The Merchants’ War

hoarsely.

“Miriam. My lady, are you hurt?”

The familiar, crystal-clear voice shattered the bell of glass that surrounded her. “Brill!” she cried.

“My lady, are you alone in there?”

Urgency. Miriam tried to take stock. “I think so,” she managed. “I’m with Erasmus.”

“She’s not hurt, but she’s sick,” Burgeson called out. He shuffled backwards, into the shadowy interior of the waiting room, still clutching his pistol in his hand. He focused on Miriam. “It’s your girl, Brill, isn’t it?” he hissed.

“Yes,” she choked out, almost overwhelmed with emotion. He’s not dead! More than half a year had passed since that terrible moment in Fort Lofstrom, waiting beside Roland’s loose-limbed body, hoping against hope. And Brill—

“Then I suggest we move out of here at once!” Brilliana called. “I’m going to stand up. Hold your fire.”

“I’m holding,” Erasmus called hoarsely.

“Good. I’m coming in now.”

Another wild goose chase, Judith told herself gloomily. No sooner had she gotten back to the serious job of shadowing Mike Fleming like he was the president or something, no sooner had she managed to breathe a series of extended gasps of relief at the news—that Source GREENSLEEVES fingerprints had been all over the casing and it was missing from inventory and Dr. Rand had punched in the PAL code and switched it off without any drama, and all the other weapons in its class were present and accounted for—than the colonel came down with his tail on fire and a drop everything order of the day: absolutely typical. “Leave a skeleton team on site and get everyone else up here now,” he said, all trace of his usually friendly exterior gone. Crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there the week before. Something’s eating him, she’d realized, and left it to Rich Hall to ask what the rush job was and get his head bitten off.

Which was why, four hours later, she was sitting in the back seat of an unmarked police car behind officers O’Grady and Pike, keeping an eye on a strip mall and a field with a big top in it and a sign saying HISTORY FAIRE outside.

“What is it we’re supposed to be looking for, ma’am?” Pike asked, mildly enough.

“I’ll tell you when I see it.” The waiting was getting to her. She glanced once more at the laptop with the cellular modem and the GPS receiver sitting next to her. Seven red dots pocked the map of Concord like a disease. Updated in real time by the colonel’s spooky friends Bob and Alice, no less, the laptop could locate a phone to within a given GSM cell…but that took in the mall, the field, and a couple of streets on either side. “There are tricks we can play with differential signal strength analysis to pin down exactly where a phone is,” Smith had told her, “but it takes time. So go and sit there and keep your eyes peeled while we try to locate it.”

The mall was about as busy—or as quiet—as you’d expect on any weekday around noon. Cars came, cars went. A couple of trucks rumbled past, close enough to the parked police car to rock it gently on its suspension. O’Grady had parallel-parked in front of a hardware store just beside the highway, ready to move.

“We could be here a while,” she said quietly. “Just as long as it isn’t a wild goose chase.”

“I didn’t think you people went on wild goose chases,” said Pike. Then she caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He reddened.

“We try not to,” she said dryly, keeping her face still. Her FBI credentials were still valid, and if anyone checked them out they’d get something approximating the truth: on long-term assignment to Homeland Security, do not mess with this woman. “We’re expecting company.”

“Like that?” O’Grady gestured through the window. Herz tracked his finger, and stifled a curse. On the screen beside her, an eighth red dot had lit up in her cell.

“It’s possible.” She squinted at the coach. Men were coming out of the big top to open the gate, admitting it.

The laptop beeped. A ninth red dot on the map—and another coach of HISTORY FAIRE folks was slowing down to turn into the field.

“Just what do they do at a history faire anyway?” asked Pike. “Hey, will you look at that armor!”

“Count them, please,” Judith muttered, pulling out her own phone. She speed-dialed a number. “Larry? I’ve got two coachloads that showed up around the same time as two more positives. Can you give me a background search on—” she squinted through her compact binoculars, reading off the number plates “—and forward it to Eric? He’s going to want to know how many to bring to the party.”

“What’s that they’re carrying?” Pike grunted.

Judith blinked, then focused on a group of men in armor, lugging heavy kit bags in through the door of the marquee. “This doesn’t add up—” she began. Then one of the armored figures lifted the awning higher, to help his mates: and she got a glimpse at what was going on inside.

“Officers, we’re not dressed for this party and I think we should get out of here right now.”

“But they—” began Pike.

“Listen to the agent.” O’Grady grimaced and started the engine. “Okay, where do you want me to go, ma’am?”

“Let’s just get out of the line of sight. Keep moving, within a couple of blocks. I’m going to phone for backup.”

“Is it a terror cell? Here?”

She met his worried eyes in the mirror. “Not as such,” she said grimly, “but it’s nothing your department can handle. Once you drop me off you’re going to be throwing up a cordon around the area: my people will take it from here.” She hit a different speed-dial button. “Colonel? Herz. You were right about what’s going on here. I’m pulling out now, and you’re good to go in thirty…”

Rudi squinted into the sunlight and swore as he tried to gauge the wind speed. The walls of Castle Hjorth loomed before him like granite thunderclouds—except they’re far too close to the ground, aren’t they? He shook his head, fatigue adding its leaden burden to his neck muscles, and glanced at the air speed indicator once more. Thirty-two miles per hour, just above stall speed, too high… the nasty buzzing, flapping noise from the left wing was quieter, though, the ripstop nylon holding. He leaned into the control bar, banking to lose height. Small figures scurried around the courtyard below him as he spotted the crude wind sock he’d improvised over by the pump house. Okay, let’s get this over with.

The ultralight bounced hard on the cobblestones, rattling him painfully from spine to teeth, and he killed the engine. For a frightening few seconds he wondered if he’d misjudged the rollout, taking it too near the carriages drawn up outside the stables—but the crude brakes bit home in time, stopping him with several meters to spare. “Phew,” he croaked. His lips weren’t working properly and his shoulders felt as stiff as planks: he cleared his throat and spat experimentally, aiming for a pile of droppings.

Rudi had originally intended to go and find Riordan and make his report as soon as he landed, but as he took his hands off the control bar he felt a wave of fatigue settle over his shoulders like a leaden blanket. Flying the ultralight was a very physical experience—no autopilots here!—and he’d been up for just over three hours, holding the thing on course in the sky with his upper arms. His hands ached, his face felt as if it was frozen solid, and his shoulders were stiff—though not as stiff as they’d have been without his exercise routine. He unstrapped himself slowly, like an eighty-year-old getting out of a car, took off his helmet, and was just starting on his post-flight checklist when he heard a shout from behind. “Rudi!”

He looked round. It was, of course, Eorl Riordan, in company with a couple of guards. He didn’t look happy. “Sir.” He stood up as straight as he could.

“Why didn’t you report in?” demanded the eorl.

Rudi pointed mutely at the remains of the radio taped to the side of the trike. “I came as fast as I could. Let me make this safe, and I’ll report.”

“Talk while you work,” said Riordan, a trifle less aggressively. “What happened?”

Rudi unplugged the magneto—no point risking some poor fool chopping their arm off by playing with the prop—and began to check the engine for signs of damage. “They shot at me from the battlements and the gate-house,” he said, kneeling down to inspect the mounting brackets. “Took out the radio, put