House of Reeds

drabs of cloth, plastic toys and sheets of charred pypil everywhere. Two of the shops were gutted, black holes in the face of the building.

'Ah now,' Colmuir said quietly, coming up to her shoulder. 'We've surely come the wrong way…'

The traffic circle ahead was crammed with vehicles – imported Imperial trucks; the flat, angular shapes of Jehanan troop carriers; even the hulking shape of an Aganu medium tank – and there were literally hundreds of native troops milling about. The rumbling engines filled the air with the stink of methanol and diesel. Most of the soldiers were squatting on the sidewalks, tails wrapped around their long feet, passing bottles and bhang-pipes from claw to claw. One of the troop carriers had its rear compartment open and four Jehanan mechanics were banging around in the engine, cursing and muttering at ancient machinery. Two short-horns pushed a cart past the soldiers, offering grilled spiced zizunaga on wooden tines. The clang of their advertising bell was nearly lost in the general murmur. None of the soldiers seemed interested.

'Do you see the building on the right?' Mrs. Petrel gasped, leaning her hands on her thighs. Oh my god, I hurt inside. I think I've ruptured something. 'It's a hotel – a very expensive Jehanan hotel – where the kurbardar Humara makes his residence when he is in the city. There is a suite of rooms on the third floor…' She paused, coughed, hand over her mouth, listening with growing irritation to the smooth, self-satisfied voice chattering in her ear. '…which my husband and I once visited for a dinner party. The – uhhh! – commando who took the prince was wearing a regimental insignia from an elite battalion under Humara's command.'

Colmuir grunted, looked askance at Dawd, who shrugged, just as worried as he. 'So you think they've taken the lad in there? T' drag before the general and gain their honor for a braw captive?'

Mrs. Petrel nodded weakly and forced herself to stand up straight. The tree afforded her some support and her hands pressed against the crinkly bark with relief. 'Humara will be ecstatic to have the prince in his claws. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't make the boy call on the Imperial troops on the planet to surrender.'

'Ha!' Dawd smiled in grim amusement. 'I'm sure Tlacateccatl Yacatolli will immediately send forth a noble envoy to the sound of drums, trumpets and whistles when he hears the news! He will have some choice words to say about such a turn of events… Doesn't Humara know the Mйxica don't believe in surrender, or in ransoming captives? The colonel is more likely to demand the boy be sacrificed, as was done in the old days!'

Colmuir nodded in agreement. 'But we can't let the lad languish. He's our responsibility and he's no legal captive until the battle's doon.' He pointed with the muzzle of his Macana. 'There'd be a service way in from the back?'

Petrel peered at the front of the hotel, noting the garish, gilt-embossed balconies were now draped with blankets and reinforced by rows of sand-bags. Machine-gun barrels snouted from the lower windows. The main doors were wedged back, allowing entrance into the building, but again there was a redoubt of sand-bags draped with camouflage netting in the entryway. The carpets in those dining rooms will be ruined, she imagined. Very pretty they were.

Voices were whispering to her again, and Greta turned slightly to keep her earbug away from Dawd, who was staring at her in a puzzled way.

'There is a delivery entrance in the rear,' she said, as if remembering. 'But not directly behind the front doors of the hotel – it's offset behind that dun-colored building. There are – there will be – guards, but not so many as in front.'

'Right,' the master sergeant said, eyeing her with suspicion. He produced a slim little comp from a thigh pocket. The device made a creaky sound, but lit at his finger-press. Colmuir tabbed up a map of the city and popped through several views before finding the street intersection. Once he'd oriented himself, the Skawtsman peered around the corner and checked out the adjoining streets. Wisps of hazy smoke drifted among the buildings. To the right, a shop selling imported Imperial toys was still burning, spilling a cloud of dark gray ash out into the avenue. The sun had mounted past noon, but in the thick, polluted air down in the city, with the air reverberating with the distant bang and crash of explosions, the hour felt very late.

'Back a block,' Colmuir announced, 'and over one and we can get into that service access.'

Dawd nodded, offering Mrs. Petrel a hand and then they crept back away from the barricade. As they moved, two of the spyeyes drifting above the woman darted off ahead, letting Lachlan's controllers spy their path for unseen foes.

A wide loading dock stood at the back of a particularly rundown-looking building. Three Jehanan soldiers with modern rifles slung forward at their hips stood in the shelter of an overhanging awning made of wooden slats. Coils of yellowish smoke drifted above their heads as they passed a bhang from claw to claw.

'That's the place…' Colmuir waited for the reptilian heads to turn and then signed for Dawd to leap-frog past him to a square-linteled doorway on the opposite side of the of the tiny lane. The younger Skawtsman dodged past, taking a long step over a pair of water-filled ruts worn into the cobblestones by the passage of generations of runner-carts. The master sergeant watched for any sign of alarm until Dawd was ensconced in the shadows of the doorway, automatic pistols in either hand.

'Now miss,' Colmuir said, giving Petrel a worried look, 'you're in no shape t' be invading the stronghold of the enemy today. You'd best stay in hiding out here somewhere. Do y' know -'

'I do.' Mrs. Petrel nodded. Her face looked notably pinched and she stood only by dint of leaning into a sooty brick wall. She motioned back down the alley. 'Just off that last turn is a very nice little bed and breakfast on the Court of Yellow Flagstones. The owners are friendly towards humans.' She laughed bitterly. 'If their avant-garde politics have not gotten them murdered, I will be safe there.'

The elder Skawtsman nodded slowly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. 'Well, then. We'll be about rescuing the prince – again! – from the heathens.' He paused, watching her right leg, which was trembling under her tattered, dirty festival skirts. 'But we could go with you…'

'I will be fine, Master Sergeant.' Mrs. Petrel drew herself up and wiped her hands on the bottom of her mantle. 'The hotel has a small sign – three Nem flowers in a triangle. I will wait for you there.' She essayed a brave smile. The Eagle Knight nodded, dubious about abandoning her on the streets of the war-torn city and equally anxious to burst in amongst his enemies and recover the person of his lord from captivity. 'Go on now, time may be wasting…'

'Aye,' he said, unmoving, 'it might. But we should -'

'Go on,' Mrs. Petrel waved an imperious hand at him, starting to feel rather faint from standing unsupported. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode off down the alleyway. Colmuir cursed, started to follow and then heard Dawd whistle softly behind him.

Turning, the master sergeant saw the other Eagle Knight sign the way is clear.

Hooting among themselves, the guards had finished their smoke and gone back inside.

'Ah, that tears it,' he mumbled to himself and checked the ammunition level on his assault rifle. Colmuir signed for Dawd to advance and then ducked around the corner himself.

Finally!

Petrel watched the two Eagle Knights glide up to the loading dock, weapons at the ready, and breathed a sigh of relief. She tapped her medband awake again and sighed with relief at the cool touch of painkillers flooding into her system. Her injured leg was throbbing with each beat of her heart.

'I'm clear,' she muttered, checking to make sure her earbug was firmly planted. The replacement unit didn't have the same fit and finish as her usual one. 'Where to now?'

Excellent. The chittering voice of the old NГЎhuatl woman sounded like a cricket had crawled into her hair. Back to the main street, but right instead of left. You'll meet an old friend within fifteen minutes – he's bringing your poetess – and some others of use…

'Bhazuradeha is here?' Petrel frowned, limping quickly along the alley. She found the emptiness of the streets unsettling – Parus was so densely populated even these back lanes were usually the scene of constant traffic and commerce – and her shoulders twitched with the sensation of being watched by hundreds of hostile eyes. 'I thought you didn't approve of her!'

I've thought upon the matter, Itzpalicue said in a very smug voice. She could be of great use to us, if properly handled.