"I remember what I said," Greta replied softly. "But this time my husband was nearly incinerated. He is quite shaken by the whole experience."
"Ah." The old NГЎhuatl woman nodded, lips pursed disapprovingly. "This decision is not for yourself, then."
"It is entirely my decision." Mrs. Petrel stiffened. "But it is not yours."
Itzpalicue nodded, shrugged and went out, her cane tapping on the scarred floorboards.
Greta Petrel watched her go, keeping an eye on the old woman until she had departed the grounds, passing through mossy stone gates and climbing into a truck driven by some very disreputable-looking natives in long robes.
When the old woman was gone, Mrs. Petrel sighed, dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief and went back inside. There was a great deal of cleaning and sorting to do before she could leave this humid, damp planet. The prospect of Earth and a cool, dry vacation beckoned. Switzerland, she thought, trying to cheer herself up. Her husband had always liked little villages under high snowy mountains.
She pushed open the doors to the sitting room off the main foyer. Her other guest looked up from a book of photographs and woodblock prints made nearly four centuries before, showing the cities and towns of Russia as seen by the eyes of a Nisei artist named Yoshitaki.
"This is very interesting," Gretchen said, closing the antique volume. "I have never seen anything like this before. Russia seems to have been quite civilized, from the evidence of these pictures."
Greta smiled faintly. "That is because such books are forbidden to the public. That particular item was found by my brother James when he was serving on AnГЎhuac itself, in the Desolation, in an abandoned bunker."
"Oh." Anderssen pushed the book away and folded both hands in her lap. "I see."
Amused by Gretchen's contrite expression, Mrs. Petrel sat down in the other chair. Of all her furnishings, only these two moth-eaten settees remained intact, having been put away in storage in one of the attics. "If there were tea," she said apologetically, "we could have some, but…"
"No tea is fine," Gretchen said, squaring her shoulders. "May…may I ask a question?"
Mrs. Petrel nodded, finding the soft red velour of the chair a welcome support against her aching back. "Of course, dear. What is it?"
"Who was that old woman? I could hear her voice through the doors…she sounded terribly familiar."
"Really?" Greta raised an eyebrow, considering her fair-haired guest with the scarred hands and rough knuckles. "She is an old teacher of mine, from when I was attending university in TenochtitlГЎn. I did not realize our voices were so lou d…"
Anderssen dimpled, offering an apologetic smile. "My hearing is sometimes distressingly good. I did not mean to pry. She just reminded me of someone else I know."
"No offense taken, though you should be more circumspect in the future." Mrs. Petrel said, mustering her concentration. "Now, what about our business? Was your trip successful?"
Gretchen swallowed nervously. "Well," she began, "I cannot say I set eyes upon a single Nem plant, but…well, there was something in the House of Reeds, something extraordinary…"
Mrs. Petrel listened quietly while Anderssen related an abridged version of what had happened, her face growing stiffer and stiffer until the younger woman fell silent and then Greta sighed quietly, rubbing her brow with thin, well-manicured fingers. "You destroyed the kalpataru."
Gretchen nodded, tensing herself for a furious tirade.
"You're sure?" Mrs. Petrel's complexion slowly drained of color as Anderssen nodded. "You destroyed a known, working First-Sun device! Sister bless us, child, why? The Army could have made do without comm -"
"I had to." Gretchen said flatly. "The Jehanan weren't even using a fraction of the thing's power – the kalpataru would have infected and overwhelmed every single computing device on this planet – I doubt the Fleet and Army could have done much with their weapons and vehicles rendered useless."
Mrs. Petrel's ashen expression did not improve. Her hands were trembling. "But you could have used the thing yourself…Loving God, what the Company could have done with…We'd never have to lift a finger again! The Emperor's favor alone would -"
"Mean nothing," Gretchen said, shaking her head slowly. "I understand how the Company will feel about this. I particularly understand what the Empire's reaction would be if they ever knew what actually happened in the House of Reeds. But, Mrs. Petrel, I also know such artifacts must never be allowed to fall into human hands. Never! The danger is too great!"
"What danger!" Mrs. Petrel snapped, surging up out of her chair. "There's certainly no danger now! The only danger is allowing such a thing to remain in Jehanan hands! Even the debris will need to be seized and analyzed…" She turned around, staring angrily at Gretchen. "Fool! You've cast aside both our futures! My god, I daren't even make a report…"
Gretchen's voice was very calm. "Just say there was nothing in the monastery, the initial report was only a rumor, unsubstantiated, a false lead. I'll say the same." She smiled grimly. "Don't worry – no one will ask questions – the nauallis will make sure of that."
"The -" Petrel stepped back, suspicion flickering in her eyes. She looked Gretchen up and down and her lip curled back in disgust. "You've been playing a double-game – you're an agent of the Judges!" Her hand made a sharp slashing motion. "Don't think I won't report that to the Company!"
"I'm not…" Gretchen paused, jaw tight, and thought: She's right, even if I refused Hummingbird's offer two years ago. I've done just as he would have.
"I am not a naualli," she continued. "Nor am I their 'agent.' But I have worked with them in the past. Some artifacts simply cannot be used. There are traps laid for the unwary – and the kalpataru was one of them. We have escaped – I hope we have escaped! – terrible calamity by only the thinnest claw-tip."
Mrs. Petrel said nothing. Anderssen gained the impression of fulminating, terrible anger roiling in the older woman – but then she raised her hands and let out a bitter sigh. "There is nothing to be done about this now," Greta said in a thin, leached voice. "Get out. Just get out."
Nodding, Anderssen stood up – almost stumbling, her legs weak with tension – and reached the door before Mrs. Petrel's voice echoed in the ruined room.
"I know what the Judges told you." Cold, clear anger permeated Greta's voice. "But you should know they lie. They lie constantly – even when the truth would serve – and they care nothing for any human alive."
Gretchen turned in the doorway and saw Petrel clutching Yoshitaki's book tightly to her chest. "Who did you -"
"That doesn't matter," Petrel said, her face filled with anguish. "Just remember, they will sacrifice you and anyone else – anyone! – to gain their ends. They are like sharks – without emotion, without remorse."
"And if those ends mean the survival of humanity?" Gretchen said softly, feeling the woman's pain as a hot pressure on her face. "Isn't our sacrifice necessary for our children to live? For the race to continue? How do you weigh that balance, Petrel-tzin?"
Greta put a hand on the back of the chair to steady herself and then she turned away, saying nothing.
Anderssen went out, quietly, and found the sky clearing. Hot, bright sunlight streamed down through the clouds, gilding the ruins of the Legation. Plumes of smoke were rising over the city, but the worst of the fires had died down. Her boots – worn and dirty, as always – crunched through drifts of broken glass.