The Merchants’ War

all the Clan’s strategic planning and internecine plotting had made the key assumption that they were inviolable in their own estates, masters of their own world. But if the U.S. government could send spies, then the implications were likely to shake the Clan to its foundations. They’ve been looking for the Clan for years, she realized. But now they’d found the narcoterrorists—one world’s feudal baron is another world’s drug lord—the whole elaborate game of charades that Clan security played was over. The other player could kick over the card table any time they wanted. You can doppelganger a castle against world-walkers, but you can’t stop them crossing over outside your walls and planting a backpack nuke. In an endgame between the Clan and the CIA or its world-walking equivalent, there could be only one winner.

“So they can’t win a confrontation. But if they lose…” She blinked. They had Iris, Patricia, her mask-wearing mother. Could I let her go? The thought was painful. And then there were others, the ones she could count as friends. Olga, Brill, poor innocent kids like Kara. Even James Lee. She could cut and run, but she’d be leaving them to—no, that’s not right. She shook her head. Where did this unwelcome sense of responsibility come from? Damn it, I haven’t gone native! But it was too late to protest: they’d tied her into their lives, and if she just walked out on them, much less walked willingly into the arms of enemies who’d happily see them all dead or buried so deep in jail they’d never see daylight, she’d be personally responsible for the betrayal.

“They’ll have to go.” Somewhere beyond the reach of a government agency that relied on coerced and imprisoned world-walkers. “But where?” New Britain was a possibility. Her experiment in technology transfer had worked, after all. What if we went overt? She wondered. If we told them who we were and what we could do. Could we cut a deal? Build a military-industrial complex to defend against a military-industrial complex. The Empire’s under siege. The French have the resources to… she blanked. I don’t know enough. A tantalizing vision clung to the edges of her imagination, a new business idea so monumentally vast and arrogant she could barely contemplate it. Thousands of world-walkers, working with the support and resources of a continental superpower, smuggling information and ideas and sharing lessons leeched from a more advanced world. I was thinking small. How fast could we drag New Britain into the twenty-first century? Even without the cohorts of new world-walkers in the making that she’d stumbled across, the product of Angbard’s secretive manipulation of a fertility lab’s output, it seemed feasible. More than that: it seemed desirable. Mike’s organization will assume that any world-walker is a drug mule until proven otherwise. It won’t be healthy to be a world-walker in the USA after the shit hits the fan. We’ll need New Britain.

Miriam shook herself and checked her watch. The hours had drifted by: the shadows were lengthening and her headache was down to a dull throb. She stood up and dusted herself down again, picked up her suitcase, and focused queasily on the locket. “Once more, with spirit…”

Bang.

Red-hot needles thrust into her eyes as her stomach heaved again: a giant gripped her head between his hands and squeezed. Cobblestones beneath her boots, and a stink of fresh horseshit. Miriam bent forward, gagging, realizing I’m standing in the road—and a narrow road it was, walled on both sides with weathered, greasy brickwork—as the waves of nausea hit.

Bang.

Someone shouted something, at her it seemed. The racket was familiar, and here was a car (or what passed for one in New Britain) with engine running. Hands grabbed at her suitcase: she tightened her grip instinctively.

“Into the car! Now!” Erasmus, she realized fuzzily.

“’M going to be sick—”

“Well you can be sick in the car!” He clutched her arm and tugged.

Bang.

Gunshots?

She tottered forward, stomach lurching, and half-fell, half-slid through the open passenger compartment leg well, collapsing on the wooden floor. The car shuddered and began to roll smoothly on a flare of steam.

BANG. Someone else, not Erasmus, leaned over her and pulled the trigger of a revolver, driving sharp spikes into her outraged ear drums. With a screech of protesting rubber the car picked up speed. BANG. Erasmus collapsed on top of her, holding her down. “Stay on the floor,” he shouted.

The steam car hit a pothole and bounced, violently. It was too much: Miriam began to retch again, bringing up clear bile.

“Shit.” It was the shooter on the back seat, wrinkling his face in disgust. “I think that’s—” he paused “—no, they’re trying to follow us on foot.” The driver piled on the steam, then flung their carriage into a wide turn onto a public boulevard. The shooter sat down hard, holding his pistol below seat level, pointing at the floor. “Can you sit up?” he asked Miriam and Erasmus. “Look respectable fast, we’re hitting Ketch Street in a minute.”

Erasmus picked himself up. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaky. Miriam waited for a moment as her stomach tried to lurch again. “Are you all right?”

“Head hurts,” she managed. Arms around her shoulders lifted her to her knees. “My suitcase…”

“On the parcel shelf.”

More hands from the other side. Together they lifted her into position on the bench seat. The car was rattling and rocking from side to side, making a heady pace—almost forty miles per hour, if she was any judge of speed, but it felt more like ninety in this ragtop steamer. She gasped for air, chest heaving, trying to get back the wind she’d lost while she was throwing up. “Are you alright?” Burgeson asked again. He’d found a perch on the jump seat opposite, and was clutching a grab-strap behind the chauffeur’s station on the right of the cockpit.

“I, it never hit me like that before,” she admitted. Amidst the cacophony in her skull she found a moment to be coldly terrified: world-walking usually caused a blood pressure spike and migraine-like symptoms, but nothing like this hellish nausea and pile-driver headache. “Something’s up with me.”

“Did you get what you wanted?” he pressed her. “Was it worth it?”

“Yeah, yes.” She glanced sideways, tiredly. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“Indeed.” Erasmus sent her a narrow-eyed look. “This is Albert. Albert, meet Anne.”

Gotcha. “Nice to meet you,” she said politely.

“Albert” nodded affably, and palmed his revolver, sliding it into a pocket of his cutaway jacket. “Always nice to meet a fellow traveler,” he said.

“Indeed.” Fellow traveler, is it? She fell silent. Burgeson’s political connections came with dangerous strings attached. “What’s with the car? And the rush?”

“You didn’t hear them shooting at us?” Erasmus looked concerned, as if questioning her sanity.

“I was busy throwing up. What happened?”

“Stakeout,” he said. “About ten minutes after your break-in they surrounded the place. If you’d come out the front door—” The brisk two-fingered gesture across his throat made the message all too clear. “I don’t know what you’ve stirred up, but the Polis are very upset about something. So I decided to call in some favors and arrange a rescue chariot.”

“Albert” nodded. “A good thing too,” he said darkly. “You’ll excuse me, ma’am.” He doffed his cap and began to knead it with his fingers, turning it inside out to reveal a differently patterned lining. “I’ll be off at the next crossroads.” Erasmus turned and knocked sharply on the wooden partition behind the chauffeur: the car began to slow from its headlong rush.

“Where are we—” Miriam swallowed, then paused to avoid gagging on the taste of bile “—where are we going?”

The car slowed to a near halt, just short of a streetcar stop. “Wait,” said Erasmus. To “Albert” he added: “The movement thanks you for your assistance today. Good luck.” “Albert” nodded, then stepped onto the sidewalk and marched briskly away without a backward glance. The car picked up speed again, then wheeled in a fast turn onto a twisting side street. “We’re going to make the train, I hope,” Erasmus said quietly. “The driver doesn’t know which one. Or even which station. I hope you can walk.”

“My head’s sore. But my feet…” She tried to shrug, then winced. Only minutes had passed, but she was