House of Reeds

herons and bent-winged swallows were picked out in delicate thread, dark blue on darker blue verging upon black. 'There's room for two.'

Gretchen bowed very properly, glad for the burst of calmedown her medband sent surging through her bloodstream. The whole setting made her very nervous. A dry voice – very much like Honorable Doctor Kelly from her graduate research seminar – was keen to point out, Your hostess's kimono is worth more than the Anderssen land-grant and all the timbering machinery. More than you'll make in ten years of grubbing in the dirt. More than…

'Thank you, Petrel-sana.' Gretchen nodded politely to the servant – a tall, lean man with an impassive face and watery blue eyes – and sat. She shifted a little, unused to sitting on a chair, particularly one with such a straight back. 'It is very gracious of you to meet with me.'

'Nonsense.' The older woman tucked one leg under the other and produced a pipe from the folds of her kimono. 'Are you hungry? Thirsty? Muru, do bring Mrs. Anderssen some tea – honey, thick, hot – not used to the chill of our Jehanan nights, are you?'

'No, ma'am.' Gretchen forced herself to relax a little bit. 'Shimanjin is very dry in comparison.'

Petrel tamped tabac into her pipe and lifted a glowing punk from the fire. A spark leapt in finely cut leaves and she puffed quietly, letting the bowl draw at its own pace. 'You'll get used to the weather, if you are here long enough. Until then…you'll be soaked with sweat and chilled at the same time.'

A small folding table was set down between them, carrying two jadeite cups and a softly steaming kettle. Petrel nodded to the man and settled back, somehow contriving to slouch comfortably against the stiff wood. 'Drink then – this is a native concoction, very restorative, perfectly safe.' She smiled around the stem of the pipe.

Gretchen drank. The steaming liquid drove away the damp chill with admirable speed. The taste was unusual, more like drinking flowers than the sharp harsh bite of the black teas she could usually afford.

'I am sorry,' she said, putting down the empty cup. 'I tried to find you at the prince's reception to pay my respects, but there were so many people…are all of your parties so crowded?'

Mrs. Petrel laughed, shaking her head. 'No. The Legation would be bankrupt if we put on such a show every month – or even every year. The presence of the Blessed Prince forced us to – ah – raise our bid or be driven out of the game. Such things are required…'

For an instant, the Legate's wife grew still in Gretchen's vision, face tight, eyes glittering with distaste. Thin curlicues of smoke froze in the bowl of the pipe. The woman's nostrils were drawn back, sharp little creases beside her generous mouth thrown in sharp relief by the firelight. Such a weight she is carrying…does her husband see? Does anyone?

'…or we'll simply be laughed out of the Diplomatic service.' Mrs. Petrel sighed openly, frowning at Gretchen. 'It would have been nice to see an honest face, dear. I am reliably informed however, that you had a little trouble – besides the press of the crowd? Some business with the Honorable Doctor SГє's reckless children?'

'It was nothing,' Gretchen said carefully. Bad blood with the Tetzcoco faculty would only mean a reprimand from the field supervisor in her Company file. 'Only a difference of opinion about the work.'

'They do not like you.' Petrel puffed on her pipe, contemplating the ruddy glow of the fire. 'They are cheap, loud boys. Much like their patron. I spoke with dear Soumake about your request for permits and – as you know – his hands are tied by the existing grant of work-rights. Only the Tetzcoco-designated primary investigator can loosen those restrictions…and you see how he's responded to your mere presence on-planet.'

'I understand.' Gretchen could hear mild regret in the woman's voice. Petrel did not seem upset by the outcome, which Anderssen found entirely understandable. Why invite trouble for someone you barely know? Someone with no political connections to speak of? 'Thank you for thinking of me. It was very gracious of you to make the effort.'

'You're welcome, dear.' Petrel stared moodily out through the arches lining the porch. The glistening, wet trunks of perfume trees made a fence between fire-light and the night. 'I do not like the Honorable Doctor or the careless way he is pursuing his excavations down at Fehrupurй. Might as well be clearing the ruins with blasting putty… He is rude, not only to me, to you, but to his native workers and the local village nobility.'

Gretchen watched the Legate's wife with growing unease. We've passed the polite part of receiving a visitor you barely know…shouldn't I be sent on mywaynow?

'My husband,' the older woman said in a slow, careful voice, 'is concerned about the political situation. Things are becoming unsettled here, even dangerous. I have spoken to him about Doctor SГє and his methods, but there are larger matters on his mind.' Petrel shrugged, dark silk rustling. She gave Gretchen a wry smile. 'You will have to be discrete during your stay.'

Anderssen felt an odd sense of association slip over her. Two shards of pottery, then three, clicking together; the shape of a bowl, a plate, a vase coming together in her hands. Someone passed word on to the Company about the device, bringing me here. Someone who has extensive local contacts. Soumake? Through this woman? She started to sweat, goosebumps washing across her arms under the thin fabric of her shirt.

'Of course,' Gretchen said, forcing a smile, starting to rise. 'My apologies for wasting your time.'

'Sitting with friends – particularly new ones – is never wasted.' Petrel pointed firmly at the chair, then beckoned for her manservant. Gretchen sat down.

'Muru – bring us some poppyseed cakes please. Thank you.' The older woman smiled around the pipe again, face wreathed in smoke, waiting for the manservant to leave the room. Then she sat a little forward, eyes glinting. 'I've heard the festival of the gathering of the Nem in Takshila is very moving. A very ancient celebration, if you like that sort of thing. In fact, one of the oldest buildings on the planet is there, the famous 'House of Reeds.' '

Petrel looked up as the servant parted the netting and set a polished blue plate between them. A set of fresh, still-steaming-from-the-oven golden cakes were revealed. 'Ah, just the thing. Here, my dear, try one – my great- grandmother's recipe. Delicious.'

Gretchen bit into a cake, watching the Legate's wife warily while she ate.

Petrel leaned back in her chair again, face turned away from the dying embers in the grate. After a moment, she sat up a little and pointed out through the arches. 'Do you see that bright star? There between the branches?'

Craning her head over, Gretchen managed to make out the steady, brilliant light. 'Yes…' What now? This is becoming surreal… My groundside contact issupposed to be some smuggler with his hair in waxed braids, wearing too much cologne. We meet in an abandoned warehouse – the air charged with dust and diesel fumes and the smell of rust and burning insulation – not here, on a sixty-thousand-quill veranda, with servants and fresh poppyseed cakes on porcelain platters.

'An Imperial ship rides in orbit. You can see them when the angle of the sun is just right and the sky is clear… Muru there, he is my eyes and ears in the city, among the people. He says they have a tale told to children – of the 'star-which-returns.' Apparently, there is a parking orbit just visible from here…'

Petrel set down her pipe. Suddenly pensive, she rubbed her lower lip with a neatly manicured thumbnail. 'Mrs. Anderssen, in truth, I wish I could put you and your two companions on the next starliner for the home systems. My husband has served on eight planets now, both as direct governor and as ambassador. We've been moving from place to place for nearly twenty years. Over all that time…Well, you start to develop a feeling for things.' Her hands made a pushing-away gesture, eyes fixed on Gretchen. 'Soon enough, Imperial citizens will not be able to walk the streets safely.'

'I'll take care,' Anderssen said. The older woman's voice had a funny tone – regret, pleading, warning – and the archaeologist suddenly turned and looked around the veranda. The servants stood quietly along the wall, faces in shadow. The furniture glowed in firelight, the mosquito netting obscured half-closed doorways into other rooms. She could hear the sound of water dripping from the perfume trees. Everything seemed very elegant, well-matched, perfectly placed. Her brief passage through the house reflected the same careful taste. How much does all this cost? An enormous amount, answered her grandmother's dry voice. How much does a Legate or Governor make on the Imperial payroll? Not enough, not for such luxury.

She turned back to the woman, throat constricted. Four pieces fit together and the bowl begins to assume a beautiful shape; part of a handle fits, you can see the curve where the potter turned a fluted lip for a water jug. Patterns emerge from the jumble of lines and colors. The face of a god, a monster…my Company