House of Reeds

Itzpalicue, heading downhill. Somewhere ahead – the sound was muffled and distorted by the buildings – there was a cacophony of gongs and drums.

Even here, where iron and copper are so rare, the whore-priests can still afford metal instruments to raise a heavenly noise.

Anger clouded up, disturbing the quiet she'd gained in the bathhouse. She slowed her pace, breathing steadily, forcing her mind to emptiness, until the spurt of rage died away. The old woman did not care for priests of any race or religion. They were all much the same to her. Working with the vast clerical hierarchy supporting the Empire taxed her self-control. The irony of using priestly techniques to control her emotions was not lost on the Mirror agent. A flint blade has no master but the hand on the haft, she thought, and then felt a trickle of fury again. Even my aphorisms are infected with their bile. A well-trained memory – another gift of the religious calmecac which had been her home for the first sixteen years of her life – was sometimes a burden. She remembered the exact time and place she had first heard that particular phrase.

There had been a boy, of course. Even now, so long after everything had become ashes and broken bone scattered on the ground, she remembered his green eyes. Lingering pain dulled their shine. That boy was worthy, she thought sadly. His heart was still pure. As was mine. Unbidden, he was singing in her memory, lying on velvety grass, the shadow of sycamores painting his bare brown chest.

Gold and black butterflies are sipping nectar.

The flower bursts into bloom.

Ah, my friends, it is my heart!

I send down a shower of white petals…

The song had always made her glad. Even now, standing in the shade of an alien building on some world beyond the sight of a boy and girl staring up at the brilliant azure sky over Mйxico, her heart lifted a little. The festival procession passed away down the hill. The air stirred with the smell of cooking, of wood smoke, the harsh cinnamon odor of their sweat. The city was alive, humming and breathing. She closed both eyes, leaning her forehead on the cane.

Breathe in. The river was flowing, slow and sure, rolling down from distant, snow- capped mountains. Twigs were floating in the saffron water, offering brief perches for leather-winged avians hunting eel-like fish.

Breathe out. Trolleys rumbled down curving streets, crowded with passengers heading home for the midday meal. They swayed from side to side as the red-and-black car rattled around a turn.

Breathe in. Somewhere children were learning to dance, three-toed feet stamping in time on a wooden floor. A withered old male was tapping time on a tiny drum.

Breathe out. Workmen were laughing – a rattling, hissing sound – as they raised the wooden frame of a wireless comm tower on the roof of a hotel. Their foreman sitting in the shade of a sign advertising fang-cleaning powder, running gnarled hands over the smooth, perfect shape of the relay. He had never held so much metal in his hands before.

Breathe in. A boy on the street, not so far away, felt his blood begin to race with mating fire for the first time. He was afraid, clutching his mother's tail painfully tight, trying not to stumble over his feet.

Breathe out. Far away, at the edge of the old woman's perception, a cold emptiness moved effortlessly through the flow of the city.

Itzpalicue's eyes flew open and her withered old hands tightened convulsively on the cane.

There is something here. She licked her lips and glanced around, feeling fear curdle in her throat. I truly felt that. I am not imagining things.

With a conscious effort, she settled her racing heart, closed her eyes, shut out the cheerful noise surrounding her and tried to regain the instant of clear perception. Once more the fluid, vibrant sensation of the city flooded into her consciousness. She remained standing quietly, breathing steadily, for nearly an hour. Though she learned a great deal about the street around her, and even about the district, the brief feeling of cold nothingness did not return.

Her stomach growled and Itzpalicue opened her eyes, admitting defeat, if only to herself. The sun was beginning to set, painting the ancient buildings with red and gold and amber. The boulevard was beginning to empty as the natives made their way home for the evening rites and, eventually, last-meal. The old Mйxica set off for the house she had rented near the Legation.

At each end of the street, shadows stirred and the lean shapes of her Arachosians emerged, moving as she moved, their knives, guns, and woven bandoliers of ammunition mostly hidden under heavy cloaks and baggy, cowl- like sun-hats. Seeing them – she had felt their presence all along – Itzpalicue felt relieved. At least some footpad won't try and steal my hairpins.

The presence she'd glimpsed so briefly was another matter.

Something odd was happening on the fringes of the Empire of the Mйxica. Itzpalicue knew for a fact the Imperial government had yet to fit the scattered bits and pieces of the larger puzzle together into a recognizable shape. The Mirror only knew – she only knew – because they spied upon the activities of the nauallis, the priests who watched at the edges of things. The nauallis were not kindly disposed towards the Mirror-Which-Reveals, though they often acted in concert when a threat to the Empire was discovered.

The nauallis had yet to officially inform the Mirror, or the Emperor, of their awareness of an unknown power active amongst the Rim colonies. Itzpalicue wondered if the priests truly believed a threat was growing on these isolated worlds. It was possible the priests had not yet conferred enough to piece together all of the data available to the Mirror. Individually, the 'mice' were not as perceptive as the nauallis. Nearly every agent lacked the skills and talents of the least worthy nagual, but there were thousands more of them. And all of their reports flowed back to AnГЎhuac where enormous resources were devoted to sifting all that chaff for whole kernels.

One of those kernels – little more than a pine-nut – had brought Itzpalicue to Jagan.

Even before the arrival of the first Flower Priest, before the Fleet, before the foolish prince had made such a spectacle of himself, something was happening under the bloated red sun of Bharat. Initial reports indicated an odd pattern of off-planet purchases as Imperial trade picked up. Then one of the traveling 'mice' passing through the system had thought he'd seen an HKV agent in the Sobipurй marketplace. Yet, though the old woman had been on-planet for nearly a year now, she had not even caught a hint the Swedes were actually present in the sector. Their interests were always directed inwards, towards the older colonies, towards AnГЎhuac itself. They wanted to go home.

Itzpalicue had a sense, a feeling, of something inimical moving in the darkness. 'Nothing more than smoke in rain,' she grumbled. 'How do you catch hold of mist?'

She hoped beating the bushes and shouting loudly would scare something into the open.

But will I recognize what it is, if I see it? The old woman shook her head, worried, and turned onto her own street. Thunder was beginning to growl in the heavy, humid sky. Her stomach answered, reminding her of a quick, spare breakfast. Time for dinner.

The Petrel Townhouse

Near the Court of the Resplendent King, Central Parus

Following an immaculately attired servant, Gretchen stepped out onto a broad porch. The veranda was high roofed, with exposed beams of pale wood converging on an open cupola. A fire burned beneath in an iron bowl. Smoke twisted up into the opening, disappearing out into a rain-streaked night. Another storm had moved over the city with sunset, hiding the lights of the skyscrapers with fog, drenching the streets with flurries of rain.

'Come, dear, sit.' Straight-backed chairs had been placed beside the fire, surrounded by a palisade of gossamer mosquito netting. Mrs. Petrel lifted her head, firelight gleaming on her resting kimono. Subtle images of canes and