"An Imperial ship rides in orbit. You can see them when the angle of the sun is just right and the sky is clear… Muru there, he is my eyes and ears in the city, among the people. He says they have a tale told to children – of the 'star-which-returns.' Apparently, there is a parking orbit just visible from here…"
Petrel set down her pipe. Suddenly pensive, she rubbed her lower lip with a neatly manicured thumbnail. "Mrs. Anderssen, in truth, I wish I could put you and your two companions on the next starliner for the home systems. My husband has served on eight planets now, both as direct governor and as ambassador. We've been moving from place to place for nearly twenty years. Over all that time…Well, you start to develop a feeling for things." Her hands made a pushing-away gesture, eyes fixed on Gretchen. "Soon enough, Imperial citizens will not be able to walk the streets safely."
"I'll take care," Anderssen said. The older woman's voice had a funny tone – regret, pleading, warning – and the archaeologist suddenly turned and looked around the veranda. The servants stood quietly along the wall, faces in shadow. The furniture glowed in firelight, the mosquito netting obscured half-closed doorways into other rooms. She could hear the sound of water dripping from the perfume trees. Everything seemed very elegant, well-matched, perfectly placed. Her brief passage through the house reflected the same careful taste. How much does all this cost? An enormous amount, answered her grandmother's dry voice. How much does a Legate or Governor make on the Imperial payroll? Not enough, not for such luxury.
She turned back to the woman, throat constricted. Four pieces fit together and the bowl begins to assume a beautiful shape; part of a handle fits, you can see the curve where the potter turned a fluted lip for a water jug. Patterns emerge from the jumble of lines and colors. The face of a god, a monster…my Company contact. "Do you think the Honorable Doctor SГє would care if we spent a day or two in the north, to see this…festival? Visit the markets?"
Petrel's eyes glinted in amusement. "No. No, I'm sure he wouldn't do anything malicious. How could he know? Soumake won't tell him, and who else would know?"
Gretchen felt a little sick, feeling her stomach turn queasily with the same kind of acid bitterness which came every time she thought about her bank account. The woman across from her had a steady gaze. Her hands didn't tremble, but Anderssen wondered if there was a medband hidden under the silken drape of her kimono. Or perhaps her blood is just as cold as nitrogen ice.
"Well then," Anderssen said. "We'll get transport to Takshila and see the sights. You recommend the 'House of Reeds'?"
"An excellent itinerary," Petrel said briskly, reaching into her kimono and producing a sheaf of brightly colored papers in a cardboard sleeve. "There are a variety of ways to reach the old city – bus, train and so on. I suggest the train – here are tickets – and I've had a friend rent you an apartment."
Still rather numbed by the prospect of the Legate's wife working for the Company, Gretchen forced her hand to take the papers and stuff them into her bag. "Thank you. Is there…"
Petrel pressed a datapak into Anderssen's hand. "A guidebook to the local sights, if you will. Come back soon, and safe, and let me know what you've found."
The chattering sound of a news holocast greeted Gretchen as she closed the hotel door behind her. Her field jacket was soaked with rain, and she brushed damp hair from her eyes. The storm had picked up again during her ride home. "Maggie, did Parker get back?"
"He did," the Hesht grunted, her rumbling voice carrying down the hallway dividing their suite of rooms. As Mrs. Petrel had said, there were several petite hotels near the Court of Yellow Flagstones catering to the Imperial trade. This one even boasted a NГЎhuatl-speaking receptionist downstairs. Anderssen hung up her jacket in a tile-floored alcove, feeling the fabric of her shirt stick to her forearms. Despite a dehumidifier running somewhere in the ceiling, the air in their rooms insisted on congealing at every opportunity.
"He has made a mess, just like the scruffy kit he is."
Gretchen peeled back her sleeves as she walked into the main sitting room. Sliding glass doors set into burnished, rosy wood frames opened onto a balcony. The floors were covered with plush colorful rugs and carpets. Native artwork – mostly threaded tapestries held in ironwood frames – covered the walls. Everything felt crisp and new; the sheets, the furniture – the hotelier was betting on a steady stream of Imperial guests. Only the holocast set was out of place – an ugly, refurbished block of plastic and pitted metal hidden under a fresh coat of paint.
Gretchen considered the squat object – the heads of threevee Jehanan pundits were yammering in the air over the projectors – and felt uneasy. This thing must be six or seven years old, a cheap Occitanian set… And how much did they pay for ithere? Too much. And how did they get political talk shows so fast? It's unnatural…
Magdalena was surrounded by a drift of newspapers, holovee cubes, nondescript black equipment boxes, Imperial romance novels sporting lurid covers, tabloid-style magazines filled with two-d images of indistinguishable local celebrities, her comm-pad and plates piled with cracked bones. Antenna wires spilled off the bed and disappeared out a narrow window. Gretchen felt a little queasy for a moment, glad she'd missed the Hesht feeding, and then frowned ominously – someone had dumped a large, dusty rolled carpet on her bed.
"Did Parker do this?" Anderssen's nose twitched. There was a familiar oily smell, mixed with the tang of dust, grime and old shoes.
"He is shedding pelt," Maggie said absently, attention fixed on her comm. Delicate claw tips were tapping rapidly on the control surface. "Was there a heartfelt exchange of endlessly fascinating infant-cub stories with the packleader's mate? Consumption of sweetened, flavored alcohol?"
"Not quite." Gretchen cleared off a sitting mat and knelt to take off her dress shoes. They were out of style and scuffed, but better for paying a social visit than her work boots, which were three times patched. She caught Magdalena's eye, signing: Can we talk?
The Hesht nodded, flicking the back of a flat, spatulate finger against a black metal tripod perched on her side table. The cylinder sported a single green light, which was burning steadily. "No one's bothered to install landline pickups in the walls yet – a newly excavated den for sure! They build solid walls here, too, of fired ceramic brick, which dampens broadband emissions. Also, I've been scanning all the usual frequencies – lots of traffic, but none of it terribly sophisticated."
"Ok-ke. Parker! Get out here." Gretchen leaned back and sighed in relief, wiggling her toes. Grandmother always said dressing properly required practice…didn't tell me I'd need adaptive surgery for my feet.
A shoji slid open in the wall and the pilot stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his neck, shallow chest freshly scrubbed. "Hey, boss, bring me anything to drink?"
"I think you've had dinner already," Gretchen said drily. There were Mayahuel beer bottles stacked in a pyramid beside his bed. "There some reason you're buying ratty old carpets? I think there is a rule of traveling which says 'don't put your crap on your roommate's bed without permission.' "
"Sorry! Just needed to put this down for a minute…" Parker took hold of one end of the rolled carpet and dragged it onto the floor with a heavy metallic thunk. Exhausted by the effort, he produced a tabac from behind his ear and looked around for a lighter.