House of Reeds

The Courts of the Morning On the Banks of the Phison, Southeastern Parus

Flower petals, shriveled by the queer light in the sky, fluttered down from a roseate claw. Bhazuradeha was sitting beside an ornamental pool, her slim head bent over the waters, watching the sicane buds drift on the current, slowly fattening as they saturated. The pool was served by a hidden pump and the frail gray blossoms swirled away to disappear beneath mossy rocks.

"Phantom petals fall into moonlight," she whispered. "Autumn has come too soon…"

A crashing sound echoed through the tall pillars around the courtyard, followed by the tramp of heavy, booted feet. The Jehanan woman did not look up. The transparency and color of the water had caught her attention, curving over the rocks, capturing the morning light with a faint rainbow sheen. A multitude of tiny blue-green tendrils – a long-stemmed algae – waved on the surface of the stones, capturing invisible prey from the flow of water.

An image occluded the smooth surface of the water – a long-jawed Jehanan in a trailing cloak, jangling with iron and leather and smelling of oil, fire and bitter smoke. Bhazuradeha looked up, enormous green eyes taking in the crowd of barbarians who had invaded her apartments. A jeweled display box, she corrected herself, a stage for my skills, filled with soft, elegant things.

One of her 'guardians' was among the tribesmen, half-paralyzed by fear, a kalang knife against the rough pebbled skin of her throat. Bhazuradeha ignored the matron, attention hungrily fixed on the leader of the Arachosians arrayed before her. The common literature of the lowland cities was filled with lurid descriptions of the habit, mien, clothing and vicious temper of the highland raiders, but the poetess had never seen them before, not up close.

The Jehanan looming over her was tall, scales hard and bright, powerful chest draped with a leather harness holding knives, pistols, soft leather pouches bulging with bullets and powder, and thumb-sized cylinders of black metal thrust into fabric loops. Leather cords heavy with fore-teeth crowded his neck and upper arms. Oddly, to her eye, his broad shoulders were draped with a thick linen cloak in dull gray and brown, though the inner layer – only partially exposed – seemed to be of a softer, shinier fabric. The poetess realized temperatures among the highland mountains must be regularly chill, requiring the inhabitants to conserve warmth. Even the bone structure of his face was strange – harsher and crueler than the soft-scaled denizens of the lowland plains. His hands and forearms were scarred and chipped from rough usage on the field of war.

Humara would be apoplectic at this sight. All his glorious civilization laid to naught by one day of strife.

"This is the one we seek," the Arach war-captain said, after looking her over carefully. "Kill the others."

"How can you be sure?" Bhazuradeha stirred, rising to her feet. The engraving on the creature's sword hilt had captured her attention for a moment – obviously the work of a woman with fine, delicate hands and skill the equal of any jeweler's shop in the city. "What if I am only an attendant? If you reach so high, do not pluck a rotten fruit by mistake!"

"You are no milkmaid," the Arach growled, turning back to face her. His snout was oddly shaped, to her eyes, almost hooked, with twin ridges of jutting scales starting above the nostrils and rising up behind the eye-shields. In contravention of the literature, his eyes did not blaze with the fires of burning cottages, but they were very, very cold. "But you are indeed the 'color of dawn.' "

There was a choked cry, and the matron crumpled to the floor, blood sluicing from her neck. The kalang had sheared through soft scale and bone alike, making a clean, neat incision.

No molk was ever butchered with less thought or more skill. Bhazuradeha allowed her nostrils to flare slightly as the smell of urine and blood and severed bone washed over her. The Arachs did not seem to notice, or care. She considered the arrangement of the invaders, saw they had formed a loose cordon around her and their captain. Not one of them paid her the least attention, save the creature directly in front of her. The others were keeping a wary eye on the rooftops, the doors opening into the bedrooms off the courtyard and the passageway whence they had come. All of the raiders were armed with asuchau weapons, and Bhazuradeha was sure the dull, efficient-looking rifles had issued from workshops tended by human hands. No Jehanan craftsman could reproduce one object with such soulless perfection.

Not a dozen times. At least once, some hint of beauty might leak in.

"I am Bhazuradeha," she said, lifting her wrists, palms together. "Do you take me for yourself, or for another, or for ransom?"

The Arachosian hooted in amusement, adjusting his cowl. His eyes glittered in shadow. "Our master does not desire you," he said. "You are summoned to observe a thing of import and – in time, when the gods move your tongue to recite – to sing of what you see." He pointed to her proffered hands with his snout. "No restraint will be placed upon you."

Bhazuradeha drew back, alarmed and insulted. "Not a properly taken captive? What kind of cruel master do you serve? Do they wish me to beg?"

The Arach snorted, nostrils flaring and shook his head. "By my eye, singer, you are a delight to look upon." He gestured sharply at his men and made a deep, respectful bow. "Bringing you home in chains or tied to the stirrups of our sherakan would bring us vast honor. No greater prize has been taken from the lowlander soft-scales in a thousand years! Even under the White Teeth, tales are told of your skill and beauty."

Well! The poetess started to smile. He's well spoken, at least!

"But," he continued, turning away, "you will accompany us and observe."

"I will not," Bhazuradeha declared, irritated and growing angry with his obstinacy. "When did an Arachosian ever ask a lowlander for anything! Where is your spirit? Have the men of Ghazu lost their kshetrae to some malign demon?"

The Arachosian turned sharply, a low hooooo rumbling in his throat. "Do not insult me, singer! You are summoned and you will come – in chains and gagged, if you like – but standing upon ritual and convention is useless in this case. My master is no Jehanan, but an asuchau human from beyond the sky and she cares not at all for your propriety!"

Bhazuradeha recoiled, fear finally seeping into her heart. "You serve the asuchau…willingly?"

"Their copper is as good as anyone's," the Arachosian captain spat, seizing her by the neck with a rough, well-calloused claw. "Now move!"

Weeping and distraught, the poetess was dragged from her courtyard and out past the bodies of the guards General Humara had set to watch over her. A truck was waiting, engine idling, stinking of half-combusted ethanol and motor oil. She was shoved into the back and the Arachosians piled aboard, glad to be moving again.

There were far too many lowlanders with guns abroad in the streets of Parus for their taste.

Crying and feeling very ill used, Bhazuradeha started to sing under her breath, hoping old familiar words might buoy her spirits.

"The Night comes near and looks about," she wailed softly,

"A goddess with her many eyes, she dons shining silver glory.

Immortal, she fills the limit of sight, both far and wide, both low and high;

for whose approach, we seek today for rest, like the yi , who in the branches seek their nest.

The villages have sought for rest and all that walks and all that flies.

Black darkness comes, yet bright with stars, it comes to us, with brilliant hues…"

She stopped, feeling the gaze of every highlander in the truck fixed upon her.

"Prettily sung," the captain said, watching her with eyes shrouded by his cowl. "You are a worthy prize…"

Bhazuradeha turned away, delicate snout in the air, pleased someone had the wit to respect the old usages.