House of Reeds

Near the Train Station The Streets of Parus

Mrs. Petrel limped to a halt, biting back an exhausted wheeze. Her thigh and hip stabbed with pain every time her foot came down on the broken concrete sidewalk. The three Imperials had come to the edge of a traffic circle where one of the grand avenues cutting through the tightly packed buildings intersected a spray of lesser streets. A jumbled pile of broken runner-carts had been pushed from the main road, making an impromptu barrier between a series of shops and one of the ancient trees lining the boulevard. There was broken glass and scattered dribs and drabs of cloth, plastic toys and sheets of charred pypil everywhere. Two of the shops were gutted, black holes in the face of the building.

"Ah now," Colmuir said quietly, coming up to her shoulder. "We've surely come the wrong way…"

The traffic circle ahead was crammed with vehicles – imported Imperial trucks; the flat, angular shapes of Jehanan troop carriers; even the hulking shape of an Aganu medium tank – and there were literally hundreds of native troops milling about. The rumbling engines filled the air with the stink of methanol and diesel. Most of the soldiers were squatting on the sidewalks, tails wrapped around their long feet, passing bottles and bhang-pipes from claw to claw. One of the troop carriers had its rear compartment open and four Jehanan mechanics were banging around in the engine, cursing and muttering at ancient machinery. Two short-horns pushed a cart past the soldiers, offering grilled spiced zizunaga on wooden tines. The clang of their advertising bell was nearly lost in the general murmur. None of the soldiers seemed interested.

"Do you see the building on the right?" Mrs. Petrel gasped, leaning her hands on her thighs. Oh my god, I hurt inside. I think I've ruptured something. "It's a hotel – a very expensive Jehanan hotel – where the kurbardar Humara makes his residence when he is in the city. There is a suite of rooms on the third floor…" She paused, coughed, hand over her mouth, listening with growing irritation to the smooth, self-satisfied voice chattering in her ear. "…which my husband and I once visited for a dinner party. The – uhhh! – commando who took the prince was wearing a regimental insignia from an elite battalion under Humara's command."

Colmuir grunted, looked askance at Dawd, who shrugged, just as worried as he. "So you think they've taken the lad in there? T' drag before the general and gain their honor for a braw captive?"

Mrs. Petrel nodded weakly and forced herself to stand up straight. The tree afforded her some support and her hands pressed against the crinkly bark with relief. "Humara will be ecstatic to have the prince in his claws. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't make the boy call on the Imperial troops on the planet to surrender."

"Ha!" Dawd smiled in grim amusement. "I'm sure Tlacateccatl Yacatolli will immediately send forth a noble envoy to the sound of drums, trumpets and whistles when he hears the news! He will have some choice words to say about such a turn of events… Doesn't Humara know the Mйxica don't believe in surrender, or in ransoming captives? The colonel is more likely to demand the boy be sacrificed, as was done in the old days!"

Colmuir nodded in agreement. "But we can't let the lad languish. He's our responsibility and he's no legal captive until the battle's doon." He pointed with the muzzle of his Macana. "There'd be a service way in from the back?"

Petrel peered at the front of the hotel, noting the garish, gilt-embossed balconies were now draped with blankets and reinforced by rows of sand-bags. Machine-gun barrels snouted from the lower windows. The main doors were wedged back, allowing entrance into the building, but again there was a redoubt of sand-bags draped with camouflage netting in the entryway. The carpets in those dining rooms will be ruined, she imagined. Very pretty they were.

Voices were whispering to her again, and Greta turned slightly to keep her earbug away from Dawd, who was staring at her in a puzzled way.

"There is a delivery entrance in the rear," she said, as if remembering. "But not directly behind the front doors of the hotel – it's offset behind that dun-colored building. There are – there will be – guards, but not so many as in front."

"Right," the master sergeant said, eyeing her with suspicion. He produced a slim little comp from a thigh pocket. The device made a creaky sound, but lit at his finger-press. Colmuir tabbed up a map of the city and popped through several views before finding the street intersection. Once he'd oriented himself, the Skawtsman peered around the corner and checked out the adjoining streets. Wisps of hazy smoke drifted among the buildings. To the right, a shop selling imported Imperial toys was still burning, spilling a cloud of dark gray ash out into the avenue. The sun had mounted past noon, but in the thick, polluted air down in the city, with the air reverberating with the distant bang and crash of explosions, the hour felt very late.

"Back a block," Colmuir announced, "and over one and we can get into that service access."

Dawd nodded, offering Mrs. Petrel a hand and then they crept back away from the barricade. As they moved, two of the spyeyes drifting above the woman darted off ahead, letting Lachlan's controllers spy their path for unseen foes.

A wide loading dock stood at the back of a particularly rundown-looking building. Three Jehanan soldiers with modern rifles slung forward at their hips stood in the shelter of an overhanging awning made of wooden slats. Coils of yellowish smoke drifted above their heads as they passed a bhang from claw to claw.

"That's the place…" Colmuir waited for the reptilian heads to turn and then signed for Dawd to leap-frog past him to a square-linteled doorway on the opposite side of the of the tiny lane. The younger Skawtsman dodged past, taking a long step over a pair of water-filled ruts worn into the cobblestones by the passage of generations of runner-carts. The master sergeant watched for any sign of alarm until Dawd was ensconced in the shadows of the doorway, automatic pistols in either hand.

"Now miss," Colmuir said, giving Petrel a worried look, "you're in no shape t' be invading the stronghold of the enemy today. You'd best stay in hiding out here somewhere. Do y' know -"

"I do." Mrs. Petrel nodded. Her face looked notably pinched and she stood only by dint of leaning into a sooty brick wall. She motioned back down the alley. "Just off that last turn is a very nice little bed and breakfast on the Court of Yellow Flagstones. The owners are friendly towards humans." She laughed bitterly. "If their avant-garde politics have not gotten them murdered, I will be safe there."

The elder Skawtsman nodded slowly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Well, then. We'll be about rescuing the prince – again! – from the heathens." He paused, watching her right leg, which was trembling under her tattered, dirty festival skirts. "But we could go with you…"

"I will be fine, Master Sergeant." Mrs. Petrel drew herself up and wiped her hands on the bottom of her mantle. "The hotel has a small sign – three Nem flowers in a triangle. I will wait for you there." She essayed a brave smile. The Eagle Knight nodded, dubious about abandoning her on the streets of the war-torn city and equally anxious to burst in amongst his enemies and recover the person of his lord from captivity. "Go on now, time may be wasting…"

"Aye," he said, unmoving, "it might. But we should -"

"Go on," Mrs. Petrel waved an imperious hand at him, starting to feel rather faint from standing unsupported. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode off down the alleyway. Colmuir cursed, started to follow and then heard Dawd whistle softly behind him.

Turning, the master sergeant saw the other Eagle Knight sign the way is clear.

Hooting among themselves, the guards had finished their smoke and gone back inside.

"Ah, that tears it," he mumbled to himself and checked the ammunition level on his assault rifle. Colmuir signed for Dawd to advance and then ducked around the corner himself.

Finally!

Petrel watched the two Eagle Knights glide up to the loading dock, weapons at the ready, and breathed a sigh of relief. She tapped her medband awake again and sighed with relief at the cool touch of painkillers flooding into her system. Her injured leg was throbbing with each beat of her heart.

"I'm clear," she muttered, checking to make sure her earbug was firmly planted. The replacement unit didn't have the same fit and finish as her usual one. "Where to now?"

Excellent. The chittering voice of the old N'huatl woman sounded like a cricket had crawled into her hair. Back to the main street, but right instead of left. You'll meet an old friend within fifteen minutes – he's bringing your poetess – and some others of use…

"Bhazuradeha is here?" Petrel frowned, limping quickly along the alley. She found the emptiness of the streets unsettling – Parus was so densely populated even these back lanes were usually the scene of constant traffic and commerce – and her shoulders twitched with the sensation of being watched by hundreds of hostile eyes. "I thought you didn't approve of her!"

I've thought upon the matter, Itzpalicue said in a very smug voice. She could be of great use to us, if properly handled.

Petrel snorted. "You think everything and everyone is of use, if properly handled. Can your little friends find me a gun? I feel naked out here without my Webley."

The old Nahuatl woman chuckled. Gehr Shahr can provide you with whatever kind of weapon you desire, as soon as you find him. He has an extensive collection to claw.

Mrs. Petrel winced, feeling a trickle of fear at the back of her throat. "Gehr Shahr is a murderous thug, a notorious villain and entirely untrustworthy. What is he doing here?"

Nonsense, Itzpalicue said, sounding self-satisfied. He is a gentleman of impeccable honor, as long as the benefits of my employment outweigh his natural inclination to steal or burn everything he sees. He and his cousins have been of great use in the last several days, so you must treat him politely…

"His cousins?" Mrs. Petrel started to feel faint despite the drugs and cleaning agents coursing through her bloodstream. "Just how many Arach slavers did you bring into the city?"

Only a few hundred, the old woman said in an offhand way, just enough for all the murdering and thieving I needed done. It is always a joy to employ craftsmen.

"Oh, Holy Mother of Tepeyac," Petrel moaned, limping out onto the street leading towards the court of Yellow Flagstones. "Hundreds of Arachosians are loose in the city? They'll – oh, hello!"

Greta stumbled to a halt, astonished to find herself face to face with the looming black shape of the Hesht female she'd glimpsed at the train station. A pasty-faced human lolled on her shoulder, grimy hands clutching the furred neck of the alien woman. Seeing them again nudged a memory loose and suddenly she realized the two refugees were, by a quirk of fate, her direct responsibility. Oh damn.

"Hrrr!" Magdalena growled in warning, long hands swinging up a length of saw-edged lohaja.

"Peace!" Mrs. Petrel exclaimed, drawing back. "I've no quarrel with you, Heshak."

"I remember your smell…" the Hesht's voice trailed off into an exhausted hiss. "You were on the train." Sleek black eyebrows rose sharply and her fists tightened on the crude spear. "This stinking male needs a bone-setter and right away, or he will die. Is there a hospital or a doctor who understands the arrangement of human organs?"

"I…don't know. Not near here…" Mrs. Petrel eyed the length of razor-sharp wood with trepidation. And me without so much as a knife in my girdle! She frowned, a buzzing rising and falling in her hair. "Wait, I am searching for some friends – I'm sure they are nearby – come with me and we'll find help for your companion."

Itzpalicue cackled in her ear. Yes, I'm sure Gher Shahr will take good care of some stray civilians…

"This way," Mrs. Petrel said, hurrying past the Hesht and her deathly burden. "Not far, only a few blocks…" Under her voice, she muttered fiercely. "We're not going to dispose of these people – they're Imperial citizens and Company employees! I know their oyabun. Send me a doctor as quickly as you can."

Dawd set his back to a wall covered with posters of dainty Jehanan females hiding behind their tails and tucked one pistol under his wounded arm for safe-keeping. The hallway was rather dark, lit only by lamplight streaming from beneath a half-closed door. He groped in his thigh pockets and found, by touch, a pair of screw-on silencers. Only a few feet away, the master sergeant had already mounted a flash-suppressor on his assault rifle. Colmuir was taking the quiet moment to count his ammunition coils and remaining munitions.

"I've four grenades left," he said. "Do you want two?"

Dawd shook his head, the second silencer clicking into place. "I'll do the quiet work," he said, settling both pistols in his gloves. "And I'll lead. You've the longer reach."

Colmuir nodded. He started thumbing grenades into the launcher on his Macana. "Arm holding up?"

"It'll do." Dawd checked the set of his combat visor, tapped his earbug experimentally – he'd been getting some kind of interference out in the street – and sidled quietly up to the doorway. His breathing slowed appreciably with each step.

The three Jehanan soldiers from the loading dock had joined two of their friends around a low table. All of the slicks were kitted out in Vendanian uniforms; soft, campaign-style caps; leather harness for their ammunition, tools and personal effects; olive-colored baldrics front and back with heraldic symbols representing their brigade and lord. In comparison to the softness of the hand-made fittings, the gleaming metal HK-45B assault rifles seemed out of place.

Dawd nudged the door wide with his foot and stepped back a pace. Both automatics rose, bucked sharply in his hands as he fired, making a hissing ptttht! Two of the Jehanan jerked, the sound of bullets puncturing scale sounding like a broken plate hitting a tiled floor. The other three slicks sprang to their feet. Blood dusted the far wall. Dawd shifted slightly, shot two more as they clawed for their guns and then ducked into the room, sliding to his left.

The last Jehanan has his assault rifle swinging up, an outraged hoooo! bursting from his throat, when Colmuir – his line of fire clear – shot him in the throat with the Macana. The flechette burst inside the slick's cranium, shredding muscles, spinal cord and brain alike. There was a choked, gurgling sound mixed with a whine of spinning metal and the Jehanan soldier toppled over.

Colmuir signed for Dawd to check the far door as he advanced, checking each body for signs of life. The younger Skawtsman drifted to the exit, slid a spyeye thread through the door and signed all-clear. Moving quietly, they slid out into a darkened kitchen. Colmuir's backup comp was flickering, showing an intermittent signature from the prince's skinsuit.

Five minutes later, on the third floor, Dawd darted out of the landing at the head of the servant's stairs, caught sight of two Jehanan officers in the hallway, long heads together in conversation and charged towards them. The passage was high ceilinged and filled with painted wooden panels depicting great feats of Parusian arms – most by brawny slicks wielding axes and swords of enormous size. The Skawtsman's boots raced across deep, plush carpet. A tall pair of double-doors stood closed behind the two natives.

Hissing in irritation, the taller of the two officers turned away sharply and immediately saw Dawd loping towards him, automatics raised. A wild hoooo! leapt from his scaled throat and he snatched for his own sidearm. Dawd dodged to one side and fired his lefthand Nambu twice. The other officer, still unawares, spun around, chest and face smashed by the bullets. Gargling, he fell in a cloud of blood.

A dozen paces behind, Colmuir calmly shot the alerted officer twice in the chest, the impact throwing the Jehanan back into the doorway with a crash. Dawd grimaced, stepped over the twitching body and tried the locking wheel.

"Shut tight," he whispered. The Jehanan under his feet groaned, trying to rise. The Eagle Knight knelt, jamming his knee into the slick's throat. The master sergeant drifted up, Macana swinging back to cover the hallway. Dawd fumbled in the remains of his gunrig. "Damn – I've lost my cutting gel."

"I've some," Colmuir said, slinging his assault rifle to clear both hands. "Cover my back."

Dawd made sure the wounded Jehanan wouldn't be getting up and stood aside while the master sergeant drew a box around the locking wheel with a tube of demolition paste. Colmuir mashed a lighter tab into the orange goo, and flattened against the wall, head turned away.

The paste ignited with a sharp bang and the locking wheel crashed to the floor. Dawd tensed, the master sergeant paused a heartbeat, hearing a chorus of alarmed warbling from inside and popped one of the grenades out of his launcher. A twist of the arming ring switched the little bomb from highex to flash mode.

For a second, nothing happened. The hallway was empty, the room was silent – save for the harsh breathing of many lizardy throats – and neither man moved.

Dawd crouched down, automatics on the floor. Colmuir set the flash grenade in his hand to the shortest possible fusing.

Inside the room, a human voice bleated "Get off of – mmrph!"

The master sergeant flipped the grenade through the smoking hole. There was an immediate roar of automatic rifle fire. The doors shredded and bullets whined down the long hallway, smashing lamps, paintings and chewing up the wall at the far end.

BANG!

White smoke vomited through the perforated door, strobing with the afterimage of a brilliant flash. Dawd flung the panels open and rolled in on the floor, automatics snapping in both hands. He emptied both coils within five seconds, spraying the room with whining flechettes. Jehanan soldiers – there were easily twenty in the luxurious suite – staggered and howled, flayed by the bullets. Colmuir swung around the corner, his visor outlining the prince crawling underneath an enormous mound-shaped bed, and fired a grenade at each side of the room.

Heavy bullets slammed into his shoulder and chest. Colmuir grunted, flung back by the impact and felt something break in his shoulder. Twin blasts tore through the enemy, flinging scaled bodies in every direction. The master sergeant's medband swamped the injury with stabilizer and nopain. The Macana in his hands roared, ripping a stream of flechettes across three Jehanan soldiers blazing away at the door with their HK-45B's. They exploded in a cloud of red mist and their pulped bodies collapsed, shattering a thin-legged table.

Dawd sprang up, darting forward, smoking ammo coils ejecting from his pistols. His boot smashed into the face of a Jehanan soldier trying desperately to clear the action of his rifle. The slick went down squealing, and the sergeant smashed its eye socket with an empty pistol. Undaunted, the soldier twisted, tail lashing around to crack across Dawd's wounded arm. Gasping, the Skawtsman pitched to the side, losing the automatic.

The Jehanan staggered up, producing a dirk-style blade as long as Dawd's arm.

Colmuir slumped to the ground outside the doorway, teeth gritted, numb fingers managing to eject the emptied coil in his rifle. He caught the double-wrapped clip, swapped it end for end and jammed it back into the Macana.

The sword slashed down as Dawd rolled to the side, piercing carpet and the wooden floor beneath. Hissing in outrage, the Jehanan stamped down with a broad, leathery foot, catching the Skawtsman on the hip. Pinned, the Eagle Knight jerked up and a combat knife was in his hand. Dawd stabbed the slick in the stomach and a flood of entrails, half-digested noodles and blood spewed out, drenching him. Snout gaping wide in a dying hiss, the Jehanan toppled over.

Dawd rolled out of the mess, jammed a fresh coil into his Nambu and popped up.

A handful of Jehanan soldiers, stunned and disoriented by the grenade blast, blinked owlishly at him. The Eagle Knight, rather rattled himself, squeezed the trigger of his automatic in quick succession. Slicks jerked, strings cut, and more gore patterned the walls.

"Get the lad t' safety!" Colmuir shouted, managing to swing himself around. More Jehanan soldiers were storming up the main stairs into the third-floor hallway. Some of the other doors on the passage had banged open, surprised and wary slicks staring out. The master sergeant fired his last grenade through the nearest door as it slammed closed. There was a heavy thump and smoke leaked out from the sill.

A crowd of soldiers burst from the staircase. Colmuir switched his Macana to full automatic and sprayed the lot of them as they boiled up. Bodies staggered, shredded by the cloud of flechettes, and there was a cacophony of screams. The wall behind them exploded in a cloud of plaster dust and splintered wood. The flash-suppressor on the assault rifle began to glow red.

Dawd kicked the prince's foot, still exposed under the edge of the bed. "Mi'lord, come on! We've got t -"

The sound of the bathroom door opening had been drowned by the wailing of crippled and dying Jehanan soldiers. The sergeant caught a glimpse of something leaping towards him and then his head slammed around, combat visor flying askew, and he went down like a sack of meal.

Half-blinded by sparks flooding across his vision, Dawd tried to heave himself up. His medband squeaked angrily. Someone was dragging the prince out from under the bed by the foot. A horrified squealing sound penetrated the Eagle Knight's groggy daze as Tezozуmoc clutched the bedlegs for dear life. Heartsick at the sound, the Skawtsman staggered up.

In the doorway, Colmuir had switched back to semi-automatic. A reckless Jehanan popped out of one of the hallway doors, automatic rifle stuttering bright yellow flashes. The master sergeant potted him with one burst, sending the creature sprawling.

With a second's breathing room, the master sergeant rolled back into the room and whistled with delight to see the nearest Jehanan corpse was festooned with old-style Pakrit fragmentation grenades. He snatched up the bandolier and parked himself against the wall.

Then he realized neither Dawd nor the prince was in the room.

A fresh burst of gunfire tore across the wall above his head, spilling dust into his hair. Colmuir grimaced, plucked four of the grenades from the belt and slapped them together with stickytape. More rounds whined across the room, shattering the rest of the glassware which had so far escaped the fighting.

"Good morning," he mumbled, waiting for the trample of rushing feet in the hallway, packet of grenades at the ready. He started to hum to himself. "It's a fine, fine day on the banks o' the Clyde an' I'm waiting for a bonny lass to come singing in th' sun…singing with her hair in braids an' bonnets, waiting for me lass t' come singing…" He flexed his trigger finger, poised, hearing the rustle of many native feet on the carpeted floor outside. "She's coming for me, an' I'm waiting, sun on my face, breezes in my hair, waiting by th' freshet Clyde, waiting…"

An armored personnel carrier rumbled past on the street, rubberized tracks grinding ancient concrete to gravel. A squad of Jehanan soldiers clung to the metal roof, peaked caps tight under their long jaws, legs hanging over the side. Mrs. Petrel shrank back into the shadow of a ruined shop front, one hand behind her to press the Hesht into the wall.

Now, the insect chittered in her hair, step out and wave cheerfully, dear.

"Here we go," Mrs. Petrel muttered and marched out into the thin sunlight, both hands raised. A cloud of diesel smoke drifted over her, eliciting a cough and then a short Jehanan riding in the commander's cupola of a truly enormous tank spotted her.

"Halt!" Bhrigu shouted into the driver's compartment of the Gorond-class heavy tank. There was a grinding sound of clashing gears and the engine belched dirty gray smoke as the machine ground to a halt. The kujen leaned down, taking in the unexpected sight of the Imperial Resident's wife in a tattered festival gown standing beside the street, broken shoes in her hand. He rubbed the tip of his snout. "You look lost, human."

Behind the prince, a column of tanks, armored cars, and trucks rolled to a halt amid a thick cloud of exhaust. Two columns of infantry jogged up, their sergeants bawling commands, deploying a screen of Jehanan riflemen to watch the buildings and the road ahead.

"I've come looking for you, mi'lord," Greta replied, straightening herself to stare icily up at the little Jehanan in a helmet adorned with golden horns perched on the massive turret. "It's time to put an end to this insurrection, I think."

"Do you?" Bhrigu hooted wryly. He felt itchy, sitting atop the rumbling bulk of the tank, his back exposed to so many relatives carrying guns. "Our mutual friend" – he tapped an Imperial comm tucked into the front pocket of his armored vest – "suggested I make haste to a building nearby – I understand the conspirators behind all this…" He waved a claw at the sky crisscrossed with gleaming contrails. "…are gathered to plot my overthrow."

"Yes," Mrs. Petrel said, climbing up onto the track housing. "They are only a few streets over. Kurbardar Humara has betrayed you, you know."

"Has he?" Bhrigu expressed great surprise. Swaying a little, Petrel laid her hand on the enormous barrel of the main gun. From the higher vantage, she was suddenly aware of many attentive ear-holes turned towards her and the prince. Quite a number of Jehanan officers had gathered unobtrusively near the tank. They were all very well armed.

"Yes," she said. "He plans to use the civil disturbance – unrest fomented, I must say, by enemies of the Empire who seek to dupe the more radical elements among your people into destroying themselves and weakening Venadan – to murder you, your loyal officers and to seize the kujenate himself."

Bhrigu hissed in alarm and outrage. He struck a commanding pose – slightly diminished by the nervous flutter of his right claw. "Then we will crush this nest of vipers with a swift, sure heel! All units prepare to advance!"

Mrs. Petrel hooted softly at him, trying to recapture his attention, wishing she'd hadn't lost her resonators in all the fuss. She was looking back down the road, past the columns of vehicles. A truck was barreling along the sidewalk at a dangerous speed. "Wait just a moment, mi'lord. There is someone approaching who should accompany you in this moment of victory."

"There is?" Bhrigu turned, unsettled, and bleated in outrage as the Scandia two-ton swerved, scattering his soldiers and screeched to a halt only inches from the side of the tank, dust and gravel spattering against dull gray armor. "What is this? Who are -"

The door of the truck banged open and a pale rose-colored female climbed out, stepping daintily onto the rear deck. She was immediately followed by a Jehanan of impressive size, all cloaked and cowled in the manner of the highland tribesmen. One hand, scarred and chipped, rested on the female's slim shoulder with a proprietary air. The other rested on the silver-chased hilt of a cruel-looking sword.

"You are Bhrigu," the chieftain growled, raising the hackles on back of Petrel's neck. The creature radiated undiluted menace. "I've something for you." Roughly, he shoved the female forward, drawing an outraged squeak as she fell against the turret.

Mrs. Petrel became aware of every single Jehanan within sight growing completely still. Bhrigu stared down upon the girl at his feet and turned a queer, pasty-yellow color.

"Bhazuradeha? What -"

"The spoils of war," boomed the highland chieftain, gesturing dismissively at the poetess. "The traitor Humara is doomed, unable to even keep his choicest prize in safety. See how she cowers before you? She knows well who the victor will be…"

Bhrigu was struck speechless for a moment, but then he turned, snout wrinkling in furious suspicion, to Mrs. Petrel, who had been glad to catch a breath or two.

"You…" The kujen started to sputter in outrage. "You had her stolen!"

"Fairly captured, mi'lord," the girl proclaimed in a clear, carrying voice, taking the opportunity to stand up, brush herself off and kneel – as best she was able – before him on the turret ring. The crowd of Jehanan soldiers in the street had now grown quite large and every long reptilian face was turned towards the tableau atop the tank. "Taken in a sudden, daring raid by you r…loyal vassals." She turned, inclining her slim head towards the Arachosian. "Oh, there was a terrible struggle, but they overthrew nearly a brigade of Humara's finest troops to pluck me from a perfumed, flowered garden where I languished, a cruelly kept captive!"

Gher Shahr twitched at the words loyal vassal but managed to keep hold of his temper.

Mrs. Petrel, gently reminded by the locust in her ear, climbed painfully down from the tank and picked her way through the rubble back into the burned out shop front. Parker was lying on the ground, a roll of cloth under his head, breathing irregularly.

Outside, Bhazuradeha gazed adoringly up at the stunned kujen, hands crossed at his feet, her voice rising in a plaintive song describing her captivity and long adoration of the distant, noble prince, the only person who could possibly rescue her from such a powerful master. The entire street was perfectly silent, nearly five thousand soldiers listening keenly to her crystal-clear voice.

"Let's lift him up," Mrs. Petrel said, leaning down beside Magdalena and taking hold of Parker's hands. The Hesht blinked her eyes open, stirring from exhaustion. "There is a truck outside with medical equipment. A doctor is coming, too, but he won't be here for a bit. There's a bit of a traffic jam…"

Sergeant Dawd eased through a servant's doorway and found himself in a long, low hallway running behind the suite. The passage was very dimly lit – there were some small bluish lights spaced along the roof – but he could hear the prince snif-fling somewhere ahead. A massive whoomp! boomed behind him, followed by the rattle of gunfire and faint screams.

The master sergeant is hard at work…I'd best be quick! He'll need my help…

Combat knife in one hand and his remaining Nambu in the other, the Eagle Knight crept forward, keeping his wounded shoulder to the wall. He could hear someone walking quickly, accompanied by the sound of dragging feet.

A door-wheel rattled open and light spilled into the hallway. A human silhouetted against the light pushed the hunched-over shape of Tezozуmoc through the opening with a warning growl. The prince cried out, hitting his shin, and there was a cold laugh.

"You're a pitiful specimen," the creature wearing Timonen's shape declared in a heavy Finnish accent as he stepped through the door.

Dawd lunged out of the darkness, slashing his combat-knife at the man's neck.

The Finn blurred aside, reacting with incredible speed. The Eagle Knight's gray-green eyes widened as his blade clove thin air. Timonen spun, face peculiarly empty of expression and smashed a fist into Dawd's chest. The Skawtsman coughed blood, flew across the hallway and bounced from the wall. He staggered, finger clenching on the trigger of the Nambu. A double-flare of propellant blazed in the darkness, sketching the outline of the Finn lunging low, head twisted to one side at an impossible angle, one arm stiff to stab elongated needlelike fingers into the Eagle Knight's unarmored armpit. Dawd felt a rushing cold chill leach the strength from his arm.

Gasping, he looked down and saw razor-sharp fingers dripping with blood withdraw from his side. Ice flooded his chest and he slid down the wall, leaving a crimson smear. The Lengian loomed over him, cold blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. Dawd gaped, paralyzed, watching the man's head shift gelatinously, sliding back onto his neck. Unnaturally long arms coiled back into shoulder sockets and the creature flicked droplets of blood from his fingers, once more in their proper shape.

The Lengian leaned close, seizing the Eagle Knight's head with his hands, thumbs pressing into the corners of Dawd's eyes. The Skawtsman cried out in horrible pain once, and then he choked into silence. The creature crouched over his body and there was a slithering, sticky sound in the half-light.

Panting, his stomach clenching angrily, Tezozуmoc managed to get to his feet. He was in some kind of dimly-lit stairwell. The smell of urine, rotten bread and ancient candle wax permeated the air.

"Hello?" The prince groped about, finding a railing and stepped back to the door he'd been so roughly pushed through. "Is…is anyone there?"

"Here, mi'lord," a half-familiar voice issued from the darkness, followed by the flare of a hand-lamp. Tezozуmoc blinked, blinded, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. "Ah, sorry. There's a bit of a mess to clean up – just wait a moment."

The prince shuddered with relief, glad beyond measure to hear the Skawtsman's voice. "You've killed the…the Swede then?"

There was an affirmative grunt. "He was a Finn, I think," Dawd said, his voice hoarse and dull. "Facial structure is a little different…" A hissing sound cut the air and Tezozуmoc flinched, his nostrils assailed by a sharp acidic smell. "But he's done for now."

The Eagle Knight turned back, lamp shining on the floor. The prince saw the young Skawtsman was drenched with blood, his gunrig in disarray, armor pocked by bullet impacts, hair haggard and awry. Dawd tucked his Nambu away and held out a hand to Tezozуmoc.

"Step carefully, mi'lord, the floor is a bit…slippery."

The prince swallowed, nodded and hurried past the body dissolving on the ground. Dawd gestured for him to go ahead.

"Where's Master Sergeant Colmuir?" Tezozуmoc asked, starting to feel ill again. He hadn't had a drink in hours and hours and he was feeling very poorly. "How will we get out of here?"

Dawd coughed wetly, but patted the young man on the shoulder. "Not to worry, I'm sure the master sergeant and I can figure something out…Yes, just through that door there."

Tezozуmoc crept through the entry to the bathroom, tense as a rabbit on a full moon night, but was surprised at the silence pervading the wrecked suite of rooms.

His head held high, kujen Bhrigu stamped up a flight of grand, red-carpeted stairs and onto the third floor landing. A wall of soldiers preceded him, rifles at the ready. A young sirdar from the 111th Assault Brigade checked the passage, eyeing the scattered corpses with a disdainful eye and waved his king forward. Smoke clogged the air and several sections of wall were burning.

"Clear the way!" The officer barked. Two of his troopers stepped aside.

Bhrigu stepped over a drift of bodies and into a mangled, bullet-riddled doorway. Mrs. Petrel had hung back a bit as the royal presence entered the hotel – a large number of dazed mutineers were being rounded up and herded out of the building, but she was careful to keep out of the line of fire if some zealot jumped out of a closet with a gun – but now she stepped up to the kujen's shoulder and took in the scene before him.

Prince Tezozуmoc stood near the middle of the room, a heavy Imperial assault rifle slung over his shoulder, the muzzle – still glowing cherry red and steaming softly – covering a pack of haggard, bloody Jehanan officers kneeling against the wall. The young man was watching his captives with a fixed, grim expression, teeth clenched tight. His hands were very steady on the handgrips of the weapon. His black skinsuit did not show any smudges, gore or dust.

"Ah, superbly done!" Bhazuradeha exclaimed, stepping past the kujen, who was staring very suspiciously at the wreckage, bodies and debris scattered around the room. "The prince of the air has swooped down on pinioned wings, seizing the conspirators in their very lair! Look, mi'lord, see who he has taken captive for you: the king of land and sea, the conqueror of the four quarters!"

The kujen tore his eyes away from the sight of two battered, exhausted Imperial Eagle Knights sitting with their backs to the wall, cleaning their weapons and reloading with numbed, trembling fingers. The younger one had a pair of darkened goggles over his eyes and half his face swathed in quickheal gel. Bhrigu glanced at Mrs. Petrel, gave her a lingering, suspicious stare and then turned back to the poetess, who had stepped to the largest of the captive officers and twisted his head around, her tiny rose-colored hand tight on his snout.

"Kurbardar Humara," Bhrigu said solemnly, looking down on the battered-looking officer. The scar along the Jehanan's snout twisted, but with the girl holding his mouth shut, he could say nothing. "Your treachery has cost many lives, but by the quick thinking of many loyal men…and women" – he nodded to Bhazuradeha – "your foul and treasonous rebellion has been crushed."

The kujen made a slashing motion with his hand. "Take him away!"

The troopers from the 111th swarmed forward, binding the captured officers and dragging them roughly away. Humara was the last to disappear through the door, his eyes filled with rage.

"That one," Mrs. Petrel said quietly to the kujen, "will have to be killed."

"They will all be executed before nightfall," Bhrigu said, tongue flicking between his teeth. "All these traitors will be rounded up and shot. Their families will be exiled, their estates and properties confiscated."

Mrs. Petrel nodded, beginning to relax. She felt terribly, terribly tired. "What about the rebellious elements in the countryside, in Takshila and Gandaris?"

Bhrigu regarded her rather slyly. "I'm sure the Imperial Army can take care of such rabble as runs amuck in the other principalities. Aren't your Colonel Yacatolli's men already deployed across the length and breadth of the Five Rivers?" He wrinkled his snout. "Parus is wracked by civil unrest. There is no way my forces could essay to campaign against these other princes while my position is insecure at home!"

"I see." Mrs. Petrel forced a cold smile. "And if these mutinous lords are suppressed, then Imperial forces will be required to…maintain order…in the north. For some goodly time to come. Are you sure some Parusian regiments could not be spared to maintain civil administration in the rebellious towns? Taxes will have to be collected, the law enforced…"

Bhrigu clicked the point of a small claw against his teeth. "A pressing point," he admitted. "Perhaps an arrangement could reached, apportioning these taxes in an equitable manner…"

On the other side of the city, in a quiet suburb, Itzpalicue rubbed her hands together, well pleased. The darkened room around her was lit by the glow of v-displays and filled with the hum of machinery and men and women talking rapidly into their comm-threads.

"Cut!" she barked, tapping a nail on her display.

In a side-pane, Lachlan scratched his head, leaning back in his chair in relief.

"Freeze feed, scrub out the jitter from those spyeyes and post a copy to the Mirror as soon as a t-relay is available." The old NГЎhuatl woman opened a channel to all of her operators. "Well done, all. Very well done." She smiled, showing yellowed old teeth like a row of grainy pearls. "Once the city is secured by loyalist troops, go to half-shifts. Release time-delay on all controlled comms. Time for the army to clean up our mess. Everyone can get some sleep."

She yawned herself and sat down in a wicker chair from upstairs, completely spent. The warm feeling of a job well done, despite unexpected adversity, filled her breast. Itzpalicue turned to speak to Lachlan and saw the young man had already leaned back in his chair and was snoring softly. As she watched, one of his technicians draped a patterned blanket over his chest and arms, then reached out and shut down the v-feed.

"Well done, my boy," Itzpalicue said to the darkened screen. "Ah, I should rest myself. Tomorrow will be just as bus y…" She consulted her chrono and bared her teeth. "Villeneuve should arrive soon and my services will be required again. Ah, this work is never done."