The Merchant’s War полностью

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. Burge-son'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 having difficulty coming to terms with the ambush. "They were trying to kill me. No warnings."

"Yes." He raised one eyebrow. "Maybe your friend was under closer surveillance than he realized."

Miriam shuddered. "Eel's get out of here," she suggested.

It took them a while to make their connection. The car dropped them off near a suburban railway platform, from which they made their way to a streetcar stop and then via a circuitous route Erasmus had evidently planned to throw off any curious followers. But an hour later they were waiting on a railway platform in downtown Boston, not too far from the site of Back Bay Station in Miriam's home world. Geography dictates railroads, she told herself as another smoky locomotive wheezed and puffed through the station, belching steam towards the arched cast-iron ceiling trusses. I wonder what else it dictates? The answer wasn't hard to guess: she'd seen the beggars waiting outside the ticket hall, hoping for a ride out west, Erasmus nodded to himself beside her, then tensed. "Look," he said, "I do believe that's ours."

Miriam glanced towards the end of the long, curving

platform, through the thin haze of steam. "Really?" The long ant column of carriages approaching the platform seemed to vanish into the infinite distance. It was certainly long enough to be a transcontinental express train.

"Carriage eleven, upper deck." He squinted towards it. "We've got a bit of a walk..."

The Northern Continental was a city on wheels- wheels six French feet apart, the track gauge nearly half as wide again as the ordinary trains. The huge double-deck carriages loomed overhead, brass handrails gleaming around the doors at either end. Burgeson's expensive passes did more than open doors: uniformed porters took their suitcases and carried them upstairs, holding the second and third class passengers at bay while they boarded. Miriam looked around in astonishment. "This is ridiculous!"

Erasmus smiled lopsidedly. "You don't like it?"

"It's not that-" Miriam walked across to the sofa facing the wall of windows and sat down, bemused. The walls of the compartment were paneled in polished oak as good as anything Duke Angbard had in his aerie at Fort Lofslrom, and if the floor wasn't carpeted in hand-woven Persian rugs, she was no judge of carpet. It reminded her of the expensive hotels she'd stayed at in Boston, when she'd been trying to set up a successful technology transfer business and impress the local captains of industry. "Does this convert into a bed, or...?"

"The bedrooms are through there." Erasmus pointed at the other end of the lounge. "The bathroom is just past the servants' quarters-"

"Servants' quarters?"

Erasmus looked at her oddly. "Yes, I keep forgetting. Labor is expensive where you come from, isn't it?"

Miriam looked around again. "Wow. We're here for the next three or four days?"

A distant whistle cut through the window glass, and with a nearly undetectable jerk the carriage began to move.