House of Reeds

The Horumkel Baths Street of the Eye-Shield Jewelers, Parus

Shrouded by a cloud of soft, billowing steam, Itzpalicue leaned back against glistening marble and closed her eyes. The stone felt cool against her thin back and she clasped both hands on a bare stomach. The inside of her eyelids began to yield up images – a little fuzzy, the humidity interfered with the commcast receiver – but still clear enough to make out a scene occurring not too far away.

She looked down from a ribbed ceiling, the spybug hidden among old cobwebs beaded with dust. Below her, the long trestle tables of a cabinetmaker's workshop had been cleared away. A pair of Jehanan in bulking robes and face-shrouding cowls unlatched a rectangular plastic case. The slate-colored lid rolled back, revealing two wicked-looking tubes stenciled with Imperial military script. There was a sibilant trill from the natives, a sound the old Mйxica recognized as pleased laughter. Each day she spent among these people yielded up more of their body language, slang and private conversation to her. Their language was almost musical, and she allowed – with some disdain – their poetry was affecting, even to her, a human with the wrong kind of ear to appreciate its subtleties.

"There are sixteen more in this shipment," the human standing across the table said, his voice a little tinny after being filtered through the audio pickup on the spybug, broadcast scrambled to a Mirror relay on the roof of a nearby pottery kiln, tightbeamed back to Lachlan's operations center and then retransmitted to the dropwire in the back of her skull. "Consider these a gift, from those who hold the same enemies as yours."

One of the Jehanan – not the leader of this particular cell of the darmanarga moktar, but his spokesman – ran a supple, scaled hand across the anti-aircraft missile in the portage case. "We need more of theesse," he said, in passable NГЎhuatl. "Your predecessor offered two hundreds of them."

Did he? Itzpalicue wondered if the Flower Priest who had made the initial contact was really so bold. A real agent of the illegal, constantly hunted and thoroughly dangerous Swedish Royal Intelligence Service – the HKV – would not have made such a daring play. The Swedes would have given these creatures the tools and diagrams to make their own missiles. Much less costly than actually shipping two hundred 'live-eye' hunter-seekers to such an obscure world. Itzpalicue was equally abstemious where her own budget was concerned. But here the xochiyaotinime are footing the bill – so cost is of little concern as long as we make a good show.

Another of the Jehanan nobles examined the missiles with a handheld sensor. After a moment's scrutiny, apparently satisfied, he coughed something unintelligible. The spokesman repeated his question.

"They are already on-planet," the Flower Whisperer said, producing a folded paper from his Parusian-styled overcloak. As it happened, the agent was one of Itzpalicue's 'mice' infiltrated into the xochiyaotinime team on Jagan. He was, of course, pretending to be a Swedish agent-provocateur. "Here are contact directions to meet someone who will help you move the rockets to a safe location of your choosing. But not for another four days."

Itzpalicue's technicians were watching on the spybug feed from Operations, waiting to see what kind of check the Jehanan would make before accepting the shipment. They would need time to make appropriate adjustments to the rest of the missiles. The old Mйxica did not intend for more than one in four of the rockets to work properly, once things came to violence here on Jagan. While the Flower Priests and the natives were expendable, she had no desire for the Army to spend too much blood in victory.

One of the darmanarga stirred and Itzpalicue saw a ripple of reaction sweep the others. The leader of this cell, she judged, watching their postures carefully. Once, long ago, this race expressed hierarchy through physical reactions, many lower, one higher. Those instincts have grown thin over time, but they are not yet gone. Interesting. The leader – his features were hidden by a deep cowl – said something the spybug did not pick up. The spokesman turned back to the human.

"We have assked before, nahwah, but we asssk again. Why do your clanss help uss? We are not of the same blood, same stock…"

Itzpalicue shifted a little on the stone bench, feeling sweat ooze from every pore. Fresh steam surged up from pipes laid under the perforated floor. The bathhouse was very old, every surface worn smooth as glass, the local travertine gaining a translucent, almost fleshy, shine. In the last four meetings she'd monitored – spread across the entire length and breadth of the valley of the Phison – the darmanarga representatives had asked a variation of the same question. Each time in the same way – accepting the goods, then posing the question as a seeming afterthought.

They are trying to cross-check, she thought, watching her agent's response closely. Lachlan needs to winnow their secure channels from the usual chatter. I need to know what they think they know.

"We know what will happen," the Flower Whisperer said in a somber voice, "if you do not receive better weapons. The Empire understands only strength. Without our assistance, all your valor will be useless in the face of superior arms. Then you will be little more than slaves. But if you fight, if you show a warrior's spirit, then they will respect you and see you as worthy of being allies."

The leader was whispering in the spokesman's ear again, claw tapping nervously on his subordinate's shoulder. "You…do not believe we can defeat the Empire?"

"No. Not alone. Not without our help."

Itzpalicue could feel, even through the video feed, the agent sweating with tension. Not so comfortable as being at the baths, she thought in amusement, with a good scrub and oil waiting.

"Without military-grade spacecraft," the Whisperer continued, "you will not be able to drive the Empire from your world." The human looked around the shop, indicating the lengths of cured golden timber stacked against the walls. "Beautiful tables and chairs will not suffice. Your people need time to build the industry required to put starships into service."

A bitter hissing rose from the Jehanan, and from her vantage point Itzpalicue saw the leader's clawed hand dig tight into the spokesman's shoulder. For a moment, something seemed familiar about the way the moktar cell leader was standing. The old Mйxica made a mental note to review the recording when she returned to her rooms. Another hurried conversation passed among the natives. Then the spokesman made a passable imitation of a human nod.

"We undersstand," the Jehanan rumbled, gesturing for two of his juniors to take the portage case in hand. "Patience iss required."

Do you? Itzpalicue sat up and opened her eyes. Time to be oiled. People are rarely patient about destiny.

An hour later, refreshed, the old Mйxica strolled slowly down a winding street crowded with narrow-fronted shops. Elaborate hand-painted signs in local script ran up the face of each building. There were no windows, only reinforced wooden doors. From what she could read of the ornate lettering, this was a district of jewelers and fine metalsmiths: a rare trade in the valley of the Phison! There was a great deal of traffic, though most flowed past Itzpalicue, heading downhill. Somewhere ahead – the sound was muffled and distorted by the buildings – there was a cacophony of gongs and drums.

Even here, where iron and copper are so rare, the whore-priests can still afford metal instruments to raise a heavenly noise.

Anger clouded up, disturbing the quiet she'd gained in the bathhouse. She slowed her pace, breathing steadily, forcing her mind to emptiness, until the spurt of rage died away. The old woman did not care for priests of any race or religion. They were all much the same to her. Working with the vast clerical hierarchy supporting the Empire taxed her self-control. The irony of using priestly techniques to control her emotions was not lost on the Mirror agent. A flint blade has no master but the hand on the haft, she thought, and then felt a trickle of fury again. Even my aphorisms are infected with their bile. A well-trained memory – another gift of the religious calmecac which had been her home for the first sixteen years of her life – was sometimes a burden. She remembered the exact time and place she had first heard that particular phrase.

There had been a boy, of course. Even now, so long after everything had become ashes and broken bone scattered on the ground, she remembered his green eyes. Lingering pain dulled their shine. That boy was worthy, she thought sadly. His heart was still pure. As was mine. Unbidden, he was singing in her memory, lying on velvety grass, the shadow of sycamores painting his bare brown chest.

Gold and black butterflies are sipping nectar.

The flower bursts into bloom.

Ah, my friends, it is my heart!

I send down a shower of white petals…

The song had always made her glad. Even now, standing in the shade of an alien building on some world beyond the sight of a boy and girl staring up at the brilliant azure sky over Mйxico, her heart lifted a little. The festival procession passed away down the hill. The air stirred with the smell of cooking, of wood smoke, the harsh cinnamon odor of their sweat. The city was alive, humming and breathing. She closed both eyes, leaning her forehead on the cane.

Breathe in. The river was flowing, slow and sure, rolling down from distant, snow-capped mountains. Twigs were floating in the saffron water, offering brief perches for leather-winged avians hunting eel-like fish.

Breathe out. Trolleys rumbled down curving streets, crowded with passengers heading home for the midday meal. They swayed from side to side as the red-and-black car rattled around a turn.

Breathe in. Somewhere children were learning to dance, three-toed feet stamping in time on a wooden floor. A withered old male was tapping time on a tiny drum.

Breathe out. Workmen were laughing – a rattling, hissing sound – as they raised the wooden frame of a wireless comm tower on the roof of a hotel. Their foreman sitting in the shade of a sign advertising fang-cleaning powder, running gnarled hands over the smooth, perfect shape of the relay. He had never held so much metal in his hands before.

Breathe in. A boy on the street, not so far away, felt his blood begin to race with mating fire for the first time. He was afraid, clutching his mother's tail painfully tight, trying not to stumble over his feet.

Breathe out. Far away, at the edge of the old woman's perception, a cold emptiness moved effortlessly through the flow of the city.

Itzpalicue's eyes flew open and her withered old hands tightened convulsively on the cane.

There is something here. She licked her lips and glanced around, feeling fear curdle in her throat. I truly felt that. I am not imagining things.

With a conscious effort, she settled her racing heart, closed her eyes, shut out the cheerful noise surrounding her and tried to regain the instant of clear perception. Once more the fluid, vibrant sensation of the city flooded into her consciousness. She remained standing quietly, breathing steadily, for nearly an hour. Though she learned a great deal about the street around her, and even about the district, the brief feeling of cold nothingness did not return.

Her stomach growled and Itzpalicue opened her eyes, admitting defeat, if only to herself. The sun was beginning to set, painting the ancient buildings with red and gold and amber. The boulevard was beginning to empty as the natives made their way home for the evening rites and, eventually, last-meal. The old Mйxica set off for the house she had rented near the Legation.

At each end of the street, shadows stirred and the lean shapes of her Arachosians emerged, moving as she moved, their knives, guns, and woven bandoliers of ammunition mostly hidden under heavy cloaks and baggy, cowl-like sun-hats. Seeing them – she had felt their presence all along – Itzpalicue felt relieved. At least some footpad won't try and steal my hairpins.

The presence she'd glimpsed so briefly was another matter.

Something odd was happening on the fringes of the Empire of the Mйxica. Itzpalicue knew for a fact the Imperial government had yet to fit the scattered bits and pieces of the larger puzzle together into a recognizable shape. The Mirror only knew – she only knew – because they spied upon the activities of the nauallis, the priests who watched at the edges of things. The nauallis were not kindly disposed towards the Mirror-Which-Reveals, though they often acted in concert when a threat to the Empire was discovered.

The nauallis had yet to officially inform the Mirror, or the Emperor, of their awareness of an unknown power active amongst the Rim colonies. Itzpalicue wondered if the priests truly believed a threat was growing on these isolated worlds. It was possible the priests had not yet conferred enough to piece together all of the data available to the Mirror. Individually, the 'mice' were not as perceptive as the nauallis. Nearly every agent lacked the skills and talents of the least worthy nagual, but there were thousands more of them. And all of their reports flowed back to AnГЎhuac where enormous resources were devoted to sifting all that chaff for whole kernels.

One of those kernels – little more than a pine-nut – had brought Itzpalicue to Jagan.

Even before the arrival of the first Flower Priest, before the Fleet, before the foolish prince had made such a spectacle of himself, something was happening under the bloated red sun of Bharat. Initial reports indicated an odd pattern of off-planet purchases as Imperial trade picked up. Then one of the traveling 'mice' passing through the system had thought he'd seen an HKV agent in the Sobipurй marketplace. Yet, though the old woman had been on-planet for nearly a year now, she had not even caught a hint the Swedes were actually present in the sector. Their interests were always directed inwards, towards the older colonies, towards AnГЎhuac itself. They wanted to go home.

Itzpalicue had a sense, a feeling, of something inimical moving in the darkness. "Nothing more than smoke in rain," she grumbled. "How do you catch hold of mist?"

She hoped beating the bushes and shouting loudly would scare something into the open.

But will I recognize what it is, if I see it? The old woman shook her head, worried, and turned onto her own street. Thunder was beginning to growl in the heavy, humid sky. Her stomach answered, reminding her of a quick, spare breakfast. Time for dinner.