House of Reeds

something you could not name or identify. A 'ghost of mist and shadow,' he said.'

An angry hiss escaped Itzpalicue's lips and she straightened angrily, eyes flashing. 'The boy should not have said anything about such matters!'

'Really?' Mrs. Petrel's eyebrows rose. 'Did you find your quarry? Did you trap the ghost in your nets?'

Itzpalicue did not reply, her face hard and still.

'So.' Greta bent down and picked up a pale green porcelain tea cup, still intact, from amid the rubble. 'My husband's name is blackened, my house destroyed, my servants murdered – thousands of Jehanan civilians are killed – the Residency flattened – a Fleet cruiser wrecked – Duke Villeneuve's reputation and career smeared with undeserved charges of incompetence – for nothing.' She cradled the cup in her hands. 'It seems only Bhrigu benefited from all this. Humara is dead and the rebellious princes are fugitives, hunted by Marine patrols and your lovely highlander mercenaries… Was this what you wanted?'

'No, but it will serve,' Itzpalicue said in a whisper-soft voice. 'Villeneuve needed taking down a peg – and those orders came from the Light of Heaven himself! – and he'll live longer, with such black marks on his record.'

The old woman allowed herself a bit of a smile at the thought. An ally of Green Hummingbird's is deftly removed from the game mat at the same time. And the Nisei admirals have their ruffled feathers soothed – Hadeishi is ruined, but his sacrifice will be legendary in the Fleet.

'And there was something here – we caught a bit of the trail…but now it's gone cold. We know the xochiyaotinime priesthood is compromised – that will require some spadework to clean up – but the true enemy is gone. I can't even…feel it anymore.'

'It?' Greta wrapped the cup in tissue paper and placed the package in a waiting cargo crate.

'Something inhuman. An alien presence.' The old woman shifted her grip on the cane, her expression distant. 'I am sure of it…Lachlan does not believe me, and I see you do not either, but I am sure in my bones of this. Not Jehanan, not human. Not any of the races we've met before.'

Mrs. Petrel shook her head, making the white streak in her hair shimmer in the sunlight. 'There are many alien powers which have no love for the Empire. Any of them would find it…amusing…to turn your flowery game back upon the Emperor. But do you have any proof?'

'No.' Itzpalicue's lips tightened in disgust. 'Nothing. Not so much as a feather.'

'A waste, then.' Greta made a dismissive motion. 'Oh, surely the Foreign Office will be pleased – Bhrigu has sold us half the planet for a share of the taxes – the pochteca will have fresh markets to exploit – but those are such tiny gains to measure against our cost.'

'Huh!' The old NГЎhuatl woman started to smirk. 'The prince's reputation has been brightly burnished – he is acclaimed as a hero the length and breadth of the Empire! That, at least, went well. Better, I say, than expected.'

Mrs. Petrel turned on Itzpalicue, real anger flushing her face pink. 'You leave that boy alone! He meant no harm and did none. Did he ask to be a pawn, to be manipulated in this way? His heart is not tempered for this – you will twist him, force him down a path which can only lead to tears.'

'And so? He is a Prince of the Imperial Household!' The old NГЎhuatl woman laughed hoarsely. 'He was brought into this world to serve the needs of the Empire – let him! He is worth so little, otherwise. A disappointment to his family, which is not surprising given his mo -'

'Is he?' Greta interjected, giving the old woman a reproving look. 'I think he behaved admirably in a terrifying situation. He is just a young man with a quiet soul, not a warrior, not a king. You should leave him be.'

'Too late!' Itzpalicue grinned. 'The Emperor has already seen the footage we put together and is very pleased with the results. Young Tezozуmoc has a bright future before him now. This whole episode saved his reputation, just as we planned.'

'As you planned.' Mrs. Petrel resumed searching through the wreckage for more of the cups. She found only ground-up blue-white dust. 'Nothing need more be said of the matter.'

Itzpalicue grunted, nudging a broken table aside with her cane. 'You have lost possessions before… The Mirror will pay you well for your part in our littleplay.'

'Not well enough,' Greta sighed, finding the remains of a Khmer dancing Saiva in pieces underneath one of the fallen paper screens. 'I brought too many beloved things with me – do you know, I lost James's pistol in all the fuss?' She swallowed, shoulders slumping. 'That was the last of his things…now it's rusting underneath a railway trestle somewhere between here and Takshila.'

'It was just a tool,' Itzpalicue said, her face softening. 'Not your brother…'

'I suppose.' Mrs. Petrel righted the screen, finding the ink-brush paintings were disfigured by crudely slashed graffiti in some local dialect. 'The lack only reminds me of his death.'

'The past is always filled with the dead,' the old woman said, taking a breath. 'I came to see you before you left on the starliner. To wish you a safe voyage and…to see if you were all right.'

'Very kind, Papalotl.' Mrs. Petrel grasped the next screen in line with both hands and set the wooden railing back into the floor-track. 'You'll be fluttering away soon?'

Itzpalicue's lips twitched into a smile. 'No one's called me 'butterfly' in years, child. Yes, a Fleet courier is waiting for me in orbit.'

Greta nodded, finally turning to look at the old woman. 'In future, if you are planning one of these little… soirйes…do not invite me. I would take it as a great favor if you did not involve me in any more of your activities. They have acquired a bitter taste.'

Itzpalicue shrank back a little, surprised, shoulders collapsing at the cold tone in the younger woman's voice. 'You have always…you said they were amusing diversions. You have always had a talent -'

'I remember what I said,' Greta replied softly. 'But this time my husband was nearly incinerated. He is quite shaken by the whole experience.'

'Ah.' The old NГЎhuatl woman nodded, lips pursed disapprovingly. 'This decision is not for yourself, then.'

'It is entirely my decision.' Mrs. Petrel stiffened. 'But it is not yours.'

Itzpalicue nodded, shrugged and went out, her cane tapping on the scarred floorboards.

Greta Petrel watched her go, keeping an eye on the old woman until she had departed the grounds, passing through mossy stone gates and climbing into a truck driven by some very disreputable-looking natives in long robes.

When the old woman was gone, Mrs. Petrel sighed, dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief and went back inside. There was a great deal of cleaning and sorting to do before she could leave this humid, damp planet. The prospect of Earth and a cool, dry vacation beckoned. Switzerland, she thought, trying to cheer herself up. Her husband had always liked little villages under high snowy mountains.

She pushed open the doors to the sitting room off the main foyer. Her other guest looked up from a book of photographs and woodblock prints made nearly four centuries before, showing the cities and towns of Russia as seen by the eyes of a Nisei artist named Yoshitaki.

'This is very interesting,' Gretchen said, closing the antique volume. 'I have never seen anything like this before. Russia seems to have been quite civilized, from the evidence of these pictures.'

Greta smiled faintly. 'That is because such books are forbidden to the public. That particular item was found by my brother James when he was serving on AnГЎhuac itself, in the Desolation, in an abandoned bunker.'

'Oh.' Anderssen pushed the book away and folded both hands in her lap. 'I see.'

Amused by Gretchen's contrite expression, Mrs. Petrel sat down in the other chair. Of all her furnishings, only these two moth-eaten settees remained intact, having been put away in storage in one of the attics. 'If there were tea,' she said apologetically, 'we could have some, but…'

'No tea is fine,' Gretchen said, squaring her shoulders. 'May…may I ask a question?'

Mrs. Petrel nodded, finding the soft red velour of the chair a welcome support against her aching back. 'Of course, dear. What is it?'

'Who was that old woman? I could hear her voice through the doors…she sounded terribly familiar.'

'Really?' Greta raised an eyebrow, considering her fair-haired guest with the scarred hands and rough knuckles. 'She is an old teacher of mine, from when I was attending university in TenochtitlГЎn. I did not realize our voices were so lou d…'

Anderssen dimpled, offering an apologetic smile. 'My hearing is sometimes distressingly good. I did not mean to