A hand seized the prince, dragging him to his feet, and Tezozуmoc opened his eyes in time to see the xixixit blow apart in a cloud of shattered chitin, lubricating fluid and gossamer wing fragments.
"Christ on the Stone," he gasped, "that was an excellent shot!"
"Thank you," a rich alto voice purred in his ear. The prince turned in time for the unexpected woman to wrap his fingers around a still-smoking Webley AfriqaExpress hunting pistol and then swoon gracefully into his arms.
"Ooof!" Tezozуmoc staggered, taken by surprise, and managed to hug the woman to his side before he dropped her. The hot barrel of the Webley burned his arm, but – juggling both unexpected objects for a moment – he managed to seize the pistol grip. He looked down at himself in dismay. He was soaked and coated with mud. "Ah…curst wilderness! Another good shirt ruined! I hate hunting -"
"Mi'lord!" Colmuir crashed out of the thicket on the far side of the stream, rifle at the ready. The master sergeant stumbled to a halt, gaping at the scene in front of him. Pardane Fes was only a step behind and the Jehanan let loose a hiss of astonishment. The crowd of servants behind him spilled out onto the bank and then everyone looked up, shielding their faces from blowing grit and dust as an Imperial aerocar settled between the trees. Dawd hung over the side, one foot on the bottom step of the boarding ladder, the Whipsaw tracking across the chuckling stream.
"You killed it?" Colmuir stared in amazement at the shattered remnants of the xixixit scattered in front of the prince and the woman. The master sergeant blinked, recognizing her. "Madame Petrel?"
Behind the Resident's wife, still in the arms of her Imperial savior, the pale faces of two young ladies peered over the side of an aerocar, then squealed in relief to see the horrendous monster stricken down. Colmuir stepped back, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and let the Jehanan hunters – nearly everyone had now arrived, drawn by the gunshots – stampede past to examine the insect carcass. Tezozуmoc was staring around him, bemused to suddenly find a striking woman in his arms and two young girls clapping in delight and thanking him for such "quick thinking."
Pardane Fes rose from the shattered xixixit, shaking his long scaled head in appreciation. "Not sporting," the Jehanan boomed, "to use such a keen blade, but a well-placed shot withal – straight between the thorax plates. Well placed, well placed."
Clinging tightly to the prince's rather narrow chest, Mrs. Petrel's brilliant blue eyes fluttered open and she looked around, apparently so overcome she'd forgotten where she was. "Oh – what was that horrific beast?" There was a hesitant pause, then, in a ghoulishly fascinated tone: "Was anyone killed?"
Eight hundred kilometers away to the south, Itzpalicue grunted and her wrinkled old face screwed up into a disapproving grimace. "Cut that last," she growled to Lachlan and his editing team, who were hunched over a double-wide set of v-displays in the operations center. "She always overdoes these things… Cull the rest, make it look presentable for a handheld cam and squirt it to the t-relay on the Tepoztecatl. They'll want to forward it on to the core worlds as quickly as possible."
Lachlan nodded, watching approvingly as the two girls from Editing winnowed out everything which would have made the prince less presentable – such as the look of stark fear on his face when the xixixit burst out of the trees – and recast the crystal-clear video from the spyeyes into a fuzzier, lower-def format. A body-filter was already processing the prince's torso, adding muscle and definition.
"We'll have a final edit in about twenty minutes," the Йirishman reported after a moment. "Anything else we need to track from these spyeyes today? I'd like to route them back to Gandaris to recharge."
Itzpalicue shook her head. The old woman leaned on her cane, keen eyes roving across the workstations crowded into the low-ceilinged room. Everyone appeared entirely focused on their work, which pleased her greatly, and a particular, familiar tension was building in the air.
"Soon," she said, clicking her teeth together in consideration. "I can feel the index peaking. We'll have our war soon…" Coming to a decision, she rapped the top of Lachlan's console with her knuckles. "I'm going out to see to my Arachosians. They are getting impatient."
Shaking his head in dismay, Corporal Clark stepped through the ruins of the kitchen and pushed the door of the ice locker closed with a dull thump. Every edible scrap of food was gone. Nearly all of the utensils, pots, pans and other cook-ware had been hauled away. Some eating tines wrapped in a damask napkin lay forgotten on the floor. The rest of the house was in a similar state.
Chasing off the last of the scavengers – once word had circulated around the neighborhood about the viscount's departure, every short-horn in the district had descended on the 'asuchau house' to get their share – had taken the whole afternoon. The genteel ambience Gemmilsky had worked so hard to establish had been destroyed, leaving only an echoing, empty house filled with scattered litter and forgotten trinkets.
"Well, this will take some fixing," the adjutant said, squaring his shoulders and tapping his comm awake. "Hello? Is this the Gandaris consulate? Yes, this is Corporal Clark. I'm acting factotum for the Prince Imperial while he's in the city…Yes, that one. Yes. Listen now, there's been a bit of a problem with the servants at the Gemmilsky house." Clark paused, listening to the consul babble in his ear. The corporal's face grew still, then turned grim.
"You say the Resident's wife is coming with him? She's not injured? Good. But her vacation party has been invited to stay with the prince?" Clark's dark eyebrows drew close over brown eyes. "And where would her luggage be? At the palace? No? Ah, the train station. I see. Well, sir, if you wish to remain employed by the Imperial Diplomatic Corps, I suggest you tell me how to acquire thirty properly trained household staff and hot dinner and drinks for thirty in…" Clark raised his wrist, glanced at his chrono, then peered out the window at the sun. "Three-quarters of an hour. As, sir, there are no staff here. They have all fled to the four winds."
There was a pause. Clark waited, trying not to tap his boot on the floor. Eventually the consul spoke again and a begrudging smile lit the corporal's dour face.
"Does the kujen have an Imperial-addressed comm? He does? Excellent – what's the number there? Good. Now, can you send a man to get her Ladyship's baggage? I will be very busy here, very busy."
Parus The District of the Claw-Sharpeners
Just west of a mustard-yellow mercantile arcade, where rug merchants laid out their wares in smoke-stained alcoves, an old royal residence with two slender towers sat hidden inside a block of residential flats. Inside the palace, in a large domed chamber holding a dry pool, the leaders of four of the darmanarga moktar cells in the capital considered a table covered with maps and diagrams.
The topmost map described the environs of the Imperial Legation, housed within the dhrada-mandura – the Rusted Citadel – and the streets surrounding the human enclave. The chart was covered with annotations describing the security arrangements, guards and other items of interest in the Legation. Despite the reflecting pool having gone dry the room was pleasantly hot and humid.
"We will have to commit nearly every brigade in the city to overwhelm this position," declared the smallest, most nervous of the conspirators. "With the weapons they control, the asuchau could hold the dhrada against us with a claw of warriors! We should wait until more lance commanders commit to our cause."
The largest of the moktar flared his nostrils dismissively. When he frowned, a deep scar puckered beneath his left eye-shield. "They are expecting an attack by warriors bearing swords, spears and the occasional rifle. The 'artifacts' we've put back into service will be a complete surprise – much less the number of rifles and heavy machine guns our agents have purchased on the black market. A swift, coordinated assault on these points…" General Humara's claw tapped the map, indicating the main gates of the Legation, as well as two service entrances on the far side ofthe compound. "…will allow our troops entry and trap them inside. Then it will be a matter of -"
"
A matter of counting your corpses," an unexpected – human – voice said, rising over the sound of brisk footsteps on the expanse of mosaic floor. All four of the conspirators turned in alarm, horrified to find a tall, lean-looking Imperial with short blond hair emerging from the dim recesses of the vestibule. Despite civilian attire – short jacket over a cotton mantle, pleated trousers tucked into leather boots – the entire line of his body shouted military. "The Imperial soldiers assigned to the Legation are equipped with combat armor and modern weapons. A single gunso with a Macana 8mm could slaughter two to three hundred of your soldiers with ease. Even the surplused rifles you've purchased from passing merchants will have a hard time penetrating their hard shells."
The man's brash pronouncement froze three of the conspirators, but not the general. Humara trilled a soft laugh and rose to his full height – easily a head over the human – and looked down a scarred old snout. "Humans selling us guns to kill other humans is pleasant," he boomed, "and convenient. But we are not without powerful weapons, even in our diminished state. Not all of the glory of old Jehan has yet failed."
Timonen inclined his head in acknowledgement of the point. Then he raised pale, watery blue eyes to meet the gaze of the old kurbardar and lifted one hand. "Can you still reach to the stars, as your forebears once did? Do you still rule the skies?"
Humara hissed angrily in reply. "No, not as we did. We have been gnawing the same scale. There are Imperial starships in orbit, and those we cannot reach. Thus our desire to seize the Legation and the humans within immediately, so as to shield ourselves from orbital bombardment -"
The Finn produced a trill of laughter. "The Empire will not hesitate to spill innocent blood. The Imperial commanders you face will obliterate any massed forces you expose – such as concentrating all your brigades in the city against the dhrada – along with their 'shields.' "
"How then," the kurbardar growled, "do we defeat this enemy? How do we win?"
"Another question, first," hissed the nervous one. The Jehanan hopped from foot to foot, claws clicking together. "Who are you, asuchau? We have not seen your face before – your coloration is different, your speech pattern unfamiliar! How did you find and enter this place?"
"I am a courier," the blond man replied, producing a packet. "My name is unnecessary. I was given certain signs and procedures to follow and directed here. I have unexpected – but welcome – news for your cause."
The nervous Jehanan snatched the proffered packet and began going through the identity card and other letters inside. "What news?"
"First, I think you should not wait." The cold-eyed human nodded to the old kurbardar. "Each day only increases the chances one of your, ah, less-committed fellows will change his mind, or tell someone, or be betrayed by a subordinate. Then all of your heads – and mine, most like – will be on a drying rack with hooks through our eye sockets. I understand there is a citywide festival in the next day or so?"
"The gathering of the Nem," Humara rumbled wistfully. "The streets will be filled with street festivals and processions of the hatchlings bearing the sacred flowers… The entire city will turn out in hatching-day best, the air will be fragrant with perfume and the smell of a thousand savory dishes." He paused, leathery lips rippling back from rows of ivory-colored teeth in growing anger. "You suggest we should attack the Imperials on one of the most holy days in our year? A day when conflict has always been forbidden?"
The other three hissed in alarm and began to eye the human with great distaste.
"Do you want to free yourselves from the yoke settling so gently around your necks? Do you want to win?"
The Jehanan officers said nothing, but there was a half-audible hissing. The kurbardar leaned forward, glowering at the human. "If we dishonor ourselves for an instant's advantage, a heavier weight than the Empire will be upon our kshetrin, an indelible stain -"
"But if that single moment of advantage is necessary to free your people," Timonen said, removing another, heavier packet from inside his jacket, "and you do not grasp the horn – sharp as it is – then the weight of slavery will be upon you until the sun fails. In truth, time is shorter than you expect."
He slid his thumb along the sealstrip on the packet and removed a three-d photo of a wizened old N'huatl woman. "This is an Imperial agent, a servant of the Smoking Mirror. She is upon Jagan – in Parus right now – and she is hunting for you."
All four Jehanan stiffened, and while the most nervous one darted a glance at the doorways, the kurbardar picked up the photograph between two chipped claw-tips. He examined the woman's face carefully. "This asuchau has been seen by these eyes – at the feast of welcome for the Imperial hatchling. Where is she now?"
The human shrugged. "I have only lately arrived. Now you know the face of your enemy. You must strike before she can find you and drag your entire cabal before the kujen in chains." He removed a set of smaller envelopes, each heavy with clinking metal.
"I – my people – have been preparing for the moment of your liberation for some time. You have already received your shipments of missiles, kyrb' ? You have tested them?"
The kurbardar nodded. "Some failed, as your accomplice warned, but they have been destroyed and the remains hidden. The rest have been distributed to the brigades. But even with the reactivated artifacts, they will not suffice to remove the threat beyond the sky… Without that, any rising is doomed to failure. A secondFire will sweep away what we have built, leaving only savages to toil in the wreckage for the Empire."
A satisfied glint flashed in the human's watery eyes. His lips twitched into a cold smile. "Do not concern yourself with the Imperial warship. When the festival day comes, you will see a brilliant sign in the heavens and that particular obstacle will be removed."
"How?" The nervous Jehanan looked up in horror from the photograph of Itzpalicue. "What do you mean removed? What if we are not ready to rise up by Nemnahan?"
The blond man shrugged. "Then opportunity will pass you by."
"So, you force us to action – whether we are ready or not." The kurbardar's claw clasped a heavy, curved kalang blade held in his ornamental harness. He showed his teeth again. "We do not seek a new master to replace the old!"
Unimpressed by the threat, the human spread the smaller envelopes out on the table. "I – we – have been sent to give you an opportunity. If an accident befalls the light cruiser on watch-station, then, well…you can express your sincere condolences to the Resident. It is well known the ship is already damaged and in poor repair – its destruction due to an accident will not be surprising. There is nothing to implicate your little conspiracy.
"But you will have missed your chance. Years of preparation will be wasted. None of your confederates will find the will to act again." He shook one of the envelopes, making the package rattle.
"There are twelve of these envelopes – each contains an address to a location in or around Parus and a key. In each house, you will find several hundred boxes of ammunition for your small arms and machine guns. These rounds have been specially modified to defeat Imperial combat armor. A little gift from those who also hate the Empire."
"So we rise up…" The nervous little Jehanan's split tongue flicked along well-polished teeth. "And we are successful – what prevents the Empire from invading us with irresistible force? They have far more than one light cruiser to claw!"
"They do." The human nodded. Despite the continued hostility of the conspirators and the muggy atmosphere in the abandoned building, he remained genial and composed. "But the Emperor has hundreds of colonies to consider, and many, many more problems than a brief incident on one obscure – no offense, my friends – world on the periphery of his domain. Even the death of prince Tezozуmoc will not inspire him to action – the boy has been sent here to spare embarrassment at home.
"But your true allies" – the blond man's lips stretched into a wide smile – "are the factions among the appropriations board of the Colonial Service. If you are successful, then th
ose who favor consolidation will gain influence and the 'expansionists' will lose ground."
"A fantasy!" The nervous Jehanan slammed the photograph down on the table. "Bickering among bureaucrats may delay an Imperial reaction, but it will not stop it. If we destroy the Legation, slaughter their citizens and defeat their warriors, the Empire will have to respond or lose face. Then the sky will bleed fire and we will be cast back into the savagery we've only just crawled up from!"
The other three conspirators stared wide-eyed at the little one. They had never seen him so agitated.
Humara sheathed his knife. "Where is our path then?" he asked in a slow gravelly voice, gesturing at the human. "We must do something. Even the public Imperial records show what happens to worlds like ours…slow suffocation, economic enslavement, the inevitable reduction of each kujen to a puppet good only for imposing ever higher taxes. Here, at least, we will show our mettle and challenge them. Perhaps gain a space of years to build our own orbital infrastructure, our own warships… With a little help, with access to offworld trade, we could rebuild the old yards at Sobipurй."
"A wild dream…" The nervous one scratched the line of cream-colored scales along his jaw. He glared openly at the human courier. "And again, we rely on this creature and his unseen masters to supply us with the technology and resources we need."
"An equitable trade could be arranged," the human said. "We are seeking allies, not slaves."
"Allies…" the little Jehanan hissed in disgust. "A cheap way to bleed the Empire!"
The kurbardar waved the stack of envelopes in kujen Bhrigu's face. "If you do not wish to seize the claw of opportunity, then retire to your estates! Find a more righteous path, if you can. We will do what must be done. This way we have at least a chance of victory."
House of Reeds ittotss-2 Page 25
