Colmuir looked up from his comm-pad. "Yes, lad?"
"Is it cooler in Gandaris?"
"Snowy mountains, Ser'gnt, right among high snowy mountains."
Dawd breathed a sigh of relief. Some chance of a cool breeze then. Then turned his attention back to the job at hand. "What about these xixixit creatures, Master Sergeant? Do we have any intel about them?"
Colmuir let out a hiss, shaking his head in disbelief. He handed the younger man the comm-pad. Dawd thumbed through the briefing, then stopped at a grainy two-d picture, appalled.
"Master Sergeant! What the devil is the Legate thinking? These things are vicious!"
"I would guess," Colmuir said, glancing back over his shoulder at the door to the prince's suite, "Mrs. Petrel thinks a three-meter-long wasp is less a trouble to our wee lad than the singing girl might be. And she would know, I think, being a wise woman if I've ever seen one."
Dawd grimaced again. "Does the prince have the faintest idea how to use a hunting lance?"
"None of that, lad." Colmuir gave the sergeant a sharp look. "Not our place to comment on the prince and his abilities! You'll keep a civil tongue in your head and your opinions to yourself."
The Horumkel Baths
Street of the Eye-Shield Jewelers, Parus
Shrouded by a cloud of soft, billowing steam, Itzpalicue leaned back against glistening marble and closed her eyes. The stone felt cool against her thin back and she clasped both hands on a bare stomach. The inside of her eyelids began to yield up images – a little fuzzy, the humidity interfered with the commcast receiver – but still clear enough to make out a scene occurring not too far away.
She looked down from a ribbed ceiling, the spybug hidden among old cobwebs beaded with dust. Below her, the long trestle tables of a cabinetmaker's workshop had been cleared away. A pair of Jehanan in bulking robes and face-shrouding cowls unlatched a rectangular plastic case. The slate-colored lid rolled back, revealing two wicked-looking tubes stenciled with Imperial military script. There was a sibilant trill from the natives, a sound the old Mйxica recognized as pleased laughter. Each day she spent among these people yielded up more of their body language, slang and private conversation to her. Their language was almost musical, and she allowed – with some disdain – their poetry was affecting, even to her, a human with the wrong kind of ear to appreciate its subtleties.
"There are sixteen more in this shipment," the human standing across the table said, his voice a little tinny after being filtered through the audio pickup on the spybug, broadcast scrambled to a Mirror relay on the roof of a nearby pottery kiln, tightbeamed back to Lachlan's operations center and then retransmitted to the dropwire in the back of her skull. "Consider these a gift, from those who hold the same enemies as yours."
One of the Jehanan – not the leader of this particular cell of the darmanarga moktar, but his spokesman – ran a supple, scaled hand across the anti-aircraft missile in the portage case. "We need more of theesse," he said, in passable NГЎhuatl. "Your predecessor offered two hundreds of them."
Did he? Itzpalicue wondered if the Flower Priest who had made the initial contact was really so bold. A real agent of the illegal, constantly hunted and thoroughly dangerous Swedish Royal Intelligence Service – the HKV – would not have made such a daring play. The Swedes would have given these creatures the tools and diagrams to make their own missiles. Much less costly than actually shipping two hundred KГ¤rrhГ¶k 'live-eye' hunter-seekers to such an obscure world. Itzpalicue was equally abstemious where her own budget was concerned. But here the xochiyaotinime are footing the bill – so cost is of little concern as long as we make a good show.
Another of the Jehanan nobles examined the missiles with a handheld sensor. After a moment's scrutiny, apparently satisfied, he coughed something unintelligible. The spokesman repeated his question.
"They are already on-planet," the Flower Whisperer said, producing a folded paper from his Parusian-styled overcloak. As it happened, the agent was one of Itzpalicue's 'mice' infiltrated into the xochiyaotinime team on Jagan. He was, of course, pretending to be a Swedish agent-provocateur. "Here are contact directions to meet someone who will help you move the rockets to a safe location of your choosing. But not for another four days."
Itzpalicue's technicians were watching on the spybug feed from Operations, waiting to see what kind of check the Jehanan would make before accepting the shipment. They would need time to make appropriate adjustments to the rest of the missiles. The old Mйxica did not intend for more than one in four of the rockets to work properly, once things came to violence here on Jagan. While the Flower Priests and the natives were expendable, she had no desire for the Army to spend too much blood in victory.
One of the darmanarga stirred and Itzpalicue saw a ripple of reaction sweep the others. The leader of this cell, she judged, watching their postures carefully. Once, long ago, this race expressed hierarchy through physical reactions, many lower, one higher. Those instincts have grown thin over time, but they are not yet gone. Interesting. The leader – his features were hidden by a deep cowl – said something the spybug did not pick up. The spokesman turned back to the human.
"We have assked before, nahwah, but we asssk again. Why do your clanss help uss? We are not of the same blood, same stock…"
Itzpalicue shifted a little on the stone bench, feeling sweat ooze from every pore. Fresh steam surged up from pipes laid under the perforated floor. The bathhouse was very old, every surface worn smooth as glass, the local travertine gaining a translucent, almost fleshy, shine. In the last four meetings she'd monitored – spread across the entire length and breadth of the valley of the Phison – the darmanarga representatives had asked a variation of the same question. Each time in the same way – accepting the goods, then posing the question as a seeming afterthought.
They are trying to cross-check, she thought, watching her agent's response closely. Lachlan needs to winnow their secure channels from the usual chatter. I need to know what they think they know.
"We know what will happen," the Flower Whisperer said in a somber voice, "if you do not receive better weapons. The Empire understands only strength. Without our assistance, all your valor will be useless in the face of superior arms. Then you will be little more than slaves. But if you fight, if you show a warrior's spirit, then they will respect you and see you as worthy of being allies."
The leader was whispering in the spokesman's ear again, claw tapping nervously on his subordinate's shoulder. "You…do not believe we can defeat the Empire?"
"No. Not alone. Not without our help."
Itzpalicue could feel, even through the video feed, the agent sweating with tension. Not so comfortable as being at the baths, she thought in amusement, with a good scrub and oil waiting.
"Without military-grade spacecraft," the Whisperer continued, "you will not be able to drive the Empire from your world." The human looked around the shop, indicating the lengths of cured golden timber stacked against the walls. "Beautiful tables and chairs will not suffice. Your people need time to build the industry required to put starships into service."
A bitter hissing rose from the Jehanan, and from her vantage point Itzpalicue saw the leader's clawed hand dig tight into the spokesman's shoulder. For a moment, something seemed familiar about the way the moktar cell leader was standing. The old Mйxica made a mental note to review the recording when she returned to her rooms. Another hurried conversation passed among the natives. Then the spokesman made a passable imitation of a human nod.