The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (77 page)

Next, she took another sheet of paper and jotted down instructions upon it. This she placed, along with a folded six-shilling note, inside another envelope with a different name and address upon
it.

Finally, she took the locket from under her pillow, and copied the design onto the envelope, making a neat sketch of it in place of a postage stamp – taking pains to cover each side of the
knotwork as she drew the other half, so that she couldn’t accidentally focus on the whole.

And then she waited.

Dunedin was the best part of a thousand miles from New London, a good nine hundred from Boston – the nearest city in her own world to it was Joliet. In this world, with no Chicago, Dunedin
had grown into a huge metropolis, the continental hub where railroad and canal freight met on the southern coast of the great lakes. There was a Clan post office in Joliet, and a small fort in the
unmapped forests of the world the Clan came from – a no-man’s-land six hundred miles west of the territory claimed by the eastern marcher kingdoms – and now a post office in
Dunedin too, a small house in the suburbs where respectable-looking men came and went erratically. Miriam had been there before, had even committed the address to memory for her courier runs: an
anonymous villa in a leafy suburb. But the train would only pause for half an hour to change locomotives; she wouldn’t have time to deliver it herself.

Eventually she heard shuffling and muttering from the other side of the door – and then a tentative knock. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘Breakfast time.’ It was Erasmus. ‘Are you decent?’

‘Sure.’ She pulled on her shoes and stood up, opening the through door. The folding bunk was stowed: Erasmus looked to have been up for some time. He smiled, tentatively. ‘The
steward will bring us our breakfast here, if you like. Did you sleep well?’

‘About as well as can be expected.’ She steeled herself: ‘I need to post a letter when we get to Dunedin.’

‘You do?’

She nodded. The chair opposite the bench seat was empty, so she sat in it. ‘It’s to, to one of my relatives who I have reason to trust, asking if it’s safe for me to make
contact.’

‘Ah.’ Erasmus nodded slowly. ‘You didn’t mention where you are or where you’re going?’

‘Do I look stupid? I told Brill to be somewhere in a week’s time, and I’d make contact. She wasn’t at the royal reception so she’s probably still alive, and if she
gets the letter at all she’s in a position to act on it. In any event, I don’t expect the letter to reach her immediately; it’ll take at least a couple of days.’

‘That would be – ah.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her. A very formidable young woman.’

‘Right. 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 paused. ‘What will you do if a different relative shows up looking for you?’

‘That would be bad.’ 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 – 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 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
fire 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 assault would be a
fruitless waste of lives. 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 tie 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 finger, 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 redound 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.’

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 jumped on any junior officer who suggested such a thing, 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 Gruinmarkt 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, acknowledging his disapproval. ‘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 swore, 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 would have a rat run
out through the cellar.
Better 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. It led through a side door into another cellar full of furniture, and dead-ended against a wooden
cabinet full of labeled cloth bundles. Brill walked towards it. 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? Miriam? – hadn’t left the back door open, the smell wouldn’t have given it away, but down here the stink of oiled metal was almost
overpowering. She let the tarp fall, then slid back out of the concealed storeroom.
Miriam keeps dangerous company,
she reminded herself, her lips quirking.
Maybe that’s no bad
thing right now.

But it certainly wasn’t a
good
thing, and as she turned to lock the front door she paid careful attention to the reflections in the window panes in front of her. Maybe it was pure
coincidence that a fellow in a threadbare suit was lounging at the corner of the alley, and maybe it wasn’t, but with at least twenty rifles stashed in that one barrel alone, Brill
wasn’t about to place any bets. She walked away briskly, whistling quietly to herself – let any watchers hurry to keep up – and turned left into the high street. There were more
people here, mostly threadbare men hanging around the street corners in dispirited knots, some of them holding out hats or crudely lettered signs. She paused a couple of doors down the street to
glance in a shop window, checking for movement behind her. Alley Rat was trying to look inconspicuous about fifty feet behind her, standing face-to-cheek with one of the beggars who wore a
shapeless cloth hat and frayed fingerless gloves as gray as his face.

I’ve acquired a tail.
Brill tensed, glancing up the street. ‘How annoying,’ she murmured aloud. There were no streetcars in sight, but plenty of alleyways.
Worse
than annoying,
she added to herself as she thrust her right hand into her bag.
Try to shed him,
first . . .

She started moving again, hurrying, letting her stride lengthen. She glanced over her shoulder – there was no advantage in hiding her awareness now, if she needed cover from civilians she
could just say she was being chased – and spotted Mr. Threadbare and Mr. Hat blundering towards her, splitting in a classic pincer. Most of the bystanders had evaporated or were feigning
inattention – nobody wanted to be an audience for this kind of street theater. Brill took a deep breath, stepped backwards until she came up against the brick wall of a shop, then held her
handbag out towards Mr. Hat, who was now less than twenty feet away. ‘Stop right there,’ she said pleasantly, and when he didn’t, she shot him twice. The handbag jerked, but the
suppressor and the padding kept the noise down to the level of an enthusiastic handclap. She winced slightly and shook her wrist to dislodge a hot cartridge as Mr. Hat went to one knee, a look of
utter surprise on his face, and she spun sideways to bear on Mr. Threadbare. ‘Stop, I said.’

Mr. Threadbare stopped. He began to draw breath. She focused on him, noting absently that Mr. Hat was whimpering quietly and slumping sideways against a shopfront, moving one hand to his right
thigh. ‘Who do you think – ’

Brill jerked her hand sideways and shot Mr. Hat again. He jerked and dropped the stubby pistol he’d been drawing, and she had her bag back on Mr. Threadbare before he could reach inside
his jacket. ‘If you want to live, you will walk ten feet ahead of me,’ she said, fighting for calm, nerves screaming:
Where’s their backup? Clear the zone!
‘Move.’

Mr. Threadbare twitched at Mr. Hat: ‘But he’s – ’

An amateur.
Brill tensed up even more: amateurs were unpredictable. ‘Move!’

Mr. Threadbare moved jerkily, like a puppet in the hands of a trainee. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mr. Hat, who was bleeding quite copiously. Brill circled round the target and toed the
gun away from him, in the direction of the gutter. Then she gestured Mr. Threadbare ahead of her, along the sidewalk. For a miracle, nobody seemed to have noticed the noise. Mr. Threadbare shuffled
slowly: Brill glanced round quickly, then nodded to herself. ‘Turn left into the next alleyway.’

‘But you – ’

She closed the gap between them and pushed the gun up against the small of his back. ‘Don’t look round. Keep walking.’ He was shaking, she noticed, and his voice was weak.
‘Left here. Stop. Face the wall. Closer. That’s right. Raise your right hand above your head. Now raise your left.’ Nobody in the alley, no immediate witnesses if she had to
world-walk. ‘Who do you work for?’