House of Reeds

The Main Train Station District of the Ironwrights, Parus

The sound of hissing steam – a long, ululating wail of pressure venting from a split boiler – greeted Mrs. Petrel as she woke from an evil dream of pain and leering, sharp-toothed ogres cracking her bones with iron mallets. She found her vision obscured and the flushed, hot sensation of a medband surging painkillers and reoxygenated blood through her joints made her feel nauseated. Moving as little as possible, she tested her fingers – found them to work – and essayed raising one hand to brush matted, sticky hair away from her face.

A vision of glass panes set between wooden beams greeted her. The windows gleamed pearl with mid-morning sunlight for a moment before a drifting, translucent shape no larger than a child's marble floated directly into her field of view.

A spyeye, her muddled brain realized after patient consideration. Greta was puzzled by the provenance of the indistinct creature for a moment, but then other memories intruded, the haze clouding her mind faded and she realized she was being watched from the aether. Oh bloody hell, Petrel grimaced, baring her teeth at the tiny flying camera. I'm sure this will go Empire-wide on Nightcast if the old hag has her way…

"I'm getting up," she whispered to the spyeye, "just as soon as I can feel my toes."

The translucent sphere bobbed in the air once and then darted away towards the roof of the train station. Human voices approached, sharp with whispered argument, and Greta fumbled with her earrings, fingertips brushing against a particularly smooth pearl. With a twist, the earbug was snapped from its fitting and safely lodged out of sight.

A beautiful day, my dear, echoed almost immediately in her mastoid, so much has been happening.

"I'm sure it has," Petrel whispered, feeling dreadfully tired and numb.

"Ma'am?" A haggard, blood-streaked face appeared above her, blotting out the graceful carvings and delicate woodwork ornamenting the station roof. Sergeant Dawd peered down at her, his broad, common-born face tight with worry. Gloved fingertips turned her wrist. "Ah, thank the good Lord, you've taken no permanent hurt."

"Of course not," Greta heard herself say, clutching his hand for support. Even in such extremity, years of polite conversation amid wretched circumstances came to her rescue. "Only a little tumble. I just need to get on my feet…"

Petrel felt herself raised up by two sets of hands and turned to find Master Sergeant Colmuir by her side. She was momentarily taken aback by the dreadful appearance of the older Skawtsman. Then, glancing past his puffy, badly bruised face, she caught sight of the train station itself and became quite still. "Oh dear."

Despite her effort to set the brakes, the train had barreled into the station at a very decent speed. The engine had smashed through a retaining barrier at the end of the track and plowed into the side of the station itself, destroying a seating area and collapsing a washroom. The boilers, subjected to pressures and stresses far beyond their design capacity, had ruptured, venting an enormous amount of steam. Dozens of Jehanan bodies lay scattered about, hides scalded an ugly red. Burning coals smoked and sputtered on the platform. Flames licked up the broken wall, devouring the wooden timbers and charring the brick pillars holding up the roof. The train cars had jackknifed behind the engine, which was mangled beyond recognition, and crushed themselves into a huge pile of splintered wood, broken glass and tumbled iron wheels. Smoke oozed from the wreckage. Greta put a hand to her mouth, realizing she'd escaped a particularly gruesome death by no more than a hair's breadth.

The pinging sound of hot metal cooling mixed with the moaning cries of injured Jehanans unlucky enough to have taken refuge in the station. A creaking sound echoed from overhead, where the roof-beams were beginning to give way as the walls shifted. A section of green glass suddenly cracked, showering glittering debris towards the station floor. Greta clutched Colmuir's supporting hand, trying not to fall to her knees. Waves of dull pain radiated through her right leg, arm and rib-cage.

I will never complain about wearing a medband and gelsuit again, she vowed silently. Never. Not even once.

"You're a lucky one, mi'lady," the Skawt declared, staring in disbelief at the carnage all around them. "Must have been pitched clear on impact."

"Where…" Petrel cleared her throat. "Where is the prince? Has he been injured?"

Dawd shook his head. "Your pardon, ma'am, but we searched for him first – his Fleet skinsuit has a responder…" The Eagle Knight held up a scratched and dented but still working comp. The machine was displaying unintelligible symbols. "…which says he's alive, at least. We just can't find him."

"Curst jamming," Colmuir interjected. "They've taken the lad away – we're sorry, lass, but we have to find him. You stay with these other civilians -" The master sergeant pointed with his head and Petrel became aware of the bulky, inhuman shape of a Hesht kneeling beside a badly injured human male amid drifts of scattered coal, charred paper scraps and abandoned parcels.

"Who are they?" Petrel fingered her medband, summoning a cold, sharp rush of clearmyhead. The Hesht was making a growling sound as she poked and prodded the man's limbs. He was grimacing and the awkward position of his leg told Greta he'd suffered worse injury than her own.

"Never mind." She tested her own legs, finding them weak but serviceable. "The Jehanan who had the prince in his clutches is an agent of the moktar, the cabal behind this stupid war. We have to get Tezozуmoc back as quickly as possible, before he comes to mischief."

Petrel gave the two Eagle Knights – who were staring at her with alarm – a quick smile. "The boy may believe he is of no use to anyone, but I do not agree. The moktar, in particular, will gain heart from his capture." She paused, thinking. Voices whispered to her from the air. "I have an idea where he might be…"

"Mi'lady…" Dawd stepped forward, extending a hand in warning. "You're in no condition to venture out into these streets – can't you hear the guns?"

Greta bound back her hair, head cocked to one side as if listening. There was a tumult of sound on the air – a hoarse droning sound filling the sky, the crash of distant bombs, the crack of rifles, screams, wailing alarms, the crackle and snap of burning buildings. She breathed in, tasting air stiff with smoke and fumes and the cloying, sweet smell of burning methanol. The whisper of her earbug was very faint, the voices of faeries and sprites darting among the hanging limbs of ancient trees.

"I've heard worse," she said, tying back the sleeves of her mantle and making sure her skirts were untangled. The absence of the antique Webley brought a keen, heartfelt pain. Poor James gave that to me…"Quickly now, if you value the oath you swore to the boy's father."

Without waiting for their response, Petrel limped across the rubble-strewn platform, heading for an arched doorway leading out into the street. Colmuir glanced at the two civilians who'd dragged him from the wreckage of the baggage car, cursed to himself and then ran after the woman. Dawd paused a moment as well, but only long enough to settle his gunrig and check the ammunition load in his spare Nambu. Then he too jogged out into the bright, humid morning.

The comp in his hand continued to flicker and whine, trying to pick up the prince's trail and failing, confused by the electronic maelstrom raging invisibly over the city.

"I don't feel so good," Parker said faintly. The pilot's face was chalk-pale and his lips were tinged with blue. Magdalena made a rumbling sound in the back of her throat, the soft pads of her fingers delicately probing the massive welting along his hip and knee. She considered his medband, which was two-thirds crimson and guessed the kit had shattered some joints.

"You're looking poorly," she allowed, searching quickly among the debris scattered around them for lengths of wood. The remains of a bench provided her with the rudiments for a splint. Maggie extended her claws, scored two of the sections lengthwise with a slash and then broke them apart by main strength. "Fur matted, can't clean yourself, nose cold as freezer-ice…"

Parker tried to smile, but failed to muster the strength. "Better…shut me down, Mags. Don't suppose…there's a medibot anywhere near…"

The Hesht shook her head, producing a roll of stickytape from her sole surviving duffel bag. The others were lost – along with thousands of quills' worth of comps, surveillance equipment and camping gear – in the wreck of the train. Working as swiftly as possible, she laid one section of wood along the human's side, then the other inside his leg. The tape drew tight, making Parker gasp. Magdalena showed him her teeth. "No stasis bag for you, my fine kit. No sharp-smelling, shiny clean medical bay. Only an old mother cat and a medband made of bark keeping you from the Peerless Hunter!"

"Oh…" Parker twitched painfully as she adjusted his shoulder. "Better get me…a fresh band, Mags. Something…sharp."

"All out." Magdalena fitted slats of wood around his shattered arm and went to find a board to immobilize his chest. "You'll have to share teat like everyone else."

Five minutes later, Parker was trying not to pass out as Magdalena hoisted him onto broad, ebon-furred shoulders, arm and leg taped tight to his torso. Her last duffel had been cut into a rough sling harness to carry him.

"You have to hold on," she growled, wondering if the monkey could handle the pain of being moved. "There's no medical attention here…we need to get you to a human hospital. Gretchen will be very displeased if you die. She will blame me."

"Ooooh…" Parker's head rolled limply to one side as his medband complained. "Don't wan' tha'…"

Time to go, the Hesht thought, licking her lips nervously. He's turning gray.

Setting her feet, Maggie adjusted her shoulders, took a step and then padded quietly out of the station house. The flames licking along the walls had reached up to brush the ceiling, and more glass was warping and cracking, adding yet more noise to the lamentations of the wounded and the dying hiss of steam.

On the steps leading down to the street, the Hesht raised her head and tasted the air. The sound of war continued to mutter and growl in the distance, leaving the avenue littered with debris – scattered bodies, abandoned runner-carts, drifts of blowing leaves and paper – and the air was tight with fumes and smoke. Far away, among the clouds, an air-breathing dragon boomed from horizon to horizon.

Looking both ways from the shadow of the door – just as her mother had taught her on the training fields of the clan-ark – Magdalena set off after the three other humans, following the clear scent of their blood drifting in the air. They had taken to the middle of the avenue, but Heshatun were drawn from warier stock and she kept to the mottled shadows under the shop awnings and broad-leafed trees lining the road.