The Arachosian turned sharply, a low hooooo rumbling in his throat. "Do not insult me, singer! You are summoned and you will come – in chains and gagged, if you like – but standing upon ritual and convention is useless in this case. My master is no Jehanan, but an asuchau human from beyond the sky and she cares not at all for your propriety!"
Bhazuradeha recoiled, fear finally seeping into her heart. "You serve the asuchau…willingly?"
"Their copper is as good as anyone's," the Arachosian captain spat, seizing her by the neck with a rough, well-calloused claw. "Now move!"
Weeping and distraught, the poetess was dragged from her courtyard and out past the bodies of the guards General Humara had set to watch over her. A truck was waiting, engine idling, stinking of half-combusted ethanol and motor oil. She was shoved into the back and the Arachosians piled aboard, glad to be moving again.
There were far too many lowlanders with guns abroad in the streets of Parus for their taste.
Crying and feeling very ill used, Bhazuradeha started to sing under her breath, hoping old familiar words might buoy her spirits.
"The Night comes near and looks about," she wailed softly,
"A goddess with her many eyes, she dons shining silver glory.
Immortal, she fills the limit of sight, both far and wide, both low and high;
for whose approach, we seek today for rest, like the yi , who in the branches seek their nest.
The villages have sought for rest and all that walks and all that flies.
Black darkness comes, yet bright with stars, it comes to us, with brilliant hues…"
She stopped, feeling the gaze of every highlander in the truck fixed upon her.
"Prettily sung," the captain said, watching her with eyes shrouded by his cowl. "You are a worthy prize…"
Bhazuradeha turned away, delicate snout in the air, pleased someone had the wit to respect the old usages.
The Main Train Station District of the Ironwrights, Parus
The sound of hissing steam – a long, ululating wail of pressure venting from a split boiler – greeted Mrs. Petrel as she woke from an evil dream of pain and leering, sharp-toothed ogres cracking her bones with iron mallets. She found her vision obscured and the flushed, hot sensation of a medband surging painkillers and reoxygenated blood through her joints made her feel nauseated. Moving as little as possible, she tested her fingers – found them to work – and essayed raising one hand to brush matted, sticky hair away from her face.
A vision of glass panes set between wooden beams greeted her. The windows gleamed pearl with mid-morning sunlight for a moment before a drifting, translucent shape no larger than a child's marble floated directly into her field of view.
A spyeye, her muddled brain realized after patient consideration. Greta was puzzled by the provenance of the indistinct creature for a moment, but then other memories intruded, the haze clouding her mind faded and she realized she was being watched from the aether. Oh bloody hell, Petrel grimaced, baring her teeth at the tiny flying camera. I'm sure this will go Empire-wide on Nightcast if the old hag has her way…
"I'm getting up," she whispered to the spyeye, "just as soon as I can feel my toes."
The translucent sphere bobbed in the air once and then darted away towards the roof of the train station. Human voices approached, sharp with whispered argument, and Greta fumbled with her earrings, fingertips brushing against a particularly smooth pearl. With a twist, the earbug was snapped from its fitting and safely lodged out of sight.
A beautiful day, my dear, echoed almost immediately in her mastoid, so much has been happening.
"I'm sure it has," Petrel whispered, feeling dreadfully tired and numb.
"Ma'am?" A haggard, blood-streaked face appeared above her, blotting out the graceful carvings and delicate woodwork ornamenting the station roof. Sergeant Dawd peered down at her, his broad, common-born face tight with worry. Gloved fingertips turned her wrist. "Ah, thank the good Lord, you've taken no permanent hurt."
"Of course not," Greta heard herself say, clutching his hand for support. Even in such extremity, years of polite conversation amid wretched circumstances came to her rescue. "Only a little tumble. I just need to get on my feet…"
Petrel felt herself raised up by two sets of hands and turned to find Master Sergeant Colmuir by her side. She was momentarily taken aback by the dreadful appearance of the older Skawtsman. Then, glancing past his puffy, badly bruised face, she caught sight of the train station itself and became quite still. "Oh dear."
Despite her effort to set the brakes, the train had barreled into the station at a very decent speed. The engine had smashed through a retaining barrier at the end of the track and plowed into the side of the station itself, destroying a seating area and collapsing a washroom. The boilers, subjected to pressures and stresses far beyond their design capacity, had ruptured, venting an enormous amount of steam. Dozens of Jehanan bodies lay scattered about, hides scalded an ugly red. Burning coals smoked and sputtered on the platform. Flames licked up the broken wall, devouring the wooden timbers and charring the brick pillars holding up the roof. The train cars had jackknifed behind the engine, which was mangled beyond recognition, and crushed themselves into a huge pile of splintered wood, broken glass and tumbled iron wheels. Smoke oozed from the wreckage. Greta put a hand to her mouth, realizing she'd escaped a particularly gruesome death by no more than a hair's breadth.
The pinging sound of hot metal cooling mixed with the moaning cries of injured Jehanans unlucky enough to have taken refuge in the station. A creaking sound echoed from overhead, where the roof-beams were beginning to give way as the walls shifted. A section of green glass suddenly cracked, showering glittering debris towards the station floor. Greta clutched Colmuir's supporting hand, trying not to fall to her knees. Waves of dull pain radiated through her right leg, arm and rib-cage.
I will never complain about wearing a medband and gelsuit again, she vowed silently. Never. Not even once.
"You're a lucky one, mi'lady," the Skawt declared, staring in disbelief at the carnage all around them. "Must have been pitched clear on impact."
"Where…" Petrel cleared her throat. "Where is the prince? Has he been injured?"
Dawd shook his head. "Your pardon, ma'am, but we searched for him first – his Fleet skinsuit has a responder…" The Eagle Knight held up a scratched and dented but still working comp. The machine was displaying unintelligible symbols. "…which says he's alive, at least. We just can't find him."
"Curst jamming," Colmuir interjected. "They've taken the lad away – we're sorry, lass, but we have to find him. You stay with these other civilians -" The master sergeant pointed with his head and Petrel became aware of the bulky, inhuman shape of a Hesht kneeling beside a badly injured human male amid drifts of scattered coal, charred paper scraps and abandoned parcels.
"Who are they?" Petrel fingered her medband, summoning a cold, sharp rush of clearmyhead. The Hesht was making a growling sound as she poked and prodded the man's limbs. He was grimacing and the awkward position of his leg told Greta he'd suffered worse injury than her own.
"Never mind." She tested her own legs, finding them weak but serviceable. "The Jehanan who had the prince in his clutches is an agent of the moktar, the cabal behind this stupid war. We have to get Tezozуmoc back as quickly as possible, before he comes to mischief."