Circling around the wicked ornamentation of the nearest chandelier, the Hjo sat at one of the tables, back against the pleasantly cool wall, and wondered if the establishment was closed. A handful of other patrons sat at the far end of the long room, but none of them had paid his entrance the slightest attention. Sahane’s long, tapir-like head swiveled, looking for the telltale ghosting of a human comm-panel in the air. Nothing. He frowned, the leathery skin around two deep-set eyes wrinkling up. He could smell food, but… how did you order a meal without an interface?
“A waiter comes,” someone said, in passable Trade. “And you tell him which ingestibles you desire.”
Sahane’s frown deepened into puzzlement. The human settling into a chair opposite the young Hjo was familiar-Sahane had been aware of him dozens of times-but they’d never spoken before. The fine coating of hollow hairs forming the top layer of his fur shivered, making the silver-gray gloss ripple. An Eye should not speak; it is inappropriate! Its only duty is to spy.
“Though,” the human male continued, tucking a pair of sunglasses into a pocket of his mantle, “the menu here is limited. You’d be best to order an octli beer and perhaps a plate of nopalli, if you are hungry.”
“I am not,” Sahane said, after a moment of consternation. “You have never spoken to me before-is there a… a situation? A danger?”
Every member of the Hjogadim delegation on Anahuac, to the best of Sahane’s knowledge, had at least three Eyes fixed upon them-not all at once, of course, but in rotating shifts throughout the swift Terran day-but always from a distance. This one-tall, as the indigenes went, with sleek dark fur on its head and regular, waxy-skinned features-had always been at least a block away for as long as the Eye had observed the Hjo. That it should come closer-or even speak to Sahane-implied something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Ah, the Hjo suddenly realized, the wretched Eyes don’t wish me to purchase trimethoxyphene from this new vendor. The previous merchant must have complained “There is no situation,” the toy said, quite calmly. It approximated a Hjo smile, lips tight. “You are perfectly safe. There will be only a slight delay before the priest comes.”
Sahane blinked, feeling a familiar fog of confusion congealing around him. He did not like this place-the backwater polity; the crude, barbarous planet; much less this dreadful bowl of hot smog that passed for a city-and the intrigues and plots of the local princelings did not move him at all. His master the zhongdu seemed to take an interest in the chattering and scrabbling of the humans, but Sahane had done his best to stay far, far removed from such things. It was not, after all, his purpose.
“The… hikuli priest is coming here?” Sahane whispered tentatively. “How would he know to come-”
“I told him,” the human said, unnaturally slim fingers producing a data-crystal, “that you would be a little late, and wished to try authentic Tenochtitlan food. Where else but Tlatelolco would you find such fine grilled dogs? We will need only a moment for our business.”
The Hjo’s dull black eyes fixed on the message capsule, which was banded with red and seemed to shine with an inner light. “That is one of ours,” he muttered, feeling his skin heat with distress. “How did you get it?”
The human smiled again. “This is for your master. Will you convey it to the zhongdu?”
“I will not,” Sahane hissed. The low ceiling pressed down claustrophobically. “It is not my purpose to exchange messages with your kind! I will be…” The Hjo clamped his mouth shut before severely punished escaped into the open air. “I am not a Voice,” came out instead, as a hiss.
“If you do not accept the gift,” the human said, sharp brown eyes watching the nervous alien and wondering what a “Voice” might be, “then your ‘priest’ will be further delayed and there will be no godhead to accompany you to the consulate.”
The Gods are not here! an ancient-sounding voice sneered among Sahane’s thoughts. Were they, we would be exalted and these toys churned to ash for our gardens. Were the Gods here, we would not need these pasty sulfates and salts to entertain us! We would burn with “I can find another-” Sahane rose abruptly and there was a dull clonk as his head slammed into the iron candelabra suspended over the table. “Aaah!”
Wincing, the Hjo staggered away from the table, long fur-covered fingers clutching his tapered head. His mouth gaped wide, revealing the heavy rows of grinding molars and chisel-shaped cutting teeth lining his fore-jaw.
“I’ve got you,” the Mirror agent said, steadying the alien arm. The smooth human countenance creased with worry. “You’re bleeding, Sahane- tzin.”
The Hjo grimaced, wrenching his polluted limb free from the toy’s grasp. Beneath his fingers, the warm oozing sensation of a cut was already fading as his scalp-skin crawled back together. “I heal,” Sahane spat. Though his legs felt loose and rubbery, the Hjo fled, staggering up the steps and brushing past a startled-looking youth in vibrant, polychromatic robes carrying a ribbed, dark green effigy pot in his hands.
Behind him, in the dim recess of the restaurant, the young Mexica pretended not to notice the puzzled Xochipilli priest on the stair. He smoothed down his mantle before spraying a biocide on the table and chair where the Hjogadim had rested. Then he glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention and disappeared out through the kitchen.
Down the street, Sahane stumbled to a halt, leaning against a wall covered with glossy painted tile showing dozens of young boys dressed as bees, birds, and macaws sitting in the branches of a massive tree whose limbs tangled the sun and stars, while the roots twined down amongst the skulls and bones of the dead. Opposite him a stall lined with dozens of flowered cloaks caught the midday sun, casting a hot glow of brilliant hummingbird colors in his watery eyes.
This is a dreadful place, the young alien thought for the thousandth time, pawing in the pouch at his belt for a map token that would lead him to other vendors. I will just find some alkaloids instead His long fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and cylindrical. The Hjo fell still, hindbrain yielding up a list of everything he’d donned in his cubicle before setting out into the teeming anthill of the human city.
Seconds passed. Sahane carefully pulled out and regarded the data-crystal with a jaundiced eye. He looked about, saw only the usual throng of humanity, and pitched the irritating little item into the nearest garbage can. Then he stood up, feeling relieved, and loafed off thinking: Right Thought guides me well, to avoid the complications of lesser creatures at every turn!
The Hjogadim had gone a good block or more, almost stepping out into the bustling flower market of Tlatelolco to buy his lunch, when another thought intruded: What if some cunning Eye informs the zhongdu of my meeting, and Demands are made upon me to produce the contraband? If I do not hold it in my hand, it will seem I am hiding Truth or have sold something for my own profit.
Cursing, he paced back down the alley and retrieved the crystal, which had gone seemingly untouched. Now it seemed far too heavy in his palm.
The little old Yaqui man sitting on the corner did not look up from stuffing his face with fried chapultin, nor show the slightest interest in the creature’s self-conscious scrabbling in the garbage bin, but the event had not gone unnoticed.
The leaden gray sky poured down rain as a small backwoods settlement lurched into view through streaming windows. Sitting quietly on a cracked dark green vinyl seat, Green Hummingbird watched weather-worn buildings roll past, their windows shuttered tight against a cold, damp summer. The transit bus slid to a halt before a terminal of patched glass and corroded metal. He climbed down behind a crowd of migrant lumbermen and waited patiently for his turn at the baggage claim.