The Merchant’s War полностью

"Wow, that's ugly all right." 9/11 had been bad enough: the nightmare Smith was dangling before him was infinitely worse. "Anything else?"

"Yep." The colonel stood up. "From now on, until you're through with this thing or we call it off, you're in a box. We don't want you in day-to-day contact with the organization. The less you know, the less you can give away."

"But I- oh. You're thinking, if they kidnap me-"

"Yes, that's what we're afraid of."

"Right." Mike swallowed. "So. I'm to tell Mrs. Beckstein about Matt's bomb threat, and we either want it handed over right now, or convincing evidence that he was bluffing. Otherwise, they're looking at retaliation in kind. What else?"

"You give her the mobile phone and tell her who it connects to. There's a deal on the table that she might find interesting." Smith nodded to himself. "And there's one other thing you can pass on at the same time."

"Yes?"

"Tell her we're working on the world-walking mechanism. Her window of opportunity for negotiation is open right now-but if she waits too long, it's going to slam shut." He stood up. "Once we aren't forced to rely on captured couriers, as soon as we can send the 82nd Airborne across, we aren't going to need the Clan anymore. And we want her to know that."

In Otto's opinion one camp was much like another: the only difference was how far the stink stretched. His majesty's camp was better organized than most, but with three times as many men it paid to pay attention to details like the latrines. King Egon might not like the tinkers, but he was certainly willing to copy their obsession with hygiene if it kept his men from the pest. And so Otto rode with his retinue, tired and dusty from the road, past surprisingly tidy rows of tents and the larger pavilions of their eorls and lords, towards the big pavilion at the heart of the camp-in order to ask the true whereabouts of his majesty.

The big pavilion wasn't hard to find-the royal banner living from the tall mast anchored outside it would have been a giveaway, if nothing else-but Otto's eyes narrowed at the size of the guard detachment waiting there. Hither he mistrusts one of his own, or the Muff is doubled, he thought. Handing his horse's reins to one of his hand-men he swung himself down from the saddle, wincing slightly as he turned towards the three guards in household surcoats approaching from the side of the pavilion. "Who's in charge here?" he demanded.

"I am." The tallest of them tilted his helmet back.

Otto stiffened in shock, then immediately knelt, heart in mouth with fear: "My liege, I did not recognize you-"

"You weren't meant to." Egon smiled thinly. "No shame attaches. Rise, Otto, and walk with me. You brought your company?"

"Yes- all who arc fit to ride. And your messenger, Sir Geraunt."

"Good." The king carefully shifted the strap on his exotic and lethal weapon, pointing the muzzle at the ground as he walked around the side of the tent. Otto noticed the two other household guards following, barely out of earshot. They, too, carried black, strangely proportioned witch weapons. "I've got something to show you." "Sire?" Behind him, Heidlor was keeping his immediate bodyguard together. Good man. The king's behavior was disturbingly unconventional-

"The witches can walk through another world," re-marked Egon. "They can ambush you if you keep still and they know where you are. Armies are large, they attract spies. Constant movement is the best defense. That, and not making a target of one's royal self by wearing gilded armor and sleeping in the largest tent."

Ah. Otto nodded. So there was a reason for all this strangeness, after all. "What would you have me do, sire?"

Behind the royal pavilion there was a hummock ofs mounded-up earth. Someone-many someones-had labored to build it up from the ground nearby, and then cut a narrow trench into it. "Pay attention." His majesty marched along the trench, which curved as it cut into the mound. Otto followed him, curious as to what his majesty might find so interesting in a heap of soil. "Ah, here we are." The trench descended until the edges were almost out of reach above him, then came to an abrupt end in an open, circular space almost as large as the royal pavilion. The muddy door was lined with rough-cut planks: four crates were spaced around the walls, as far apart as possible. The king placed a proprietorial hand on one of the crates. "What do you make of it?"

Otto blanked for a moment. He'd been expecting something, but this... "Spoils?" he asked, slowly.

"Very good!" Egon grinned boyishly. "Yes, I took these from the witches. Hopefully they don't realize they're missing, yet. Tonight, another one should arrive."

"But they're-" Otto stared. "Treasure?" His eyes narrowed. "Their demon blasting powder?"