The Merchant’s War

"He's a theoretician, isn't he?" she asked Erasmus, as their carriage slid through the wooded hills. "What's Lady Bishop's interest?"

He stared out of the window silently, until she thought he wasn't going to reply. Then he cleared his throat. "Sir Adam has credibility. Old King George sought his counsel. Before Black Monday, he was a Member of Parliament, the first elected representative to openly declare for the radicals. And to be fair, the book-it's his diagnosis of the ailment afflicting the body politic, not his prescription. He's the chair of the central committee, Miriam. We need him in the capital-"

There was a sudden jerk, and Miriam was pushed forward in her seat. The train began to slow. "What's going on?"

"Odd." He frowned. "We're still in open country." The train continued to slow, brakes squealing below them. The window put the lie to Erasmus's comment almost immediately, as a low row of wooden shacks slid past. Brakes still squealing, the long train drifted to a halt. Erasmus glanced at her, worried. "This can't be good."

"Maybe it's just engine trouble? Or the track ahead?" That's right, clutch at straws, she told herself. Her hand went to her throat, where she had taken to wearing James Lee's locket on a ribbon: at a pinch she could lift Erasmus and land them both in the same world as the Gruinmarkt, but... "I can get us out of here, but I know nothing about where we'd end up."

"We've got papers." Now he sounded as if he was grasping at straws, and knew it.

"Don't anticipate trouble." She swallowed.

"Get your bag. If they want a bribe-"

"Who?"

"How should I know?" He pointed at the window: "Whoever's stopped the train."

The door at the end of the compartment opened abruptly, and a steward stepped inside. He puffed out his brass-buttoned chest like a randy pigeon: "Sorry to announce, but there's been a delay. We should be moving soon, but-" A bell sounded, ringing like a telephone outside the compartment. " 'Scuse me." He ducked back out.

"What kind of delay?" Miriam asked.

"I don't know." Erasmus stood up. "Got everything in your bag?" He raised an eyebrow.

Miriam, thinking of the small pistol, swallowed, then nodded. "Yeah." It was stuffy in the un-air-conditioned carriage, but she stood up and headed over to the coat rail by the door, to pick up her jacket and the bulging handbag she'd transferred the notebook computer into. "Thinking of getting off early?"

"If we have to." He frowned. "If this is-"

Footsteps. Miriam paused, her coat over her left arm. "Yes?" she asked coolly as the door opened.

It was a middle-aged man, wearing the uniform of a railroad ticket inspector. He looked upset. "Sir? Ma'am? I'm sorry to disturb you, but would you mind stepping this way? I'm sure we can sort this out and be on our way soon."

Erasmus glanced sideways at her. Miriam dry-swallowed, wishing her throat wasn't dry. Bluff it out, or...? "Certainly," he said smoothly: "Perhaps you can tell us what it's about?"

"In the station, sir," said the inspector, opening the door of the carriage. The steps were already lowered, meeting the packed earth of a rural platform with a weathered clapboard hut-more like a signal box than a station house- hunched beside it. Only the orange groves to either side suggested a reason for there to be a station here. The inspector hurried anxiously over towards the building, not looking back until he neared the door. Miriam caught Burgeson's eye: he nodded, slowly. The Polls would just have come aboard and arrested us, wouldn't they? she told herself. Probably...

As her companion approached the door, Miriam curled her fingers around the butt of her pistol. The inspector held the door open for them, his expression anxious. "The electrograph from your cousin requested a private meeting," he said apologetically. "This was the best I could arrange-"

"My cousin!" Miriam asked, her voice rising as the door opened: "I don't have a cousin-"

A whoosh of escaping steam dragged her attention up the line. Slowly and majestically, the huge locomotive was straining into motion, the train of passenger cars squealing and bumping behind it. Miriam spun round, far too late to make a run back for it. "Shit," she muttered under her breath. A steam car was bumping along the rutted track that passed for a service road to the station. "Double shit." Erasmus was frozen in the doorway, one hand seeming to rest lightly on the inspector's shoulder. Another car came into view along the road, trailing the first one's rooster-tail of dust.

"Please don't!" The inspector was nearly hysterical.

"Who set this up?" Erasmus asked, his tone deceptively calm.