House of Reeds

Anyone with a pilot's cert?'

'I don't know.' Isoroku felt panic start to churn in his stomach. 'How bad is the orbit?'

'Not good,' Hadeishi wheezed, clenching his teeth together. His medband was shrilling alarms inside his suit. He clenched his arms across his chest protectively. 'Ah…! I seem to have exceeded some kind ofthreshold. You must stabilize our orbit quickly. Then you'll have time to fix everything else.

'Find a clean comp and panel, load fresh soft and get them into the hands of someone who knows how to steer. They'll need Navplot, which means guidance sensors have to be working.' He smiled, face obscured by the drift of crimson. 'Only tiny problems, Thai-i, taken one at a time. Small movements, my friend, small deliberate movements.'

Hadeishi's medband tripped the last of its alert levels and flushed his system with knockmeout and a cellular stabilizer. The Chu-sa's eyes rolled up and his head fell loosely forward against the faceplate of his suit.

Isoroku cursed silently, then the work-cart was being wrangled into the work station and he and two of the Engineering deck crew were strapping the captain onto the cart, trying to be as gentle and as quick as possible.

Near Rural Highway Two-Fifteen›

The Town of Chumene, Southeast of Takshila

A high-pitched wailing sound pierced the air, setting the hairs on the back of Gretchen's neck erect. The clatter of leathery hands on stiff-surfaced drums followed and then the tramping beat of hundreds of feet stamping on dusty ground. Malakar and Anderssen stepped out of the darkness at the edge of the village, faces lit by the hot glow of hundreds of torches and two enormous bonfires. The deep basso groan of bladder-horns joined the riot of sound. The gardener lifted her long snout, searching the furtive, twisting light for the proper street.

Gretchen watched the natives dancing with growing interest. A ring of elderly Jehanan – fairly dripping with flower petals, paper streamers and jangling charms – moved back, clearing the center of the street. Now they crouched at the edge of the light, long feet rising and falling in a steady, marching beat. A round dozen musicians were ensconced under a cloth awning festooned with statuettes and figurines and mandalas of flowers. One of the brittle-scales held a long, metal instrument in withered hands. The firelight gleamed on silver strings and an ivory- yellow claw began to pluck, sending a plaintive, echoing sound winging up into the dark sky above.

All else fell silent, leaving the trembling notes alone on the dusty stage.

Then, at the edge of the light, the villagers parted silently, bowing and snuffling in the dirt, and the slim figure of an adolescent Jehanan female appeared, wreathed in veils of pale gold and green. She darted out, fine-boned feet quick on the ground, the clink and clash of precious copper bangles marking counterpoint to the humming drone of the stringed instrument. The girl danced sideways, bending and stretching, miming – Anderssen realized, watching the movements – someone plucking flower buds.

'This is Avaya, twilight's maidenhead,' Malakar whispered, 'and she is dancing in the fields of the coming sun, collecting the opened buds of the sacred Nem as they lie cool, still unturned by the touch of the Lord of Light.'

Avaya spun past, wholly concentrated upon the unseen, and Gretchen caught a rustle of feet in grass and the smell of a dewy hillside, pregnant with pollen and perfume. The girl danced on, the single instrument slowly, subtly, joined by the hissing wail of the bladder-horns and hooting flutes. So too brightened the illumination in the dusty circle and Anderssen blinked, startled and delighted to see the waiting crowd, still hidden by the gossamer barrier between shadow and light, raising many paper lamps on long poles to hang over the street.

A horn rang out, a cold, clear note. The girl stumbled, spilled her invisible basket of petals and raised her head in alarm, long back curving gracefully to the east. A deep-voiced drum began to beat, the tripping sound of a hasty heart, of blood quickened by danger. Avaya dashed here and there, snatching up petals from the ground.

So perfect were the girl's movements that Gretchen clutched Malakar's bony, scaled shoulder for support. In the flickering, dim light, surrounded by such rich noise, by so many swaying Jehanan, she began to see – darting, indistinct, gleam-ingly real – the petals on the ground, the rustling stands of green plants, golden leaves, waxy flowers half-open to the sky. Such an overpowering aroma washed over her she felt faint. Rich, dark earth; the dew on a thousand flowers; a cool, cold sky shining deep blue-black overhead. A steady emerald brightness rising on the horizon.

'See, now the king is coming. Her time grows short…'

Malakar's voice broke Anderssen from the waking dream. Another corridor opened in the crowd and a forest of torches clustered there, held aloft in scaled hands. Even now, with so many lights, she could not see the faces of the celebrants. They were dim and indistinct, bound by shadow, but the lamps and sputtering, resin-drenched brands burned very bright.

A tall, powerfully built Jehanan male glided out of the darkness. His scales were golden, shimmering, flashing like mirrors. Well-muscled arms wielded a burning stave, a length of wood wrapped with pitch and resin. He sprang into the circle, whirling flame over his head. So swift was the movement the blurring stroke became a single burning disc, shining in the east.

Avaya fled, leaping and bounding – and Gretchen knew she fled down the hillside, springing rushing streams, weather-worn boulders, seeking always the safety of night behind beckoning hills – and the Sun-King gave chase. The crowd of faces, the soft outlines of the rooftops, the dusty street of a market town, all fled from Anderssen's perception and for a timeless moment, all she beheld was the long chase of the Lord of Light to reclaim the precious Nem from the hands of iridescent Avaya and his endless quest to bring her forth from bondage in the underworld.

A chorus of voices joined the winging sound of the instruments, calling back and forth in counterpoint to relate the pleading cries of the King, and the demure, evasive answers of the maid.

Malakar shook her shoulder gently, drawing the human back into the shelter of the crowd.

'We must go,' the gardener whispered. 'The tikikit do not tarry on their rounds.'

Gretchen blinked, rubbed her face and followed – unseeing, half-blinded by clinging smoke – as they passed down a narrow lane and a set of broad steps. The old Jehanan stopped, dipping her claws into a stone trough.

'Here,' the gardener said, raising cupped hands. 'Clear your eyes.'

Anderssen splashed shockingly cold water on her face, shivered and wiped her nose. The glorious visions of the sun racing across the hills of a dry, green world faded. Everything was dark and close again, pregnant with the smell of cinnamon.

'Thank you. I was…overcome.'

The Jehanan's eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the lighted windows of the nearest house. 'You impress me, asuchau. You were singing, as the eldest do, remembering fragments of the lost… Most of those around us did not understand the words, but some did. They were becoming alarmed, once they realized who you were and had no business knowing such things.'

'Singing?' Gretchen shook her head vehemently. 'I can't sing.'

'Certainly,' Malakar said, amused. 'Your throat and pitiful snout are not suited for our songs, of course. I see why you are shy – but still, a worthy effort.'

'I was not singing,' Anderssen said sharply, feeling intense irritation. 'You must have been imagining things.'

'Hoooo…' The gardener tilted her head to one side. 'Perhaps.'

'Where is this tikikit?' Gretchen said, relieved the creature did not pursue the matter. Her throat felt a little raw. She cupped her hands and drank from the trough, which flowed silently with cold spring water. The damp, fecund odor of moss filled her nostrils.

'It will come soon.' Malakar continued on down the steps, which led into a grove of ancient trees. Forgetting to turn on her flashlight, Gretchen hurried after, not wishing to be left alone in the humid darkness. With the sun passed away behind the seventeen hills to the west, the night air was turning cold.

The path narrowed, winding among close-set trees, and then ended in a rutted track. A lamp-post stood beside the road, holding a paper lantern. Malakar stood in a circle of light cast by the dim yellow flame. In the wan radiance, the old Jehanan looked particularly tired, her scales glowing the color of brass. Gretchen slowed, boots sinking into soft, springy ground, and her eyes were drawn to the trees, to the moss covering their roots and the