The Merchant’s War

"No!" he exclaimed. "Whoa. Ow." The weasels had graduated from carnivore school and were working on their diplomas in coyote impersonation. "What do you want to know?"

"Let's start with, how you got over here."

"Same way Matthias got over to our-my-world." He could almost see the lightbulbs going on over Olga's and Mrs. Beckstein's heads. "Family Trade captured a couple of world-walkers. Forced them to carry." He tried to shrug himself into a more comfortable position, half-upright.

"Forced? How?" Olga stared at him. "And what is Family Trade?"

"Collar... bombs. They carry a cargo and come back, Family Trade resets the timer. They don't come back, it blows their head off. When they're not world-walking, FTO keeps them in a high-rise jail."

Mrs. Beckstein interrupted. "Family Trade-this is some spook agency, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'm-seconded-to it. Not my idea. Matt walked into the Boston downtown office while Pete-my partner- and I were on the desk. That's all."

"Ah." Mrs. Beckstein nodded to herself. "And they sent you here because they worked out that Miriam was... okay. I think I get it. Am I right?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, mostly," he said hastily: Olga was still glaring at him from her corner. "We don't have much intel on the ground. Colonel Smith figured she'd be able to develop a spy ring for us, in return for an exit opportunity. He wants informants. I told him it was half-assed and premature, but he ordered the insertion."

"He wants informants, does he?" Mrs. Beckstein grinned. "What do you make of that, Olga?"

Olga's expression of alarm surprised Mike in its intensity, cutting through the fog of drugs: "you can't be serious! That would be treason!"

"It's not treason if it's known to ClanSec in advance." Mrs. Beckstein waved a hand in dismissal. "One man's spy is another man's diplomatic back channel to the other side; it just depends who's playing the game and for what stakes." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Mike. "Your colonel wants information? Well, he shall have it, and you shall take it to him. But in return, you're going to find my daughter." A brief sideways nod: "you and Lady Olga, that is."

Chapter 4

RUNNING DOG

The next day came too early for Erasmus. It was barely a quarter to eight when he checked out of the cheap traveler's hotel he'd stayed in overnight, and walked around to the rear entrance to Hogarth Villas. Lady Bishop's taciturn manservant Edward answered the door, then led him down a servants' passage and a staircase that led to a gloomy basement, illuminated by the dim light that filtered down to the bottom of an air shaft.

"Wait here," said Edward, disappearing round a corner. A moment later, he heard a rattle of keys, and low voices. Then:

"Erasmus!"

He smiled stiffly, embarrassed by his own reaction. "Miriam, it's good to see you again."

"I'd been hoping-" She took two steps towards him, and he found himself suddenly at arm's length; he'd advanced without noticing. "I'm not imagining things?"

"Everything will be alright." His voice sounded shaky in his own ears. "Come on, I'll explain as we go." He forced himself to look past her face, to make eye contact with Edward (who grimaced and shrugged, as if to say you're welcome to her): "Do you have any luggage?"

"It's here." Edward hefted a leather valise. Erasmus took it. "I'll be going now," said the servant, "you know the way out."

A moment later they were alone. He found himself staring at Miriam: she looked back at him with an odd expression, as if she'd never seen him before. Is this all a terrible mistake? He wondered: is she going to be angry with me for sending her here? "You came. For me?"

"As soon as I heard." He found it difficult to talk.

"Well, thank you. I was beginning to worry-" She shivered violently.

"My dear, this isn't the sort of establishment one drops in on unannounced." He noticed her clothing for the first lime; someone had found her a more suitable outfit than the gown she'd worn in Lady Bishop's spy-hole picture, but it would never do-probably a castoff from one of the girls upstairs, threadbare and patched. "Hmm. When I asked them to find you something to wear I was expecting something a little less likely to attract attention."

Her checks colored slightly. "I'm getting sick of hand-me-downs. You've got a plan?"

"Follow me." It was easier than confronting his emotions-predominantly relief, at the moment, a huge and fragile sense that something precious hadn't been shattered, the toppling vase caught at the last moment- and it was nonsense, of course, a distraction from the serious business at hand. He climbed the stairs easily, with none of the agonizing tightness in his chest and the crackling in his lungs that would have plagued him (wo months ago. The parlor was empty, the fireplace unlit. He placed the valise on the table. "Let's see what we've got."