"Now there is a vigorous reception, mi'lord. They do seem to love us here."
The city residence of kujen Nahwar, prince of Gandaris, was a gaudy confection of russet domes and towers and fluted minarets gleaming with rust-colored marble. Colmuir could see a series of interlocking courtyards and gardens, all flush with green trees and limpid pools. Some of the inner buildings seemed to be entirely composed of flowering trellises. The stout, ten-meter-high battlement surrounding the palace would have seemed out of place, were it not for the thousands of angry Jehanan citizens swarming in the public square facing the residence. A squat gatehouse rose up out of a sea of gray-green faces, surmounted by an overhanging parapet. A cluster of Jehanan nobles was standing on the roof, well back from the edge, and Colmuir guessed the fat one in the middle with all the bronze and copper chasing on his body-harness was either the prince himself, or his vizier.
Below, in the center of the square, the mob was tearing a wooden landing platform apart with their bare hands while a whole array of priests hammered enormous drums, bellowed encouragement to the crowd and waved forests of painted banners over their scaly heads. Any sign of princely authority had fled. Smoke billowed from an impromptu bonfire fed by wagons, meters of pro-Imperial posters and anything flammable to hand. The crowd around the fire parted, allowing a dozen husky Jehanan to topple an elaborate plaster statue of – well, the Skawt guessed the local artisans had tried to model the effigy on a public relations photo – a human head atop a Jehanan body into the bonfire.
The statue crashed into leaping flames with a resounding crash and huge clouds of sparks leapt up. The cheering roar of the crowd penetrated the armored skin of the aerocar as a dull booming sound. Hooting in delight, the mob drew back as fresh jets of flame erupted from the collapsing mannequin, then rushed forward as the plaster broke apart and the effigy turned black, spewing an inordinate amount of heavy smoke. Another cart toppled into the conflagration.
"Swing over the palace," Dawd said from his forward seat. The younger Skawtsman had a Bofors Whipsaw squad support weapon cradled in his arms, the six-barrel muzzle resting against his window. "See if there's someplace to land."
The aerocar jolted to speed, sweeping through the air. A cloud of cobblestones, burning torches and more spears burst up from the mob, though Colmuir noted none of them had the raw strength of arm possessed by whoever had pitched the first spear. All of the missiles fell short, and then the aerocar was turning over the palace. Both Dawd and Colmuir studied the maze of gardens and pools and sharply pitched rooftops with growing dismay.
"Nothing big enough," Dawd grumbled into the private comm linking him and Colmuir. "Unless we want to try a step-off onto one of those balconies."
The master sergeant shook his head dourly. "We're aborting this drop. We'll go directly to the Gemmilsky house." He turned to look over the silent prince's head at the adjutant. "Corporal Clark, make sure the staff there is informed of our imminent arrival. I'll see if the Legation representative has his comm on down there…"
The aerocar banked in a tight loop as the pilot took them back across the palace grounds. Dawd could see dozens of curious faces at the windows, and some of the Jehanan in the courtyards waved as they sped overhead. The young Skawtsman wondered if the clients of the kujen were truly friendly, or if they'd been ordered to put on a welcoming show. None of the Jehanan nobility he'd encountered so far had struck him as being truly interested in friendship with the Empire.
They want whatever edge we can give them over their rivals, and I'm sure our diplomats are just as cynical in dealing with them. A sorry world, indeed. Dawd hid a sigh. He was sure the owner would be very gracious about being bumped out of his own house for the duration. Sounds like he's a tough customer, though. Can't be dealing in cross-border trade in this place without having something to back it up with. The Legation dossier on Johann Gemmilsky said the Polish nobleman was involved in a thriving import/export business – bringing sleek, Turzanian riding lizard stock down from the cold plains beyond Capisene and shipping a variety of machined products back north. Guns, Imperial guns I'll bet, for breeding stock. Hope that means he's rich and has real toilets in his house.
Dawd could hear Clark speaking stiffly to someone on his comm and checked the ammunition load on his Whipsaw. He doubted Gemmilsky would get violent, but there was no guarantee the local rumor mill couldn't beat them to the townhouse in the form of another violent mob.
"This is outrageous!" The honorable viscount Johann Gemmilsky's voice made the chandelier in the main entryway of his tidy little mansion shiver, crystalline droplets tinkling. "I offer my house for the prince's comfort – as a host, he as an honorable guest – and you say I must leave immediately? With only the shoes upon my feet? You are a rogue, sir!"
Colmuir, feet firmly planted, hands clasped behind his back, looked down at the Pole and narrowed his eyes. "This residence is now the property of a Prince of the Blood, Gemmilsky-tzin. You'd best be packing a bag and spending the night at your mistress's boudoir. With the situation in the city being so…volatile…we can't have any strangers about. You understand, of course. Security. Now, Clawk here will give you a receipt and you can charge the Legation for damages, but you'll be out of here before the Light of the World steps through those doors, won't you?"
Gemmilsky's pale blue eyes twitched from Colmuir's forbidding face to Dawd, then down to the black shape of the Whipsaw. The machine gun was politely pointed at the floor, but the younger Skawtsman knew he made a dangerous figure with the ammunition bandoliers looping over his chest and behind his back. The heavy dark combat jacket didn't hurt either.
"I see. Very well. I will go, now, and be assured there will be a very careful accounting of everything in this house! There will be a bill for damages!"
"I'm sure there will be," Colmuir said in a stolid voice. He inclined his head at the adjutant standing beside Dawd. "Corporal, see Gemmilsky-tzin on his way, will you?"
Clark, giving the older Skawtsman a reproving look, escorted the businessman out of the hall.
"That was a little harsh, Master Sergeant." Dawd said. "I doubt he's a security risk to the prince." At least he wasn't before! Now, though…who knows?
Colmuir sniffed in disdain, looking around at the opulent wall hangings and hardwood floors. The house was certainly fit for the prince to lay his head on the silk pillows and featherbed the opulently appointed lower floors promised would be waiting upstairs. "I don't trust Poles and Russians, sergeant. You know that. Tricky, devilish fellows they are and murderous t' boot. The Light of Heaven himself has often told me to beware their wiles."
Dawd didn't bother to hide his disbelief. "Of course. I'll bring the prince inside."
"You do that," Colmuir said, picking up a slender vase from a small table set against one of the walls. He rubbed a thick, scarred finger across the golden porcelain with an appreciative eye. "I'll be checking the rooms for hidden devices, bombs, and the' like. Can't be too careful."
The younger man considered saying something, then took in the calculating look on the master sergeant's face and decided to keep his opinions to himself. Now poor Corporal Clark will have to round up an air-truck to haul all this…booty away. The Resident is going to have an aneurysm when he gets the bill.
Outside, Dawd hurried across a graveled carriageway, the collar of his jacket turned up against an unexpectedly cold wind, and opened the door of the aerocar. The Gemmilsky house was on a bit of a hill, surrounded by conical trees with long trailing limbs studded with sharp-edged leaves like an unwound accordion. The residence itself was three stories of marble-faced brick – all quite new, in a design which suggested a Russian boyar's villa implemented by a Jehanan architect who'd lost his glasses. In the air, the sergeant had praised the Mother and her Son for providing such a thick stand of foliage around the property. The pilot had dropped them straight in with the 'car fans on whisper, and Dawd hadn't seen a single Jehanan in line-of-sight.