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Authors: Charles Stross
Tags: SF
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to lay siege to the Thorold Palace and he's issuing letters of attainder against us, promising our land to anyone who comes to his aid." Angbard's grin turned shark-like. "He's made his bid at last, gentlemen. The old high families have decided to cast their lot in with him, and we can't be having that. An example will have to be made. King Egon the Third is going to have one of the shortest reigns on record-and I'm calling this meeting because we need to establish who we're going to put on the throne once Egon is out of the way."
Hjalmar blanched. "You're talking about high treason!"
The old scar on Angbard's cheek twitched. "It's never treason if you win." His smile faded into a frown and he made a steeple of his fingers. "And I don't know about you gentlemen, but I see no alternative. Unless we are to hang-and I mean that entirely literally-we must grasp the reins of power directly. And the very first thing we must do is remove the usurper from the throne he's claimed."
* * *
Morning in Boston: a thick fog, stinking of coal dust and burned memories, swirled down the streets between the brown brick houses, blanketing the pavement and forming eddies in the wake of the streetcars. Behind a grimy window in a tenement flat on Holmes Alley a man coughed in his sleep, snorted, then twitched convulsively. The distant factory bells tolled dolorously as he rolled over, clutching the battered pillow around his head. It was an hour past dawn when a bell of a different kind broke through his torpor, tinkling in the hallway outside the kitchen.
The gaunt, half-bald man sat up and rubbed his eyes, which fastened on a cheap tin alarm clock that had stopped, its hands mockingly pointed at the three and the five on the dial. He focused on it blearily and swore, just as the doorbell tinkled again.
For someone so tall and thin, Erasmus Burgeson could move rapidly. In two spidery strides he was at the bedroom door, nightgown (lapping around his ankles; three more strides and his feet were on the chilly stone slabs of the staircase down to the front door. Upon reaching which he rattled the chain and drew back the bolts, finally letting the door slide an inch ajar. "Who is it?" he demanded hoarsely as an incipient wheeze caught his ribs in its iron fist.
"Post Office electrograph for a Mister Burgeson?" piped a youthful voice. Erasmus looked down. It was, indeed, a Post Office messenger urchin, barefoot in the cold but wearing the official cap and gloves of that institution, and carrying a wax-sealed envelope. "Thruppence-ha'penny to pay?"
"Wait one." He turned and fumbled behind the door for his overcoat, in one pocket of which he always kept some change. Three and a half pence was highway robbery for an electrograph: the fee had gone up two whole pennies in the past year, a sure sign that the Crown was desperate for revenue. "Here you are."
The urchin shoved the envelope through the door and dashed off with his money, obviously eager to make his next delivery. Burgeson shut and bolted the door, then made his way back upstairs, this time plodding laboriously, a little wince crossing his face with each cold stone step. His feet were still warm and oversensitive from bed: with the fire embargo in effect on account of the smog, the chill of the stairs bit deep into his middle-aged bones.
At the top step he paused, finally giving in to the retching cough that had been building up. He inspected his handkerchief anxiously: there was no blood. Good. It was nearly two months, now, and the cough was just the normal wheezing of a mild asthmatic caught out by one of Boston's notorious yellow-gray smogs. Erasmus placed the electrograph envelope on the stand at the lop of the staircase and shuffled into the kitchen. The cooking range was cold, but the new, gas-fired samovar was legal: he lit it off, then poured water into the chamber and, while it was heating, took the bottle of miracle medicine from the back of the cupboard and took two more of
Hjalmar blanched. "You're talking about high treason!"
The old scar on Angbard's cheek twitched. "It's never treason if you win." His smile faded into a frown and he made a steeple of his fingers. "And I don't know about you gentlemen, but I see no alternative. Unless we are to hang-and I mean that entirely literally-we must grasp the reins of power directly. And the very first thing we must do is remove the usurper from the throne he's claimed."
* * *
Morning in Boston: a thick fog, stinking of coal dust and burned memories, swirled down the streets between the brown brick houses, blanketing the pavement and forming eddies in the wake of the streetcars. Behind a grimy window in a tenement flat on Holmes Alley a man coughed in his sleep, snorted, then twitched convulsively. The distant factory bells tolled dolorously as he rolled over, clutching the battered pillow around his head. It was an hour past dawn when a bell of a different kind broke through his torpor, tinkling in the hallway outside the kitchen.
The gaunt, half-bald man sat up and rubbed his eyes, which fastened on a cheap tin alarm clock that had stopped, its hands mockingly pointed at the three and the five on the dial. He focused on it blearily and swore, just as the doorbell tinkled again.
For someone so tall and thin, Erasmus Burgeson could move rapidly. In two spidery strides he was at the bedroom door, nightgown (lapping around his ankles; three more strides and his feet were on the chilly stone slabs of the staircase down to the front door. Upon reaching which he rattled the chain and drew back the bolts, finally letting the door slide an inch ajar. "Who is it?" he demanded hoarsely as an incipient wheeze caught his ribs in its iron fist.
"Post Office electrograph for a Mister Burgeson?" piped a youthful voice. Erasmus looked down. It was, indeed, a Post Office messenger urchin, barefoot in the cold but wearing the official cap and gloves of that institution, and carrying a wax-sealed envelope. "Thruppence-ha'penny to pay?"
"Wait one." He turned and fumbled behind the door for his overcoat, in one pocket of which he always kept some change. Three and a half pence was highway robbery for an electrograph: the fee had gone up two whole pennies in the past year, a sure sign that the Crown was desperate for revenue. "Here you are."
The urchin shoved the envelope through the door and dashed off with his money, obviously eager to make his next delivery. Burgeson shut and bolted the door, then made his way back upstairs, this time plodding laboriously, a little wince crossing his face with each cold stone step. His feet were still warm and oversensitive from bed: with the fire embargo in effect on account of the smog, the chill of the stairs bit deep into his middle-aged bones.
At the top step he paused, finally giving in to the retching cough that had been building up. He inspected his handkerchief anxiously: there was no blood. Good. It was nearly two months, now, and the cough was just the normal wheezing of a mild asthmatic caught out by one of Boston's notorious yellow-gray smogs. Erasmus placed the electrograph envelope on the stand at the lop of the staircase and shuffled into the kitchen. The cooking range was cold, but the new, gas-fired samovar was legal: he lit it off, then poured water into the chamber and, while it was heating, took the bottle of miracle medicine from the back of the cupboard and took two more of
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