They are trying to cross-check, she thought, watching her agent's response closely. Lachlan needs to winnow their secure channels from the usual chatter. I need to know what they think they know.
"We know what will happen," the Flower Whisperer said in a somber voice, "if you do not receive better weapons. The Empire understands only strength. Without our assistance, all your valor will be useless in the face of superior arms. Then you will be little more than slaves. But if you fight, if you show a warrior's spirit, then they will respect you and see you as worthy of being allies."
The leader was whispering in the spokesman's ear again, claw tapping nervously on his subordinate's shoulder. "You…do not believe we can defeat the Empire?"
"No. Not alone. Not without our help."
Itzpalicue could feel, even through the video feed, the agent sweating with tension. Not so comfortable as being at the baths, she thought in amusement, with a good scrub and oil waiting.
"Without military-grade spacecraft," the Whisperer continued, "you will not be able to drive the Empire from your world." The human looked around the shop, indicating the lengths of cured golden timber stacked against the walls. "Beautiful tables and chairs will not suffice. Your people need time to build the industry required to put starships into service."
A bitter hissing rose from the Jehanan, and from her vantage point Itzpalicue saw the leader's clawed hand dig tight into the spokesman's shoulder. For a moment, something seemed familiar about the way the moktar cell leader was standing. The old Mйxica made a mental note to review the recording when she returned to her rooms. Another hurried conversation passed among the natives. Then the spokesman made a passable imitation of a human nod.
"We undersstand," the Jehanan rumbled, gesturing for two of his juniors to take the portage case in hand. "Patience iss required."
Do you? Itzpalicue sat up and opened her eyes. Time to be oiled. People are rarely patient about destiny.
An hour later, refreshed, the old Mйxica strolled slowly down a winding street crowded with narrow-fronted shops. Elaborate hand-painted signs in local script ran up the face of each building. There were no windows, only reinforced wooden doors. From what she could read of the ornate lettering, this was a district of jewelers and fine metalsmiths: a rare trade in the valley of the Phison! There was a great deal of traffic, though most flowed past Itzpalicue, heading downhill. Somewhere ahead – the sound was muffled and distorted by the buildings – there was a cacophony of gongs and drums.
Even here, where iron and copper are so rare, the whore-priests can still afford metal instruments to raise a heavenly noise.
Anger clouded up, disturbing the quiet she'd gained in the bathhouse. She slowed her pace, breathing steadily, forcing her mind to emptiness, until the spurt of rage died away. The old woman did not care for priests of any race or religion. They were all much the same to her. Working with the vast clerical hierarchy supporting the Empire taxed her self-control. The irony of using priestly techniques to control her emotions was not lost on the Mirror agent. A flint blade has no master but the hand on the haft, she thought, and then felt a trickle of fury again. Even my aphorisms are infected with their bile. A well-trained memory – another gift of the religious calmecac which had been her home for the first sixteen years of her life – was sometimes a burden. She remembered the exact time and place she had first heard that particular phrase.
There had been a boy, of course. Even now, so long after everything had become ashes and broken bone scattered on the ground, she remembered his green eyes. Lingering pain dulled their shine. That boy was worthy, she thought sadly. His heart was still pure. As was mine. Unbidden, he was singing in her memory, lying on velvety grass, the shadow of sycamores painting his bare brown chest.
Gold and black butterflies are sipping nectar.
The flower bursts into bloom.
Ah, my friends, it is my heart!
I send down a shower of white petals…
The song had always made her glad. Even now, standing in the shade of an alien building on some world beyond the sight of a boy and girl staring up at the brilliant azure sky over Mйxico, her heart lifted a little. The festival procession passed away down the hill. The air stirred with the smell of cooking, of wood smoke, the harsh cinnamon odor of their sweat. The city was alive, humming and breathing. She closed both eyes, leaning her forehead on the cane.
Breathe in. The river was flowing, slow and sure, rolling down from distant, snow-capped mountains. Twigs were floating in the saffron water, offering brief perches for leather-winged avians hunting eel-like fish.
Breathe out. Trolleys rumbled down curving streets, crowded with passengers heading home for the midday meal. They swayed from side to side as the red-and-black car rattled around a turn.
Breathe in. Somewhere children were learning to dance, three-toed feet stamping in time on a wooden floor. A withered old male was tapping time on a tiny drum.
Breathe out. Workmen were laughing – a rattling, hissing sound – as they raised the wooden frame of a wireless comm tower on the roof of a hotel. Their foreman sitting in the shade of a sign advertising fang-cleaning powder, running gnarled hands over the smooth, perfect shape of the relay. He had never held so much metal in his hands before.
Breathe in. A boy on the street, not so far away, felt his blood begin to race with mating fire for the first time. He was afraid, clutching his mother's tail painfully tight, trying not to stumble over his feet.
Breathe out. Far away, at the edge of the old woman's perception, a cold emptiness moved effortlessly through the flow of the city.
Itzpalicue's eyes flew open and her withered old hands tightened convulsively on the cane.
There is something here. She licked her lips and glanced around, feeling fear curdle in her throat. I truly felt that. I am not imagining things.
With a conscious effort, she settled her racing heart, closed her eyes, shut out the cheerful noise surrounding her and tried to regain the instant of clear perception. Once more the fluid, vibrant sensation of the city flooded into her consciousness. She remained standing quietly, breathing steadily, for nearly an hour. Though she learned a great deal about the street around her, and even about the district, the brief feeling of cold nothingness did not return.
Her stomach growled and Itzpalicue opened her eyes, admitting defeat, if only to herself. The sun was beginning to set, painting the ancient buildings with red and gold and amber. The boulevard was beginning to empty as the natives made their way home for the evening rites and, eventually, last-meal. The old Mйxica set off for the house she had rented near the Legation.
At each end of the street, shadows stirred and the lean shapes of her Arachosians emerged, moving as she moved, their knives, guns, and woven bandoliers of ammunition mostly hidden under heavy cloaks and baggy, cowl-like sun-hats. Seeing them – she had felt their presence all along – Itzpalicue felt relieved. At least some footpad won't try and steal my hairpins.
The presence she'd glimpsed so briefly was another matter.
Something odd was happening on the fringes of the Empire of the Mйxica. Itzpalicue knew for a fact the Imperial government had yet to fit the scattered bits and pieces of the larger puzzle together into a recognizable shape. The Mirror only knew – she only knew – because they spied upon the activities of the nauallis, the priests who watched at the edges of things. The nauallis were not kindly disposed towards the Mirror-Which-Reveals, though they often acted in concert when a threat to the Empire was discovered.
The nauallis had yet to officially inform the Mirror, or the Emperor, of their awareness of an unknown power active amongst the Rim colonies. Itzpalicue wondered if the priests truly believed a threat was growing on these isolated worlds. It was possible the priests had not yet conferred enough to piece together all of the data available to the Mirror. Individually, the 'mice' were not as perceptive as the nauallis. Nearly every agent lacked the skills and talents of the least worthy nagual, b
ut there were thousands more of them. And all of their reports flowed back to AnГЎhuac where enormous resources were devoted to sifting all that chaff for whole kernels.
One of those kernels – little more than a pine-nut – had brought Itzpalicue to Jagan.
Even before the arrival of the first Flower Priest, before the Fleet, before the foolish prince had made such a spectacle of himself, something was happening under the bloated red sun of Bharat. Initial reports indicated an odd pattern of off-planet purchases as Imperial trade picked up. Then one of the traveling 'mice' passing through the system had thought he'd seen an HKV agent in the Sobipurй marketplace. Yet, though the old woman had been on-planet for nearly a year now, she had not even caught a hint the Swedes were actually present in the sector. Their interests were always directed inwards, towards the older colonies, towards AnГЎhuac itself. They wanted to go home.
Itzpalicue had a sense, a feeling, of something inimical moving in the darkness. "Nothing more than smoke in rain," she grumbled. "How do you catch hold of mist?"
She hoped beating the bushes and shouting loudly would scare something into the open.
But will I recognize what it is, if I see it? The old woman shook her head, worried, and turned onto her own street. Thunder was beginning to growl in the heavy, humid sky. Her stomach answered, reminding her of a quick, spare breakfast. Time for dinner.
The Petrel Townhouse Near the Court of the Resplendent King, Central Parus
Following an immaculately attired servant, Gretchen stepped out onto a broad porch. The veranda was high roofed, with exposed beams of pale wood converging on an open cupola. A fire burned beneath in an iron bowl. Smoke twisted up into the opening, disappearing out into a rain-streaked night. Another storm had moved over the city with sunset, hiding the lights of the skyscrapers with fog, drenching the streets with flurries of rain.
"Come, dear, sit." Straight-backed chairs had been placed beside the fire, surrounded by a palisade of gossamer mosquito netting. Mrs. Petrel lifted her head, firelight gleaming on her resting kimono. Subtle images of canes and herons and bent-winged swallows were picked out in delicate thread, dark blue on darker blue verging upon black. "There's room for two."
Gretchen bowed very properly, glad for the burst of calmedown her medband sent surging through her bloodstream. The whole setting made her very nervous. A dry voice – very much like Honorable Doctor Kelly from her graduate research seminar – was keen to point out, Your hostess's kimono is worth more than the Anderssen land-grant and all the timbering machinery. More than you'll make in ten years of grubbing in the dirt. More than…
"Thank you, Petrel-sana." Gretchen nodded politely to the servant – a tall, lean man with an impassive face and watery blue eyes – and sat. She shifted a little, unused to sitting on a chair, particularly one with such a straight back. "It is very gracious of you to meet with me."
"Nonsense." The older woman tucked one leg under the other and produced a pipe from the folds of her kimono. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Muru, do bring Mrs. Anderssen some tea – honey, thick, hot – not used to the chill of our Jehanan nights, are you?"
"No, ma'am." Gretchen forced herself to relax a little bit. "Shimanjin is very dry in comparison."
Petrel tamped tabac into her pipe and lifted a glowing punk from the fire. A spark leapt in finely cut leaves and she puffed quietly, letting the bowl draw at its own pace. "You'll get used to the weather, if you are here long enough. Until then…you'll be soaked with sweat and chilled at the same time."
A small folding table was set down between them, carrying two jadeite cups and a softly steaming kettle. Petrel nodded to the man and settled back, somehow contriving to slouch comfortably against the stiff wood. "Drink then – this is a native concoction, very restorative, perfectly safe." She smiled around the stem of the pipe.
Gretchen drank. The steaming liquid drove away the damp chill with admirable speed. The taste was unusual, more like drinking flowers than the sharp harsh bite of the black teas she could usually afford.
"I am sorry," she said, putting down the empty cup. "I tried to find you at the prince's reception to pay my respects, but there were so many people…are all of your parties so crowded?"
Mrs. Petrel laughed, shaking her head. "No. The Legation would be bankrupt if we put on such a show every month – or even every year. The presence of the Blessed Prince forced us to – ah – raise our bid or be driven out of the game. Such things are required…"
For an instant, the Legate's wife grew still in Gretchen's vision, face tight, eyes glittering with distaste. Thin curlicues of smoke froze in the bowl of the pipe. The woman's nostrils were drawn back, sharp little creases beside her generous mouth thrown in sharp relief by the firelight. Such a weight she is carrying…does her husband see? Does anyone?
"…or we'll simply be laughed out of the Diplomatic service." Mrs. Petrel sighed openly, frowning at Gretchen. "It would have been nice to see an honest face, dear. I am reliably informed however, that you had a little trouble – besides the press of the crowd? Some business with the Honorable Doctor SГє's reckless children?"
"It was nothing," Gretchen said carefully. Bad blood with the Tetzcoco faculty would only mean a reprimand from the field supervisor in her Company file. "Only a difference of opinion about the work."
"They do not like you." Petrel puffed on her pipe, contemplating the ruddy glow of the fire. "They are cheap, loud boys. Much like their patron. I spoke with dear Soumake about your request for permits and – as you know – his hands are tied by the existing grant of work-rights. Only the Tetzcoco-designated primary investigator can loosen those restrictions…and you see how he's responded to your mere presence on-planet."
"I understand." Gretchen could hear mild regret in the woman's voice. Petrel did not seem upset by the outcome, which Anderssen found entirely understandable. Why invite trouble for someone you barely know? Someone with no political connections to speak of? "Thank you for thinking of me. It was very gracious of you to make the effort."
"You're welcome, dear." Petrel stared moodily out through the arches lining the porch. The glistening, wet trunks of perfume trees made a fence between fire-light and the night. "I do not like the Honorable Doctor or the careless way he is pursuing his excavations down at Fehrupurй. Might as well be clearing the ruins with blasting putty… He is rude, not only to me, to you, but to his native workers and the local village nobility."
Gretchen watched the Legate's wife with growing unease. We've passed the polite part of receiving a visitor you barely know…shouldn't I be sent on mywaynow?
"My husband," the older woman said in a slow, careful voice, "is concerned about the political situation. Things are becoming unsettled here, even dangerous. I have spoken to him about Doctor Sege and his methods, but there are larger matters on his mind." Petrel shrugged, dark silk rustling. She gave Gretchen a wry smile. "You will have to be discrete during your stay."
Anderssen felt an odd sense of association slip over her. Two shards of pottery, then three, clicking together; the shape of a bowl, a plate, a vase coming together in her hands. Someone passed word on to the Company about the device, bringing me here. Someone who has extensive local contacts. Soumake? Through this woman? She started to sweat, goosebumps washing across her arms under the thin fabric of her shirt.
"Of course," Gretchen said, forcing a smile, starting to rise. "My apologies for wasting your time."
"Sitting with friends – particularly new ones – is never wasted." Petrel pointed firmly at the chair, then beckoned for her manservant. Gretchen sat down.
"Muru – bring us some poppyseed cakes please. Thank you." The older woman smiled around the pipe again, face wreathed in smoke, waiting for the manservant to leave the room. Then she sat a little forward, eyes glinting. "I've heard the festival of the gathering of the Nem in Takshila is very moving. A very ancient celebration, if you like that sort of thing. In fact, one of the oldest buildings on the planet is there, the fam
ous 'House of Reeds.' "
Petrel looked up as the servant parted the netting and set a polished blue plate between them. A set of fresh, still-steaming-from-the-oven golden cakes were revealed. "Ah, just the thing. Here, my dear, try one – my great-grandmother's recipe. Delicious."
Gretchen bit into a cake, watching the Legate's wife warily while she ate.
Petrel leaned back in her chair again, face turned away from the dying embers in the grate. After a moment, she sat up a little and pointed out through the arches. "Do you see that bright star? There between the branches?"
Craning her head over, Gretchen managed to make out the steady, brilliant light. "Yes…" What now? This is becoming surreal… My groundside contact issupposed to be some smuggler with his hair in waxed braids, wearing too much cologne. We meet in an abandoned warehouse – the air charged with dust and diesel fumes and the smell of rust and burning insulation – not here, on a sixty-thousand-quill veranda, with servants and fresh poppyseed cakes on porcelain platters.
"An Imperial ship rides in orbit. You can see them when the angle of the sun is just right and the sky is clear… Muru there, he is my eyes and ears in the city, among the people. He says they have a tale told to children – of the 'star-which-returns.' Apparently, there is a parking orbit just visible from here…"
Petrel set down her pipe. Suddenly pensive, she rubbed her lower lip with a neatly manicured thumbnail. "Mrs. Anderssen, in truth, I wish I could put you and your two companions on the next starliner for the home systems. My husband has served on eight planets now, both as direct governor and as ambassador. We've been moving from place to place for nearly twenty years. Over all that time…Well, you start to develop a feeling for things." Her hands made a pushing-away gesture, eyes fixed on Gretchen. "Soon enough, Imperial citizens will not be able to walk the streets safely."
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