"And here, on Jagan, aside from pretty artifacts by the ton, there are certain plants which only grow in the Arachosian highlands, or in certain valleys around Takshila and Gandaris. The bitter Nem is a mild psychotropic for the local people, but once the labs on AnГЎhuac have processed the seeds and the milky white sap, well…it becomes much more. Very popular, or so I understand."
"How much profit can there be in biochemicals?" Disbelief was plain in Gretchen's voice.
Soumake snapped his fingers. "Enough, considering they're trading something worth less than a ming here for something with a six hundred percent rate of return by volume on AnГЎhuac. And there are other sources of revenue…glorious textiles, rugs, fine porcelains and ceramics, excellent liquors, certain unique woods. Many, many luxury items in demand in the core worlds because they are new.
"But all of this involves you only peripherally: I will not grant you a permit for survey in the land of the Five Rivers."
"I see." Gretchen thought she did understand and was oddly touched. "You think it's too dangerous for me to be wandering over hill and dale. You think the local princes have accumulated enough firepower to see about settling all their old scores. Is that why the Fleet has arrived?"
Soumake rose from his chair abruptly, face clouded. "I wish every Imperial citizen on Jagan were aboard a Fleet lighter and bound for Tadmor Station today. I suggest…you find an out-of-the-way place to stay, Anderssen-tzin. And remain there and not go out until the next liner comes through. Good day."
Gretchen returned his polite bow, retrieved her papers and made a quick exit. Walking into the cool dry air of the hallway was a welcome shock, wiping away a gathering sense of foreboding. For a moment, though, she turned and looked back at the closed door. He must be truly worried, she mused. I've never seen such a talkative Imperial official before.
The heart of the Consulate was a staircase of native stone dropping two stories from the main business floor to an entry foyer large enough to hold a zenball field. Gretchen was making her way down the steps, distracted by the carved reliefs lining the balustrade, when she nearly ran into a tall woman coming up the steps with a quick, assured walk.
"Pardon," Anderssen said, coming to an abrupt halt before they collided. The woman looked up, fixed her with a cornflower blue gaze and a brilliant smile lit her face.
"My dear! Terribly sorry – I haven't been paying attention all day! You must be freshly arrived? Come about some official business? Of course, no other reason to be in this drafty old place, is there?"
Gretchen found herself turned about and escorted briskly up the stairs and into a sitting room filled with overstuffed chairs.
"Let me look at you. Yes…" The woman's good humor did not abate and the brilliant azure eyes turned sharp, considering Gretchen from head to toe. "Dear, have you found someplace nice to stay? Your current residence just will not do, not for a woman of repute like yourself. There are some beautiful little hotels near the Court of Yellow Flagstones. You will like the White Lily best if I am not mistaken, and I rarely am. Ask any of the taxi drivers, they'll know the way. Yes, very nice, with breakfast – human breakfast – and real beds and, dare I say? Proper bathtubs with hot water. Oh yes."
Anderssen felt a little shocked, as if a bison had crashed out of the nearpine and run right over her, but she mustered herself and managed to squeak out: "Doctor Gretchen Anderssen, University of New Aberdeen, very-pleased-to-meet-you."
"A doctor?" The woman's smile changed, dimming in one way, but filling with warmth as her public persona slipped aside. Gretchen relaxed minutely. "Well done, my girl. Very politely done – reminding me to introduce myself as well." A strong hand – surprisingly callused, given the exceptionally elegant gray-and-black suit the lady was wearing – clasped Anderssen's. "I am Greta Petrel. No, don't laugh, my hair just comes this way, not an affectation at all. All the Army wives don't believe me, of course, but I think you might. Yes, I think you do."
Gretchen managed to tear her attention away from chasing the crisp flood of words coming out of the woman's mouth and saw that Mrs. Petrel's hair was raven black with two white streaks, one falling from either temple. The woman dimpled, one finger brushing across small sapphire pins in her ears and flicking away from the snow-white hair.
"Fabulously jealous, all of them. But what can they say? Nothing but nice things to my face, oh yes. Now, behind my back…well, I really could not care less about their twittering. Now, dear, tell me how you've fared today in my so-grand house. Did you get good service from whomever you saw? Did they serve you tea? Doctor of what, exactly?"
"Xeno…xenoarchaeology, ma'am." Gretchen was suddenly sure the woman wasn't exaggerating when she said my house. She could only be the Imperial Legate's wife. "I'd come to see the attachй of Antiquities about a permit…"
"Ah, Soumake is a dear, isn't he? Such a serious young man, though. I'm sure he told you no quite firmly, even with such beautiful golden hair and sweet features. No matter, he's terribly married and you've children of your own to see after – no sense in gallivanting around after a career officer like him, oh no. Well, he was right to send you on your way, though I'm sure you're just disheartened by the whole sordid business."
Mrs. Petrel shook her head and Gretchen felt suddenly chastised, as if she'd forgotten her sums in front of the entire class. She also felt dizzy. Trying to keep up with the older woman's turn of conversation was wearing her out.
"There is only one sure cure for such things, my dear." Mrs. Petrel tucked a stray tendril of Gretchen's hair back into place and pressed a handwritten card – shimmering green ink on creamy realpaper – into her hand. "I'm having the smallest gathering possible at the summer house in a few days. You come and sit with me and we'll have a bite to eat and some tea. Perhaps I can see if Professor SГє can find a scrap of decency in his black, black heart and let you work under his permit. But no promises!"
Mrs. Petrel swept out of the sitting room, head high, the two white streaks merging to make a V-shape in the heavy fan of hair across her shoulders. Gretchen stared in surprise at the handwritten card in her hand. The front read: "Mrs. Gretchen Anderssen is invited to my party" while the back had an address – also in green ink and the same crisp hand – a date and time.
"How…did she know I have children? How did she know my name?" Anderssen stepped out into the hallway and caught sight of Mrs. Petrel sailing past a quartet of armed guards, the tall, thin shape of a manservant following quietly behind. Seeing him, Gretchen realized he'd been in the background the whole time, silent and as much a part of the paneled walls as the wood itself. "Well."
She laughed, feeling tension ebb from her chest. "I should say, I never. I think I'd better sit down for a minute and get my breath back. What a bracing person."
The chairs were far more comfortable than they looked and Gretchen took a moment to key "Court of the Yellow Flagstones" into her comp. Good lodgings – and she was certain the White Lily was excellent and probably reasonably priced – were worth more than a woman's weight in quills in this business. She couldn't help but smile.
I hope Maggie and Parker are doing all right. Oh, bother! I'd better call them about the hotel.
A Nondescript House
Near the Tomb of Gharlane the Mad, Parus
Lachlan's image turned sideways, alarm plain on his young face. "An unexpected hyperspace transit, mi'lady." He tapped a glyph on his end and Itzpalicue watched with interest as a navigational plot unfolded on a spare display. "A relatively small ship…'casting Fleet ident codes…here we are, an Astronomer-class light cruiser, the Henry R. Cornuelle."