House of Reeds

The Gemmilsky House Gandaris, "Abode of the Heaven-Sundering Kings"

Prince Tezozуmoc stretched out his arms and beckoned with his head for Sergeant Dawd to produce the next garment. Trying not to roll his eyes, the Skawtsman draped a greenish-tan velvet shirt over the young man's arms and chest.

"Hmmm…no…makes me look too sallow." The prince plucked the silk out of the sergeant's hand and tossed the shirt into a heap of equally unsuitable garments. "Is there anything red in there? A nice crimson or scarlet one – they always make me look striking."

"You've already gone through the red ones, mi'lord." Dawd pursed his lips. "We're down to duller tones."

"Curst wardrobe! Where is that adjutant! He's lost all my good shirts…" Tezozуmoc kicked a wardrobe bag aside and began rooting through his boxes of shoes. "Did I give one of my shirts to Mrs. Petrel – that's it, I did! Hers was ruined…" The prince squinted over his shoulder at Dawd. "Oh, Lord of Light, I spilled wine on her blouse didn't I?"

"You were laughing, mi'lord," Dawd said, keeping a straight face. "And the glass tipped."

Tezozуmoc blushed. "I shouldn't be allowed to touch alcohol. I gave her the red shirt as a replacement? Did I apologize?"

Dawd nodded. "I believe you did, mi'lord."

The prince made a growling sound, hands on his hips. "Can't we beg off this festival? Say I've cut off my head by mistake, or lost a leg in a car accident?"

"No mi'lord, we cannot." Dawd said patiently. "Mrs. Petrel and her ladies have already gone off to breakfast. Corporal Clark will be coming back for us momentarily with the aerocar. So you do, in fact, have to get dressed, be presentable and prepared to hobnob with the kujen and his relatives."

Tezozуmoc pouted sourly. "What is a Nem anyway? One of their gods?"

"The Nem, mi'lord, is a flowering bush – sometimes growing into a tree – which grows in the bottomlands along local rivers. Their blossoms herald the end of the rainy season. I also understand they are considered sacred, due to a bitter, psychotropically-active sap -"

Tezozуmoc, perking up at the prospect of something novel, was taken aback by the fixed, focusless way the Skawtsman stared at the door to the prince's dressing chamber and he turned, wondering what had drawn Dawd's attention.

Gemmilsky had not stinted with furnishings or ornamentation in his house. The master bedroom possessed magnificent doors of dark red ruhel wood inlaid with pearl and jade. At the moment, both were closed, though the prince expected one of his servants to arrive at any moment with a fresh bottle of vodka. "Sergeant? Is something -"

Dawd moved, one forearm slamming the prince back, sweeping Tezozуmoc behind him. In the same motion, a flat Webley Bulldog sprang into his hand.

The doors burst open, crashing into the marble-covered walls on either side, porcelain doorknobs shattering, and three Jehanan in Gandarian livery rushed in. The lead native twisted from the waist, broad shoulders powering a lohaja-wood machete straight at the Skawtsman's head. Dawd ducked inside the blow, jammed the pistol into the charging creature's gaping mouth and pulled the trigger twice. The blast was muffled by the Jehanan's snout, but the shock-pellets blew out the back of his cranial cavity, spraying a cloud of broken bone and blood and bits of scale through the door. The jaws, abruptly severed from central control, spasmed shut and Dawd grunted, feeling needle-sharp teeth shear through the cuff of his jacket and shatter on the combatskin beneath.

Tezozуmoc screamed in fear, bounced off the bed, and flung himself towards the bathroom. One of the Jehanan assassins hurled a short-bladed spear overhand, missed the prince by a scale, and the ceramic blade punched straight through the light wood of the door as it slammed shut.

Dawd wrenched his caught arm sideways, dragging the still-twitching corpse of the Jehanan into the path of the next assailant, who stabbed under the falling body with a spear. The Skawtsman skipped back, barely avoiding taking a blow to the inside of his thigh, twisted his hand inside the mouth and fired three times in quick succession. Highex pellets shredded the rest of the skull and stitched across the spearman's chest with a rippling series of explosions. Chunks of scale and ligament spattered across the dresser and a heavy antique mirror, and drenched the window drapes. The Jehanan flew backwards into a shattered wardrobe and then crumpled slowly to the floor.

With the left jaw and skull torn away, Dawd wrenched his arm free. He started to spin to face the last Jehanan, but a machete slammed into his shoulder as he moved. The stroke drove the Skawtsman to the floor though the combatskin stiffened, absorbing the impact and spreading the blow across his entire upper body. His boots and outstretched hand lost traction in the spilled intestines of the second assassin and he fell backwards.

The last assassin sprang over the corpse, a whistling shriek on leathery lips. The Skawtsman twisted up, pistol centering on the leaping creature's chest, finger squeezing the Bulldog's trigger – and the magazine whined emptily. A pair of enormous, clawed feet crashed down on carpet as Dawd rolled to the side and was up in one seamless motion.

The Jehanan spun, slashing with the machete, and his turning jaw was met by a combatskin-enhanced sidekick. Metal-cleated combat boot smashed into the creature's eye, splitting the fine scales, and the Jehanan staggered back, one long-fingered hand raised to shield his wound. With a fraction of a second to find balance, Dawd ducked a windmilling machete, turned slightly in and slammed forward with both forearms crossed and braced. The combatskin stiffened automatically, augmenting the Skawtsman's musculature, and the blow caught the Jehanan square in the chest. The creature flew back, smashing through a window in a cloud of shattering glass, wooden framing and broken plaster.

Squealing, the Jehanan assassin cartwheeled through an ivy-wound lattice and hit the tiled patio with a sodden crunch. Dawd tossed the empty Bulldog aside and snatched up his pair of Nambu automatics from the side table. Thumbing off both safeties, he jammed one into the holster of the gunrig, threw the leather and metal mesh harness around his shoulders with one hand and darted across the room to the bathroom door.

"Mi'lord, time to go!"

There was a muffled whimpering sound inside. Dawd slammed the lock-side of the doorframe with his armored shoulder – the entire cedarwood panel shattered – and turned in, both automatics now centered on the broken doorway to the hall.

"Mi'lord – are you hurt? Were you hit?"

"Eeee…" Tezozуmoc was curled up in the bathtub, still in his nightshirt, arms tight around his head. "I hate this place!"

"Don't care for it much myself," Dawd coughed, throat tight with adrenaline. He holstered one automatic and reached down with his free hand. "Get up, sir, we've got to find Colmuir."

The young man blinked, looked up, and turned very pale. Despite the blood dripping from Dawd's forearm, he reached out and seized hold. The Skawtsman dragged the prince to his feet, and then – keeping Tezozуmoc close to hand – scuttled across the room, avoiding the scattered bodies.

Tiny fires were burning in the ruins of the wardrobe and a string of deep craters, coiling with smoke, pocked the wall in the hallway opposite the door.

"Master Sergeant?" Tapping his comm-thread awake, Dawd flipped up the longeye mounted on his automatic and snaked the muzzle around the doorframe in each direction. "You still alive?"

I'm coming, Colmuir replied. Don't shoot my fool head off. I'm on the west stairs.

Seconds later, the master sergeant appeared, sliding along the inner wall, and ducked into the room as well. Dawd was frowning, finger pressed to his earbug, the comm display on his skinsuit flashing with amber and red lights. Colmuir spat out a dead tabac, looked the prince up and down and said: "Regimental net went wild a moment ago, heard someone shouting about being under attack – then everything flooded with ECM. Now it's all static and garbage."

The master sergeant shook his head, produced another tabac from his vest and snap-lit the paper with a fingernail. Smoke wreathing his head, he knelt, lifted up the whole bed with a strained grunt – sending mountains of clothing and quilts cascading onto the floor – and dragged out a Fleet duffel bag.

Dawd was still by the door, watching the hallway through his longeye. "Regimental net is back up," he reported, listening intently, "but some kind of jammer is playing havoc with the Army gear down in the flatlands. All the comm channels keep popping in and out. I don't know if they'll be able to get comm clear until whatever is pitching all this noise gets hit."

"That's not good," Colmuir said. He unzipped the bag and pulled out Dawd's Whipsaw along with two heavy ammunition coils. A broken-down Macana 8mm with the shoulder-stock removed followed, as well as a Fleet skinsuit pack and three combat visors. He beckoned politely to Tezozуmoc: "Mi'lord prince, you put this on now. Quickly, lad. It's not a combatskin, but it'll have to do."

Swallowing nervously, hands trembling, the prince shed his shirt and pajama pants and unzipped the skinsuit pack. An amber colored gel spilled out on the floor, studded with two rows of black rings. Tezozуmoc stepped carefully into the middle of the gel, reached down and slid his fingers into the rings. Colmuir – watching to make sure the suit got a clean seal – assembled the Macana with brisk, endlessly practiced efficiency. The prince pulled his hands up – the gel raced up his legs, covering his torso and chest, and then his neck and the back of his head – and swung his shoulders back, letting the skinsuit congeal to his body. He flexed both hands, then held them down by his thighs. Gel shifted, solidified and oozed down to cover his fingers.

"Good," Colmuir said, patting the prince's shoulder. The skinsuit was slowly turning Fleet black. "You want a gun?"

Tezozуmoc stared at the proffered Nambu, then shook his head. He was still very pale, but seemed to have regained some of his composure. "I might hit one of you. I can carry the bag, if that will help."

The master sergeant nodded and helped him swing the heavy back duffel over both shoulders. "Dawd – what have you got for us?"

The sergeant shook his head. "I can hear vehicles on the street from our remotes – running feet – slicks – and lots of them. There are at least a dozen hostiles downstairs too – more spears and machetes."

"We can take the lot, if we're quick, but…" Colmuir said, sidling to one window and looking out into the gardens. He hissed in disgust. "Ah, that tears it – they've got themselves a bloody tank."

"A what?" Dawd and the prince stared in disbelief at the master sergeant.

"A tank! Can y' not hear me?" Colmuir pointed out the window.

Dawd stiffened, hearing the rumble of multi-ton treads on cobblestones through the remote spyeyes watching the garden wall. A number of Jehanan in fleece-lined jackets and leggings, carrying what looked very much like KV-45B rifles, were messing with the front gate, which was closed. He looked at the prince, down at his pistol, over at the door, then started paging rapidly through building schematics and street maps on his comp.

"Do…do you have something that will stop a tank?" Tezozуmoc's voice was rather faint.

"Nooo…we do not. Not a real one." Colmuir backed away from the window, slinging the Macana behind his shoulder. "Come on lads, time to run for it."