House of Reeds

partially exposed – seemed to be of a softer, shinier fabric. The poetess realized temperatures among the highland mountains must be regularly chill, requiring the inhabitants to conserve warmth. Even the bone structure of his face was strange – harsher and crueler than the soft-scaled denizens of the lowland plains. His hands and forearms were scarred and chipped from rough usage on the field of war.

Humara would be apoplectic at this sight. All his glorious civilization laid to naught by one day of strife.

'This is the one we seek,' the Arach war-captain said, after looking her over carefully. 'Kill the others.'

'How can you be sure?' Bhazuradeha stirred, rising to her feet. The engraving on the creature's sword hilt had captured her attention for a moment – obviously the work of a woman with fine, delicate hands and skill the equal of any jeweler's shop in the city. 'What if I am only an attendant? If you reach so high, do not pluck a rotten fruit by mistake!'

'You are no milkmaid,' the Arach growled, turning back to face her. His snout was oddly shaped, to her eyes, almost hooked, with twin ridges of jutting scales starting above the nostrils and rising up behind the eye-shields. In contravention of the literature, his eyes did not blaze with the fires of burning cottages, but they were very, very cold. 'But you are indeed the 'color of dawn.' '

There was a choked cry, and the matron crumpled to the floor, blood sluicing from her neck. The kalang had sheared through soft scale and bone alike, making a clean, neat incision.

No molk was ever butchered with less thought or more skill. Bhazuradeha allowed her nostrils to flare slightly as the smell of urine and blood and severed bone washed over her. The Arachs did not seem to notice, or care. She considered the arrangement of the invaders, saw they had formed a loose cordon around her and their captain. Not one of them paid her the least attention, save the creature directly in front of her. The others were keeping a wary eye on the rooftops, the doors opening into the bedrooms off the courtyard and the passageway whence they had come. All of the raiders were armed with asuchau weapons, and Bhazuradeha was sure the dull, efficient-looking rifles had issued from workshops tended by human hands. No Jehanan craftsman could reproduce one object with such soulless perfection.

Not a dozen times. At least once, some hint of beauty might leak in.

'I am Bhazuradeha,' she said, lifting her wrists, palms together. 'Do you take me for yourself, or for another, or for ransom?'

The Arachosian hooted in amusement, adjusting his cowl. His eyes glittered in shadow. 'Our master does not desire you,' he said. 'You are summoned to observe a thing of import and – in time, when the gods move your tongue to recite – to sing of what you see.' He pointed to her proffered hands with his snout. 'No restraint will be placed upon you.'

Bhazuradeha drew back, alarmed and insulted. 'Not a properly taken captive? What kind of cruel master do you serve? Do they wish me to beg?'

The Arach snorted, nostrils flaring and shook his head. 'By my eye, singer, you are a delight to look upon.' He gestured sharply at his men and made a deep, respectful bow. 'Bringing you home in chains or tied to the stirrups of our sherakan would bring us vast honor. No greater prize has been taken from the lowlander soft-scales in a thousand years! Even under the White Teeth, tales are told of your skill and beauty.'

Well! The poetess started to smile. He's well spoken, at least!

'But,' he continued, turning away, 'you will accompany us and observe.'

'I will not,' Bhazuradeha declared, irritated and growing angry with his obstinacy. 'When did an Arachosian ever ask a lowlander for anything! Where is your spirit? Have the men of Ghazu lost their kshetrae to some malign demon?'

The Arachosian turned sharply, a low hooooo rumbling in his throat. 'Do not insult me, singer! You are summoned and you will come – in chains and gagged, if you like – but standing upon ritual and convention is useless in this case. My master is no Jehanan, but an asuchau human from beyond the sky and she cares not at all for your propriety!'

Bhazuradeha recoiled, fear finally seeping into her heart. 'You serve the asuchau… willingly?'

'Their copper is as good as anyone's,' the Arachosian captain spat, seizing her by the neck with a rough, well- calloused claw. 'Now move!'

Weeping and distraught, the poetess was dragged from her courtyard and out past the bodies of the guards General Humara had set to watch over her. A truck was waiting, engine idling, stinking of half-combusted ethanol and motor oil. She was shoved into the back and the Arachosians piled aboard, glad to be moving again.

There were far too many lowlanders with guns abroad in the streets of Parus for their taste.

Crying and feeling very ill used, Bhazuradeha started to sing under her breath, hoping old familiar words might buoy her spirits.

'The Night comes near and looks about,' she wailed softly,

'A goddess with her many eyes, she dons shining silver glory.

Immortal, she fills the limit of sight, both far and wide, both low and high;

for whose approach, we seek today for rest, like the yi , who in the branches seek their nest.

The villages have sought for rest and all that walks and all that flies.

Black darkness comes, yet bright with stars, it comes to us, with brilliant hues…'

She stopped, feeling the gaze of every highlander in the truck fixed upon her.

'Prettily sung,' the captain said, watching her with eyes shrouded by his cowl. 'You are a worthy prize…'

Bhazuradeha turned away, delicate snout in the air, pleased someone had the wit to respect the old usages.

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