House of Reeds

Parus The District of the Wheel

Rain poured down from a muddy, discolored sky. The gutters rushed with dark water, swirling around ancient drains clogging with leaves, paper bags and discarded wreaths of golden flowers. Four Arachosians – faces hidden under sharp-brimmed, waxed rain-hats – splashed through spreading pools and up to the ornately carved doors of a temple squeezed in between two larger, newer buildings.

Two of the highlanders swung a spike-headed ram between them. The wooden doors crashed aside, lock and bar broken, and the others leapt in, kalang-knives flashing. Inside, a lookout was hewn down – no priest he, in the gaudy harness and trappings of a pimp – and the Arachs bounded down age-blackened steps and into rooms once dedicated to a now-forgotten god. They burst into a chamber filled with hazy layers of drifting tchun-smoke and the hot neon glow of dozens of modern three-d gambling machines. Soft-scaled lowlander patrons surged up, horrified by the sight of long, lean highland reavers plunging among them, and the sound of wailing screams rang clearly through the spyeye feed. Blood spattered through the intricate holovee writhing in the heart of the nearest machine.

The kujen's board of taxation should pay me a stipend. Itzpalicue's wrinkled lips twitched in amusement and she shifted the active feed, searching for the next of her hunting teams. But this is not the lair of my enemy.

Arachosians loped through an empty warehouse, narrow snouts questing for signs of any inhabitants. The old NГЎhuatl woman could see the tracks of heavily laden carts on the dirt floor.

She switched the feed.

An Imperial-model truck careened around a corner, highlanders hanging off the sides, sopping-wet cloaks clinging to muscled scale, sending a wave of dirty water splashing against the wall of a house. Rain drummed on the roof of the cab. Arachosians on the runner boards pointed the driver towards a row of beehive-shaped workshops. Smoke puffed up into the rain from a forge chimney. The gate to a muddy yard crashed open, smashed aside by an armored bumper. The Arachs sprang down, striding through deep mud, assault rifles at the ready.

A sliding door on the side of the long, low building flew open and a crowd of angry metal-workers poured out into the yard, claws filled with hammers, tongs and lengths of iron bar. The spyeye darted past over their heads as the first burst of bullets tore into the workmen. Itzpalicue muted the sound on the feed – the warbling cries of dying Jehanan irritated her – and shook her head in disgust. The gleaming, modern shapes of two industrial welders sat on wooden platforms on one side of the long forge-room. Cables snaked across a spotless floor to four fuel-cell generators.

Stacks of recycled Imperial iron, aluminum and steel ingots stood behind a locked barricade.

Disappointed, Itzpalicue switched the feed.

An Arachosian glided out from behind a wagon heaped with firewood, assault rifle raised to a shoulder armored with quilted padding. Two more of the highlanders crept along behind, grenades and knives in their claws. Without warning, the rifle stuttered flame. The spyeye view rotated and lowland Jehanan in the livery of the kujen of Parus were staggering, raked with bullets. A heavy plastic case fell to the ground between the infantrymen and Itzpalicue straightened up in her nest of blankets, recognizing the shape of a military ordnance crate.

The woman tapped her comm alive. "Take some of them alive," she rasped, catching the attention of the Arachosian durbar commanding the hunter team. "Don't damage the goods!"

The knife-wielding Arachosians surged forward, broad feet light on the muddy ground, and were upon the surviving Jehanan in the blink of an eye. Two of the survivors were thrown to the ground and secured with ziptight restraints. The Arachs with rifles circled the truck carefully, searching for survivors. Itzpalicue's spyeye drifted into the covered cargo bed, lingered on three more plastic crates and she dialed up the magnification on the 'eye enough to read the stenciled lettering.

"Albanian work," she muttered, thumbing a translator glyph on her display. The angular Slavic letters were familiar, though she hadn't bothered to learn the little-used dialect.

Orkan anti-mobile-armor tactical missile, type three, export restricted, the comp declared.

"Mobile armor?" Itzpalicue frowned thunderously. "Lachlan?"

The Yirishman's head, dark beard entirely foul with bits of food, turned in the v-pane. The xochiyaotinime did not authorize any restricted imports. Only the outdated anti-tank missiles. He pursed his lips, consulting a secondary display. This model of the Orkan is designed to neutralize a Fleet powered armor suit, or one of the Tonehua APAC's the 416th has in service. Very nasty – fires a cloud of self-tracking hypervelocity composites with reactive warheads – crew of two, integrated ammunition canisters, low-firing profile…

"Expensive. Someone has been spending freely to entertain us." Itzpalicue tapped her comm back to the Arachosian ground channel. A second team of highlanders had arrived and the apparently abandoned houses around the wagon-yard were being searched. "Put your prisoners to the question – who sold them these weapons, where were they going?"

The Arach durbar hissed in reply and knelt over one of the Parusian soldiers. The lowlander soft-scale hooted miserably, eyes fixed on the gleaming edge of the kalang-knife. The glittering point descended and Itzpalicue watched with clinical interest, sound muted on the channel, as the creature writhed and whimpered and finally, when the mud was puddling crimson, she heard what she had been waiting weeks to hear.

The durbar turned, catching sight of the translucent spyeye hovering at his shoulder and exposed many serrated, blackened teeth. The pretty softscale says these weapons came from a light-scaled asuchau. He has brought them many such devices in the last two weeks. This light-scale made many promises of help from 'friends far away.'

"A blond human? Lachlan…" The old NГЎhuatl woman growled, feeling her blood quicken.

I've dispatched a collection team to scope the equipment cases. Perhaps we can recover some skin flakes or hair or something to let us match to known humans on the planet.

"Are any of the Flower Priest agents lighthaired? Is someone playing a double-game?"

Lachlan tilted his head to one side, listening to his earbug. There is one, he replied, a Finn. He's used for high-level contacts with Jehanan elements sufficiently educated in Imperial politics to understand he might represent the HKV. His name is Timonen. His Mirror jacket says he's entirely reliable…

"Bring him in anyway." Itzpalicue shifted her attention back to the durbar. "Seal the truck and make sure nothing happens to the contents. Dispose of your captives as you please, but hold position until a pickup team reaches you." She smiled wickedly. "You've done well with this capture, durbar. You and your clan will be well rewarded."

The Arachosian flashed teeth again and saluted the drifting mote with his kalang. His forearm was drenched in blood.

Itzpalicue shifted the feed, eager for news.

Forty-five minutes later, Lachlan interrupted her scanning. His entire face was impassive and tight, which immediately warned her the Йirishman bore poor news.

Our Timonen is dead. A retrieval team has been checking the safe houses the xochiyaotinime provided for his cover as a purveyor of medical supplies, hoping to pick up a fresh DNA trace. They found an unusually high concentration in a bathroom in his Yellow Flagstone district flat. The team leader got suspicious and they tore the place apart. Looks like Timonen was murdered, dissolved with a bio-acid and flushed down the lavatory. Whoever did it cleaned up – the team found bleach and antigen foam residue in the tile cracks – but Jehanan toilets don't flush clean.

"Hmm…" Itzpalicue's white eyebrows made a V over her sharp nose. "How long has he been dead?"

Decay rates on the remains in the sewer line indicate a week or two.

The old N'huatl woman blinked. "Strange…that's not much time to make so much mischief… Do we have a track on 'Timonen' afterwards?"

Yes, Lachlan smiled grimly. He's been lead on nearly every contact with the inner circle of the cabal, in dispersing weapons to the factions, in providing intelligence, planning and other supplies. Right at the heart of their whole effort in Parus.

"This is the one," Itzpalicue snarled, feeling fate gelling around her. "This is the creature I've felt moving at the edge of perception. Find him! Retask every team in the city, in the whole district. Arachosians, our men, the Whisperers, everyone!"

The old woman sat back, the tips of her fingers running along the rows of maguey spines piercing the sleeves of her mantle. The spines felt hard, smooth and glossy under her touch, like polished bone.

As you say, mi'lady. Lachlan began calling instructions to his subordinates. Then he said: Should I pass this intel about the Orkan to Regimental command?

"No." Itzpalicue displayed a cold smile. "Yacatolli and his men are managing. Let them show their true abilities – both the Mirror and Army command will be interested in the results."