House of Reeds

floating in emptiness. Every computer-controlled object in the chamber – her chrono, the generator fuel regulators, the Jehanan commander's hand-comm – stopped working.

Waiting.

The wave of electron paralysis leapt outwards, permeating the bulk of the ancient ship, flooding across Takshila and its myriad buildings, washing through the jet fighters howling in the late afternoon sky, licking across every comm and comp and Imperial device within the planetary magnetosphere.

Every device halted, set aside its allotted tasks and fell quiet, seized by the irresistible power of the kalpataru.

Listening.

In that same still moment of time, Gretchen perceived all this, ears flooded with sound, eyes drowned by a million unfiltered points of view.

And the shimmering tone of the kalpataru changed: a keen, sharp wail echoing out of the abyss of time trapped in the ancient metal. The matrices of form inside the howling green void shifted, attempting to attain proper alignment. Gravity dragged against them and the wear of millennia fouled the trembling dance, but the machine adapted, resorted, shifted, pressed mightily on time and space, trying to fold aside barrier after barrier.

The dials on the Honda fuel-cell generator pegged over to maximum and the entire machine began to whine dangerously.

Here, the kalpataru wailed after an eternity of patience. I am here! Command me!

All this Gretchen perceived, but she found herself powerless to act.

In her mind, at one instant, she was everywhere within the purview of the machine, a helpless passenger swept along in the tide of radiant power.

In that one instant, she was with Magdalena and the Hesht was growling at Parker, urging him to stagger forward across a wet, rainy rooftop. The buildings around them were unfamiliar and their faces were tense.

Maggie, Gretchen wailed, you've got to run! Get out of the city! Run, Maggie, run!

Parus

District of The Ever-Turning Wheel

Itzpalicue moved through a large dim room with a ceiling of hard-fired yellow brick. Sunlight streamed through openings piercing a succession of domes. The Arachosians filling the room regarded her with curiosity as the little old NГЎhuatl woman examined their archaic-looking weapons and ammunition bandoliers.

'You are hunting an invisible enemy,' she rasped, mouth contorted to pronounce the harsh highland dialect of the tribesmen. Her earbug was running hot, providing a simultaneous translation of every voice in the room, and two vibrating 'sounders' taped to the sides of her throat managed to produce a facsimile of the thrumming overtone present in Jehanan voices. 'A deadly one, quiet as a xixixit in the forest or a huungal in the marsh. The kind of enemy which never strikes with its own claw, only those of a pawn or a decoy. No open battle, no heroes clashing between arrayed armies, no charge of mounted man against mounted man. This is not a mudfoot you seek…'

A throaty trill of laughter boomed from the Arachosians. They were tall and wiry, scales stippled brown and tan, with narrow, cold eyes. They were garishly adorned with rows of fore-teeth and ear-bones. Long cowls shrouded their triangular heads and layered cloaks hid elaborately scaled armor of ceramic plates, leather harnesses hanging with knives, punch-daggers, pistols, ropes of grenades, the queer strangling rope called than-tan and bags of loose cartridges for their long-barreled rifles. Most had their modern, Imperial weapons laid out for cleaning and inspection. Strings of ammunition coils were stacked on the floor.

'You say,' rumbled their kurbardar, a notorious chieftain named Gher Shahr, 'we are hunting a man from the hills? Something like an Arach? In this fetid, wet den of fools a canny hunter might hide forever…'

'Even so.' Itzpalicue removed a black lozenge from the folds of her dress. 'Do you feel the fire and smoke quickening in the air? Soon the divine liquid will be spilled in plenty. The lowlanders will strive to drive the Imperials from their cities, their towns, from the land of the Five Rivers. When that happens, my enemy will move. He will press his pawns to attack, he will reveal his hidden strength to strike at the Empire – and he must make his will known somehow.' She held up the lozenge. 'These detectors ignore Imperial and kujenate comm traffic. They will lead you to anyone else operating advanced equipment in the city. If he is here…even an encrypted voice makes a sound.'

Gher Shahr accepted the lozenge – the device vanishing in his huge hand – and made a passable human-style nod. 'Hu-hu-hu…You have hunted before, little one. You are using the lowlander fools and their prideful war to flush prey from the deep thickets and ravines.' The Arachosian tilted his long, scarred head to one side, nostrils flexing. 'You are cold – like old ice always in sunshadow – you send your own tribe out to die, just to spook a single kaichesh from cover!'

Itzpalicue smiled warmly, patting his scaled thumb. 'Divide your men into claws of four – there are enough detectors for all – and spread out – quietly! – through the streets. Vehicles have been provided to allow you swift movement. Be mindful of my voice! I will be watching over you.'

One of Lachlan's technicians began handing out the black lozenges to the Arachosians, who crowded around in interest, hot breath snuffling in the elderly man's face. Itzpalicue watched carefully, making sure the tribesmen sorted themselves out properly. They began to file out of the old thread-dyeing factory. A dozen nondescript Imperial-built trucks in assorted makes and models were waiting, engines idling, specially trained Jehanan drivers sitting at the wheel.

'Get back to operations,' the old woman told the technician as the last detector was handed out. 'I will run all of this from another location.'

Her earbug chimed in a two-up, one-down pattern indicating an incoming Flower Priest network call. Itzpalicue grimaced, pulled out a hand-comp and thumbed up Lachlan's video channel. The young man appeared instantly, now sporting several days' growth of beard.

Mi'lady?

'You've kicked a xochiyaotinime call to me? Are they having cold feet?'

It's started, Lachlan replied, the corners of his eyes tight with tension. You wanted overwatch on their opening response.

'Ah…' The old woman smiled beatifically. 'Right on time. Patch me in.'

Mi'lady. A hurried, agitated voice came on-line. The darmanarga-moktar have jumped the starting gate! We've reports of full-scale fighting in Gandaris, Takshila and the outlying districts of Parus! The locals have acquired some kind of comm-jamming system…and it's not something we gave them!

'Is the 416th regimental combat net down?'

No, it's handling the jammers. They've gone to tertiary frequencies in some cases. Yacatolli's aggressive dispersion has nearly every Imperial detachment in combat with rebel elements. The Arrow Knights are going to chew up the initial attacks faster than we anticipated, keeping the moktar from massing their forces…Should I drop their network?

'The Regimental net? No. Patience, child, patience. Let Yacatolli and his officers test themselves. That is what we wanted, isn't it?'

Very well… The priest's voice was still tinged with panic, and Itzpalicue knew the Whisperers working in orbit were a little shaken by the precipitate reaction of the natives. For herself, she was not terribly surprised. Any large conspiracy tended to gather momentum as it rolled downhill. The air had felt right this morning, clear and a little hot, and her Arachosians were already fanning out through the city. Today was as good as any to fight her war.

Wait… The priest's voice quickened. Regimental is adapting. Yes, they've restored comm across the board. Battle data is flooding in… By the Painted Lord, there are reports entire