Read Online The Merchants' War by Charles Stross - Free Book Online

later, when events began to spin out of control, that he recognized it for what it was-the very worst disaster to befall the Clan during his tenure as chief of external security.
    This week his grace was staying on the other side, in a secluded mansion in upstate New York that he had acquired from the estate of a deceased record producer who had invested most of the money his bands had earned in building his own unobtrusive shrine to Brother Eater. (Not that they used the Hungry God's true name in this benighted land, but the principle was the same.) The heavily wooded hundred-acre lot, discreet surveillance and security fittings, and the soundproofed basement rooms that had once served as a recording studio, all met with the duke's approval. So did the building's other-side location, a hilly bluff in the wilds of the Nordmarkt that had been effectively doppelgangered by a landslide until his men had tunneled into it to install the concealed exits, supply dumps, and booby-trapped passages that safely demanded.
    Of course the location wasn't perfect in all respects- in Nordmarkt it was a good ten miles from the nearest highway, itself little more than an unpaved track, and in its own world it was a good fifty-minute drive outside Rochester-but it met with most of his requirements, including the most important one of all: that nobody outside his immediate circle of retainers knew where it was.
    These were desperate times. The defection of the duke's former secretary, Matthias, had been a catastrophe for his personal security. He had been forced to immediately quarantine all his former possessions in the United States, the private jet along with the limousines and the houses: all out of reach for now, all contaminated by Matthias's insidiously helpful management. He had holdouts, of course, the personal accounts held with offshore institutions that not even his secretary had known about-Duke Lofstrom had grown up during a time of bloody-handed paranoia, and never completely trusted anyone-but by his best estimate, it had cost him at least one hundred and twenty-six million dollars. And that was just how much it had cost him, as an individual. To the Clan as a whole, this disaster had cost upwards of two billion dollars. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that some of the more angry or desperate cousins might try to take their share out of his hide.
    Events started with a phone call shortly after 11p.m. Or rather, they started with what passed for a phone call where the duke was concerned: although he received it on an old-fashioned handset, it arrived at the safe house by a circuitous route involving a very off-the-books patch into the local phone company exchange, dark fiber connections between anonymous Internet hosts, and finally an encrypted data call to a stolen mobile phone handset. Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, might write his personal correspondence with a fountain pen and leave the carrying of mobile phones to his subordinates, but his communications security was the best that the Clan's money could buy.
    When the phone rang, the duke had just finished dining with the lords-comptrollers of the Post Office: the two silver-haired eminences who were responsible for the smooth running of the Clan's money-making affairs to the same degree that he was responsible for their collective security. The brandy had been poured, the last plates removed, and he had been looking forward to a convivial exploration of the possibilities for expansion in the new territories when there was a knock on the dining room side door.
    "Excuse me," he nodded to his lordship. Baron Griben ven Hjalmar, causing him to pause in mid-flow: "Enter!"
    It was Carlos, one of his security detail, looking apologetic. "The red telephone, my lord. It's ringing in your office."
    "Ah." The duke glanced at his dining companions: "I must apologize, perforce, but this requires my immediate attention. I shall return presently."
    "Surely, sir." Baron ven Hjalmar