The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (13 page)

‘Do you want me to arrange the ambulance?’ he asked attentively.

That did it: He
was
questioning her competence. ‘No!’ she snapped. ‘I’ll do it myself. The sooner I see him in a hospital bed the happier I’ll be.’
Moving an acute stroke patient was risky enough without trying to do it in the dark, under fire, and without benefit of any specialized medication more sophisticated than a couple of aspirin; the
only reason even to consider it was out there in the dark and the chaos before the gatehouse.

‘So will we all,’ he said piously, turning to leave.

*

The hours passed quickly, in a frenzy of preparations for the evacuation. Not everyone was to leave; someone had to light the keep, fill the helmets visibly watching over it,
and fire the occasional volley to convince the besieging forces that the palace wasn’t an empty prize. But nine in every ten men and women would be world-walking out of the Hjalmar Palace
before dawn, stealing away like thieves in the night once the hastily printed and laminated knotwork cards arrived. Almost everyone – Olga, the duke, and the wounded excepted – would
return, with the early morning sun at their backs, half a mile behind the pretender’s encampment. Trapped between the machine guns on the battlements and the rifles and recoilless rockets of
the mobile force, the royalists would have scant time to regret their misplaced allegiance; their best strategy ought to be to melt back into the trees again. But from the lack of movement in the
enemy camp it looked as if they’d swallowed the bait: While they clearly knew of the world-walker’s ability, it seemed that they had not fully understood its tactical significance.
That, or their commander was getting greedy.

Olga took a couple of hours to catch a nap, on a cot at the end of Angbard’s bed. She awakened in near-darkness as a hand touched her shoulder. She grasped a wrist almost before she opened
her eyes. ‘What time . . . ?’

‘Midnight plus four minutes, milady.’ The soldier – a stocky woman called Irma, one of Helmut’s lance and the daughter of an earl, if Olga remembered her rightly –
straightened up. ‘Martyn and I are your detail, along with Gerd’ – the corpsman – ‘to take his grace to safety, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Olga said tersely. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and yawned. ‘You have a stretcher, yes? And suitable clothes.’

‘A stretcher, aye,’ Gerd called softly from the far side of the four-poster bed. ‘He still sleeps, milady,’ he added, forestalling her next question.

Irma grimaced. ‘I hate stretchers.’ She stepped back, to leave Olga some space. ‘On the subject of suitable clothes – we are going to America, to meet an ambulance, at
dead of night, I was told? But this other world, I’ve never been there before. So I don’t know what’s a suitable disguise for sneaking around there . . .’

‘Don’t worry about that aspect of things, we’ve got covered transport.’
I hope
. Olga sat up creakily. ‘Here’s the plan. We’re going to cross over
with everyone else. Have the cards arrived yet?’ Irma shook her head. ‘Well. When they arrive – it’s a new world. This site is undeveloped farmland. Our agents have laid on
trucks, and they’ll drive Captain Hjorth and his force to the drop-off point for the counterattack. We’ll be taking a car into Irongate, which is near as makes no difference sitting on
the south side of Concord, and where there’s a doppelgängered building in this world. Then we make two more transfers, crossing back at zero five hundred, and I’ll phone for an
ambulance. I’ve got GPS, so we should be picked up within half an hour. Our main challenges are: keeping his grace comfortable, avoiding attention from the locals, and not killing ourselves
by world-walking too much. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, milady. Makes things easier.’ Irma shook her head. ‘Three crossings in four hours – that’s harsh.’

‘Yes. That’s why for the first crossing we’ll all be going piggyback on whichever members of your lance draw the short straws. And for the second crossing, Gerd will carry his
grace and Martyn will carry you. On the third crossing, you can take the duke. This will be the hardest, but that way, only one of us risks breaking our head.’

‘Do you think we should ditch our field gear?’

Olga thought for a moment. ‘If it’s not too much to carry, I think we should hang onto it until we’re ready to make the final transit. But once we hit Concord’ –
she paused – ‘we can’t be wearing armor or carrying long arms. What clothing did you find for us?’

‘Nothing for sure, milady, we must see if it fits – but the baron’s family maintained a wardrobe with some American clothing, and it has not been looted yet. I hope,’ she
added under her breath.

‘Let’s go see, shall we,’ Olga suggested, stretching as she stood up. Her own state she passed over: She and Angbard had never expected to wind up here, and her neat trouser
suit would be fine. ‘We need clothing that will pass at a distance for Gerd, Martyn, and you.’

‘This way, then.’ Irma led her from the master bedroom into an adjacent room, its rich paneling splintered and holed by small arms fire. Chests of drawers and a huge wooden chest
dominated half a wall. ‘I think this is what you’re looking for.’

*

Late afternoon.

Miriam segued into wakefulness to the rattle and jabber of daytime television fuzzed into incoherence through a thin stud wall. Gathering her wits, she rolled over.
The bed isn’t
moving
, she realized. She’d found it difficult to rest, her worries chasing their tails through her mind, but she’d spent the last few nights on a transcontinental express train and
the novelty of a bed that didn’t sway side-to-side and periodically bump across railroad points had eventually drawn her down into a deep abyss of dreamless sleep. Yawning, she sat up and
rolled off the comforter.
What time is it . . . ?
She glanced at the dressing table. Her notebook PC sat there, its LEDs winking as it charged. Whether it would start up was a moot point
– it had spent six months in a hidden compartment in a disused office – but it had a clock; maybe it would still be working. She reached over and pressed the power button, then started
gathering her clothes.

The regular startup chord and busy clicking of a hard disk provided welcome background noise as she dressed; but as the computer seemed to want to twiddle its thumbs instead of talking to her,
she locked the screen and headed for the bathroom, and then the stairs, rather than waiting. To think that only four days ago she’d risked arrest and imprisonment to retake the thing, seeing
it as central to her hopes for survival and prosperity . . .! Her understanding of her circumstances was changing almost from hour to hour, leaving her unable to rely on plans she’d made only
the day before. It gave her an anxious sense of insecurity, rising to the level of nervous dread whenever her thoughts circled back to the pregnancy question.

The television noise was coming from the living room, along with other sounds. As Miriam pushed the door open she caught a burst of conversation: ‘. . . she’s right, then what are we
going to do? We won’t be able to go back! Had you thought of’ – a blond head turned – ‘Oh, hi!’

Miriam paused. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything . . .’

‘Not really.’ Huw was slouched in a recliner, propping up a laptop, while the two younger ones, Yul and Elena, had been either watching TV or arguing about something while sharing a
large pizza of uncertain parentage. ‘Feel free to join us.’

‘Yah,’ agreed Yul, chewing rhythmically.

Elena thumped him. ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full!’

‘Yuh.’ He took her punch on one shoulder, looking amused rather than hurt.

Miriam turned to address Huw. ‘Where’s Brill?’

‘Oh, she went out.’ He sounded disinterested. ‘Hmm, that’s interesting.’

Miriam glanced at the window. It was clearly getting late, and the shadows of the trees out front were lengthening. ‘Is there anything to eat around here?’ Her gaze was drawn to
Elena and Yul’s pizza, almost against her will.

‘Uh?’ Huw looked up at her, and visibly did a double take. ‘Food? Um . . . yeah, food! Just a minute.’ A rattle of hastily struck keys later, he closed the laptop’s
lid and stood up. ‘Let’s see what’s in the kitchen?’

The kitchen was as sparsely equipped as it had been earlier in the afternoon. Huw headed straight for the freezer and the microwave, but Miriam stopped him. ‘Let me.’ While she
rooted around in the cupboards, she asked, ‘Any idea where Brill went? Did she ask you to get me a pregnancy test kit?’

‘A what?’ He walked over to the kitchen door and closed it carefully. ‘No, that’s women’s stuff. If you asked for such a thing, she wouldn’t trust a man to
procure it.’

‘Oh.’ Miriam froze for a couple of seconds, disappointed. Then she opened the next cupboard. ‘So where did she go?’

‘If not to attend to your request, I’d guess she has a private call to make. She was getting extremely itchy about being on the wrong coast, and even itchier about how we’re
going to get back out east without attracting attention.’

‘Attention’ – Miriam paused to pull out a can of tomatoes and a bag of pasta – ‘what kind of attention?’

‘She came out here in the company biz-jet, but . . . someone tipped the feds off about where ClanSec were concentrating? Somewhere near Concord, apparently. We’ve had hints’
– Miriam rattled past him, rifling a drawer in search of utensils – ‘they’re getting serious about tracking us down. So I don’t think there’s a biz-jet ride home
in our immediate future.’ Miriam slammed the cupboard door. ‘What?’

‘This is useless!’ She pointed at her haul. ‘What did they think we were going to do, eat at Mickey D’s every day?’

‘Freezer. Microwave. If you were stocking a house for a bunch of kids who’re not used to living away from home without servants, what would you do?’

‘Leave a cookbook!’

‘We-ell, okay.’ Huw made for the freezer again. ‘Memo to Duke Angbard Lofstrom, Office of Clan Security. Re: Training program for armed couriers. Classification: Clan
Confidential. All couriers must attend mandatory
Cooking with Rachael Ray
video screening and Culinary Skills 101 course prior to commencing overnight missions. Malnutrition a threat to
morale, combat-readiness, and operational security.’ He straightened up, a pizza box in each hand. ‘Meat lover’s feast or four cheese, my lady?’

‘Oh hell, I’ll take the cheese.’ She smiled to take the sting out of her words. ‘Sorry. It just bugs me.’

‘It’d be good to have a staff, or use a hotel or something,’ Huw agreed. ‘But this is less conspicuous, and less conspicuous is good right now.’

‘What do you mean?’ She pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Well.’ He slid the first pizza onto a plate and put it in the microwave. ‘I have a nasty suspicion that in the interests of looking inconspicuous we’re going to end up
driving back to Massachusetts. Or driving part of the way, to avoid tracking. If we just fly point-to-point and they’re paying attention, we’d show up. And then there’s the
communication discipline. All Internet traffic is monitored by the NSA.
All
of it. So we fall back on 1930s tech – old-fashioned letters written in runic Hochsprache, flash memory
cards sealed under postage stamps instead of microdots, that kind of thing. It works well, but it’s slow: that’s probably why my lady Brilliana is taking so long.’

‘Oh.’ Miriam stared at the second pizza, feeling a stab of acute déjà vu. It was just like Erasmus’s problems in New Britain, seen through a high-tech looking
glass. ‘I think I’m getting a headache.’

The oven pinged for attention. Huw opened it, sniffed, then slid the steaming microwave-limp pizza in front of her. ‘Sorry – ’

‘Don’t be, it’s not your fault.’ She picked up a knife and began to cut as he put the second pizza in. ‘What do you want, Huw?’

‘Huh?’

‘What do you
want
?
’
She put down her knife. ‘Here, help yourself to a slice.’

‘Uh, you mean, what do I want, as in, what is my heart’s desire, or what do I want, as in, what am I trying to achieve right now?’ He reached over and took a piece, holding it
twitchily on his fingertips.

‘The former.’ Miriam picked up a wedge of hot pizza and nibbled at it. ‘Because I’d say, right now you’re trying not to burn your fingers.’

‘Ouch, yes! Um, life’s little ambitions. I want to finish my master’s, and I wanted to do a Ph.D., obviously. Only the duke more or less handed me a doctoral subject a couple
of weeks ago! Hell, not even a doctorate: it’s a life’s work. The implications are
enormous
. As for the other stuff . . . I’m a younger son. Clan shareholder, but at least
I’m not going to get roped in and tied down into running a backwoods estate. There’s more to life than the Gruinmarkt, and if I must do the getting married and raising a family thing, I
want to do it somewhere civilized, with electricity and running water, and a partner of my own choosing.’

‘Got anyone in mind?’

‘Oh, I think so.’ His expression turned inward for a moment. ‘Although it’s too early to ask . . .’ He shook his head. The microwave dinged again. ‘Is that
what you wanted to know?’

‘It’ll do for a start.’ Miriam watched as he stood up and pulled the second pizza out of the oven. ‘How many – of your generation – do you think see
eye-to-eye with you on the last bit? Electricity and running water and marrying for love rather than because your parents say so?’

Huw reached for the knife. ‘It’s funny . . . there are a bunch of foreign students at MIT? You can’t go there and not know a couple of them. We had a lot in common. It’s
like, we all got used to the amenities and advantages of living over here, but it’s not
home
. The Chinese and Middle-Eastern and developing-nation students all wanted to spend time
over here, earning a stake, maybe settle down. It’s a deprivation thing. I didn’t see it with the European students – there weren’t as many of them, either – but then,
you wouldn’t. The difference in standards of living isn’t so pronounced. But you want to know about my generation? There are those who’ve never spent much time over here – a
minority, these days – and they don’t know any better, but there’s an outright majority who’d be over the wall in an instant if they could keep visitation rights. And if you
promised to install electricity and running water and start Niejwein developing, they’d elect you pope-emperor. Shame that’s not going to happen, of course. I’d have liked to have
seen you on the throne in the Summer Palace, taking names and kicking butt. I think you’d have been good at it.’