House of Reeds

Petrel snorted. 'You think everything and everyone is of use, if properly handled. Can your little friends find me a gun? I feel naked out here without my Webley.'

The old NГЎhuatl woman chuckled. Gehr Shahr can provide you with whatever kind of weapon you desire, as soon as you find him. He has an extensive collection to claw.

Mrs. Petrel winced, feeling a trickle of fear at the back of her throat. 'Gehr Shahr is a murderous thug, a notorious villain and entirely untrustworthy. What is he doing here?'

Nonsense, Itzpalicue said, sounding self-satisfied. He is a gentleman of impeccable honor, as long as the benefits of my employment outweigh his natural inclination to steal or burn everything he sees. He and his cousins have been of great use in the last several days, so you must treat him politely…

'His cousins?' Mrs. Petrel started to feel faint despite the drugs and cleaning agents coursing through her bloodstream. 'Just how many Arach slavers did you bring into the city?'

Only a few hundred, the old woman said in an offhand way, just enough for all the murdering and thieving I needed done. It is always a joy to employ craftsmen.

'Oh, Holy Mother of Tepeyac,' Petrel moaned, limping out onto the street leading towards the court of Yellow Flagstones. 'Hundreds of Arachosians are loose in the city? They'll – oh, hello!'

Greta stumbled to a halt, astonished to find herself face to face with the looming black shape of the Hesht female she'd glimpsed at the train station. A pasty-faced human lolled on her shoulder, grimy hands clutching the furred neck of the alien woman. Seeing them again nudged a memory loose and suddenly she realized the two refugees were, by a quirk of fate, her direct responsibility. Oh damn.

'Hrrr!' Magdalena growled in warning, long hands swinging up a length of saw-edged lohaja.

'Peace!' Mrs. Petrel exclaimed, drawing back. 'I've no quarrel with you, Heshak.'

'I remember your smell…' the Hesht's voice trailed off into an exhausted hiss. 'You were on the train.' Sleek black eyebrows rose sharply and her fists tightened on the crude spear. 'This stinking male needs a bone-setter and right away, or he will die. Is there a hospital or a doctor who understands the arrangement of human organs?'

'I…don't know. Not near here…' Mrs. Petrel eyed the length of razor-sharp wood with trepidation. And me without so much as a knife in my girdle! She frowned, a buzzing rising and falling in her hair. 'Wait, I am searching for some friends – I'm sure they are nearby – come with me and we'll find help for your companion.'

Itzpalicue cackled in her ear. Yes, I'm sure Gher Shahr will take good care of some stray civilians…

'This way,' Mrs. Petrel said, hurrying past the Hesht and her deathly burden. 'Not far, only a few blocks…' Under her voice, she muttered fiercely. 'We're not going to dispose of these people – they're Imperial citizens and Company employees! I know their oyabun. Send me a doctor as quickly as you can.'

Dawd set his back to a wall covered with posters of dainty Jehanan females hiding behind their tails and tucked one pistol under his wounded arm for safe-keeping. The hallway was rather dark, lit only by lamplight streaming from beneath a half-closed door. He groped in his thigh pockets and found, by touch, a pair of screw-on silencers. Only a few feet away, the master sergeant had already mounted a flash-suppressor on his assault rifle. Colmuir was taking the quiet moment to count his ammunition coils and remaining munitions.

'I've four grenades left,' he said. 'Do you want two?'

Dawd shook his head, the second silencer clicking into place. 'I'll do the quiet work,' he said, settling both pistols in his gloves. 'And I'll lead. You've the longer reach.'

Colmuir nodded. He started thumbing grenades into the launcher on his Macana. 'Arm holding up?'

'It'll do.' Dawd checked the set of his combat visor, tapped his earbug experimentally – he'd been getting some kind of interference out in the street – and sidled quietly up to the doorway. His breathing slowed appreciably with each step.

The three Jehanan soldiers from the loading dock had joined two of their friends around a low table. All of the slicks were kitted out in Vendanian uniforms; soft, campaign-style caps; leather harness for their ammunition, tools and personal effects; olive-colored baldrics front and back with heraldic symbols representing their brigade and lord. In comparison to the softness of the hand-made fittings, the gleaming metal HK-45B assault rifles seemed out of place.

Dawd nudged the door wide with his foot and stepped back a pace. Both automatics rose, bucked sharply in his hands as he fired, making a hissing ptttht! Two of the Jehanan jerked, the sound of bullets puncturing scale sounding like a broken plate hitting a tiled floor. The other three slicks sprang to their feet. Blood dusted the far wall. Dawd shifted slightly, shot two more as they clawed for their guns and then ducked into the room, sliding to his left.

The last Jehanan has his assault rifle swinging up, an outraged hoooo! bursting from his throat, when Colmuir – his line of fire clear – shot him in the throat with the Macana. The flechette burst inside the slick's cranium, shredding muscles, spinal cord and brain alike. There was a choked, gurgling sound mixed with a whine of spinning metal and the Jehanan soldier toppled over.

Colmuir signed for Dawd to check the far door as he advanced, checking each body for signs of life. The younger Skawtsman drifted to the exit, slid a spyeye thread through the door and signed all- clear. Moving quietly, they slid out into a darkened kitchen. Colmuir's backup comp was flickering, showing an intermittent signature from the prince's skinsuit.

Five minutes later, on the third floor, Dawd darted out of the landing at the head of the servant's stairs, caught sight of two Jehanan officers in the hallway, long heads together in conversation and charged towards them. The passage was high ceilinged and filled with painted wooden panels depicting great feats of Parusian arms – most by brawny slicks wielding axes and swords of enormous size. The Skawtsman's boots raced across deep, plush carpet. A tall pair of double-doors stood closed behind the two natives.

Hissing in irritation, the taller of the two officers turned away sharply and immediately saw Dawd loping towards him, automatics raised. A wild hoooo! leapt from his scaled throat and he snatched for his own sidearm. Dawd dodged to one side and fired his lefthand Nambu twice. The other officer, still unawares, spun around, chest and face smashed by the bullets. Gargling, he fell in a cloud of blood.

A dozen paces behind, Colmuir calmly shot the alerted officer twice in the chest, the impact throwing the Jehanan back into the doorway with a crash. Dawd grimaced, stepped over the twitching body and tried the locking wheel.

'Shut tight,' he whispered. The Jehanan under his feet groaned, trying to rise. The Eagle Knight knelt, jamming his knee into the slick's throat. The master sergeant drifted up, Macana swinging back to cover the hallway. Dawd fumbled in the remains of his gunrig. 'Damn – I've lost my cutting gel.'

'I've some,' Colmuir said, slinging his assault rifle to clear both hands. 'Cover my back.'

Dawd made sure the wounded Jehanan wouldn't be getting up and stood aside while the master sergeant drew a box around the locking wheel with a tube of demolition paste. Colmuir mashed a lighter tab into the orange goo, and flattened against the wall, head turned away.

The paste ignited with a sharp bang and the locking wheel crashed to the floor. Dawd tensed, the master sergeant paused a heartbeat, hearing a chorus of alarmed warbling from inside and popped one of the grenades out of his launcher. A twist of the arming ring switched the little bomb from highex to flash mode.

For a second, nothing happened. The hallway was empty, the room was silent – save for the harsh breathing of many lizardy throats – and neither man moved.

Dawd crouched down, automatics on the floor. Colmuir set the flash grenade in his hand to the shortest possible fusing.

Inside the room, a human voice bleated 'Get off of – mmrph!'

The master sergeant flipped the grenade through the smoking hole. There was an immediate roar of automatic rifle fire. The doors shredded and bullets whined down the long hallway, smashing lamps, paintings and chewing up the wall at the far end.