House of Reeds

offing.

Flower War exercises were not usually the domain of the Mirror – Itzpalicue's presence on Jagan had already thrown the priests' usual planning into confusion – and awareness of the Mirror's interest in this particular War of Flowers was causing more lost sleep for their analysts than the presence of one junior, ill-regarded and expendable Imperial Prince.

The Flower Priests operated on the fringe of Imperial space, allowing themselves a generous margin of anonymity and distance in case of some unforeseen disaster. While they took some care in picking a suitable 'honorable enemy,' past events indicated that even the most placid-seeming world could unleash untold devastation on the Imperial combat forces sent in harm's way. Not every alien civilization was pleased to have the Mйxica engage them in unexpected warfare, just for the purpose of blooding freshly raised regiments and newly promoted Fleet commanders. Still, Itzpalicue thought, with a rather amused air, the xochiyaotinime and their games do serve a purpose, both for the people and the military, and for the Emperor. Even, sometimes, for the Smoking Mirror.

The modern implementation of the Flower War was a far cry from the ritualized combats waged by the ancient Mйxica against their neighbors in the Heart of the World. Long gone the glorious mantles, feathered cloaks and elaborate head-dresses for the favored combatants. No more the cleared fields of honor scattered along the frontiers of the early Empire. No year of pampered luxury leading to the altar of divine sacrifice awaited those honorably overcome in combat. Only simple death, spilling precious fluid on some forgotten world.

Itzpalicue sighed aloud, wondering if the reality of those lost times was as clean and elegant as the official histories related. Not likely! Blood and shit smell much the same, regardless of the age.

Jagan was a remote world, but introducing the Light of Heaven's personal interest, even if through the disreputable person of Tezozуmoc, raised the stakes enough to make everyone sweat. And with a high-ranking Mirror agent in residence…well, Itzpalicue knew for a fact the Flower Priests were twisting themselves into a knot trying to second-guess her purpose.

'Any advice you might deem fit to relate,' the priest continued, trying to keep his head above water, 'would be as jade and turquoise to us. You have our priority channel, of course.'

'I do.' Itzpalicue quashed her smile. 'Please let me know before the horns and flutes sound. I will remove myself from Parus for the duration of the…contest.'

'Oh, there's no danger…' The priest stopped himself. A trail of sweat trickled down the side of his head and disappeared into a starched white collar. 'Your pardon, my lady. There will be some danger. We are not fighting with macauhuitli wrapped in cotton, oh no! The barbarians have only modest arms to hand, but a knife still cuts! No, no…I would be remiss to tell you there was no danger once our own troops are engaged by the rebellious elements among the Jehanan.'

He tried to show a controlled smile, but the pasty color of his flesh beneath the ceremonial paint made him look much like a defleshed skull. 'I fear the substance of most buildings in Parus – grand city though it is – will not be able to stop even the small-caliber railgun rounds fired by our Fleet shuttles or Tonehua- class combat vehicles. You should take care.'

'I will.' Itzpalicue made a sitting bow, indicating the conversation was over. 'Good day.'

The channel folded closed on the v-pane even before the Flower Priest could respond.

Sighing, Itzpalicue shook her head in dismay at the man's lack of control. Even the most dim-witted Flower Priests probably guessed the Mirror agent had full access to all Imperial communications in Jaganite near-space and on the surface of the ancient world. Yet he still tried to keep her informed of developments, even though her own communications network was superior to his own. The Mirror's reputation of omniscience was not vigorously reinforced by all the power available to the Imperial government for nothing.

If the Tlachiolani – the Mirror Which Reveals The Truth – could not see into the minds of every citizen, much less the secret councils of the European and Afrikan governments fulminating in exile among the Rim colonies, they could ensure full access to Imperial communications, secure public networks and voice traffic. Nearly all civilian data was exposed to the Mirror of Black Glass, either through back doors in mass-produced communications equipment or revealed by Imperial 'mice' scanning and analyzing broadcast data streams in realtime.

In the hands of an experienced nauallis like Itzpalicue, the wealth of data surging around Jagan was a clear ocean from which she could pluck almost anything she wanted.

Everything inconsequential is revealed to me, she thought sourly, save that which I desire.

Carefully avoiding the display panes and comps piled on the edges of her bed, the old woman rose up and stepped carefully across a nest of cables to reach the bathroom. Her hand, unerring in the dimness, found the pull- cord of an archaic-looking light fixture. The bulb flared white, stark in comparison to the soft phosphor glow of her screens. Itzpalicue grimaced, eyes narrowed to slits, and turned the tap. A rattling gurgle followed, and eventually water gushed into a pale green basin. She took time to wash her face. Curlicues of reddish stain swirled in the water and vanished down the drain. The pricking which focused her concentration had its own cost.

Everything in the washroom was gorgeously made, from hand-cast faucets and taps, and colored tiles deftly arranged in an elegant pattern on the floor, to a gleaming porcelain bathing-bowl sitting on massive stone feet. Lips pursed in appreciation, the Mйxica woman ran a thin-boned hand along a filigreed wooden border surrounding the stall. Unidentifiable Jehanan creatures – flying snakes? serpents with myriad legs? – interwove in a delicate pattern. The heavy wood showed faint honeycomb striations beneath a dozen layers of varnish. She rapped her knuckles against the screen and was rewarded with a low, rippling hum. The 'trees' of Jagan did not lay down the familiar rings of AnГЎhuac.

'Barbarians indeed…' The old woman shook her head and turned out the light. The heedless racism of the Flower Priests was only part of the puzzle confronting her. Given her purpose, other matters were more pressing than trying to teach them manners.

Settling back into her nest, Itzpalicue stripped a comm thread against her cheek and tapped open a fresh channel pane. Radiance from a room filled with bright lights lit up her wrinkled old face. Behind her, a pale yellow flush climbed across tapestries made from hundreds of thousands of tiny, carefully placed feathers stitched to a silk backing. Turquoise hummingbird, green quetzal, yellow parrot, red spoonbill, raven, glossy crow and blue cotinga shone brilliantly in the darkness. Scenes of Mйxica soldiers with golden breastplates and backswept, Niseistyle helmets wading through the surf onto a green shore emerged. Pigeon down made the white sails of the mighty fleet behind them. The sky was bruised gray in owl and sparrow, heralding an impending storm. Bearded men – pale- skinned, with bristling red mustaches – were waiting, hands raised in greeting. Their tartans and breeks were wild with vivid, clashing color.

On the opposite wall, the carnage of Badon Hill was vividly displayed. The faces of the Anglish soldiers, fleeing in defeat, were stark. Far in the background, the skyline of London was aflame. Amid clouds of gunsmoke, the Skawtish king Stuart advanced on a white horse with fetlocks stained red with blood. He, at least, was properly dressed in a russet mantle with bracelets of turquoise and gold.

'Have you finished deploying the secondary hi-band array?' Itzpalicue grimaced, watching the disorderly chaos of men and women moving boxes in the background of the image on the v-pane. There were no locals among the workers. Every one was an Imperial, imported at considerable cost from the nearest loyal colony. The old woman did not intend to lose her quarry for want of a few quills or horseshoes.

'Yes, mi'lady.' The Mirror engineer in charge of the operations center was a hair too young for comfort, but he had come highly recommended. 'We'll be finished tomorrow. Everyone's moved in, all of the landlines are active, and satellite is coming on-line now…'

'Are your generators shielded? How deep are you?'

The boy – could he be more than twenty? – nodded sharply. 'Yes, mi'lady. This set of rooms is twenty meters beneath the city ground line.' He grinned. 'Six hundred years ago, we'd have had a nice view of the street. Right now we're still on city trunk power, but by tonight we'll switch over to a rack of fuel cells in an even lower basement.'

'Good.' Itzpalicue was pleased. The xochiyaotinime did not intend their War to erupt for another two weeks, but the old woman believed in being well prepared. Experience suggested that the arrival of