The Revolution Business

'Son, I don't care if you're f- sleeping with the Russian ambassador's grandson; all I care is that you're not keeping secrets from me, you're not going to embarrass me in front of an internal affairs polygraph, and you're up to, to listening in a bunch of conversations in gook-speak and translating them into English for me. And keeping a lid on it. So. Is there anything you really don't want to be quizzed about during your clearance interview?'

'I-' the penny dropped. 'It's not CLEANSWEEP that's so damn secret, is it?' he said without thinking. 'It's the content, isn't it? You've got some kind of source-'

'Mr. Fleming.' Dr. James's stare was leaden. 'What do we pay you for?'

Mike winced. 'Sorry. Forget I asked.' He took a deep breath.

'As for your question, I'm not blackmailable. Nothing to hide here.' He tapped his chest. 'So. When do I begin?'

'Soon as you go back to the office, son. You'll be scheduled for a full security re-cert within a couple of days, then I'll have some extra work for you. Which will go on your worksheet as routine admin, incidentally.' James nodded to himself. 'That should keep you busy right up until the invasion.'

'Invasion?' Mike echoed incredulously. 'You're going to invade the Gruinmarkt?'

'We're going to have to sooner or later. Unless you've got any better ideas for how we ought to handle the existence of such a major security threat to American soil?…'

'But how?'

James cast Mike a knowing look. 'Ask me again when you're cleared.'

Reception committee

Baron Otto Neuhalle was afraid of very few things; the wrath of gods, the scorn of women, and the guns of his enemies were not among them. He was, however, utterly terrified of one man-Egon the First, former crown prince and now self-proclaimed monarch of Gruinmarkt. Egon was a handsome-faced, graceful, hale, and charismatic young man who had all the pity of a rattlesnake for those who failed him. Even if Otto hadn't failed yet, failure nevertheless looked disturbingly possible in light of the witch-clan's continuing occupation of the Hjalmar Palace. And the cloud of dust he could see from his vantage point near the brow of the hill was almost certainly the vanguard of Egon's army.

'Another hour, sir,' said Anders, who had materialized at his elbow while he peered through the witch-bought 'binoculars.'

'Nonsense, they'll be three at least-' He blinked. 'Wait. What will be another hour?'

'The ammunition, my lord.'

'Scheisse…' Otto turned back to the castle, barely visible behind its banked ramparts on the other side of the moat and the sloped killing apron. Bodies littered the ground before it, and clouds of smoke still billowed from the gatehouse his men had latterly abandoned. He'd gotten two of the witch-clan's machine guns out of the gatehouse to cover his soldiers' retreat, but things hadn't gone well: The enemy forces had laid down a stupefying volume of fire, and they'd brought some kind of artillery with them, not honest cannon but an arquebus- sized tube that belched fingers of flame that exploded on impact. And his gunners, undertrained, had burned through their ammunition too fast. They weren't supposed to counterattack for at least a day. If it hadn't been for that flying spy… he shook his head. The buzzing witch-bird would cut less ice with his majesty than the heat-warped machine gun barrels and prematurely expended stockpiles of valuable, irreplaceable cartridges. 'What word is there from Hern?'

'The waterway holds so far, my lord. That's recent.'

Otto nodded thoughtfully. The castle's dependence for fresh water on a buried culvert leading to the nearby river was a weakness. If the new defenders were foolish enough to rely on the well, or the casks in the cellar… no, they're not inexperienced. He glanced at a nearby soldier. 'You, March. Bring me paper. And pen. I have a report to write.'

'My lord.' March bowed and scurried back towards the hastily established headquarters tent.

And if I write well, will it save my neck? Otto suppressed a shudder. All told, it had been a good plan, and the witches had been on the back-foot for the past several weeks as the king's forces harried their homesteads and burned their crops-the plan to force them to counterattack in a place of his choosing, where they could be chopped up by the king's stealthily stolen machine guns and mines, was a good one. But the upstart clan of witchesturned-nobles had struck back viciously fast, and shown a good few surprises of their own, from the flying spy down. And they can walk through the shadow world, Otto reminded himself. Evidence of witchcraft, but he'd also seen a couple of them vanish in front of his own eyes: Otto was a believer. What could I do with an army like that? He raised his glasses again and peered at the castle. 'Sir Anders,' he said quietly. 'A general order. Be on watch for the dog that fails to bark in the night. If any man notices that the enemy have fallen silent for more than a quarter of a bell, they are to send word to me immediately, regardless of the hour of day or night.'

'Sir?' Anders raised a craggy brow.

'Who are we fighting, again?' Otto grinned sepulchrally as dawning understanding-and fear-crept across his hetman's face.

The dust cast up by the royal army crept closer over the next half hour as Otto scratched an abbreviated report, then sealed it in a hide tube and sent a messenger careening towards the vanguard. Occasionally he had one or another of his troops' pre-prepared positions light up the walls, or take careful aimed shots at the windows of the castle: The returning spasms of automatic fire were reassuringly solid, evidence that the enemy was not yet melting into shadows and mist that could reappear in his rear at any moment. Otto didn't waste his reprieve. His men were beginning to grumble about the amount of ditch-work he was making them dig, but his periodic rounds of the trenches and foxholes they were preparing kept the muttering under control. With a high, fine overcast to keep the sun off their necks, and no rain to bog them down, the weather wasn't giving them much to complain about-but if the witch-clan staged a breakout, or the king arrived to find the works incomplete, they'd have something to moan about for the rest of their lives, however short.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen across the apron in front of the castle (putting his snipers at a considerable disadvantage) when the first column of riders thundered up the valley floor and came to a stop by the guards. They didn't pause for long: After no small amount of shouting half a dozen of them walked on, mounts breathing heavily, towards the headquarters tent. Otto, who had been checking the second gun emplacement, steeled himself as he walked back downhill towards the group. He'd been expecting this moment, trying not to allow it to get in the way of his urgent defensive preparations for most of the day.

'Your Majesty.' He bowed deeply, but without flourish.

'Otto.' The golden boy's face was calm, but his eyes were stony. 'Your tent, please. We will have words.' The guards behind him sported strange black weapons, machine-pistols looted or stolen from the clan's dead.

'Yes, sire.' He gestured towards the tent. 'If you would follow me?'

'Certainly,' Egon said, easily enough, but Otto had a hard time pretending to ignore the two guards who preceded them, or the two who took up stations beside the tent.

Inside the tent, the young king turned to face Otto. 'What happened?' he asked. 'In your own words.'

'They counterattacked too early.' Otto frowned. 'We took the castle as planned. But we'd only been there for half a day when a witch-flying beneath a wing like a bat's-flew overhead. My men shot at him, but he got away. High up, high as an eagle. I redoubled my efforts to prepare the grounds, but only two hours later there was an explosion, then witch-troops everywhere. They came from inside the palace, as your majesty predicted, but they arrived before we were ready for them. Seven hours, I reckon, from our entry to their arrival.'

'Seven hours…' Egon stared at Otto measuringly, although Otto couldn't guess whether it might be for a medal or a noose. 'This flying witch. Describe what you saw.'

Otto felt himself burst into chilly perspiration. 'It made a buzzing noise, as of bees, only louder…' He described the ultralight haltingly, its arrival from the southwest and subsequent departure after overflying the castle.

'And three hours later they arrived in force,' Egon said musingly. 'What of your force did you recover?'