and transmitter on the door?’ He nodded. ‘You know there’s a secret back way in? And you know about Helge’s experience with trip
wires?’ His smile slipped. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. Oskar and I are going to disguise ourselves then cross over via the backup transfer site. While we are checking
the shop out – and I expect our birds have already flown the coop – you’ll finish your lunch then send a messenger across to cable the railway ticket office asking if they have
any reservations in the name of, let’s see, a Mr. and Mrs. Burgeson would spring to mind? That
is
the alias they were using at the hotel? And if so, I want to know where
they’re going, and where the train stops en route, so I can meet them before they get to the final destination.’ Brill had allowed her voice to grow quieter, so that Morgan was
unconsciously leaning towards her as she finished the sentence.

‘But if they’re on a train – they could be on their way to Buenos Aires, or anywhere!’

‘So what? The Clan bizjet is on standby for me at Logan.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll be back in two hours, and I expect a detailed report on the surveillance operation and
Burgeson’s current location, so I can set up the intercept and work out who to draft in. We’d better be in time. And you’d better find out where they’re going, because if we
lose her again, the duke will be
really
pissed.’

*

The council of war took place in a conference room in the Boston Sheraton, just off the Hyatt Center, with air-conditioning and full audiovisual support. All but two of the
eighteen attendees were male, and all wore dark, conservatively cut business suits: they were polite but distant in their dealings with the hotel staff. The facilities manager who oversaw their
refreshments and lunch buffet got the distinct impression that they were foreign bankers, perhaps a delegation from a very starchy Swiss institution. Or maybe they were a committee of cemetery
managers. It hardly mattered, though. They were clearly the best kind of customer – quiet, undemanding, dignified, and utterly unlikely to make a mess or start any fights.

‘Helmut. An update on the opposition’s current disposition, if you please,’ said the graying, distinguished-looking fellow seated at the head of the table. ‘Are there any
indications of a change in their operational deployments?’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Helmut – a stocky fellow in his mid-thirties with an odd pudding-bowl haircut – stood up and opened his laptop. His suit jacket flexed around
well-muscled shoulders: he obviously worked out between meetings. ‘I have prepared a brief presentation to show the geographical distribution of targets . . .’

The video projector flickered on, showing a map of the eastern seaboard as far inland as the Appalachians, gridded out in uneven regions that bore little resemblance to state boundaries. Odd
names dotted the map, vaguely Germanic, as one might expect from a Swiss lending institution. Helmut recited a list of targets and names, clicking the laptop’s track pad periodically to
advance through a time series of transactions. It was curiously bloodless, especially once he began discussing the losses.

‘At Erkelsfjord, resistance was offered: the enemy burned the house, hanged all those of the outer family and retainers who surrendered – twenty-eight in all – then stripped
the peasants and drove them into the woods, firing the village. We lost but one dead and two injured of the inner families. At Isjlmeer, quarter was offered and accepted. The lentgrave accepted
and, with his family, left the keep, whereupon he and all but two sons and one daughter were struck down by crossbow fire. The servants were flogged, stripped, and taken into slavery, but the
villagers were left unharmed. The next day, a different company of light cavalry struck Nordtsman’s Keep. The baron was present and had raised his levies and, forewarned, had established a
defensible perimeter: he took the enemy with enfilading fire from their left flank, forcing a retreat. Total enemy casualties numbered sixty-seven bodies, plus an unknown number who escaped.

‘At Giraunt Dire, the eorl emplaced his two light machine guns to either side of the bridge across the river Klee, beating off an attack by two companies of horse led by Baron Escrivain .
. .’

The map flickered with red dots, like smallpox burning up the side of a victim’s face. As the conflict progressed, dotted red arrows appeared, tracking the course of the pestilence. The
litany of sharp engagements began to change, as more of the defenders – forewarned and prepared – put up an effective defense. Helmut’s presentation kept a running tally in the
bottom right corner of the screen, a profit and loss balance sheet denominated in gallons of blood. Finally he came to an end.

‘That’s the total so far. Thirty-one attacks, twenty-two successful and nine beaten off with casualties. In general, we have lost an average of two inner members per successful
attack and one per successful defense; our losses of retainers and outer family members are substantially higher. The enemy has lost at least three hundred dead and probably twice that number
wounded, although we cannot confirm the latter figure. The four columns appear to be converging near Neuhalle, and it is noteworthy that this one has at no time ventured further than a fifteen-mile
march from one of the pretender’s sworn vassals’ keeps.’

The projector switched off: Helmut directed a brief half-bow towards the other end of the table, then sat down.

The silence lay heavy for nearly a minute after he finished speaking, the only sounds in the room the white noise of the air-conditioning and the faint scribble of pens on the note pads of a
couple of the attendees. Finally, the chairman directed his gaze towards a bluff, ruddy-faced fellow in early middle age, whose luxuriant handlebar mustache was twitching so violently that it
threatened to take wing. ‘Carl. You appear to have something on your mind. Would you care to share it with us?’

Carl glanced around the table. ‘It’s a calculated outrage,’ he rumbled. ‘We’ve got to nail it fast, too, before the decree of outlawry convinces everyone that
we’re easy pickings. While we’re pinned down in our houses and keeps, the pretender can run around at will, taking whichever target is cheapest. It sends entirely the wrong message. Why
hasn’t he been assassinated yet?’

‘We’ve tried.’ The chairman stared at him. ‘It’s difficult to assassinate a target when the target is taking pains to avoid mapped killing grounds and is sleeping
and working surrounded by his troops. Do you have any constructive suggestions, or shall we move on?’

There was a crunching sound. Eyes swiveled towards Carl’s hand, and the wreckage of what had been a Pelikan Epoch mechanical pencil. Carl grunted. ‘A conventional infiltrator could
get close to him . . .’

The chairman nodded, very slightly, and a certain tension left the room. ‘That might work, but as you already observed, if it takes too long it doesn’t buy us anything. He’s
already in the field, and levies are being recruited to his vassals’ forces. I’ve had no reports of the pretender adding to his own body of men. To all intents and purposes he is
surrounded by a thousand bodyguards at all times. Moreover, if we just kill him, it’ll trigger a race for the succession among his vassals – and the only outcome that is guaranteed is
that every last one of them will consider us a mortal threat. To resolve this problem, we’re going to have to defeat his forces in detail as well as producing an heir to the
throne.’

‘But he’s refusing to concentrate where we can hit him!’ Carl opened his meaty hand above his blotter: two hundred dollars’ worth of pencil scattered across the pad in
fragments. ‘We must do something to bring him to battle! Otherwise he will continue to make us look like fools!’

‘You’re quite right.’

Carl looked up at the chairman, perplexed by his agreement. ‘Your grace?’

‘I’d like to call Eorl Riordan next, Carl. Eorl Riordan, would you care to explain next week’s operation to the baron?’

‘Certainly, your grace.’ The new speaker, square-jawed and short-haired, had something of a wardroom air about himself. ‘On the basis of intelligence indicating that the
pretender is preparing a major offensive against one of our most prominent fortifications, his grace asked me to prepare a plan for the defense of Castle Hjorth – which we have reason to
believe is the most likely target – with fallback plans to ensure that our other high-value fortifications remain defensible. The resulting plan requires us to stockpile supplies at the
likely targets in preparation for the arrival of a mobile reinforcement group. The reinforcement group will be based in this world, while courier elements in our Gruinmarkt assets will rotate
regularly and report on their status. As soon as one of our sites goes dark, or as soon as we receive confirmation of contact from one of our scouts in the field, the reinforcement group will
redeploy to the target. The primary target, Castle Hjorth, is already locked down and defended by a platoon of outer family guards, backed up by a team of eighteen couriers on logistic support.
When the enemy attacks, here’s how we will defend ourselves . . .’