The Merchant’s War

Whoa! Rudi straightened up again and stretched, experimentally. Something in his neck popped. "I need to check my bird thoroughly, and I need to patch the holes, but that'll take a day to do properly. If it's an emergency and if there's no other damage I can fly again within the hour, but-"he glanced at the sky"-there're only about three more flying hours in the day, sir. And I've only got enough fuel here for one more flight, anyway. It's not hard to get on the other side, but I wasn't exactly building a large stockpile. To be honest, it would help if we had another pilot and airframe available." He shrugged.

Riordan leaned close. "If we survive the next week, I think that'll be high on his grace's plans for us," he admitted. "But right now, the problem we face is knowing what's going on. You didn't see any sign of the pretender's army, but that doesn't mean it isn't out there. Get your work done, get some food, then stand by to go out again before evening-even if it's only for an hour, we need to know whether there's an army marching down our throat here or whether the Hjalmar Palace is the focus of his attack."

* * *

Brill was one of the last people Miriam had expected to meet in California-and she seemed to have brought a bunch of others with her. "You're unhurt?" Brill asked again, anxiously.

The trio of Clan agents she'd turned up with-two men and a woman, sweating and outlandish in North Face outdoor gear-as if they'd just parachuted in from a camping expedition somewhere in the Rockies, in winter-had taken up positions outside the station. One of them Miriam half-recognized: Isn't he the MIT postgrad? Perhaps, but it was hard for her to keep track of all the convoluted relationships in the Clan, and right now-covering the approach track with a light machine gun from behind a bullet-riddled steam car-he didn't exactly look scholarly. Brilliana was at least dressed appropriately for New British customs.

"I'm unhurt, Brill." Miriam tried to hold her voice steady, tried not to notice Erasmus staring, his head swiveling like a bird, as he took in the scattered bodies and the odd-looking machine pistols Brill and the other woman carried. The Polis inspector and his men had tried to put up a light, but revolvers and rifles against attackers with automatic weapons appearing out of thin air behind them "-Just got a bit of a headache." She sat down heavily on the waiting room bench.

"Wonderful! I feared you might attempt to world-walk." Brill looked concerned. "I must say, I was not expecting you to get this far. You led us a merry chase! But your letter reached me in time, and a very good thing too. His grace has been most concerned for your well-being. We shall have to get you out of here at once-"

Miriam noticed Brill's sidelong glance at Burgeson. "I owe him," she warned.

Erasmus chuckled dryly. "Leave me alive and I'll consider the debt settled in my favor."

"I think we can do better than that!" Brill drew breath. "I remember you." She glanced at Miriam. "How much does he know?"

"How much do you think?" Miriam stared back at her. This was a side to Brill that she didn't know well, and didn't like: a coldly calculating woman who came from a place where life was very cheap indeed. "They were lying in wait for us because they intercepted your telegram. The least we can do is get him to his destination. Leave him in this, and..." She shrugged.

Brill nodded. "I'll get him out of here safely. Now, will you come home willingly?" she asked.

The silence stretched out. "What will I find if I do?" Miriam finally replied.

"You need not worry about Baron Henryk anymore." Brill frowned. "He's dead; but were he not, the way he dealt with you would certainly earn him the disfavor of the council. He overplayed his hand monstrously with the aid of Dr. ven Hjalmar. The duke is minded to sweep certain, ah, events into the midden should you willingly agree to a plan he has in mind for you." Her distant expression cracked: "Have you been sick lately? Been unable to world-walk? Is your period late?"

Miriam blinked. "Yes, I-" she raised a hand to her mouth in dawning horror. "Fuck."

Brill knelt down beside her. "You have borne a child before, did you not?"

"But I haven't slept with-" Miriam stopped. "That fucking quack. What did he do to me?"

"Miriam." She looked down. Brill was holding her hands. "Ven Hjalmar's dead. Henryk is dead. Creon is dead. But we've got living witnesses who will swear blind that you were married to the crown prince at that ceremony, and this was the real reason why Prince Egon rebelled. Ven Hjalmar, with the queen mother's connivance... it's unconscionable! But we're at war, Miriam. We're at war with half the nobility of the Gruinmarkt, and you're carrying the heir to the throne. You're not a pawn on Angbard's chessboard anymore, Miriam, you're his queen. Whatever you want, whatever it takes, he'll give you-"