Flushed, the prince looked away and gagged down the glass. Stupid Skawt – I've gotten drunk before! This is no different than last time…though that rose-colored girl did let me taste some giddyup from her fliptop…everything got woozy after that. I wonder…
"What happened to the beautiful singer?" Wiping his mouth, Tezozуmoc tossed the glass carelessly behind the sofa. He peered at Sergeant Dawd expectantly. "Is she here? Oh…did we mate? I was wondering what she'd feel like -"
"There was no mating, mi'lord." Dawd assumed parade rest by reflex. He looked down at the prince, who sprawled bonelessly across the chair. "You were…touching her in an inappropriate way and…"
"She was very smooth!" the prince exclaimed, flushing copper. "I asked her permission first!"
"…her patron, General H umara, did not like that at all." Dawd's voice was quite cold. "No indeed. He came within a hair of splitting you open with as fine a damascene-style blade as I've ever seen."
"Fine. Fine. I'm very grateful." Tezozуmoc started to feel stymied. This always happens. I hate this. Why won't anyone answer my questions? "What happened to the rose-colored girl?"
"Humara took her away. Under local law, she is his legal possession…"
Tezozуmoc grunted and stood up – swayed unsteadily for a moment, but found his footing – and gestured violently at the Skawtsman. "Oh, shut up. Shut-shut-shut up! Do you know where she is? Was she hurt?"
Dawd shook his head. "We moved you to safety as quickly as possible."
"Listen to me, Sergeant." The prince rubbed a fine-boned brown hand across one cheek. Pain stabbed behind his eyelids at the touch. Oh, I have done myself an injury this time. What was in those red crystals? Gasoline? What if they like to drop shots of petroleum distillate here? "There are very few things in this world I find enjoyable. That girl…"
Tezozуmoc stopped and closed his mouth with a snap. He felt truly terrible, worse than he had in at least two weeks. Despite the stabbing pressure threatening to burst through his eyelids and spill blood down his cheeks, the prince could see enough of the sergeant's face to realize the man was only barely disguising open contempt. A groping hand found the back of the nearest chair. The feel of solid wood under his fingertips kept him from pitching over.
"Did you hear her singing, Sergeant? Did you listen to her at all?"
Sergeant Dawd shook his head minutely. "Mi'lord, I was…"
"Be quiet." Exhausted, Tezozуmoc's anger flared, the stabbing reflection of sunlight from a drawn blade. "I am speaking. If you cannot listen, then you are discharged from my service. Did I choose you to watch over me? No – so you may go at any time. You were forced upon me, just as Colmuir was." The prince's thin face twisted in anguish and his right hand scratched angrily at the side of his neck. "Two Eagle Knights set to guard a Prince Imperial – yet I am Otomitl – an officer! Where are my captives? Where are the men I've defeated in battle? There are none!"
Dawd stepped back, gray-green eyes narrowing in puzzlement.
"You barely even comprehend what I say." Tezozуmoc looked sick again, but the hangover was losing its hold. "My father and my brothers don't even bother to speak to me – why should they? My mantle of red and white feathers is ash and glue and paint, my victories – not one plume is mine. Not one. Only my father's name shields me from disgrace – his will, and men like you, who watch over me and keep me from harm."
Tezozуmoc abruptly wrenched the chair from the floor and hurled it into the nearest wall. Hardwood shattered, sending splinters clattering from the light fixtures. Dawd braced himself, but did not move.
"I am a Mйxica!" The prince's voice was bitter and furious. "The blood of conquerors is in me – every nation bows down before my father – our enemies know only ruin and exile or lie dead, their nations wastelands under the Blow. My brothers…" Tezozуmoc gasped for breath, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. "They are strong – those Blades Undimmed – what am I? Only a broken mirror, distorted, filled with shadows. A blunted edge."
Dawd, alarmed, thumbed his comm, sounding a warning on the circuit he and Colmuir shared.
"The eagle screams," Tezozуmoc said, his voice starting slow, chanting.
"Jaguars howl, and you – O Prince – you are
Macuilmailnalli.
Here, in a region of smoke, in the land of red color,
bravely the Mйxica are fighting."
The prince stopped, body drained by the outburst. His hands were trembling.
"I am intoxicated – I, Tezozуmoc.
I of the flowery, shaven hair.
Again and again, I drink the flowering liquor.
Let them pass me precious flowery nectar.
Oh, my brother, you are young and strong.
I grow pale. Where is my strong hand? My blade of flint?
Gone – rabbits have taken them – stolen my strong heart.
Nothing is left."
Dawd heard the door behind him open and raised a warning hand. The prince's voice was growing, filling the room, even as his thin body seemed to shrink in upon itself. There was a faint metallic click as Colmuir eased his Nambu back into the gunrig.
"Within the waters, they are singing.
The divine flowers are calling – they are intoxicated, they are shouting
The princes who are precious birds, the mighty Cuextecas.
Begin the dance!
To his house go those with spoiled flowers,
Those with plumed shields,
Those who guarded the heights,
Those who took prisoners alive,
Now they are dancing,
Vomiting blood as they go,
The spoiled flowers, those of the flowery shields.
My divine brothers."
Tezozуmoc stared gravely at the two Skawtsmen, dark eyes enormous in a pale, wasted face. "Am I so bright with glory? No – I am sitting in a dark house, fumes in my nostrils. You are warriors – far better men than I – you had to earn the arrow, the jade, the feathered shield." A thin finger stabbed at the matte black mon on Colmuir's stiff collar. "You deserve what you have been given."
The prince fell silent, clutching his head. Dawd risked a brief glance at Colmuir, who was looking curiously at him in turn. The younger Skawtsman licked his lips, looked around at the mess, and mustered up enough breath to speak.
"Mi'lord? I'm only a clanless man from Glasgow, but by the blood, you've a ringing voice and a piercing way with the ancient words. Of all men, I know how fiercely the Mйxica venerate the poet, the singer, even above warriors, even above kings. Does your father know -"
"I only recite," Tezozуmoc interrupted, anger flickering awake. "Nezahualpilli, son of fabled Nezahualcoyotl, raised his voice with those words nearly a thousand years ago. A trained monkey could do so well."
He stumbled to the nearest couch and threw himself down, utterly drained. His voice was a faint thready whisper. "Somehow, all the divine spirit which fills my father and shines in my brothers was gone by the time I came into this cursed world. Was my mother exhausted? Am I only half formed?" He raised his head, fixing Dawd with a glittering stare. "If I am truly an officer, where are my men? Where is my command?"
The Skawtsman stiffened again, face automatically settling into a stiff mask. The prince laughed softly.
"No one will trust me in the presence of warriors. I am always 'attached to headquarters' – given indefinable tasks, responsibilities without weight. If this continues, I will someday be a general without an army – save perhaps the two of you, grown old and gray."
Dawd ignored a soft snort of laughter behind him. "Why is the Jehanan girl important, mi'lord? Should we try and find her?"
Tezozуmoc's face changed, unhealthy pallor fading, eyes coming alert. "She sang to me, Sergeant. Their vocal cords are not ours, their range is higher, with abeautifulmellowtone…Ihavereada little about this place, dabbled in some books, watched the usual briefing holos. They are a very old race, very old. Their language is quite com
plex – even with a translator you will find a Jehanan can manage NГЎhuatl or Norman better than we can pronounce the simplest words in Uheru or Ssagatiak. But when she sang to me…" The prince's face lit with a smile. "I understood. I could feel what she felt, see what she saw."
Dawd frowned. Tezozуmoc gave him a pitying look.
"Do you think I am lying?"
"No, mi'lord!" Both Skawtsmen stiffened to attention.
"What you believe doesn't matter." The prince pushed himself up gingerly. "For a moment, my heart was light and all this gall drained away into forgetfulness. I would like to hear her sing again, if the kujen will allow such a thing. Perhaps I can learn a few of the words myself." He sighed, head drooping again. "I suppose the Fleet will depart and we will be gone before there is opportunity."
"Now…" Dawd was interrupted by a polite cough and Colmuir placed a hand on his shoulder. Obediently, the younger Skawtsman stepped back, clasping both hands behind his back. The master sergeant bowed to the prince, a comm-pad tucked under his arm.
"Mi'lord, two messages came while you were asleep. One from Grand Duke Villeneuve – he extends his apologies for not entertaining you at dinner, but the battle group has received orders to proceed to the Keshewan system with all speed. Your regiment has been left behind on Jagan to ensure the safety of Imperial interests here."
"When will they return?" Tezozуmoc looked up, concerned. Dawd was relieved the question had been broached – he detested the muggy climate here in Parus and wished to be someplace colder and drier as soon as possible. Preferably on a Fleet battlecruiser in transit back to the home systems.
"Three to four weeks, if not longer." Colmuir hesitated. "Regimental headquarters seemed a little surprised by their departure, mi'lord, and had no good answer for why only the 416th had been left behind. Apparently there is considerable unrest growing in the rural provinces against the Imperial presence. There is concern attacks against Imperial citizens or their business operations may occur."
The prince's nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
"The second message is a personal social invitation, mi'lord, from the kujen of Gandaris."
Tezozуmoc raised a weary eyebrow. "Another party?"
"A traditional hunt, mi'lord." Colmuir offered the comm-pad. "The kujen expresses his desire for the most-noble prince to join him, local dignitaries and several Imperial Army officers in searching out and destroying a pair of xixixit beasts which are preying upon the villages near his city. Apparently the xixixit are surpassing rare and not lately seen south of the mountains."
"A hunt? Are they mad?" Dawd surprised himself by speaking out of turn. Both the prince and the master sergeant favored him with disapproving glances. The sergeant decided to fade into the wall.
"I am sure my reputation as a fearsome warrior has preceded me," Tezozуmoc said in a very dry voice. "Do I make such a desirable party ornament? Don't these barbarians realize currying favor with me is utterly useless? Better they should hire a dancing clown in black and white instead!"
Colmuir pursed his lips and took back the comm-pad. "Mi'lord, this message came care of the Legation – I spoke with Mrs. Petrel, the Legate's wife, when she commed – and she implied the kujen of Gandaris is no good friend of Lord Bhrigu."
"Who is Bhrigu?" The prince's patience was waning. "Do I care?"
"Bhrigu is kujen of Parus, mi'lord. His liegeman Humara tried his best to split you in two the other night when you were…speaking…with Miss Bhazuradeha."
Tezozуmoc stiffened, staring at the master sergeant. "What? The rose-colored girl is named 'radiant sunrise'? Does Mrs. Petrel know her – I mean, personally? Would she have a comm address?"
"I have no idea, mi'lord." Colmuir sounded uncomfortable. "But it might be a good idea to leave town for a wee bit. Let things settle here, if you see."
The prince glared at the Skawtsman, then deflated abruptly. "Bhrigu is not a fool – not to have recognized her talent in the first place. He'll have her under close surveillance. She must have slipped away from him at the reception…"
"Mi'lord…"
"Hunting. Hah!" Tezozуmoc sprawled despondently on the couch. "All princes love hunting! I'm sure someone believes it's in my blood. Idiots…Yes, tell the Legation I will do my royal duty and show a brave face for the locals."
In the corridor outside, Dawd coughed discretely. "Ah, Master Sergeant?"
Colmuir looked up from his comm-pad. "Yes, lad?"
"Is it cooler in Gandaris?"
"Snowy mountains, Ser'gnt, right among high snowy mountains."
Dawd breathed a sigh of relief. Some chance of a cool breeze then. Then turned his attention back to the job at hand. "What about these xixixit creatures, Master Sergeant? Do we have any intel about them?"
Colmuir let out a hiss, shaking his head in disbelief. He handed the younger man the comm-pad. Dawd thumbed through the briefing, then stopped at a grainy two-d picture, appalled.
"Master Sergeant! What the devil is the Legate thinking? These things are vicious!"
"I would guess," Colmuir said, glancing back over his shoulder at the door to the prince's suite, "Mrs. Petrel thinks a three-meter-long wasp is less a trouble to our wee lad than the singing girl might be. And she would know, I think, being a wise woman if I've ever seen one."
Dawd grimaced again. "Does the prince have the faintest idea how to use a hunting lance?"
"None of that, lad." Colmuir gave the sergeant a sharp look. "Not our place to comment on the prince and his abilities! You'll keep a civil tongue in your head and your opinions to yourself."
The Horumkel Baths Street of the Eye-Shield Jewelers, Parus
Shrouded by a cloud of soft, billowing steam, Itzpalicue leaned back against glistening marble and closed her eyes. The stone felt cool against her thin back and she clasped both hands on a bare stomach. The inside of her eyelids began to yield up images – a little fuzzy, the humidity interfered with the commcast receiver – but still clear enough to make out a scene occurring not too far away.
She looked down from a ribbed ceiling, the spybug hidden among old cobwebs beaded with dust. Below her, the long trestle tables of a cabinetmaker's workshop had been cleared away. A pair of Jehanan in bulking robes and face-shrouding cowls unlatched a rectangular plastic case. The slate-colored lid rolled back, revealing two wicked-looking tubes stenciled with Imperial military script. There was a sibilant trill from the natives, a sound the old Mйxica recognized as pleased laughter. Each day she spent among these people yielded up more of their body language, slang and private conversation to her. Their language was almost musical, and she allowed – with some disdain – their poetry was affecting, even to her, a human with the wrong kind of ear to appreciate its subtleties.
"There are sixteen more in this shipment," the human standing across the table said, his voice a little tinny after being filtered through the audio pickup on the spybug, broadcast scrambled to a Mirror relay on the roof of a nearby pottery kiln, tightbeamed back to Lachlan's operations center and then retransmitted to the dropwire in the back of her skull. "Consider these a gift, from those who hold the same enemies as yours."
One of the Jehanan – not the leader of this particular cell of the darmanarga moktar, but his spokesman – ran a supple, scaled hand across the anti-aircraft missile in the portage case. "We need more of theesse," he said, in passable NГЎhuatl. "Your predecessor offered two hundreds of them."
Did he? Itzpalicue wondered if the Flower Priest who had made the initial contact was really so bold. A real agent of the illegal, constantly hunted and thoroughly dangerous Swedish Royal Intelligence Service – the HKV – would not have made such a daring play. The Swedes would have given these creatures the tools and diagrams to make their own missiles. Much less costly than actually shipping two hundred 'live-eye' hunter-seekers to such an obscure world. Itzpalicue was equally abstemious where her own budget was concerned. But here the xochiyaotinime are footing the bill – so cost is of little concern
as long as we make a good show.
Another of the Jehanan nobles examined the missiles with a handheld sensor. After a moment's scrutiny, apparently satisfied, he coughed something unintelligible. The spokesman repeated his question.
"They are already on-planet," the Flower Whisperer said, producing a folded paper from his Parusian-styled overcloak. As it happened, the agent was one of Itzpalicue's 'mice' infiltrated into the xochiyaotinime team on Jagan. He was, of course, pretending to be a Swedish agent-provocateur. "Here are contact directions to meet someone who will help you move the rockets to a safe location of your choosing. But not for another four days."
Itzpalicue's technicians were watching on the spybug feed from Operations, waiting to see what kind of check the Jehanan would make before accepting the shipment. They would need time to make appropriate adjustments to the rest of the missiles. The old Mйxica did not intend for more than one in four of the rockets to work properly, once things came to violence here on Jagan. While the Flower Priests and the natives were expendable, she had no desire for the Army to spend too much blood in victory.
One of the darmanarga stirred and Itzpalicue saw a ripple of reaction sweep the others. The leader of this cell, she judged, watching their postures carefully. Once, long ago, this race expressed hierarchy through physical reactions, many lower, one higher. Those instincts have grown thin over time, but they are not yet gone. Interesting. The leader – his features were hidden by a deep cowl – said something the spybug did not pick up. The spokesman turned back to the human.
"We have assked before, nahwah, but we asssk again. Why do your clanss help uss? We are not of the same blood, same stock…"
Itzpalicue shifted a little on the stone bench, feeling sweat ooze from every pore. Fresh steam surged up from pipes laid under the perforated floor. The bathhouse was very old, every surface worn smooth as glass, the local travertine gaining a translucent, almost fleshy, shine. In the last four meetings she'd monitored – spread across the entire length and breadth of the valley of the Phison – the darmanarga representatives had asked a variation of the same question. Each time in the same way – accepting the goods, then posing the question as a seeming afterthought.
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