Free The Trade of Queens by Charles Stross Page B

pub, unbeknownst to its owner, was colocated with a trackless forest clearing in the northern Sudtmarkt—one carved out with sweat and axe and saw by Cho’s sons. Eldest had dealt with Reynolds before, and with the Polis, and was under no illusions about the hazards of dining with devils in Secret Security Police uniforms. “Place two reliable bearers in the exit, and two armed guards. Find someone who can pass as white, and put him behind the bar with a shotgun to cover my retreat. He can be the bartender. Put another in the kitchen, who can at least provide cold cuts and soup if our guest is hungry.”
    The pub was a theater: Reynolds and Huan had both prepared scripts for the other’s benefit. The only question remaining was that of whose review would be more favorable.
    *   *   *
    Eight o’clock; the sky was still bright, but the shops were mostly shuttered, the costermongers and peddlers and rag-and-bone men and beggars had mostly slunk away, and the front windows of the pub were dark. Reynolds surveyed it professionally as he approached along the pavement. He’d swapped his uniform for a suit of clothes as ill-fitting—even moth-nibbled—as any he had worn during the long desperate years on the run. On the far side of the road, a couple of dusty idlers clustered near a corner; he glanced away. Down the street, a steamer sat by the curb, curtains drawn in its passenger compartment. All was as it should be. He nodded, then turned back towards the door and rapped the head of his cane on it twice.
    A spy-slot slid aside. “We’re shut.”
    â€œTell your master an old friend calls.” Reynolds kept his voice low. “Remember New Catford to him.”
    The spy-slot closed. A moment later, the door opened. Reynolds slid inside.
    The pub was indeed short on customers, but as the barman shot the bolts and returned to his place, Reynolds was intrigued by the appearance of the couple sitting at the one sound table, each with a glass of beer to hand. The old Chinaman he recognized, after a pause: It was indeed the gangmaster and smuggler from New Catford who had called himself Cheung. But who was the middle-aged white man? Questions, questions. Reynolds smiled broadly as he approached the table and Cheung stood.
    â€œAh, Citizen Reynolds!” cried Cheung—Reynolds suppressed a wince—and the other fellow stood, somewhat slowly. “How wonderful to see you prospering so in these harsh times. Please, this is my associate Dr. ven Hjalmar, a physician. Please have a seat. Beer? Spirits? Have you eaten?”
    Reynolds negotiated the social minefield and sat, without glancing at the bartender—whose impassivity told him more than he needed to know about his loyalties. Most professional, he decided: Cheung clearly knew what he was about. Which suggested a simple wrap-up might be difficult—but then, the presence of the doctor implied that this might be rather more complex than the usual pathetic blackmail attempt. “A beer would be welcome. I gather you had a business proposal you wanted to bring to my attention?”
    â€œOh yes, indeed.” Cheung smiled happily. “To your very good health!” He raised his glass. Reynolds perforce followed suit and submitted to another five minutes of trivial niceties. “We considered putting some elements of this proposal to you all those years ago, in Catford, but the unfortunate excess of zeal displayed by the Polis impressed upon us the need for discretion. Now, however, anything we choose to confide in you is unlikely to be beaten out of you by the royalist inquisitors. So: another toast, to our future business success!”
    Reynolds blinked as he answered the toast: This was very much not what he’d been expecting. “I’m afraid you have the better of me,” he admitted. “What business do you have in mind?”
    Cheung glanced around before he replied.