House of Reeds ittotss-2

by Thomas Harlan

The Petrel Townhouse Near The Court of the King of Heaven, Central Parus

  Leaning down, Mrs. Petrel picked up the broken half of an alabaster dish incised with tiny blue geometric figures. With a groan, she held the ancient plate up in the sunlight streaming through the porch windows. Her fingers appeared behind the translucent shell-like material, glowing pink and rose-red.

  "That was a beautiful piece," a raspy voice said from behind her.

  Petrel nodded, but did not turn around. Instead, she set the plate down. The terrace was scattered with debris. Broken cups and plates and statuary. Fire had charred the perfume trees in the garden and the rice-paper shoji between porch and the house proper were torn and ripped. Some of the panels had been wrenched from their tracks and lay askew. In some places, blood dried on the floor.

  "Everything here was carefully chosen," Greta said, wondering where to start cleaning. "I was just trying to make a harmonious room…"

  Leather sandals shuffled on the sisal-carpeted floor and a wizened old NГЎhuatl woman moved into her field of view. Itzpalicue leaned heavily on her cane, casting about for somewhere to sit.

  "There are no chairs," Mrs. Petrel said in an empty voice. "All stolen."

  "Ah." Itzpalicue hunched over a little more. "Your servants?"

  "Gone. Dead." Mrs. Petrel looked out into the garden. The ground was torn up, as though the rioters who had invaded the house had been digging for buried treasure. Someone had taken an axe to the fruit trees, though the limbs and trunks lay where they had fallen. "Even old Muru, who has been with me since I was a little girl." She lifted her hand, pointing at the garden buildings at the back of the property. "The Marines found their bodies behind those sheds."

  The old woman tapped her cane on the floor and shifted her feet. "You made a fine place here, but -"

  "Yes, I did." Mrs. Petrel turned, fixing Itzpalicue with a steady, even stare. "I was happy here, my husband was happy. This was a planet with promise, Skirt-of-Knives, before you came meddling with your wrinkled old fingers."

  The Nahuatl woman did not reply, merely returning the Anglish woman's gaze.

  "Tell me one thing," Greta said. "I happened to pass a little time with your man Lachlan while Bhrigu's troops were securing the hotel, and he says all of this…" Her hand made a wide circle, encompassing the ruined house, the troubled city outside, the sky, the entire planet. "…was to find something you could not name or identify. A 'ghost of mist and shadow,' he said."

  An angry hiss escaped Itzpalicue's lips and she straightened angrily, eyes flashing. "The boy should not have said anything about such matters!"

  "Really?" Mrs. Petrel's eyebrows rose. "Did you find your quarry? Did you trap the ghost in your nets?"

  Itzpalicue did not reply, her face hard and still.

  "So." Greta bent down and picked up a pale green porcelain tea cup, still intact, from amid the rubble. "My husband's name is blackened, my house destroyed, my servants murdered – thousands of Jehanan civilians are killed – the Residency flattened – a Fleet cruiser wrecked – Duke Villeneuve's reputation and career smeared with undeserved charges of incompetence – for nothing." She cradled the cup in her hands. "It seems only Bhrigu benefited from all this. Humara is dead and the rebellious princes are fugitives, hunted by Marine patrols and your lovely highlander mercenaries… Was this what you wanted?"

  "No, but it will serve," Itzpalicue said in a whisper-soft voice. "Villeneuve needed taking down a peg – and those orders came from the Light of Heaven himself! – and he'll live longer, with such black marks on his record."

  The old woman allowed herself a bit of a smile at the thought. An ally of Green Hummingbird's is deftly removed from the game mat at the same time. And the Nisei admirals have their ruffled feathers soothed – Hadeishi is ruined, but his sacrifice will be legendary in the Fleet.

  "And there was something here – we caught a bit of the trail…but now it's gone cold. We know the xochiyaotinime priesthood is compromised – that will require some spadework to clean up – but the true enemy is gone. I can't even…feel it anymore."

  "It?" Greta wrapped the cup in tissue paper and placed the package in a waiting cargo crate.

  "Something inhuman. An alien presence." The old woman shifted her grip on the cane, her expression distant. "I am sure of it…Lachlan does not believe me, and I see you do not either, but I am sure in my bones of this. Not Jehanan, not human. Not any of the races we've met before."

  Mrs. Petrel shook her head, making the white streak in her hair shimmer in the sunlight. "There are many alien powers which have no love for the Empire. Any of them would find it…amusing…to turn your flowery game back upon the Emperor. But do you have any proof?"

  "No." Itzpalicue's lips tightened in disgust. "Nothing. Not so much as a feather."

  "A waste, then." Greta made a dismissive motion. "Oh, surely the Foreign Office will be pleased – Bhrigu has sold us half the planet for a share of the taxes – the pochteca will have fresh markets to exploit – but those are such tiny gains to measure against our cost."

  "Huh!" The old NГЎhuatl woman started to smirk. "The prince's reputation has been brightly burnished – he is acclaimed as a hero the length and breadth of the Empire! That, at least, went well. Better, I say, than expected."

  Mrs. Petrel turned on Itzpalicue, real anger flushing her face pink. "You leave that boy alone! He meant no harm and did none. Did he ask to be a pawn, to be manipulated in this way? His heart is not tempered for this – you will twist him, force him down a path which can only lead to tears."

  "And so? He is a Prince of the Imperial Household!" The old NГЎhuatl woman laughed hoarsely. "He was brought into this world to serve the needs of the Empire – let him! He is worth so little, otherwise. A disappointment to his family, which is not surprising given his mo -"

  "Is he?" Greta interjected, giving the old woman a reproving look. "I think he behaved admirably in a terrifying situation. He is just a young man with a quiet soul, not a warrior, not a king. You should leave him be."

  "Too late!" Itzpalicue grinned. "The Emperor has already seen the footage we put together and is very pleased with the results. Young Tezozуmoc has a bright future before him now. This whole episode saved his reputation, just as we planned."

  "As you planned." Mrs. Petrel resumed searching through the wreckage for more of the cups. She found only ground-up blue-white dust. "Nothing need more be said of the matter."

  Itzpalicue grunted, nudging a broken table aside with her cane. "You have lost possessions before… The Mirror will pay you well for your part in our littleplay."

  "Not well enough," Greta sighed, finding the remains of a Khmer dancing Saiva in pieces underneath one of the fallen paper screens. "I brought too many beloved things with me – do you know, I lost James's pistol in all the fuss?" She swallowed, shoulders slumping. "That was the last of his things…now it's rusting underneath a railway trestle somewhere between here and Takshila."

  "It was just a tool," Itzpalicue said, her face softening. "Not your brother…"

  "I suppose." Mrs. Petrel righted the screen, finding the ink-brush paintings were disfigured by crudely slashed graffiti in some local dialect. "The lack only reminds me of his death."

  "The past is always filled with the dead," the old woman said, taking a breath. "I came to see you before you left on the starliner. To wish you a safe voyage and…to see if you were all right."

  "Very kind, Papalotl." Mrs. Petrel grasped the next screen in line with both hands and set the wooden railing back into the floor-track. "You'll be fluttering away soon?"

  Itzpalicue's lips twitched into a smile. "No one's called me 'butterfly' in years, child. Yes, a Fleet courier is waiting for me in orbit."

  Greta nodded, finally turning to look at the old woman. "In future, if you are planning one of these little…soirйes…do not invite me. I would take it as a great favor if you did not involve me in any more of your activities. They have acquired a bitter taste."


  Itzpalicue shrank back a little, surprised, shoulders collapsing at the cold tone in the younger woman's voice. "You have always…you said they were amusing diversions. You have always had a talent -"

  "I remember what I said," Greta replied softly. "But this time my husband was nearly incinerated. He is quite shaken by the whole experience."

  "Ah." The old NГЎhuatl woman nodded, lips pursed disapprovingly. "This decision is not for yourself, then."

  "It is entirely my decision." Mrs. Petrel stiffened. "But it is not yours."

  Itzpalicue nodded, shrugged and went out, her cane tapping on the scarred floorboards.

  Greta Petrel watched her go, keeping an eye on the old woman until she had departed the grounds, passing through mossy stone gates and climbing into a truck driven by some very disreputable-looking natives in long robes.

  When the old woman was gone, Mrs. Petrel sighed, dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief and went back inside. There was a great deal of cleaning and sorting to do before she could leave this humid, damp planet. The prospect of Earth and a cool, dry vacation beckoned. Switzerland, she thought, trying to cheer herself up. Her husband had always liked little villages under high snowy mountains.

  She pushed open the doors to the sitting room off the main foyer. Her other guest looked up from a book of photographs and woodblock prints made nearly four centuries before, showing the cities and towns of Russia as seen by the eyes of a Nisei artist named Yoshitaki.

  "This is very interesting," Gretchen said, closing the antique volume. "I have never seen anything like this before. Russia seems to have been quite civilized, from the evidence of these pictures."

  Greta smiled faintly. "That is because such books are forbidden to the public. That particular item was found by my brother James when he was serving on AnГЎhuac itself, in the Desolation, in an abandoned bunker."

  "Oh." Anderssen pushed the book away and folded both hands in her lap. "I see."

  Amused by Gretchen's contrite expression, Mrs. Petrel sat down in the other chair. Of all her furnishings, only these two moth-eaten settees remained intact, having been put away in storage in one of the attics. "If there were tea," she said apologetically, "we could have some, but…"

  "No tea is fine," Gretchen said, squaring her shoulders. "May…may I ask a question?"

  Mrs. Petrel nodded, finding the soft red velour of the chair a welcome support against her aching back. "Of course, dear. What is it?"

  "Who was that old woman? I could hear her voice through the doors…she sounded terribly familiar."

  "Really?" Greta raised an eyebrow, considering her fair-haired guest with the scarred hands and rough knuckles. "She is an old teacher of mine, from when I was attending university in Tenochtitlan. I did not realize our voices were so lou d…"

  Anderssen dimpled, offering an apologetic smile. "My hearing is sometimes distressingly good. I did not mean to pry. She just reminded me of someone else I know."

  "No offense taken, though you should be more circumspect in the future." Mrs. Petrel said, mustering her concentration. "Now, what about our business? Was your trip successful?"

  Gretchen swallowed nervously. "Well," she began, "I cannot say I set eyes upon a single Nem plant, but…well, there was something in the House of Reeds, something extraordinary…"

  Mrs. Petrel listened quietly while Anderssen related an abridged version of what had happened, her face growing stiffer and stiffer until the younger woman fell silent and then Greta sighed quietly, rubbing her brow with thin, well-manicured fingers. "You destroyed the kalpataru."

  Gretchen nodded, tensing herself for a furious tirade.

  "You're sure?" Mrs. Petrel's complexion slowly drained of color as Anderssen nodded. "You destroyed a known, working First-Sun device! Sister bless us, child, why? The Army could have made do without comm -"

  "I had to." Gretchen said flatly. "The Jehanan weren't even using a fraction of the thing's power – the kalpataru would have infected and overwhelmed every single computing device on this planet – I doubt the Fleet and Army could have done much with their weapons and vehicles rendered useless."

  Mrs. Petrel's ashen expression did not improve. Her hands were trembling. "But you could have used the thing yourself…Loving God, what the Company could have done with…We'd never have to lift a finger again! The Emperor's favor alone would -"

  "Mean nothing," Gretchen said, shaking her head slowly. "I understand how the Company will feel about this. I particularly understand what the Empire's reaction would be if they ever knew what actually happened in the House of Reeds. But, Mrs. Petrel, I also know such artifacts must never be allowed to fall into human hands. Never! The danger is too great!"

  "What danger!" Mrs. Petrel snapped, surging up out of her chair. "There's certainly no danger now! The only danger is allowing such a thing to remain in Jehanan hands! Even the debris will need to be seized and analyzed…" She turned around, staring angrily at Gretchen. "Fool! You've cast aside both our futures! My god, I daren't even make a report…"

  Gretchen's voice was very calm. "Just say there was nothing in the monastery, the initial report was only a rumor, unsubstantiated, a false lead. I'll say the same." She smiled grimly. "Don't worry – no one will ask questions – the nauallis will make sure of that."

  "The -" Petrel stepped back, suspicion flickering in her eyes. She looked Gretchen up and down and her lip curled back in disgust. "You've been playing a double-game – you're an agent of the Judges!" Her hand made a sharp slashing motion. "Don't think I won't report that to the Company!"

  "I'm not…" Gretchen paused, jaw tight, and thought: She's right, even if I refused Hummingbird's offer two years ago. I've done just as he would have.

  "I am not a naualli," she continued. "Nor am I their 'agent.' But I have worked with them in the past. Some artifacts simply cannot be used. There are traps laid for the unwary – and the kalpataru was one of them. We have escaped – I hope we have escaped! – terrible calamity by only the thinnest claw-tip."

  Mrs. Petrel said nothing. Anderssen gained the impression of fulminating, terrible anger roiling in the older woman – but then she raised her hands and let out a bitter sigh. "There is nothing to be done about this now," Greta said in a thin, leached voice. "Get out. Just get out."

  Nodding, Anderssen stood up – almost stumbling, her legs weak with tension – and reached the door before Mrs. Petrel's voice echoed in the ruined room.

  "I know what the Judges told you." Cold, clear anger permeated Greta's voice. "But you should know they lie. They lie constantly – even when the truth would serve – and they care nothing for any human alive."

  Gretchen turned in the doorway and saw Petrel clutching Yoshitaki's book tightly to her chest. "Who did you -"

  "That doesn't matter," Petrel said, her face filled with anguish. "Just remember, they will sacrifice you and anyone else – anyone! – to gain their ends. They are like sharks – without emotion, without remorse."

  "And if those ends mean the survival of humanity?" Gretchen said softly, feeling the woman's pain as a hot pressure on her face. "Isn't our sacrifice necessary for our children to live? For the race to continue? How do you weigh that balance, Petrel-tzin?"

  Greta put a hand on the back of the chair to steady herself and then she turned away, saying nothing.

  Anderssen went out, quietly, and found the sky clearing. Hot, bright sunlight streamed down through the clouds, gilding the ruins of the Legation. Plumes of smoke were rising over the city, but the worst of the fires had died down. Her boots – worn and dirty, as always – crunched through drifts of broken glass.

  Yi birds were fluting in the trees, Jehanan workers were picking through the debris, Marine guards were on every rooftop, keeping a wary eye on the surroundings. Everything seemed blessedly normal.

  I'm alive, Gretchen thought, and her heart lifted to be out of the ruined house. The prospect of Petrel telling the Company what she'd done and their inevitable termination of her empl
oyment made her feel giddy. We're all alive – my little pack of troublemakers – and now I am going home. And my babies will be waiting, and my mother and even that feckless husband of mine. Even penniless, they will be glad to see me!

  Anderssen smiled cheerfully at the guards in the Legation gateway and turned out onto the street, hands in the pockets of her field jacket. Around her, the city was beginning to stir to life again, citizens out chattering in the streets, aerocars droning overhead, the distant lonely sound of a steam-whistle hooting from the rail-yard.

  Aboard the Starliner Asuka Preparing to Leave Orbit Over Jagan

  A first-class cabin door hissed open and Tezozуmoc stepped into a clean, sparkling room filled with inviting furniture. Soft music wafted on the cool, climate-controlled air. The young man stared around, drinking in every gram of luxury and his face brightened, looking into an adjoining bedroom.

  "Oh, gods of my fathers and blessed Mother, look at the size of that bed! Four or five girls would fit easily!" The prince dropped a battered, grimy Army jacket on the floor and – before Colmuir or Dawd could say anything – stripped off his Jehanan cloak and discarded his skinsuit in an ugly, blood-and-oil-stained pile. Entirely naked, Tezozуmoc padded into the bathroom adjoining the main room of the suite and began to laugh hysterically.

  "A shower and a tub! And towels, look at these towels!" The prince's head appeared in the doorway for a moment, one brown hand waving a plushy, gleaming white bath-towel and then vanished again. The sound of water running followed, and a yelp of mingled pain and delight as Tezozуmoc turned the taps on full hot.

  Colmuir stared at the clothing discarded on the floor, dully noted the mess the boy had made of the carpet and wearily set down his duffel and gunrig on the couch. "This is a nice room," he said, on the verge of collapse himself. The Army medical staff had worked him over enough to get him aboard ship, but the master sergeant was in a bad way. He hurt from head to toe and even the resilience of his combatskin and the constant attentions of his medband couldn't overcome the bone-deep bruising and internal injuries he'd suffered. Worse, Colmuir felt unaccountably nervous and he didn't know why.