The Merchant’s War

The voice at the other end of the connection was laconic: "You throw a Renaissance Faire, you get spectators. Ysolde's telling them it's a closed rehearsal and they should come back tomorrow."

Helmut buried his fingertips in his beard and scratched his chin. "Good call. What about the-"he checked his little black book"-ticket seats?"

"They're going up. A couple of problems with the GPS but we should be ready for the curtain-raiser in about an hour."

Helmut glanced at his book again to confirm that curtain-raiser was today's code word for assault team insertion. One of the constraints they'd been working under ever since the big DEA bust six months ago was the assumption that at any time their cellular phones (carefully sanitized, stolen, or anonymously purchased for cash) might be monitored or tracked by hostile agencies. Clan Security-in addition to fighting a civil war in the Gruinmarkt-had been forced to rediscover a whole bunch of 1940s-era communication security procedures.

"Call me if there's a change in status before we arrive," Helmut ordered, then ended the call. "Showtime," he added, for the benefit of the audience seated behind him.

"It's not over until the fat lady sings," Martyn snarked in Irma's direction: she glared at him, then drew her dagger and began to ostentatiously clean her already-spotless nails.

The coach turned through a wide gateway flanked by signs advertising the faire, bumped across loose gravel and ruts in the ground, then came to a halt in a packed-earth car park at one end of a small open field. A couple of big top circus tents dominated it, and a group of men with a truck and a stack of scaffolding were busy erecting a raised seating area. To an untrained eye it might easily be mistaken for a public open-air event, close by Concord: that was the whole idea. Real SCA members or habitual RenFaire goers weren't that common, and those that might notice this event would probably write it off as some kind of commercial rip-off, aimed at the paying public. Meanwhile, the general reaction of that public to a bunch of people in inaccurate historical costume was more likely to be one of amusement than fear. Which was exactly what Riordan had proposed and Angbard had accepted.

In fact, the strip mall on the far side of the open space was owned by a shell company that answered to a Clan council director-because it was doppelgangered, located on the identical spot occupied by a Clan property in the other world. And the supposed historical faire was one of several ClanSec contingency plans designed to cover the rapid deployment of military units up to battalion size into the Gruinmarkt.

"Let's move those kit bags out," Helmut barked over his shoulder as the driver scrambled to open the baggage doors on the side of the coach. "I'll have the guts of any man who opens his kit before he gets it inside the assembly tent." His troopers scrambled to drag their heavy sports bags towards the nearer big top: he'd checked that they'd been properly packed, and while any hypothetical witnesses would see plenty of swords and "historical shit" as Erik called it, they wouldn't get even a hint of the SAWs and Ml6s that were the real point of this masquerade- much less the M47 Dragon that Stefan's fire support platoon were bringing to the party.

The setup in the tent would have surprised anyone expecting a show. Half a dozen men and women-officers in Clan security, comptrollers of the postal service, and a willowy blonde in a business suit who Helmut was certain was one of the duke's harem of assassin-princesses- were gathered around a table covered with detailed floor plans: three more, armed with theodolites, laser range finders, and an elaborate GPS unit were carefully planting markers around the bare earth floor. At the far side, a work crew was unloading aluminum scaffolding and planks from the back of a truck, while another gang was frantically bolting them together at locations indicated by the survey team. Helmut left his soldiers scrambling to pull camouflage surcoats and helmets on over their armor, and headed straight for the group at the table, halting two meters short of it.

The duke glanced up from the map. As usual, he was impeccably tailored, dressed for the boardroom: a sixty-something executive, perhaps, or a mid-level politician. But there was a feral anger burning in his eyes that was normally kept carefully banked: Helmut suppressed a shudder. "Third platoon is dismounting and will be ready to go in the next ten minutes," he said as calmly as he could.

The duke stared at him for a moment. "Good enough," he rasped, then glanced sideways at his neighbor, whom Helmut recognized-with a surprised double-take-as Earl Oliver Hjorth, an unregenerate supporter of the backwoods conservative cabal and the last man he'd have expected to see in the duke's confidences. "I told you so."

The earl nodded, looking thoughtful.