House of Reeds

Bhrigu's face. 'If you do not wish to seize the claw of opportunity, then retire to your estates! Find a more righteous path, if you can. We will do what must be done. This way we have at least a chance of victory.'

The other two, who had remained silent, hooted in agreement. The human said nothing, watching the nervous prince with a placid expression.

'Yes, a chance…for the yi birds to peck your eye-sockets clean and dig their talons into your rotting entrails!' Bhrigu hopped from one foot to the other, then reached out his claw. 'Very well. Give me our share. We will be ready on Nem-day.'

'You will?' The kurbardar and the other two stared at the nervous one in surprise. 'But -'

'He knows,' Timonen interjected smoothly, retrieving the stack of envelopes and sorting them swiftly into four equal piles, 'that if you do not stand together, you will each be buried separately.' The blond head bowed to the little Jehanan. 'Your friend here understands how to gamble.'

Bhrigu flashed his teeth again, but took careful custody of the proffered keys.

'Now,' the Finn said, affecting to wipe sweat from his forehead, 'some small issues to consider when you attack the Imperial installations…'

All four Jehanan bent over the table and maps, eyes and ears attentive.

Within the House of Reeds

Takshila

Gretchen sucked absently on her breathing tube, cheek pressed to the floor of the passageway. Dust tickled her nose and one eye was closed as she squinted into the viewer of her microscope. The lens-end of the tiny Ericsson 'scope was nosed into an almost imperceptible crack between the base of the doorway and the floor.

'No…' Anderssen turned a tiny dial with her fingers. The image expanded, swelling until she could see the pitted surface of the ceramic composite. 'This seal is airtight. I think the door sets into a groove in the floor. To get an atmosphere probe inside we'll have to drill a hole.'

'Hoooo…' Malakar shook her head slowly from side to side. The Jehanan was showing signs of oxygen deprivation. The long-fingered hands twitched intermittently. 'Door is thick, very strong, like all these old walls.'

'Yes, I'd imagine so.' Gretchen rose slowly, running the 'scope along the edge of the door with long-practiced ease. The entire seal was tight, showing a remarkably well-turned edge to the door-frame and the portal itself. Disappointed, she folded up the 'scope and tucked it away. 'Your ancestors built well. This' – she patted the door gently – 'is as well machined as any human factory could make.'

The old Jehanan made a leaky hissing sound. Anderssen reached down and picked up the gipu. The egg was weak and faint. Darkness lapped around them, reducing the shape of the gardener to pale bluish glints on scale and a tiny gleam in each eye-socket.

'We have to leave,' Gretchen said, holding the ovoid to her breathing tube. 'I don't have enough emergency oxygen for both of us to stay. We have to get up to a level where there's still some air circulation.'

Malakar nodded weakly, hunching over and placing her hands – fingers splayed out – on the floor. Anderssen crouched, hooking an arm under the creature's shoulder, and heaved up. The Jehanan was surprisingly heavy.

'Here, breathe for a moment.' Anderssen tugged the air tube further out of her jacket collar and slid the tip between blackened, diamond-shaped teeth. Malakar stirred, wheezing softly, and then was able to stand up.

'My thanks,' she rumbled, still leaning heavily on the human.

Together, they shuffled down the passage, the wan light of the gipu shining before them. For a few moments, reflected light gleamed on the door, and then there was only stifling darkness.

By the time they had climbed the long stairs, Gretchen could taste the air freshening. Malakar's strength returned as well, and the gardener could make the last steps – the most worn, Anderssen thought, from the brittle concavity of the stone – under her own power. They passed through a vaulted doorway and Gretchen paused, running her hand across the door-frame. A deep, rectangular groove filled with cobwebs and dust ran down the center of the out thrust stone.

'Malakar – are all of the doorways like this one?'

The Jehanan turned, hooded eyes considering the opening. 'In the lower levels. They are no longer cut so, above. There is no purpose – only old, traditional decoration.'

'This…this isn't just decoration,' Gretchen said softly, wiping away the grime. In the light of the gipu, something gleamed in the recess. Bending slightly closer, Anderssen jammed her hand into the opening and felt a cold, smooth surface under her fingers. Turning her palm over, she brushed grit from her fingertips into the cup of her hand. She whistled softly, seeing dark brown flakes against her pale skin. 'This is rust.'

'Hur hur!' The Jehanan trilled in amusement. 'There is no – what are you about?'

Gretchen stepped around the side of the door and switched the frequency on her goggles. A UV wand clicked on in her hand and the human began running the light up and down the wall. Three steps along, she stopped and began knocking on the surface with her fist.

'There is nothing of use here,' Malakar said, sounding irritated. 'All of these passages are the lungs of a dead tomb. I should not have brought you here… You've told me nothing I didn't grasp before! Everything we were is lost, drowned in shadow. Hrrr…'

The knocking sound changed tone, ringing hollowly, and Anderssen tucked away the wand and brought out a wooden-handled chisel. Scraping the edge across the hollow section, she sketched a quick rectangle. A blow with the haft cracked the fragile surface, and then she picked away the rest with the tip.

The Jehanan stared in surprise as Gretchen, face intent, cleared away old paint and plaster from a recessed panel holding six indentations.

'This is just like the locking panel on the door down below,' she declared, glancing sideways at Malakar, eyes shining gipu-blue. 'All of the doors in the lower tunnels are like this. Mechanical locks – electrical locks – and pressure-tight portals. When they open, they slide up magnetic tracks into the ceiling… Every flooris perfectly even. Every wall curves so smoothly. No chisel and hammer ever touched these surfaces! The lower levels are filling with bad air because the air circulation system broke down thousands of years ago. Then the recyclers failed and no one knew how to fix them… The native bacteria ate away everything metallicit could find…'

Gretchen stood away from the wall, head tilted a little to one side. She stared at the Jehanan intently. 'Do you understand what I'm saying, Malakar? Do you know where we are?' She paused, nodding to herself. 'You do know. You remember, when all else have forgotten. Are you the only one who does?'

'Hoooo…' The Jehanan shuffled back warily. The head ducked down a little and turned, fixing the human with one gleaming eye. 'Many things have been forgotten, some for the best! Your thoughts, this old one thinks, are too quick by far for your own good. A wonder your tribe has not cast you out! Abandoned you in the Cold Lands to starve and die…'

'You wanted answers,' Gretchen said, alarmed by the creature's tone. 'I've given you some. Now you'll give in return – trading like for like – this place, the 'hill of the mandire,' your 'house of reeds' – did it come from Mokuil? Are we standing in the bowels of one of the great ships which crossed the void? Was a Nem painted on that wall by the light of a green star?'

'Hrrrr!' Malakar lunged, catching Gretchen by surprise with long arms, throwing her to the ground. Enormous strength pinned the human down, crushing the breath from her lungs. Anderssen struggled, trying to break free. 'What do you speak of?' Malakar bellowed. 'How can an asuchau human know the sacred light, the star of our fathers, burns harivarpan – green as the first grass?'

'Ayyy!' Gretchen cried out in pain, feeling claws dig into her arm. 'Mokuil has a hot green sun,' she bit out, wrenching fruitlessly against the gardener's strength. Anger boiled up, casting discretion aside. 'But your race-home is dead. A blasted wasteland tenanted by ghosts. A dead shell where nothing grows –