House of Reeds

Dawd ducked a windmilling machete, turned slightly in and slammed forward with both forearms crossed and braced. The combatskin stiffened automatically, augmenting the Skawtsman's musculature, and the blow caught the Jehanan square in the chest. The creature flew back, smashing through a window in a cloud of shattering glass, wooden framing and broken plaster.

Squealing, the Jehanan assassin cartwheeled through an ivy-wound lattice and hit the tiled patio with a sodden crunch. Dawd tossed the empty Bulldog aside and snatched up his pair of Nambu automatics from the side table. Thumbing off both safeties, he jammed one into the holster of the gunrig, threw the leather and metal mesh harness around his shoulders with one hand and darted across the room to the bathroom door.

'Mi'lord, time to go!'

There was a muffled whimpering sound inside. Dawd slammed the lock-side of the doorframe with his armored shoulder – the entire cedarwood panel shattered – and turned in, both automatics now centered on the broken doorway to the hall.

'Mi'lord – are you hurt? Were you hit?'

'Eeee…' Tezozуmoc was curled up in the bathtub, still in his nightshirt, arms tight around his head. 'I hate this place!'

'Don't care for it much myself,' Dawd coughed, throat tight with adrenaline. He holstered one automatic and reached down with his free hand. 'Get up, sir, we've got to find Colmuir.'

The young man blinked, looked up, and turned very pale. Despite the blood dripping from Dawd's forearm, he reached out and seized hold. The Skawtsman dragged the prince to his feet, and then – keeping Tezozуmoc close to hand – scuttled across the room, avoiding the scattered bodies.

Tiny fires were burning in the ruins of the wardrobe and a string of deep craters, coiling with smoke, pocked the wall in the hallway opposite the door.

'Master Sergeant?' Tapping his comm-thread awake, Dawd flipped up the longeye mounted on his automatic and snaked the muzzle around the doorframe in each direction. 'You still alive?'

I'm coming, Colmuir replied. Don't shoot my fool head off. I'm on the west stairs.

Seconds later, the master sergeant appeared, sliding along the inner wall, and ducked into the room as well. Dawd was frowning, finger pressed to his earbug, the comm display on his skinsuit flashing with amber and red lights. Colmuir spat out a dead tabac, looked the prince up and down and said: 'Regimental net went wild a moment ago, heard someone shouting about being under attack – then everything flooded with ECM. Now it's all static and garbage.'

The master sergeant shook his head, produced another tabac from his vest and snap-lit the paper with a fingernail. Smoke wreathing his head, he knelt, lifted up the whole bed with a strained grunt – sending mountains of clothing and quilts cascading onto the floor – and dragged out a Fleet duffel bag.

Dawd was still by the door, watching the hallway through his longeye. 'Regimental net is back up,' he reported, listening intently, 'but some kind of jammer is playing havoc with the Army gear down in the flatlands. All the comm channels keep popping in and out. I don't know if they'll be able to get comm clear until whatever is pitching all this noise gets hit.'

'That's not good,' Colmuir said. He unzipped the bag and pulled out Dawd's Whipsaw along with two heavy ammunition coils. A broken-down Macana 8mm with the shoulder-stock removed followed, as well as a Fleet skinsuit pack and three combat visors. He beckoned politely to Tezozуmoc: 'Mi'lord prince, you put this on now. Quickly, lad. It's not a combatskin, but it'll have to do.'

Swallowing nervously, hands trembling, the prince shed his shirt and pajama pants and unzipped the skinsuit pack. An amber colored gel spilled out on the floor, studded with two rows of black rings. Tezozуmoc stepped carefully into the middle of the gel, reached down and slid his fingers into the rings. Colmuir – watching to make sure the suit got a clean seal – assembled the Macana with brisk, endlessly practiced efficiency. The prince pulled his hands up – the gel raced up his legs, covering his torso and chest, and then his neck and the back of his head – and swung his shoulders back, letting the skinsuit congeal to his body. He flexed both hands, then held them down by his thighs. Gel shifted, solidified and oozed down to cover his fingers.

'Good,' Colmuir said, patting the prince's shoulder. The skinsuit was slowly turning Fleet black. 'You want a gun?'

Tezozуmoc stared at the proffered Nambu, then shook his head. He was still very pale, but seemed to have regained some of his composure. 'I might hit one of you. I can carry the bag, if that will help.'

The master sergeant nodded and helped him swing the heavy back duffel over both shoulders. 'Dawd – what have you got for us?'

The sergeant shook his head. 'I can hear vehicles on the street from our remotes – running feet – slicks – and lots of them. There are at least a dozen hostiles downstairs too – more spears and machetes.'

'We can take the lot, if we're quick, but…' Colmuir said, sidling to one window and looking out into the gardens. He hissed in disgust. 'Ah, that tears it – they've got themselves a bloody tank.'

'A what?' Dawd and the prince stared in disbelief at the master sergeant.

'A tank! Can y' not hear me?' Colmuir pointed out the window.

Dawd stiffened, hearing the rumble of multi-ton treads on cobblestones through the remote spyeyes watching the garden wall. A number of Jehanan in fleece-lined jackets and leggings, carrying what looked very much like KV- 45B rifles, were messing with the front gate, which was closed. He looked at the prince, down at his pistol, over at the door, then started paging rapidly through building schematics and street maps on his comp.

'Do…do you have something that will stop a tank?' Tezozуmoc's voice was rather faint.

'Nooo…we do not. Not a real one.' Colmuir backed away from the window, slinging the Macana behind his shoulder. 'Come on lads, time to run for it.'

Takshila

Within The House of Reeds

Following close behind the gardener, Gretchen climbed a flight of narrow steps sandwiched between dusty stone walls covered with fluid carvings of shallow interlocking circles. She felt a little strange, as though the close, warm air was pressing heavily on her skull. Malakar reached the top of the staircase and peered out into a very narrow passageway marked by tilted walls and a curving floor.

'We are close,' the Jehanan whispered, turning her head from side to side as she listened. 'The level of the fane is arranged just in this way.' Malakar patted a leathery palm on the nearest wall as she padded forward. 'Quietly now, just beyond this stone are other, larger halls still in use.'

Gretchen found her footing poor on the dusty floor. The surface of the passageway lifted in the middle and sloped away on either side, which made her wonder if they were moving down an old drainage tunnel of some type. She reached out to touch the Jehanan's shoulder, to ask exactly that question, when a muffled thud- thud-thud sound reached her ear.

Malakar stopped, skin wrinkling around her mouth. 'Hooo… What an odd noise to hear.'

Anderssen felt a steady vibration start up through the soles of her boots. 'That feels like heavy machinery turning on. It's not very far away either.'

The gardener did not reply, moving forward again. After a few moments, the curve in the passage became particularly noticeable and Gretchen was forced to lean a little sideways.

We're in some kind of a dome, she realized, looking up and finding the ceiling had receded into tapering dimness, like the shell of a cathedral.

'Here…' Malakar stopped and suddenly Anderssen could see a faint gleam of light on the Jehanan's scales. The gardener turned, mischief sparkling in her deep-set eyes. 'Looking upon the mystery of the kalpataru is forbidden to the acolytes,' she said very softly, 'so every short-horn in orders must find a way to creep in and touch the thing itself. Once the fane of the divine tree was seamless and whole, but over time the walls have been damaged and repaired…'

Crouching down, the Jehanan reached between two riblike carvings on the walls and took hold of a wooden beam. The lohaja groaned a little as Malakar pulled, but then there was a scraping sound – which seemed very loud to Gretchen – and blazing light flooded into their dim little passageway as the patched