House of Reeds

The Petrel Townhouse Near the Court of the Resplendent King, Central Parus

Following an immaculately attired servant, Gretchen stepped out onto a broad porch. The veranda was high roofed, with exposed beams of pale wood converging on an open cupola. A fire burned beneath in an iron bowl. Smoke twisted up into the opening, disappearing out into a rain-streaked night. Another storm had moved over the city with sunset, hiding the lights of the skyscrapers with fog, drenching the streets with flurries of rain.

"Come, dear, sit." Straight-backed chairs had been placed beside the fire, surrounded by a palisade of gossamer mosquito netting. Mrs. Petrel lifted her head, firelight gleaming on her resting kimono. Subtle images of canes and herons and bent-winged swallows were picked out in delicate thread, dark blue on darker blue verging upon black. "There's room for two."

Gretchen bowed very properly, glad for the burst of calmedown her medband sent surging through her bloodstream. The whole setting made her very nervous. A dry voice – very much like Honorable Doctor Kelly from her graduate research seminar – was keen to point out, Your hostess's kimono is worth more than the Anderssen land-grant and all the timbering machinery. More than you'll make in ten years of grubbing in the dirt. More than…

"Thank you, Petrel-sana." Gretchen nodded politely to the servant – a tall, lean man with an impassive face and watery blue eyes – and sat. She shifted a little, unused to sitting on a chair, particularly one with such a straight back. "It is very gracious of you to meet with me."

"Nonsense." The older woman tucked one leg under the other and produced a pipe from the folds of her kimono. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Muru, do bring Mrs. Anderssen some tea – honey, thick, hot – not used to the chill of our Jehanan nights, are you?"

"No, ma'am." Gretchen forced herself to relax a little bit. "Shimanjin is very dry in comparison."

Petrel tamped tabac into her pipe and lifted a glowing punk from the fire. A spark leapt in finely cut leaves and she puffed quietly, letting the bowl draw at its own pace. "You'll get used to the weather, if you are here long enough. Until then…you'll be soaked with sweat and chilled at the same time."

A small folding table was set down between them, carrying two jadeite cups and a softly steaming kettle. Petrel nodded to the man and settled back, somehow contriving to slouch comfortably against the stiff wood. "Drink then – this is a native concoction, very restorative, perfectly safe." She smiled around the stem of the pipe.

Gretchen drank. The steaming liquid drove away the damp chill with admirable speed. The taste was unusual, more like drinking flowers than the sharp harsh bite of the black teas she could usually afford.

"I am sorry," she said, putting down the empty cup. "I tried to find you at the prince's reception to pay my respects, but there were so many people…are all of your parties so crowded?"

Mrs. Petrel laughed, shaking her head. "No. The Legation would be bankrupt if we put on such a show every month – or even every year. The presence of the Blessed Prince forced us to – ah – raise our bid or be driven out of the game. Such things are required…"

For an instant, the Legate's wife grew still in Gretchen's vision, face tight, eyes glittering with distaste. Thin curlicues of smoke froze in the bowl of the pipe. The woman's nostrils were drawn back, sharp little creases beside her generous mouth thrown in sharp relief by the firelight. Such a weight she is carrying…does her husband see? Does anyone?

"…or we'll simply be laughed out of the Diplomatic service." Mrs. Petrel sighed openly, frowning at Gretchen. "It would have been nice to see an honest face, dear. I am reliably informed however, that you had a little trouble – besides the press of the crowd? Some business with the Honorable Doctor SГє's reckless children?"

"It was nothing," Gretchen said carefully. Bad blood with the Tetzcoco faculty would only mean a reprimand from the field supervisor in her Company file. "Only a difference of opinion about the work."

"They do not like you." Petrel puffed on her pipe, contemplating the ruddy glow of the fire. "They are cheap, loud boys. Much like their patron. I spoke with dear Soumake about your request for permits and – as you know – his hands are tied by the existing grant of work-rights. Only the Tetzcoco-designated primary investigator can loosen those restrictions…and you see how he's responded to your mere presence on-planet."

"I understand." Gretchen could hear mild regret in the woman's voice. Petrel did not seem upset by the outcome, which Anderssen found entirely understandable. Why invite trouble for someone you barely know? Someone with no political connections to speak of? "Thank you for thinking of me. It was very gracious of you to make the effort."

"You're welcome, dear." Petrel stared moodily out through the arches lining the porch. The glistening, wet trunks of perfume trees made a fence between fire-light and the night. "I do not like the Honorable Doctor or the careless way he is pursuing his excavations down at Fehrupurй. Might as well be clearing the ruins with blasting putty… He is rude, not only to me, to you, but to his native workers and the local village nobility."

Gretchen watched the Legate's wife with growing unease. We've passed the polite part of receiving a visitor you barely know…shouldn't I be sent on mywaynow?

"My husband," the older woman said in a slow, careful voice, "is concerned about the political situation. Things are becoming unsettled here, even dangerous. I have spoken to him about Doctor Sege and his methods, but there are larger matters on his mind." Petrel shrugged, dark silk rustling. She gave Gretchen a wry smile. "You will have to be discrete during your stay."

Anderssen felt an odd sense of association slip over her. Two shards of pottery, then three, clicking together; the shape of a bowl, a plate, a vase coming together in her hands. Someone passed word on to the Company about the device, bringing me here. Someone who has extensive local contacts. Soumake? Through this woman? She started to sweat, goosebumps washing across her arms under the thin fabric of her shirt.

"Of course," Gretchen said, forcing a smile, starting to rise. "My apologies for wasting your time."

"Sitting with friends – particularly new ones – is never wasted." Petrel pointed firmly at the chair, then beckoned for her manservant. Gretchen sat down.

"Muru – bring us some poppyseed cakes please. Thank you." The older woman smiled around the pipe again, face wreathed in smoke, waiting for the manservant to leave the room. Then she sat a little forward, eyes glinting. "I've heard the festival of the gathering of the Nem in Takshila is very moving. A very ancient celebration, if you like that sort of thing. In fact, one of the oldest buildings on the planet is there, the famous 'House of Reeds.' "

Petrel looked up as the servant parted the netting and set a polished blue plate between them. A set of fresh, still-steaming-from-the-oven golden cakes were revealed. "Ah, just the thing. Here, my dear, try one – my great-grandmother's recipe. Delicious."

Gretchen bit into a cake, watching the Legate's wife warily while she ate.

Petrel leaned back in her chair again, face turned away from the dying embers in the grate. After a moment, she sat up a little and pointed out through the arches. "Do you see that bright star? There between the branches?"

Craning her head over, Gretchen managed to make out the steady, brilliant light. "Yes…" What now? This is becoming surreal… My groundside contact issupposed to be some smuggler with his hair in waxed braids, wearing too much cologne. We meet in an abandoned warehouse – the air charged with dust and diesel fumes and the smell of rust and burning insulation – not here, on a sixty-thousand-quill veranda, with servants and fresh poppyseed cakes on porcelain platters.

"An Imperial ship rides in orbit. You can see them when the angle of the sun is just right and the sky is clear… Muru there, he is my eyes and ears in the city, among the people. He says they have a tale told to children – of the 'star-which-returns.' Apparently, there is a parking orbit just visible from here…"

Petrel set down her pipe. Suddenly pensive, she rubbed her lower lip with a neatly manicured thumbnail. "Mrs. Anderssen, in truth, I wish I could put you and your two companions on the next starliner for the home systems. My husband has served on eight planets now, both as direct governor and as ambassador. We've been moving from place to place for nearly twenty years. Over all that time…Well, you start to develop a feeling for things." Her hands made a pushing-away gesture, eyes fixed on Gretchen. "Soon enough, Imperial citizens will not be able to walk the streets safely."

"I'll take care," Anderssen said. The older woman's voice had a funny tone – regret, pleading, warning – and the archaeologist suddenly turned and looked around the veranda. The servants stood quietly along the wall, faces in shadow. The furniture glowed in firelight, the mosquito netting obscured half-closed doorways into other rooms. She could hear the sound of water dripping from the perfume trees. Everything seemed very elegant, well-matched, perfectly placed. Her brief passage through the house reflected the same careful taste. How much does all this cost? An enormous amount, answered her grandmother's dry voice. How much does a Legate or Governor make on the Imperial payroll? Not enough, not for such luxury.

She turned back to the woman, throat constricted. Four pieces fit together and the bowl begins to assume a beautiful shape; part of a handle fits, you can see the curve where the potter turned a fluted lip for a water jug. Patterns emerge from the jumble of lines and colors. The face of a god, a monster…my Company contact. "Do you think the Honorable Doctor SГє would care if we spent a day or two in the north, to see this…festival? Visit the markets?"

Petrel's eyes glinted in amusement. "No. No, I'm sure he wouldn't do anything malicious. How could he know? Soumake won't tell him, and who else would know?"

Gretchen felt a little sick, feeling her stomach turn queasily with the same kind of acid bitterness which came every time she thought about her bank account. The woman across from her had a steady gaze. Her hands didn't tremble, but Anderssen wondered if there was a medband hidden under the silken drape of her kimono. Or perhaps her blood is just as cold as nitrogen ice.

"Well then," Anderssen said. "We'll get transport to Takshila and see the sights. You recommend the 'House of Reeds'?"

"An excellent itinerary," Petrel said briskly, reaching into her kimono and producing a sheaf of brightly colored papers in a cardboard sleeve. "There are a variety of ways to reach the old city – bus, train and so on. I suggest the train – here are tickets – and I've had a friend rent you an apartment."

Still rather numbed by the prospect of the Legate's wife working for the Company, Gretchen forced her hand to take the papers and stuff them into her bag. "Thank you. Is there…"

Petrel pressed a datapak into Anderssen's hand. "A guidebook to the local sights, if you will. Come back soon, and safe, and let me know what you've found."

The chattering sound of a news holocast greeted Gretchen as she closed the hotel door behind her. Her field jacket was soaked with rain, and she brushed damp hair from her eyes. The storm had picked up again during her ride home. "Maggie, did Parker get back?"

"He did," the Hesht grunted, her rumbling voice carrying down the hallway dividing their suite of rooms. As Mrs. Petrel had said, there were several petite hotels near the Court of Yellow Flagstones catering to the Imperial trade. This one even boasted a NГЎhuatl-speaking receptionist downstairs. Anderssen hung up her jacket in a tile-floored alcove, feeling the fabric of her shirt stick to her forearms. Despite a dehumidifier running somewhere in the ceiling, the air in their rooms insisted on congealing at every opportunity.

"He has made a mess, just like the scruffy kit he is."

Gretchen peeled back her sleeves as she walked into the main sitting room. Sliding glass doors set into burnished, rosy wood frames opened onto a balcony. The floors were covered with plush colorful rugs and carpets. Native artwork – mostly threaded tapestries held in ironwood frames – covered the walls. Everything felt crisp and new; the sheets, the furniture – the hotelier was betting on a steady stream of Imperial guests. Only the holocast set was out of place – an ugly, refurbished block of plastic and pitted metal hidden under a fresh coat of paint.

Gretchen considered the squat object – the heads of threevee Jehanan pundits were yammering in the air over the projectors – and felt uneasy. This thing must be six or seven years old, a cheap Occitanian set… And how much did they pay for ithere? Too much. And how did they get political talk shows so fast? It's unnatural…

Magdalena was surrounded by a drift of newspapers, holovee cubes, nondescript black equipment boxes, Imperial romance novels sporting lurid covers, tabloid-style magazines filled with two-d images of indistinguishable local celebrities, her comm-pad and plates piled with cracked bones. Antenna wires spilled off the bed and disappeared out a narrow window. Gretchen felt a little queasy for a moment, glad she'd missed the Hesht feeding, and then frowned ominously – someone had dumped a large, dusty rolled carpet on her bed.

"Did Parker do this?" Anderssen's nose twitched. There was a familiar oily smell, mixed with the tang of dust, grime and old shoes.

"He is shedding pelt," Maggie said absently, attention fixed on her comm. Delicate claw tips were tapping rapidly on the control surface. "Was there a heartfelt exchange of endlessly fascinating infant-cub stories with the packleader's mate? Consumption of sweetened, flavored alcohol?"

"Not quite." Gretchen cleared off a sitting mat and knelt to take off her dress shoes. They were out of style and scuffed, but better for paying a social visit than her work boots, which were three times patched. She caught Magdalena's eye, signing: Can we talk?

The Hesht nodded, flicking the back of a flat, spatulate finger against a black metal tripod perched on her side table. The cylinder sported a single green light, which was burning steadily. "No one's bothered to install landline pickups in the walls yet – a newly excavated den for sure! They build solid walls here, too, of fired ceramic brick, which dampens broadband emissions. Also, I've been scanning all the usual frequencies – lots of traffic, but none of it terribly sophisticated."

"Ok-ke. Parker! Get out here." Gretchen leaned back and sighed in relief, wiggling her toes. Grandmother always said dressing properly required practice…didn't tell me I'd need adaptive surgery for my feet.

A shoji slid open in the wall and the pilot stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his neck, shallow chest freshly scrubbed. "Hey, boss, bring me anything to drink?"

"I think you've had dinner already," Gretchen said drily. There were Mayahuel beer bottles stacked in a pyramid beside his bed. "There some reason you're buying ratty old carpets? I think there is a rule of traveling which says 'don't put your crap on your roommate's bed without permission.' "

"Sorry! Just needed to put this down for a minute…" Parker took hold of one end of the rolled carpet and dragged it onto the floor with a heavy metallic thunk. Exhausted by the effort, he produced a tabac from behind his ear and looked around for a lighter.

"If you stink up our den with your bitter leaves again," Magdalena said softly, without looking up from her comm, "I will suffocate you while you sleep and draw out your intestines for my cubs to tease with their claws."

The pilot looked aggrieved. "I've my religious rights, Mags! You can't just…"

Anderssen made a face at Parker and pointed towards the balcony. "Worship your smelly god later, outside. I've news – our groundside contact showed up."

"At the packleader's den?" Maggie's ears rose slowly. "Or afterwards?"

"Here's what I know," Gretchen said, crossing her legs. "The Honorable Company stringer here is the Imperial Legate's wife, Greta Petrel. She's tight with the attachй in charge of antiquities and neither of them can stand the Tetzcocoan expedition leader. So…when attachй Soumake hears about something interesting, Petrel drops a note to the head office via diplomatic channel from the Legation. Nice and secure. She'll get a finder's fee from the Company banked straight to an AnГЎhuac account."

Anderssen shook her head slowly. "She has a nice house. An expensive house. Entertaining so lavishly must cost a fortune… Like us, she needs the quills tomake ends meet. Her ends are just…more costly than ours. She must have arranged our 'chance encounter' at the Legation so she could scope me up close. Tonight we had cakes and tea and she told me where the 'device' is. Maggie, do you have a local geodatabase up?"

The Hesht flashed two rows of needlelike teeth. "Of course!"

"In the city of Takshila, there is a ruin called the House of Reeds."

Magdalena hunched over her screen for a moment. "Rrrrr…not a ruin, hunt-sister. A living temple or monastery – there is a report here, from a Hussite missionary named Lynch who passed through the city several years ago. He says:

The House of Reeds is the most ancient structure in Takshila. Some say it is the most ancient structure still standing on all Jagan. From a distance, the hill is rumpled and gray, seemingly filled only with ruins. There are few windows or doors to be seen, for the denizens of the benighted place spend their lives in heathen practices which would not stand the light of day. A reputable local guide informs me they are called the mandire which in the local dialect (more convoluted and difficult, I admit, than the plain-spoken Parusian) means 'those who are relentless.' Their charge is the protection and contemplation of an artifact of unknown provenance known as the kalpataru – the heavenly tree giving that which you desire.

Gretchen raised an eyebrow, looked to Parker, who was still sulking, and then back to Magdalena. "A heavenly tree? Is there a description? Did this preacher actually see the artifact?"

The Hesht shook her head, long mane rustling. "There are no other entries. This is not a local datasource."

"Typical." Parker made a snorting sound. "Probably a trash disposal. Bet he heard about it while he was in bed with some -"

Gretchen shushed the pilot and handed Magdalena the datapak. "Here's everything the Company has on the House, the mandire and the kalpataru. Load it into all of our comps. I've train tickets, too, so tomorrow – Parker, listen to me – we need to find the train station and see how much baggage we can take with us."

The pilot nodded, though he didn't seem pleased.

"Maggie – is there any kind of local datanet we can query for more information about these priests?"

The Hesht shook her head mournfully. "I fear not, hunt-sister. This entire kaaasha-shaan suffered a catastrophic failure – one involving the profligate use of atomic weapons – six or seven hundred years ago. There are notes in what passes for an Imperial historical archive indicating a sophisticated world-net existed before the last collapse. But now? The natives just reinvented rotary-wheel counting-cards."

"Are you sure?" Anderssen unfolded from her mat and paced to the window. Outside, the storm continued to belch rain into the streets, hiding everything behind a wall of fog and mist. "There are relay towers on some of the higher buildings…"

"A voice network." Maggie tapped her earbug. "The Imperial Development Board for Barbarous Planets is financing a city-level network for personal use. Very old technology, cheap, reliable and easy to deploy – every kit and caboodle has one." The Hesht's tongue flashed in amusement. "Once all the relays are built, a world-net will creep up out of the grass…but there's nothing now."

Parker was frowning, which drew an inquiring eyebrow from Gretchen. "Didn't they have a communications network before the Empire showed up?"

"They had a post office," Maggie said, flat black nose wrinkling in disdain, "before you monkeys arrived. Paper letters delivered twice a day to each den in the city, once a day out in the country."

The pilot's disbelief was plain. "Not even a telephone? That's stupid. You can make a telephone with two cans and some string!"

"There are telephones," the Hesht snapped, "but they're restricted to central offices in each town or city – no private lines – and you have to stand in line, breathing everyone's -"

"Not string…shielded copper wire or optical thread," Gretchen interrupted thoughtfully. "Even a voice-only residential network would require thousands of kilometers of cable. Millions for the whole planet…"

The Hesht flicked her ears at Parker and sniffed loudly. "My hunt-sister pays attention."

"Sure…sure…I remember." Parker frowned at the dirty carpet as ifit had begun to chew on his boot. "They don't have any ready sources of iron or copper or tin – all used up thousands of years ago. I get that – but if that's the case – then anything made of metal should be pretty costly, right?"

Anderssen nodded. "So?"

"So, why was I able to buy these for next to nothing down in the souk?" Parker knelt, rolling open the dusty carpet with a deft movement. There was a rattling clank and four gleaming metallic shapes were revealed under the cloth. Gretchen hissed in alarm, and then her eyebrows drew together in concentration. Each weapon was held in place by a strap sewn to the carpet. Rows of pockets between each rifle held ammunition magazines.

"Automatic rifles? Imperial issue? You bought these in a public market?"

Parker nodded, catching her eye with a worried glance.

"I went out this afternoon," the pilot said, running a hand over the nearest rifle. "Looking to catch the lay of the land, find some smokes, get Maggie the latest malinche – you know, the usual. Didn't scare up anything on the main streets, but then I found the edge of the market district and decided to see what was for sale in the back alleys."

Parker spread his hands, indicating the guns. "Off the boulevards, things are a little different than you'd expect. Hundreds of dark little streets lined with shops. Arcades three and four stories high filled with music and smoke and little bakeries. Cafйs. A farmers market a kilometer long and two wide. And anything you might want to buy. These I found in a street of – it's hard to describe – but travel supplies, I guess: gangs of bearers to carry your bags, luggage, tents, these horned riding lizards, everything you'd need for a journey. And guns – lots of guns."

"How much did these things cost?" Gretchen's lips thinned to a sharp line. She glared at the pilot. She didn't care much for guns, not on the job. Any girl growing up in the high timber on New Aberdeen learned to shoot when she learned to walk, but that didn't mean she liked them. Having weaponry around meant there was an easy way to solve disputes – and Anderssen had teased enough bones out of the ground without putting them there too.

"Fifty quills the lot." Parker didn't smile. "These are military surplus submachine guns – they've makers' stamps from some factory on Kiruna. They're a knockoff of an old KV-45B rifle used during the last war. Super reliable. Takes a standard Imperial 8mm round. Won't jam up or rust in this drippy weather…"

Gretchen rapped her knuckles on the barrel of the nearest weapon. "This is anodized steel."

"Exactly." Parker started to chew on his tabac. "So if iron and copper are supposed to be like gold here, why could I buy these on the sidewalk? Why so cheap? What are they doing here anyway?"

"I don't know." Anderssen stood up. "But they're not our business and we don't need them. In the morning, I want you to trade them for something useful – anything but more weapons."

"Wha…boss! Wait a minute, there's something else you need to know." Parker stood as well, and Gretchen was alarmed to see open fear on the man's face. "I haven't been here long, but everywhere I went there was a really, really bad vibe in the air. Down in the souk – I mean where the natives go to get happy – they don't like humans very much. Not at all… We might need th ese. I saw…thereare plenty more guns on the street. And what about the priests in this reed house place? They don't sound very polite either!"

Gretchen shook her head sharply. "Parker! We aren't here to rob a bank, even if these monks are vicious fanatics. We aren't an army and we're not going to try and take on the city population. We're going to stay quiet and get up to Takshila and find out what this 'heavenly tree' is, or isn't, quietly. Guns are not quiet. Ever."

The pilot started to speak, saw the tense look on her face and raised his hands in defeat. "Sure, boss. I'll get these out of here in the morning."

"Good." Gretchen turned to the Hesht. "Maggie, can you access the local wireless voice network? Are our personal comms compatible? They are? Good." She shuffled through the papers Petrel had given her and found what seemed to be a rental agreement. "Find out where this apartment is and make sure it's in line of sight of the House. If it is, great, otherwise – find us someplace that is."

The Hesht nodded somberly. "What about this den?"

"We'll keep it," Gretchen said, staring out at the city again. Lights were beginning to shine fuzzily through the murk as the rain lifted. She wondered what the Jehanan sitting in those dimly lit rooms were thinking. Are they cursing us? I might be, if Imperial merchants suddenly started dumping surplused machine guns on my streets. "We might need to arrive suddenly at any hour. Keep the key."