House of Reeds

Craning her head over, Gretchen managed to make out the steady, brilliant light. "Yes…" What now? This is becoming surreal… My groundside contact issupposed to be some smuggler with his hair in waxed braids, wearing too much cologne. We meet in an abandoned warehouse – the air charged with dust and diesel fumes and the smell of rust and burning insulation – not here, on a sixty-thousand-quill veranda, with servants and fresh poppyseed cakes on porcelain platters.

"An Imperial ship rides in orbit. You can see them when the angle of the sun is just right and the sky is clear… Muru there, he is my eyes and ears in the city, among the people. He says they have a tale told to children – of the 'star-which-returns.' Apparently, there is a parking orbit just visible from here…"

Petrel set down her pipe. Suddenly pensive, she rubbed her lower lip with a neatly manicured thumbnail. "Mrs. Anderssen, in truth, I wish I could put you and your two companions on the next starliner for the home systems. My husband has served on eight planets now, both as direct governor and as ambassador. We've been moving from place to place for nearly twenty years. Over all that time…Well, you start to develop a feeling for things." Her hands made a pushing-away gesture, eyes fixed on Gretchen. "Soon enough, Imperial citizens will not be able to walk the streets safely."

"I'll take care," Anderssen said. The older woman's voice had a fu

She turned back to the woman, throat constricted. Four pieces fit together and the bowl begins to assume a beautiful shape; part of a handle fits, you can see the curve where the potter turned a fluted lip for a water jug. Patterns emerge from the jumble of lines and colors. The face of a god, a monster…my Company contact. "Do you think the Honorable Doctor SГє would care if we spent a day or two in the north, to see this…festival? Visit the markets?"

Petrel's eyes glinted in amusement. "No. No, I'm sure he wouldn't do anything malicious. How could he know? Soumake won't tell him, and who else would know?"

Gretchen felt a little sick, feeling her stomach turn queasily with the same kind of acid bitterness which came every time she thought about her bank account. The woman across from her had a steady gaze. Her hands didn't tremble, but Anderssen wondered if there was a medband hidden under the silken drape of her kimono. Or perhaps her blood is just as cold as nitrogen ice.

"Well then," Anderssen said. "We'll get transport to Takshila and see the sights. You recommend the 'House of Reeds'?"

"An excellent itinerary," Petrel said briskly, reaching into her kimono and producing a sheaf of brightly colored papers in a cardboard sleeve. "There are a variety of ways to reach the old city – bus, train and so on. I suggest the train – here are tickets – and I've had a friend rent you an apartment."

Still rather numbed by the prospect of the Legate's wife working for the Company, Gretchen forced her hand to take the papers and stuff them into her bag. "Thank you. Is there…"

Petrel pressed a datapak into Anderssen's hand. "A guidebook to the local sights, if you will. Come back soon, and safe, and let me know what you've found."

The chattering sound of a news holocast greeted Gretchen as she closed the hotel door behind her. Her field jacket was soaked with rain, and she brushed damp hair from her eyes. The storm had picked up again during her ride home. "Maggie, did Parker get back?"

"He did," the Hesht grunted, her rumbling voice carrying down the hallway dividing their suite of rooms. As Mrs. Petrel had said, there were several petite hotels near the Court of Yellow Flagstones catering to the Imperial trade. This one even boasted a NГЎhuatl-speaking receptionist downstairs. Anderssen hung up her jacket in a tile-floored alcove, feeling the fabric of her shirt stick to her forearms. Despite a dehumidifier ru

"He has made a mess, just like the scruffy kit he is."

Gretchen peeled back her sleeves as she walked into the main sitting room. Sliding glass doors set into burnished, rosy wood frames opened onto a balcony. The floors were covered with plush colorful rugs and carpets. Native artwork – mostly threaded tapestries held in ironwood frames – covered the walls. Everything felt crisp and new; the sheets, the furniture – the hotelier was betting on a steady stream of Imperial guests. Only the holocast set was out of place – an ugly, refurbished block of plastic and pitted metal hidden under a fresh coat of paint.

Gretchen considered the squat object – the heads of threevee Jehanan pundits were yammering in the air over the projectors – and felt uneasy. This thing must be six or seven years old, a cheap Occitanian set… And how much did they pay for ithere? Too much. And how did they get political talk shows so fast? It's u