Legate Petrel stepped between the two men, looking down at Tezozуmoc with narrowed eyes. The older man had recovered his composure, though the prince could see tiny lines of strain around his eyes. "Mi'lord, perhaps you would care to sit and eat? There is a salon where you and your companions can take your ease, out of the press of the crowd?"
"Of course! My feet hurt – your floor is too hard." Tezozуmoc stamped his sandals, making the golden scales covering them clatter on the hardwood parquet. The hall would serve for dancing, eventually, when the buffet tables were cleared away. "Good night, chief of the snots!"
The prince waved at the colonel, who was watching him with slitted, furious eyes from behind a wall of his subordinates. The other Mixtec officers were trying to calm Yacatolli down.
Stupid name for a military officer, Tezozуmoc thought, swinging the weighted cape carelessly over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, the prince caught a glimpse of the shorter of his bodyguards ducking aside. Hand-sized jade lozenges whipped past the Skawtsman's face. He should change it to something that doesn't make everyone snicker. Perhaps I should submit an official memo of recommendation.
"Are there buttered shrimps dusted with chili powder?" Tezozуmoc asked the Legate, following the older man towards a doorway opening off the crowded, sweltering hall. The prince's voice was entirely amiable. "I like those very much."
Petrel nodded, but did not look back, pushing open the doors to an well-furnished room with a bar, overstuffed chairs and a permanent aroma of burned broadleaf tabac and fine liquor. "Of course, mi'lord. I will let the cook know."
Tezozуmoc threw himself down in the largest chair, heaved a sigh of relief and then stared quizzically up at his host. "You don't look like a bird. You should change your name too."
The rest of his new friends piled into the room, making the two bodyguards wince with their usual ruckus of noise, banging about, shrieking and general merriment. The Army officers began looting the liquor cabinet.
The prince, seeing no one was paying attention to him for the moment, let out a long, shuddering sigh. His stomach burned, molten stones churning against his intestines. So many officials and lords and officers. Tezozуmoc closed his eyes tight, feigning weariness, squeezing back tears of frustration. By Christ Sacrifice, I hate this. I hate them – all of them – and I hate having to wear this stupid costume.
The hatred he'd seen flashing in Yacatolli's face, at least, had been a welcome change from the usual pity, or curiosity, or contempt. The prince raised his head, wondering if there was any liquor to be had. "Geema, be a dear heart and share some of that wicked-looking red liquid with your poor old prince, will you?"
Parker drained his glass. "Boss…are you sure you need to talk to this guy?"
"Yes." Gretchen tried not to sigh and loosened the shawl around her shoulders. The great hall was just getting hotter and closer as more people crowded in. The Jehanan musicians were still playing, but their beautiful efforts were drowned out by drunken voices. "Look, Parker, I know we're supposed to be here on 'vacation' and technically I don't have to report to anyone. Not the attachй, not Professor SГє. But we're going to be traipsing all over the north-country, trying to find this…place. I would rather play by the rules, if we can. Mrs. Petrel said…don't make a face like that!"
The pilot removed the tabac from his mouth and flicked the butt into a nearby planter. After entering the hall they'd tried to reach the banquet tables, but a near-solid wall of Imperial military uniforms blocked any access. The infantry officers were making a serious dent in the Legation catering budget. Then Gretchen had tried to find the hostess, but moving in the crowd was nearly impossible, so the press of humanity had thrown them up in a little alcove where a bastion of potted plants protected a side door.
"Sorry, boss. But look at this place – we're so far down the totem pole we can't even get something to eat. Drink, sure…the Embassy lays on some nice locally produced vodka but we'll have to wait hours just to say hello to the hostess." He took a long drag from a fresh tabac and let the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "You saw the prince and his posse. He's going to suck up every featherhead within ten klicks to kiss his radiant ass. Doc SГє, the Legate's wife, everyone."
"Parker!" Gretchen made a shushing motion. It is crowded, she silently acknowledged. He's probably right. And finding Professor SГє in this madhouse isn't terribly likely. I don't even know what he looks like.
Then she grew still, realizing she could probably tell what the senior xenoarchaeologist from the University of Tetzcoco felt like. And if I can feel him, then I could probably find him…if I wanted.
Gretchen looked sidelong at Parker, who was staring moodily at two attractive young women passing by. The pilot looked entirely out of place amid all the finery on display. His going-out shirt, pants and shoes were only the best a junior Company employee could afford. She could see him comparing his appearance to the young bravos circulating in the crowd, and falling short. We're out of place here. As usual.
Anderssen looked down at herself. The kimono-style dress was the best the Shimanjin colony had to offer – impeccably tailored, luscious native silk, dark radiant colors – and in comparison to the extravagance of feathers, gold and jade adorning the Prince's companions, about four years out of style. Field crews rarely spent any time far enough in-Empire to be fashionable. Dust and sweat and the minute personal cargo allowances provided by economy spaceliner tickets precluded anything but the necessities. She spread a scarred, muscular hand, frowning. Not very elegant.
Gretchen breathed in slowly. If you find Professor SГє, what then? Will you ask him for permission to root about in the ruins of the ancient Jehanan cities, unsupervised? Looking for something the Company can't even describe or identify? Being polite, she realized, hating the nagging, pragmatic voice in her head, would only make her job more difficult. I am supposed to follow the rules, she thought, but knew the Company really didn't care at all. They just want me to steal something. Again. Rules are something I'm supposed to follow, she thought sourly, when I'm filling out expense reports.
"You're right, Parker. There's no point to finding him. Let's see if we can swing by the dessert table on our way out…"
Standing quietly in the corner of the huge, busy room, a thing in the shape of a man was watching the flood of ‹cattle|breeding stock|meat› eddy past, stinking of toxin-saturated cooling fluid. It stood quietly in dark, carefully tailored human clothing, presenting a tray of inefficiently constituted raw protein to anyone who passed by. A group of Imperial military officers paused, snatched up handfuls of baked crackers coated with imported soft cheese and caviar, and then moved on.
The Lengian expressed no overt interest in them, and following the strict social conventions of this primitive society, they ignored it in turn. The sower of ‹disorder|fear|wisdom› was not surprised. It had watched and waited among the humans for many cycles. They were random and filled with the heedless, careless energy of a young, immature species – one which had not yet been culled and set on the straight path – and as such they believed themselves to be favored by the hand of the ‹breeder|devourer›. But they will be tested in the fullness, it thought coldly, without either remorse or antipathy. Then they will likely perish, for they are a weak, ill-fitting species.