House of Reeds

The Petrel Estate

Despite Chu-sa Hadeishi's suggestion that she attend the Legation party in a traditional furisode-style kimono, Kosho stepped out of her groundcar in a straight, knee-length black silk dress. Conceding a non-Fleet, civilian occasion, she did not pin up her hair. She also dispensed with her usual command bracelet, settling for a comm-thread disguised by foundation and blush powder on her cheek. A chevalier-style jacket disguised a palm-sized shockpistol. Two silver bracelets obscured her medband.

Rain threatened, charging the air with the sharp smell of imminent thunder. The sky over Parus was clogged with fat, dark clouds as night advanced. By the time her car was within sight of the estate, Kosho decided to get out and walk. Strings of globe-lights atop the walls gave her an unmistakable heading. A great crowd of locals milled about at the edge of the security perimeter. An instant festival had sprung up on the sidewalks, complete with carts and canopies, and vendors selling steaming drinks, roasted meat, and confections of all kinds. The peculiar cinnamon smell of the Jehanans mingled with wood smoke and boiling tea in the sweltering twilight.

Fleet ID and the invitation passed her through to an ivy-covered gate. The mansion sprawled within a rectangle of crumbling red-brick walls. The one-and two-story buildings themselves looked quite old to Susan's eye, but she couldn't tell if this was by design or circumstance. The customs of the rich often ran counter to what she considered common sense.

A stream of party-goers crossing an ornamental garden carried her towards the main house. Servants were waiting to take coats, hats, ornamental cloaks, and umbrellas beneath the shelter of an imposing entranceway flanked by tall granite statues. The figures were Jehanan, bulky, muscled bodies carrying the lintel of the doorway on their shoulders. Kosho made a face at the overwrought tableau as she passed into the vestibule, a very small purse in hand.

Beyond the entryway, the main, hexagonal hall of the house rose towards a lofty ceiling circumscribed by a mezzanine-style balcony. Old-style chandeliers supporting clusters of shimmering paper lanterns hung down on long cables. Dozens of slow-moving fans stirred the air. The wavering light, reflecting across the ribbed vault of the roof, reminded Susan of sunlight dancing on the walls of a sea cave.

She guessed there were nearly a thousand people packed into the room, and found a section of wall to stand beside, out of the press of traffic. Humidity and constant noise enveloped her, pressing tight against her flesh. Within a heartbeat, a servant appeared before her with a platter of drinks. Politely, Susan took one – something amber-colored, which she hoped was beer – and waved him on.

Interesting, she thought, scanning the multitude of human and alien faces. Not as disturbing as the Admiral's Dinner, but telling in its own way. She could pick out only a handful of Fleet officers – the white dress uniforms were hard to miss among the splashy colors of the natives or the rich garments of the civilians – but there were quite a few groundpounders in evidence. As she expected, they formed their own reefs of dark olive uniforms amid the sea of civilians. Kosho judged most of them to be of Mixtec extraction, if the profusion of strong noses, mahogany skin and visible tattoos was any guide. …or Indian, she corrected herself, spying a tall infantry officer with a spade-shaped, belt-length yellow beard, sharp nose and turban wandering past.

The drink proved to be a passable lager, but far too warm for her taste. Another passing tray won the glass back. Kosho found herself considering elaborate tortures for Chu-sa Hadeishi.

I do not like parties, she remembered. And this is a very lively, but disorganized party. Worse, the training of her childhood nagged at her conscience. You should introduce yourself properly to the host and hostess.

Her disgust at feeling guilty about proper protocol must have shown on her face. A middle-aged human, a European with short, sandy blond hair, moved into her field of view. "Surely the beer isn't that poor…" he started to say, then paused with a startled look on his face.

Kosho realized she was considering him in the same way she scrutinized the unsatisfactory work of junior ratings. Not polite, ko-ko! A voice very much like her grandmother echoed out of memory. Say hello. Introduce yourself. Even a gaijin deserves so much.

"Your pardon, sir," Susan said, very stiffly. She offered a very small bow. No more than required by common courtesy. "Lieutenant Commander Susan Kosho, IMN Henry R. Cornuelle."

"Really?" The man's fine-boned face lit with surprised delight. He bowed in return, rather more deeply than necessary. "How unexpected! What brings you to Jagan? You know…"

The familiar tone in his voice touched off a flood of nausea. I feel trapped, she realized, eyes flicking from side to side. There are too many people here. This room is too big. Those windows are open. Why is this person talking to me?

Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way back through the latest arrivals. Everyone she passed seemed appallingly cheerful. Overhead, on the mezzanine, a troupe of native musicians began tuning up their instruments, filling the air with an atonal wailing and clashing sound. The Jehanan nobles present lifted their heads in interest. A hissing and clicking undercurrent to the sound of human voices rose.

Puzzled and surprised, Johann Gemmilsky, once the Librarian of the refinery ship Turan stared at her retreating back. "…I was just wondering how Captain Hadeishi was doing…" His voice trailed off in dismay. "Good to meet you in person!"

Shaking his head, Gemmilsky turned around, a tumbler of vladka between thumb and forefinger. "Very disappointing," he sighed. "Quite a striking woman."

His eye fell upon two brawny Jehanan tribal chiefs, flat, spadelike heads wrapped in unusual red, purple and magenta haylan. They were deep in discussion with a tiny, old Mйxica woman in a black shawl and traditional beaded dress. "Hello! A pair of Arachosian nabobs come down from the hills… Now that is interesting… I wonder if they've brought strings of sprinters for sale?"

The Pole took a quick swig of his Chernei Gyooz, nodded genially to a chattering crowd of Lencolar Sisters pressing around him and began circulating towards the chieftains with commerce on his mind.

Kosho stepped out into the garden with a sense of enormous relief. She had not realized how hot and close the hall had become. Even the still-warm night air was a relief. Walking quickly away from the servants in the entryway, she dabbed the sides of her neck with a cloth. I never sweat! Am I falling ill? She realized her fingers were trembling.

Concerned, she checked her medband, which showed little but calm green lights. Her heart rate was well above normal, but everything else was fine. Perfectly healthy. What is going on?

Kosho turned, looking back at the dazzling lights, and saw she'd automatically followed a bricked footpath winding through ornamental hedges of native flowers and imported fruit trees. Lemon, pomegranate and hibiscus were thriving in the thick, humid air.

Susan stepped back to the edge of the porch, trying to make herself re-enter the house. The atonal wailing of the orchestra had faded away, replaced by a sprightly, soaring sound like the wind rushing through golden aspens.

"This is their music?" she said aloud, surprised by the clean, clear sound. The alien instruments changed pitch and tone, now evoking a rushing freshet cascading over mossy stone. She could feel the vibrations tremble in her skin, almost in the bone itself. Oh, Mitsuharu should have come – he would love this!

At the same moment, Susan became aware of a tight, constricting sensation in her chest. That's just impossible. I haven't been claustrophobic since I was a little girl. But the feeling was the same, even worse for the cloud-filled sky above her. I serve on a tiny Fleet ship every day! So what if there are a thousand people crammed in there, people I don't know, people…oh.

She suppressed a sharp stab of irritation, nostrils flaring, and was filled with relief no one else from the ship was present. Despite the security risk, she'd left her Marine escort with their transport. Kosho had no idea how vigorous the local thieves were, but she assumed there were thieves, and three well-armed Marines should be able to defend the groundcar she'd signed out of the Sobipurй motor pool.

Heicho Felix, Susan was sure, would laugh if the imperturbable Sho-sa admitted to suffering from 'miner's disease.' She triggered a mood stabilizer from the medband. To appease the yurei of her grandmother, she made sure her dress hadn't become stained. She still had her purse. Satisfied with her appearance, Kosho decided to take a leisurely walk through the gardens – which seemed quite beautiful, if difficult to appreciate in the footlights – while her serotonin and endorphin levels evened out.

Perhaps, she allowed to herself, waiting for a gap to open in the stream of garishly dressed civilians passing by, we were out in the dark for too long. Two years of treading the deck without a friendly shore in sight, dealing with marauders, slavers, angry miners, Megair corsairs, the Khaid…No wonder the Chu-sa found the Admiral's dinner party so disturbing.

Now she was a little concerned, wondering if Hadeishi's report had been overly colored by this same tricky sense of paranoia. Susan considered calling the ship on her comm and having Smith run a racial-source analysis on the battle group personnel lists, and then remembered the communications officer was groundside, seeing about shore-leave housing for the crew.

A strikingly alien-looking creature – something like a jewel-crusted mantis – passed into the house and Kosho stepped onto the tiled walkway before realizing everyone had fallen silent for a reason. The kind of supernal calm which crept upon her in the midst of battle threatened, and she turned to see what was going on.

"Stand aside, ma'am." A very alert Eagle Knight with a craggy face was there, motioning for her to step back. Kosho did so, returning the man's polite nod, and one slick black eyebrow rose in alarm at the scene unfolding behind him.

A slim young man advanced grandly down the walkway, head held high, chest rippling with platinum scales, long dark hair threaded with gold, turquoise silk pantaloons billowing around his ankles, and a maroon cape fringed with clattering jade slung carelessly over one shoulder. Another Eagle Knight clad in the darkest possible civilian clothing was moving just behind his shoulder, wary eyes flickering across the faces of the goggling onlookers.

Behind the young man, a huge crowd of giggling, barely clothed courtesans, jugglers, magicians and smug-looking junior officers spilled from the walkway into the gardens. Kosho blinked, took two steps back and stiffened to attention: the reflexive action of an officer confronted with the queasy horror of higher command authority outside her usual chain of command. Worse, the man was an Army officer.

Unmistakably, the Imperial Prince Tezozуmoc had arrived.

The prince's party swept past Kosho with a blare of laughter, leaving a cloud of alcohol fumes, stimulant smoke and eye-smarting perfume in their wake. Two junior Army officers bumped into her, then saluted cheerily. The boys were holding up a civilian youth of comparable age, though he was wearing only a blue serape, one sandal and a liberal amount of octli liquor. A great deal of shouting followed as everyone tried to crowd into the vestibule.

Servants converged from all directions and Kosho caught a glimpse of a tall, assured-looking woman with black hair slashed with white. She appeared from nowhere and took the prince's hands in greeting. Then the jugglers were in the way, tossing lighted brands through the lines of lights hanging from the ceiling. A cloud of smoke wicked up into the red dome.

"Enough entertainment for me, I think." Susan turned away. Many of the people in the garden flocked to gawk at the prince and she strode quickly towards the vine-covered gate, relieved the prince had neither seen nor recognized her.

That might be embarrassing, she thought, amused. Susan began to grin at the thought, her humor improving. Assuming he remembers being six years old anymore.

"Sho-sa Kosho?" A vaguely familiar voice called out. Susan looked up and almost laughed aloud. The monkeys of circumstance are playing tricks tonight.

A familiar-looking blonde woman of medium height and pleasantly even features was in the archway, bowing and smiling in greeting. A balding servant stood behind her, making a belated, but proper bow.

"Doctor Anderssen," Susan replied, matching the bow. "A pleasant surprise."

"The pleasure is ours, Sho-sa. The Chu-sa and your crew are well?"

"They are." Susan relaxed a little. Doctor Anderssen had been their guest on the Cornuelle during the investigation of certain mysterious events on the planet Ephesus Three. Despite some trying times, the xenoarchaeologist had proved herself circumspect and polite. Kosho approved of her, which was not always the case when civilians were concerned. In the intervening two years, the xenoarchaeologist seemed to have lost a little weight and spent far too much time outside in the wind and sun. She seemed a little uncomfortable in a formal dress. Kosho understood how she felt. "You've just missed meeting Prince Tezozуmoc of the Imperial House and all his friends."

"We saw him." Anderssen bowed again, but Susan could see she was hiding a grin. "His arrival delayed ours. We couldn't even cross the street."

Kosho looked out, seeing the traffic had grown much, much worse. A large number of expensive-looking groundcars of Imperial manufacture filled the avenue in front of the mansion. Jehanan drivers were hissing curses at one another and honking their horns. Legation security was trying to clear the traffic, but with little effect.

"There is still time," Susan said, keeping her voice low, "to return to your place of residence and spend a productive evening watching holovee or playing cards."

Anderssen choked back a snort of laughter and covered her mouth. "Thank you for the astute advice, Sho-sa, but I received an invitation from the lady of the house and it would be impolite to disappoint her. And…" Gretchen sighed, revealing a flash of irritation. "…there is someone I am trying to find. I hope he will be here."

"I see." Susan began to feel uneasy again. The blare of the car horns and shouting was beginning to fray her concentration. She tapped her cheek, waking up the comm-thread. "Good luck, Anderssen-tzin. I must warn you, however, the mansion is large – and very crowded. Good evening."

"Good evening," Anderssen called after her, obviously puzzled. "Best wishes to…"

The rest of the sentence was drowned out by the raspy shouts of Jehanan street vendors. Kosho left the crumbling sidewalk and slid sideways between two battered thirty-year-old Scandia panel trucks. The comm-thread woke to life with a tingle under her jaw.

"Felix, this is Kosho. Where are you?"

Twenty meters ahead, Sho-sa. An alley on your left, behind the cart selling sweetened ices.

Susan pushed against the crowd of natives flowing the other way, making slow going. The Jehanan came in different shapes and sizes, but they all took up a lot of sidewalk. Eventually she passed the cart – bright yellow, festooned with colorful paper banners and enameled masks – and turned into a shadowy opening.

Felix appeared out of the murk, a long field coat doing a poor job of covering her muzzle-down Macana assault rifle. Combat armor bulked beneath a civilian-style mantle. "This way, kyo."

"Put that away," Kosho hissed, shaking off her funk. The brisk walk was clearing her head. "Legation security will void themselves to see you waving a cannon around – not to mention the Imperial bodyguards!"

The sight of her security detail shouldn't have changed her mood, but it did. By the time Susan ducked into the back seat and Felix slammed the door closed she was feeling almost normal.

Without instructions, the Marine in the front seat fired up the engine, and immediately they were accelerating down the alley, driving lights illuminating refuse bins and indefinable structures protruding from the buildings looming on either side. Kosho leaned back wearily against the plush leather seats. "Heicho, status of security arrangements groundside?"

"Good, kyo." Felix turned, peering back over the seat. "Smith-tzin's lined up four or five hotels. We scouted out some bars selling liquor humans can drink. Seems the slicks like their methanol straight, with local alkaloids for flavor. Pure poison for us, of course."

"Slicks?" Susan stared out the window. Buildings dashed past, most of them wooden, with a few crumbling brick edifices thrown in. She'd seen skyscrapers from the window of the shuttle, but out here in the suburbs everything was low and squat and packed closely together.

"The Jehanan, kyo. Have you touched one? Their skin is smooth…almost like glass."

"Fine." Kosho craned her neck over a little, staring up at the sky. The clouds were low and glowing with the light of the city. "What kind of extraction points do you have on tap? Rooftops? Public parks? Streets?"

"Rooftops are poor, kyo. Every single one hosts a laundry, a hostel or some kind of aviary. The locals eat a lot of skomsh…it's just like chicken." Felix swallowed a laugh, catching the tense expression on her commander's face. "The streets are worse – they use electric trolleys with overhead power lines on all the avenues wide enough for one of our shuttles to touch down. Parks look like our best bet. Smith made sure the hotels he picked are across the street from a nice one. Not too many trees, mostly ornamental shrubs and fountains."

Susan felt combat tires rattle across recessed tracks as they bounced through an intersection. Neon lights over the storefronts reflected from the bracelets on her wrist. "Local situation? How do they feel about the Empire?"

"Hard to tell." Felix shrugged. "Smith-tzin says the local holovee is filled with all kinds of the-Empire-is-our-friend propaganda. But on the street, you can tell they don't like us much. They do like our quills, though. All the merchants I've dealt with were pretty friendly. It's hard to read their faces. But no one's taken a shot at us yet."

Kosho nodded absently. The sitrep reports forwarded from battle group command related much the same thing. "An undercurrent of resentment exists in the population," they said. "But no open violence." I think…the Chu-sa is a little jumpy about Villeneuve's extravagance. He is French. The real issues here are more immediate – and far more routine than an officers' plot.

"Everyone needs to take care, Heicho. Pass the word around to the squad leaders and petty officers to go ones-and-fours when ship's personnel are groundside. And armed." She turned her attention on the Marine, eyes sharp with an orange glow from the sodium lights passing overhead. "But if anyone goes rabbit on me and shoots someone – even a local! – then I will put them out the lock myself."

"Aye, aye!" Felix shifted in her seat uncomfortably. The Sho-sa seemed worked up tonight and nervous officers made her uneasy. "Something specific security detail should watch out for?"

"No." Kosho stared out the window again. The crowds on the sidewalks ignored the rain, letting the steady downpour sluice the day's dust from their scales. In the misty night, with the glare of neon in her eyes, they could have been any Saturday-night crowd along the Ginza or around the Tlatelolco. "I suspect I'm worrying for no reason, but everyone's to be on best behavior. No exceptions!"

"Oooh, native tribesmen!" Tezozуmoc laughed gaily, barely able to stand. His cloak covered with jadeite lozenges was disconcertingly heavy. He kept listing to one side and having to right himself. His blood buzzed with a delicious tide of oliohuiqui and 'little guardian of dreams.'"Legate, which province do these fellows come from?"

Petrel, his hand raised in preparation for formally introducing the prince to the commander of the 416th Imperial Arrow Knight regiment (motorized), halted abruptly, and then turned towards Tezozуmoc with a perfectly still face. "Your pardon, mi'lord?"

The prince could see the older man was nonplussed. Tezozуmoc could see furtive, hasty thoughts flitting behind the cultured face. Doesn't the Prince Imperial recognize fellow Imperial officers? Even his putative commander in the 416th? Even though – the prince felt cold anger welling in his churning stomach – this same officer has refused this same prince an actual command? Who has slighted this same prince by shunting him into a useless assignment?

"These black fellows." The prince cheerily waved a mostly full bottle of Char-odei vodka at the middle officer, a full colonel, who was indeed of Mixtec extraction and therefore possessed of dark, almost chocolatl-colored skin. "Him! Are these some of the…the Misa-whatever-dai…the barbarians you've been bending my ear about?"

"Tlacateccatl Yacatolli is an Imperial Arrow Knight, mi'lord." Petrel's white eyebrows stiffened and Tezozуmoc fought to keep a huge bellyful of laughter from bursting out. The old man looked like an owl! The Legate's perfectly groomed face was growing pink around the edges. Oh oh. The prince felt even giddier. He's getting angry! Soon some of those gelled hairs will be out of place!

The colonel, for his part, had grown dangerously still. Tezozуmoc peered at him, a little nauseous at the chance to twit the stone-faced Arrow Knight. Oh oh, he can't say anything to me! Not the Son of the Light of Heaven, the Prince Imperial! No no. Not in front of so many barbarians and civilians and other witnesses. But I can say whatever I want!

"Yack-a-toll-ee. Doesn't that mean snot in our language? What does it mean in his?"

The colonel twitched, fists clenching. The prince stared at the man's shoulders in delight. The carefully tailored fabric was stretching as every muscle in the man's upper body stiffened in rage. Will he burst right out of his uniform? Is he wearing underwear? Did he bring any spare? I think he only has one dress uniform, poor bean eater.

Legate Petrel stepped between the two men, looking down at Tezozуmoc with narrowed eyes. The older man had recovered his composure, though the prince could see tiny lines of strain around his eyes. "Mi'lord, perhaps you would care to sit and eat? There is a salon where you and your companions can take your ease, out of the press of the crowd?"

"Of course! My feet hurt – your floor is too hard." Tezozуmoc stamped his sandals, making the golden scales covering them clatter on the hardwood parquet. The hall would serve for dancing, eventually, when the buffet tables were cleared away. "Good night, chief of the snots!"

The prince waved at the colonel, who was watching him with slitted, furious eyes from behind a wall of his subordinates. The other Mixtec officers were trying to calm Yacatolli down.

Stupid name for a military officer, Tezozуmoc thought, swinging the weighted cape carelessly over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, the prince caught a glimpse of the shorter of his bodyguards ducking aside. Hand-sized jade lozenges whipped past the Skawtsman's face. He should change it to something that doesn't make everyone snicker. Perhaps I should submit an official memo of recommendation.

"Are there buttered shrimps dusted with chili powder?" Tezozуmoc asked the Legate, following the older man towards a doorway opening off the crowded, sweltering hall. The prince's voice was entirely amiable. "I like those very much."

Petrel nodded, but did not look back, pushing open the doors to an well-furnished room with a bar, overstuffed chairs and a permanent aroma of burned broadleaf tabac and fine liquor. "Of course, mi'lord. I will let the cook know."

Tezozуmoc threw himself down in the largest chair, heaved a sigh of relief and then stared quizzically up at his host. "You don't look like a bird. You should change your name too."

The rest of his new friends piled into the room, making the two bodyguards wince with their usual ruckus of noise, banging about, shrieking and general merriment. The Army officers began looting the liquor cabinet.

The prince, seeing no one was paying attention to him for the moment, let out a long, shuddering sigh. His stomach burned, molten stones churning against his intestines. So many officials and lords and officers. Tezozуmoc closed his eyes tight, feigning weariness, squeezing back tears of frustration. By Christ Sacrifice, I hate this. I hate them – all of them – and I hate having to wear this stupid costume.

The hatred he'd seen flashing in Yacatolli's face, at least, had been a welcome change from the usual pity, or curiosity, or contempt. The prince raised his head, wondering if there was any liquor to be had. "Geema, be a dear heart and share some of that wicked-looking red liquid with your poor old prince, will you?"

Parker drained his glass. "Boss…are you sure you need to talk to this guy?"

"Yes." Gretchen tried not to sigh and loosened the shawl around her shoulders. The great hall was just getting hotter and closer as more people crowded in. The Jehanan musicians were still playing, but their beautiful efforts were drowned out by drunken voices. "Look, Parker, I know we're supposed to be here on 'vacation' and technically I don't have to report to anyone. Not the attachй, not Professor SГє. But we're going to be traipsing all over the north-country, trying to find this…place. I would rather play by the rules, if we can. Mrs. Petrel said…don't make a face like that!"

The pilot removed the tabac from his mouth and flicked the butt into a nearby planter. After entering the hall they'd tried to reach the banquet tables, but a near-solid wall of Imperial military uniforms blocked any access. The infantry officers were making a serious dent in the Legation catering budget. Then Gretchen had tried to find the hostess, but moving in the crowd was nearly impossible, so the press of humanity had thrown them up in a little alcove where a bastion of potted plants protected a side door.

"Sorry, boss. But look at this place – we're so far down the totem pole we can't even get something to eat. Drink, sure…the Embassy lays on some nice locally produced vodka but we'll have to wait hours just to say hello to the hostess." He took a long drag from a fresh tabac and let the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "You saw the prince and his posse. He's going to suck up every featherhead within ten klicks to kiss his radiant ass. Doc SГє, the Legate's wife, everyone."

"Parker!" Gretchen made a shushing motion. It is crowded, she silently acknowledged. He's probably right. And finding Professor SГє in this madhouse isn't terribly likely. I don't even know what he looks like.

Then she grew still, realizing she could probably tell what the senior xenoarchaeologist from the University of Tetzcoco felt like. And if I can feel him, then I could probably find him…if I wanted.

Gretchen looked sidelong at Parker, who was staring moodily at two attractive young women passing by. The pilot looked entirely out of place amid all the finery on display. His going-out shirt, pants and shoes were only the best a junior Company employee could afford. She could see him comparing his appearance to the young bravos circulating in the crowd, and falling short. We're out of place here. As usual.

Anderssen looked down at herself. The kimono-style dress was the best the Shimanjin colony had to offer – impeccably tailored, luscious native silk, dark radiant colors – and in comparison to the extravagance of feathers, gold and jade adorning the Prince's companions, about four years out of style. Field crews rarely spent any time far enough in-Empire to be fashionable. Dust and sweat and the minute personal cargo allowances provided by economy spaceliner tickets precluded anything but the necessities. She spread a scarred, muscular hand, frowning. Not very elegant.

Gretchen breathed in slowly. If you find Professor Sege, what then? Will you ask him for permission to root about in the ruins of the ancient Jehanan cities, unsupervised? Looking for something the Company can't even describe or identify? Being polite, she realized, hating the nagging, pragmatic voice in her head, would only make her job more difficult. I am supposed to follow the rules, she thought, but knew the Company really didn't care at all. They just want me to steal something. Again. Rules are something I'm supposed to follow, she thought sourly, when I'm filling out expense reports.

"You're right, Parker. There's no point to finding him. Let's see if we can swing by the dessert table on our way out…"

Standing quietly in the corner of the huge, busy room, a thing in the shape of a man was watching the flood of eddy past, stinking of toxin-saturated cooling fluid. It stood quietly in dark, carefully tailored human clothing, presenting a tray of inefficiently constituted raw protein to anyone who passed by. A group of Imperial military officers paused, snatched up handfuls of baked crackers coated with imported soft cheese and caviar, and then moved on.

The Lengian expressed no overt interest in them, and following the strict social conventions of this primitive society, they ignored it in turn. The sower of was not surprised. It had watched and waited among the humans for many cycles. They were random and filled with the heedless, careless energy of a young, immature species – one which had not yet been culled and set on the straight path – and as such they believed themselves to be favored by the hand of the . But they will be tested in the fullness, it thought coldly, without either remorse or antipathy. Then they will likely perish, for they are a weak, ill-fitting species.

Another human moved into its field of perception – a tall man with slick blond hair, dressed in the costume of a broker associated with one of the Imperial merchant houses active on Jagan – and the Lengian's attention sharpened. The man – a sub-brain identified him as being Finnish in origin, which meant he was from one of the outworld colonies like Vainamoinen – nodded in passing to some other human merchants and struck up a conversation with a cluster of lesser Jehanan nobility who were nervously eyeing the asuchau offworlders swarming around them.

Inside the Lengian's human-shaped ears, a cluster of leaf-shaped fronds oriented themselves, swelling the primitive organ's capacity to capture sound, and two of the fingernail-sized sub-brains strung along the creature's spine asserted themselves, capturing the resulting flow of aural data and sorting out dialect, language, intent and meaning.

This one is an Imperial Flower Priest in disguise, the sub-brains submitted to the decision-making cortices. He is presenting himself as an agent of the exiled Swedish government, probing for possible allies among the native princes. But in truth he serves the Mirror Which Reveals.

As a whole, the Lengian was aware of the myriad Imperial security organizations, but it was also quite confident in its ability to continue avoiding their notice. Sixty human years had already passed without even the faintest evidence of suspicion on the part of its unknowing hosts. It had been in close proximity to more than one Mirror agent dozens of times without drawing the least attention. Three hundred human years remain in life-cycle, one of the sub-brains handling motile-form biological functions reported, eager to show its worth to the whole, before this form degrades beyond usefulness.

The Lengian did not think it would need to remain among the humans for so long. They will be culled soon, even as they measure time. The will be affronted by their unregulated breeding.

The blond human passed close by, eyeing the canapйs, but shook its head, smiling, when the Lengian lifted the tray. A faint cloud of pheromones, skin-flakes and exhaled breath washed over the creature and – unseen by human eyes – thousands of pores opened on its simulated human skin and captured the wealth of information so haphazardly scattered to the winds. Dozens of sub-brains immediately set to work dissecting the breakdown of the human's DNA and metabolism.

This shape will be useful, the decision cortices had already resolved. We will add it to our collection.

"Timonen!" Another human male approached the blond man, skin oozing poorly metabolized alcohol. "How's the medband business?"

The Lengian remained impassive, watching and waiting. In a day or two, when this shape's normal duties allowed it to leave the Legation, it would find the Finn and make the human useful, for a change, and in an orderly and efficient way.

The two human males were now joined by two females and they all moved away together, chattering mindlessly, looking for more protein and alcohol to metabolize. The Lengian's watery blue eyes followed them for a time, nostrils flared to let threadlike filaments hiding in the dark recesses of the nose practice separating Timonen's smell from that of the herd.

"What a delightful surprise!" A bronzed face appeared between the potted plants. Gretchen felt mildly alarmed to see a group of young Mйxica men emerge from the crowd. "Our freshly arrived colleagues! Of whom we've heard so many exciting rumors."

"Hello." Gretchen took them in with a glance and there was a sour taste in her mouth. They were well dressed, for graduate students, and all of them were sporting the University of Tetzcoco mon. Despite being freshly shaved, showered and perfumed, she was sure their fingernails were as dirty as hers. Honorable Doctor SГє's post-docs. Drunk as rabbits under a full moon. "How do you do?"

"We're doing just fine…you're the famously unknown Anderssen?"

"I am." Gretchen felt Parker stiffen behind her. "Doctor Gretchen Anderssen, University of New Aberdeen, forensic xenoarchaeologist…"

"A Company pit-rat, you mean." The tall one in front's skin was flushed with sweat. "Come sniffing around our work…looking to steal enough for a publication, Anderssen? They don't let you do much real work, do they? Shouldn't you be carrying jade for your husband?"

"I think you'd better just step back," Parker said, pushing past Gretchen, who had been struck speechless. "And apologize."

"Parker…we're guests here." Anderssen felt her heart start to race and her fingers found the comfortably smooth surface of her medband. Adrenaline churned through her bloodstream. She triggered a calmedown. "I won't disappoint our hostess by starting a brawl. Good evening, gentlemen."

The Mйxica spread his arms, blocking their path. He smiled, showing fine white teeth. "We're curious, Doctor. I'm sure you've seen wonders on the Rim, while you were scurrying here and there, stealing crumbs to take back to Old Mars. Why don't you…"

Gretchen felt her breath slow and the room faded a little.

Crepuscular gray light vomited from an ancient doorway, hurling her backwards. She hit sand, tumbled and staggered up. The Sif shockgun was still smoking in her hand, making elaborate curlicues of smoke in the terribly thin air. Someone was shouting, but a howling roar of static filled her ears. Monstrous shapes boiled out of the tunnel, striding forward on countless joined legs, a forest of spike-like tendrils dancing above translucent, half-invisible bodies.

"…share them with us?" The post-doc jammed his elbow sharply into Parker's chest. Gretchen stepped aside, her face tight and composed, giving Parker room to catch his balance.

"I am here on vacation," she snapped, voice very cold. "A personal guest of Legate Petrel's wife, Greta. If you wish to discuss your work at Fehrupurй with a professional, I advise you to contact the local Company offices." She stepped forward and the tall Mйxica, surprised, gave ground. Gretchen swept the rest of them with a scathing look. "Tend to your trenches and alluvial assays, children. Drink less and think about your work more."

Without waiting for them to react, she pushed between two of them on the left. Even as she started to move, Gretchen felt them give way. She'd known they would back down. Known just these two were too timid to seize her arm, too drunk throw a punch. Reaching behind her, she seized Parker's arm and dragged him through the opening.

She heard a confused shout from behind, but did not look back. An avenue opened in the crowd and she was striding effortlessly through a gyrating, constantly moving throng of brightly dressed people. A path opened before her with the movement of their bodies, a random, confused dance without pattern or form. Parker was trying to say something, but the words felt slow. They failed to reach her attention, which was focused on moving without thought, reacting without contemplation.

Gretchen was in the vestibule, feeling the rain-cooled night wind on their face, when the sharp feeling collapsed, some unimaginable equilibrium disturbed. She felt sweat spring out all over her body and nearly tripped on the step. Her fingers cramped painfully and she released Parker's arm. The pilot was staring at her, eyes wide.

"Mother of Christ…damn, boss, that hurts!" The pilot rubbed his arm, wincing. "How…how did we get out of there?"

"Never mind. Let's go." Anderssen ducked her head, embarrassed, and hurried out. Oh, Sister, where did that come from? Her stomach turned over, knowing too well what had happened. I thought I'd forgotten all about…those things. "I'm very tired."

"Sure…" Parker followed, looking over his shoulder. The gay, cheerful mob filling the hall seemed impenetrable from this vantage. Hundreds of people engaged in drinking furiously, talking nonstop, filling the entire chamber from wall to wall. "How did we…?"

Standing near the buffet tables, Itzpalicue's head rose, eyes narrowed in sudden interest. The old woman stared around warily, ignoring a coterie of Imperial merchants babbling away about rates of exchange and tonnage loads of used groundcars. They were all very pleased with the appetite of the Jehanan for their wares.

What was that? Something in the charged, drunken atmosphere had changed. A ripple. A wave counter to the current swirling around the hall. That was not what I was looking for…something else. That felt familiar.

Excusing herself, Itzpalicue made her way stiffly up a staircase curving onto the mezzanine. One wrinkled old hand on the railing, she stopped at the first turn in the stairs. Below her, the crowd was a dizzying array of brilliant colors, flashing metal, somber uniforms. The old woman licked her lips, eyes almost closed, leaning on her cane, tasting the air, feeling sound rushing around her in a palpable, physical wave.

Gone. Whatever had disturbed the familiar pattern of avarice, fear, lust, hope and despair charging the air had vanished from her frame of perception. Did someone leave?

"Lachlan?" She turned her head, hiding her lips from anyone in line of sight. "Ident trap everyone in the garden, minus five minutes. Someone leaving the party, perhaps in a hurry…felt human, but get me…"

Another change in the air – a spike of imminent violence shot with sharp, inhuman rage – snapped her head around. A ripple of reaction was spreading through the crowd, though the Mirror agent doubted most of the humans below were even aware of their instinctive movement away from unseen danger. The splashpoint was a salon on the far side of the hall and something there – an enraged Jehanan, she realized – was about to draw blood.

A sound like a steam pipe bursting caused Tezozуmoc to spring backwards, heart racing. The Jehanan female he'd been trying to converse with made an equally alarmed squeak in a fluting voice and scuttled sideways, pale rose skin turning a bruised orange color. As the prince whirled around, all he saw was a blur of black cotton as the taller of his two bodyguards hurled himself into harm's way. There was a clang! of steel on aluminum and the Skawtsman was driven back into Tezozуmoc's chest. The prince went down with an oof and his face flushed red as he gasped for breath. Then he started to wail in fear.

The bulky shape of a Jehanan loomed over the Skawtsman's shoulder, long triangular mouth agape, exposing multiple rows of triangular teeth. A cruel scar puckered under the creature's left eye-shield, twisting like an enraged snake. A fetid stench of rotten meat and spoiled grain alcohol rolled over the prince, making him gag. Colmuir struggled, shoulders grinding back into Tezozуmoc's breastbone and arm, to keep a stabbing sword locked against the hand-guard of his Nambu. The point of the gleaming blade jutted over his shoulder, aimed directly at the prince's forehead.

"Kkkkrrrr-ich! Khay-gu, izh-huma!" The Jehanan shook his massive head, ornamental eye-shields bouncing, a rippling shirt of copper rings stretched tight against scaled pectorals.

"What does he want?" Tezozуmoc squeaked in fear.

"Wants…to kill you…mi'lord," the Skawtsman bit out, both hands locked tight on the grip of the Nambu. "Shouldn't have touched the lass…urrgh!"

"I didn't do anything!" The prince's voice was squashed down to a frail whisper. "She was…urk…just singing for…me!"

"Hhuh-hen yehr," a careful voice intruded. Sergeant Dawd appeared behind the Jehanan, a short-barreled automatic rifle in his hands. The flash-suppressor of the weapon jammed into the side of the native's neck, just behind the jaw joint, where heavy plate-scales protecting the face, cranium and chest faded away into pebbly stretch-skin. "Ghawww-yeh."

"What is he saying?" Tezozуmoc wasn't trying to whisper, but his vision was blurring with black sparks as his lungs compressed under the weight of both the muscular Skawtsman and the bent knee of the Jehanan. "Oh, mother…I'm dying…"

Shocked silence was broken by a babble of voices. Vaguely, the prince made out the smooth, controlled voice of the Resident speaking rapidly in the same barbarous, guttural tongue. The pressure on his chest eased fractionally. Dawd withdrew, the assault rifle disappearing under his black coat. The sergeant seemed very tense. He should lie down, Tezozуmoc thought, his head spinning. Like me. Very comfortable. Heavy, heavy blankets they have here.

Colmuir eased back his pistol, wincing to see the hand-guard had been nearly cloven through, and spread his hands, eyes locked on the black, glittering pits which served the Jehanan for optics. The stabbing sword remained exactly poised, needlelike tip aimed directly at the prince.

Resident Petrel, elegant face sheened with sweat, leaned in, talking quietly to the Jehanan. Colmuir, catching the gist of the conversation – his command of the Parusian dialect did not match Dawd's easy mastery, but it served – rolled carefully over, shielding the prince with his body. At the same time, he plucked an ampoule from a stickypatch inside his armored jacket and jammed the drug dispenser against the side of Tezozуmoc's neck.

"Oh now, not fair…" wheezed the prince, eyelids rolling up. His body shuddered and fell limp on the floor. Sweat slithered down Colmuir's nose and spattered across the boy's gilded shirt.

"Oh, Saint Mary of the Angels," the Skawt muttered, waiting for the wickedly sharp sword blade to plunge in between his shoulder blades. He had a sinking feeling the ablative, armored mesh would not stop the ice-pick-like stroke for more than a heartbeat.

The guttural exchange between the Resident and the Jehanan general was now a three-way conversation as Bhrigu, kujen of Parus, had arrived, and the sound level was rising very, very quickly. The prince hopped nervously from one foot to the other, complaining loudly to Petrel in a mishmash of NГЎhuatl and Jehanan. The Skawt could feel more people – men in Army dress boots and trousers – crowding into the salon. All of the prince's 'new friends' had fled.

Dawd edged into Colmuir's field of vision, pudgy face lit with a kind of inner glow. "Nice party, Master Sergeant? The Governor's got kujen Bhrigu calming down his man. Apparently the bonny lass is regarded with protective affection by General Humara there. But we need to get his highness out of here immediately." Dawd peered at the boy's face. "Knocked him out, did you?"

"Aye." Colmuir rolled sideways, saw the massive shape of the Jehanan soldier had withdrawn. A solid wall of Mixtec officers – though none of them were armed with more than carving knives snatched up from the buffet tables – was between the limp, sweaty shape of the prince and a steadily growing crowd of hissing Jehanans. The rose-tinted female had disappeared. "Didn't take much. Don't see how the lad can drink, smoke and drop so much in one night…"

"Youth," Dawd grunted, slipping one arm under Tezozуmoc's. Colmuir took the other side and together they sidled off, heading for the servants' entrance at the back of the entertaining room. A tall, well-dressed woman with white-shot hair held the door open for them. She looked down at the prince with a pensive expression as the two Skawts hustled him into a brightly lit, tile-floored maintenance corridor.

Itzpalicue watched the bodyguards dragging the prince away in an eyecast v-pane transmitted by a spybug loitering near the roof of the kitchen corridor. She sniffed with longstanding amusement. Her opinion of the prince had not changed in years. "Well, he certainly livens up a party, doesn't he?"

Will he live? a female voice replied. The old woman nodded, marking the efficient way the two Skawtsmen were moving the body.

"Of course," Itzpalicue said quietly to the empty air. The mezzanine balcony had emptied with amazing speed once word of the altercation lit through the party. An excited buzz throbbed in the air as hundreds of people chattered madly about what they imagined they'd seen. "He's young and took no direct harm. Worse for his liver, to judge by the prodigious quantity of stimulants he downed this evening. But I suppose he'll get another fresh one."

He was sweating like a malaria victim when he greeted me, Mrs. Petrel said in a concerned tone. Does he spend all of his time like this?

"Probably," the old woman answered drily. "With the Light of Heaven for a father? This son is not cast from the same alloy as the others. But no matter, more fuel for my fire. We'll make sure he gets home safely this time. Can't have him dying in some sordid brawl over a joygirl – that would not play well on the holocast nets, no indeed."

Bhazuradeha is no courtesan. Greta's voice was very sharp. She may be the finest poet in this generation of Jehanan – certainly the most talented in Parus. General Humara was enraged because she was singing part of her new composition, Skythe-Color-of-Birthshell-Fragments, for the prince. They were verses the general had yet to hear – and among these people, such things are touchy matters. Humara is particularly sensitive.

"A few stanzas were cause for attempted murder?" Itzpalicue bristled at the implied reprimand in the woman's voice. "Over poetry?"

Over an impromptu audition. Bhazuradeha is very ambitious. Humara feared the prince would become her patron in his place.

"Not a very discerning woman." The old Mйxica snorted into her hand. "What would she want from our dissolute boy?"

To be elevated beyond the reach of these squabbling petty nobles. The safety to speak that which is in her heart. In time, holocast access via the Development Board's new satellite network. The chance for her words to reach millions of her fellow Jehanan, rather than merely the tens of thousands who gather to hear her recite in public.

"Tens of thousands?" Itzpalicue said in disbelief. "For a poet?"

If Nezahualcoyotl of Tetzcoco were alive today, how many of your people would wish to hear him read Nitlayocoya or Song of Flight in person? A hundred thousand? A million?

"That's entirely different. The Doomed Prince was a Mйxica!"

Of course.

Itzpalicue terminated the conversation and switched back to the operations channel. She did not enjoy being mocked. Frenetic air surged around her like a living sea, making her tremble with reflected excitement, fear, rumor and adrenaline. She started a breathing pattern to slow her heart before she lost focus.

"Lachlan? Yes, you saw? Good. The crowd is nearly hysterical right now…patch me through to the Whisperers downstairs…" There was soft tone in her ear. "Instant rumor, little mice: There is a secret Imperial archaeological mission on Jagan, seeking to steal certain artifacts…"