In the doorway, Colmuir had switched back to semi-automatic. A reckless Jehanan popped out of one of the hallway doors, automatic rifle stuttering bright yellow flashes. The master sergeant potted him with one burst, sending the creature sprawling.
With a second's breathing room, the master sergeant rolled back into the room and whistled with delight to see the nearest Jehanan corpse was festooned with old-style Pakrit fragmentation grenades. He snatched up the bandolier and parked himself against the wall.
Then he realized neither Dawd nor the prince was in the room.
A fresh burst of gunfire tore across the wall above his head, spilling dust into his hair. Colmuir grimaced, plucked four of the grenades from the belt and slapped them together with stickytape. More rounds whined across the room, shattering the rest of the glassware which had so far escaped the fighting.
"Good morning," he mumbled, waiting for the trample of rushing feet in the hallway, packet of grenades at the ready. He started to hum to himself. "It's a fine, fine day on the banks o' the Clyde an' I'm waiting for a bonny lass to come singing in th' sun…singing with her hair in braids an' bonnets, waiting for me lass t' come singing…" He flexed his trigger finger, poised, hearing the rustle of many native feet on the carpeted floor outside. "She's coming for me, an' I'm waiting, sun on my face, breezes in my hair, waiting by th' freshet Clyde, waiting…"
An armored personnel carrier rumbled past on the street, rubberized tracks grinding ancient concrete to gravel. A squad of Jehanan soldiers clung to the metal roof, peaked caps tight under their long jaws, legs hanging over the side. Mrs. Petrel shrank back into the shadow of a ruined shop front, one hand behind her to press the Hesht into the wall.
Now, the insect chittered in her hair, step out and wave cheerfully, dear.
"Here we go," Mrs. Petrel muttered and marched out into the thin sunlight, both hands raised. A cloud of diesel smoke drifted over her, eliciting a cough and then a short Jehanan riding in the commander's cupola of a truly enormous tank spotted her.
"Halt!" Bhrigu shouted into the driver's compartment of the Gorond-class heavy tank. There was a grinding sound of clashing gears and the engine belched dirty gray smoke as the machine ground to a halt. The kujen leaned down, taking in the unexpected sight of the Imperial Resident's wife in a tattered festival gown standing beside the street, broken shoes in her hand. He rubbed the tip of his snout. "You look lost, human."
Behind the prince, a column of tanks, armored cars, and trucks rolled to a halt amid a thick cloud of exhaust. Two columns of infantry jogged up, their sergeants bawling commands, deploying a screen of Jehanan riflemen to watch the buildings and the road ahead.
"I've come looking for you, mi'lord," Greta replied, straightening herself to stare icily up at the little Jehanan in a helmet adorned with golden horns perched on the massive turret. "It's time to put an end to this insurrection, I think."
"Do you?" Bhrigu hooted wryly. He felt itchy, sitting atop the rumbling bulk of the tank, his back exposed to so many relatives carrying guns. "Our mutual friend" – he tapped an Imperial comm tucked into the front pocket of his armored vest – "suggested I make haste to a building nearby – I understand the conspirators behind all this…" He waved a claw at the sky crisscrossed with gleaming contrails. "…are gathered to plot my overthrow."
"Yes," Mrs. Petrel said, climbing up onto the track housing. "They are only a few streets over. Kurbardar Humara has betrayed you, you know."
"Has he?" Bhrigu expressed great surprise. Swaying a little, Petrel laid her hand on the enormous barrel of the main gun. From the higher vantage, she was suddenly aware of many attentive ear-holes turned towards her and the prince. Quite a number of Jehanan officers had gathered unobtrusively near the tank. They were all very well armed.
"Yes," she said. "He plans to use the civil disturbance – unrest fomented, I must say, by enemies of the Empire who seek to dupe the more radical elements among your people into destroying themselves and weakening Venadan – to murder you, your loyal officers and to seize the kujenate himself."
Bhrigu hissed in alarm and outrage. He struck a commanding pose – slightly diminished by the nervous flutter of his right claw. "Then we will crush this nest of vipers with a swift, sure heel! All units prepare to advance!"
Mrs. Petrel hooted softly at him, trying to recapture his attention, wishing she'd hadn't lost her resonators in all the fuss. She was looking back down the road, past the columns of vehicles. A truck was barreling along the sidewalk at a dangerous speed. "Wait just a moment, mi'lord. There is someone approaching who should accompany you in this moment of victory."
"There is?" Bhrigu turned, unsettled, and bleated in outrage as the Scandia two-ton swerved, scattering his soldiers and screeched to a halt only inches from the side of the tank, dust and gravel spattering against dull gray armor. "What is this? Who are -"
The door of the truck banged open and a pale rose-colored female climbed out, stepping daintily onto the rear deck. She was immediately followed by a Jehanan of impressive size, all cloaked and cowled in the manner of the highland tribesmen. One hand, scarred and chipped, rested on the female's slim shoulder with a proprietary air. The other rested on the silver-chased hilt of a cruel-looking sword.
"You are Bhrigu," the chieftain growled, raising the hackles on back of Petrel's neck. The creature radiated undiluted menace. "I've something for you." Roughly, he shoved the female forward, drawing an outraged squeak as she fell against the turret.
Mrs. Petrel became aware of every single Jehanan within sight growing completely still. Bhrigu stared down upon the girl at his feet and turned a queer, pasty-yellow color.
"Bhazuradeha? What -"
"The spoils of war," boomed the highland chieftain, gesturing dismissively at the poetess. "The traitor Humara is doomed, unable to even keep his choicest prize in safety. See how she cowers before you? She knows well who the victor will be…"
Bhrigu was struck speechless for a moment, but then he turned, snout wrinkling in furious suspicion, to Mrs. Petrel, who had been glad to catch a breath or two.
"You…" The kujen started to sputter in outrage. "You had her stolen!"
"Fairly captured, mi'lord," the girl proclaimed in a clear, carrying voice, taking the opportunity to stand up, brush herself off and kneel – as best she was able – before him on the turret ring. The crowd of Jehanan soldiers in the street had now grown quite large and every long reptilian face was turned towards the tableau atop the tank. "Taken in a sudden, daring raid by you r…loyal vassals." She turned, inclining her slim head towards the Arachosian. "Oh, there was a terrible struggle, but they overthrew nearly a brigade of Humara's finest troops to pluck me from a perfumed, flowered garden where I languished, a cruelly kept captive!"
Gher Shahr twitched at the words loyal vassal but managed to keep hold of his temper.
Mrs. Petrel, gently reminded by the locust in her ear, climbed painfully down from the tank and picked her way through the rubble back into the burned out shop front. Parker was lying on the ground, a roll of cloth under his head, breathing irregularly.
Outside, Bhazuradeha gazed adoringly up at the stunned kujen, hands crossed at his feet, her voice rising in a plaintive song describing her captivity and long adoration of the distant, noble prince, the only person who could possibly rescue her from such a powerful master. The entire street was perfectly silent, nearly five thousand soldiers listening keenly to her crystal-clear voice.
"Let's lift him up," Mrs. Petrel said, leaning down beside Magdalena and taking hold of Parker's hands. The Hesht blinked her eyes open, stirring from exhaustion. "There is a truck outside with medical equipment. A doctor is coming, too, but he won't be here for a bit. There's a bit of a traffic jam…"