The Merchants’ War

“Your grace is overstating matters—”

“Permit an old man his moment of humor in the chaos: if you please? Good. I believe we do see eye to eye on the fundamentals. This is a war to the knife. We have a rogue king on the throne and even after we remove him from it we shall have civil war for the next decade—not family against family, but Clan against all. Do you agree?”

(Pause.) “Damn you.”

“Indeed: I am damned.”

(Pause.) “What do you propose to do?”

“Whatever I can. First, we must take our own to safety—then we must prepare to defend our possessions. Identify our allies, I should add. But if we can no longer count on being able to run our caravans up the coast in safety we must look for alternatives.”

“The upstart bitch’s plan.”

“Be careful what you call my late niece, sir.”

“I—” (Pause.) “—Please accept my apologies, your grace. You did not inform me of your bereavement. I had assumed she was rescued.”

“She was not. She’s not among those confirmed to be dead, but after the palace burned…” (Pause.) “I had high hopes for her.”

“But her plan! Come now. You can’t really believe it will work?”

(Sigh.) “No. I don’t believe it will work. But I believe we should try it, in any event, with whatever energy we can divert from our defenses. Because if our ability to traffic in this realm is disrupted for any length of time, what other options do we have?”

(END TRANSLATION TRANSCRIPT)

First Light

A narrow spiral staircase wormed upwards through the guts of a building, its grimy windowpanes opening onto a space that might once have been an alleyway but was now enclosed on all four sides by building extensions, so that it formed a wholly enclosed shaft at the bottom of which a pile of noisome debris had accumulated over the years. Other windows also opened onto the tiny courtyard; windows that provided ventilation and light to rooms that could not be seen from any street, or reached other than by the twisting staircase, which was concealed at ground level by a false partition in the back of a scullery closet. Almost a quarter of the rooms in the building were concealed in this fashion from the outside world. And in a garret at the top of the secret stairwell, a middle-aged woman sat working at a desk.

Bent over her wooden writing box, she systematically read her way through a thick stack of papers. Periodically she reached over to one side to pick up a pen and scrawl cryptic marginalia upon them. Less frequently, her brow furrowing, she would pick up a clean sheet of writing paper and dash off a sharp inquiry to one of her correspondents. Somewhat less frequently, she would consign a report—too hot to handle—to the glowing coals in the fireplace. The underground postal service that moved this mail was slow and expensive and prone to disruption: it might strike an ignorant observer as odd that Margaret, Lady Bishop would treat its fruits so casually. But to be caught in possession of much of this material would guarantee the holder a date with the hangman. Every use of the Movement’s post was a gamble with a postman’s life: and so she took pains to file the most important matters only in her memory, where they would not—if she had any say on the matter—be exposed to the enemy.

The darkness outside the window was complete and the stack of files before her was visibly shrinking when there came a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called sharply: there was no possibility of a surprise police raid here, not without gunshots and explosions to telegraph their arrival.

The door opened and the rough-looking fellow outside cleared his throat. “Got a problem downstairs. Woman at the door, asking for you by name. Says Burgeson sent her.”

“Was she followed?” Lady Bishop asked sharply.

“She said not, and I had a couple of the lads go ’ave a word with the hack what brought her. Nothing to fear on that account.”

“Good.” Lady Bishop breathed slightly easier. “Who is she? What does she want?”

“Figured we’d best leave that for you. She’s not one such as I’d recognize, and she’s dressed odd, like: Mal took her for a madwoman at first, but when she used your name and mentioned Burgeson I figured she was too dangerous to let go. So we stashed her in the cellar while we made arrangements.”

“Right. Right.” Lady Bishop nodded to herself, her face grim. “Is the Miller prepared?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Then I suppose you’d better bring her up here and we can get to the bottom of this, Ed. I shall start with an interview—to give the poor woman a chance to excuse herself. But when you come, bring Mal. In case we have to send her down.”

She spent the minutes before Ed’s return with the prisoner methodically prioritizing her remaining correspondence. Then she carefully moved the manila paper folders to a desk drawer, closed and locked her writing case, and tried to compose herself. In truth, Lady Bishop hated interrogations. However necessary it might be for the pursuit of the declaration, the process invariably left her feeling soiled.

The rap at the door, when it came, was loud and confident. “Enter,” she called. Edmund opened the door; behind him waited a woman, and behind her, the shadow of Mal the doorman. “Come in,” she added, and pointed to a rough stool on the opposite side of her desk: “and sit down.”

The woman was indeed oddly dressed. Is she an actress? Margaret wondered. It seemed unlikely. And her outfit, while outlandish, was in any case both too well tailored and too dirty for a stage costume. Then Lady Bishop took a good look at the woman’s face, and paused. The bruise on her cheek told a story: and so, when the woman opened her mouth, did the startling perfection of her dentistry.

“Are you Lady Bishop?”

Margaret, Lady Bishop stared at the woman for a moment, then nodded. “I am.” She had the most peculiar feeling that the woman on the stool opposite her was studying her right back, showing a degree of self-assurance she’d have expected from a judge, not a prisoner. Titled? Or a lord’s by-blow?

“I’m Miriam Beckstein,” said the woman. “I believe Erasmus has told you something about me.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how much he’s told you, but there’s been a change in the situation.”

Lady Bishop froze, surprise stabbing at her. You’re the Beckstein woman? She turned to look at her assistants: “Ed, Mal, wait outside.”

Ed looked perturbed. “Are you sure, ma’am?”

She gave him a hard stare: “you don’t need to hear this.” Why in Christ’s name didn’t you say it was her in the first place? She wanted to add, but not at risk of tipping off the prisoner about her place in the scheme of things.

Ed backed out of the room hastily and pulled the door shut. Margaret turned back to her unexpected visitor. “I’m sorry; we weren’t expecting you, so nobody told them to be on the lookout. Do you know who struck you?”

Beckstein looked startled for a moment, then raised a hand to her cheek. “This? Oh, it’s nothing to do with your men.” A distant expression crossed her face: “The man who hit me died earlier this evening. Before I continue—did Erasmus tell you where I come from?”

Lady Bishop considered feigning ignorance for a moment. “He said something about a different version of our world. Sounded like nonsense at first, but then the trinkets started showing up.” Her expression hardened. “If you think we can be bought and sold for glass beads—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Beckstein paused. “But, uh, I needed to know. What he’d told you. The thing is, I ran into some trouble. I was able to escape, but I came here because it was all I could do—I got away with only the clothes on my back. I need to get back to Boston and contact some people to let them know I’m alright before they, before I can get everything back under control. I was hoping…” She ran out of words.

Lady Bishop watched her intently. Do you really think I’m that naive? she asked silently, permitting herself a moment’s cold anger. Did you really think you could simply march in and