"Kkkkrrrr-ich! Khay-gu, izh-huma!" The Jehanan shook his massive head, ornamental eye-shields bouncing, a rippling shirt of copper rings stretched tight against scaled pectorals.
"What does he want?" Tezozуmoc squeaked in fear.
"Wants…to kill you…mi'lord," the Skawtsman bit out, both hands locked tight on the grip of the Nambu. "Shouldn't have touched the lass…urrgh!"
"I didn't do anything!" The prince's voice was squashed down to a frail whisper. "She was…urk…just singing for…me!"
"Hhuh-hen yehr," a careful voice intruded. Sergeant Dawd appeared behind the Jehanan, a short-barreled automatic rifle in his hands. The flash-suppressor of the weapon jammed into the side of the native's neck, just behind the jaw joint, where heavy plate-scales protecting the face, cranium and chest faded away into pebbly stretch-skin. "Ghawww-yeh."
"What is he saying?" Tezozуmoc wasn't trying to whisper, but his vision was blurring with black sparks as his lungs compressed under the weight of both the muscular Skawtsman and the bent knee of the Jehanan. "Oh, mother…I'm dying…"
Shocked silence was broken by a babble of voices. Vaguely, the prince made out the smooth, controlled voice of the Resident speaking rapidly in the same barbarous, guttural tongue. The pressure on his chest eased fractionally. Dawd withdrew, the assault rifle disappearing under his black coat. The sergeant seemed very tense. He should lie down, Tezozуmoc thought, his head spinning. Like me. Very comfortable. Heavy, heavy blankets they have here.
Colmuir eased back his pistol, wincing to see the hand-guard had been nearly cloven through, and spread his hands, eyes locked on the black, glittering pits which served the Jehanan for optics. The stabbing sword remained exactly poised, needlelike tip aimed directly at the prince.
Resident Petrel, elegant face sheened with sweat, leaned in, talking quietly to the Jehanan. Colmuir, catching the gist of the conversation – his command of the Parusian dialect did not match Dawd's easy mastery, but it served – rolled carefully over, shielding the prince with his body. At the same time, he plucked an ampoule from a stickypatch inside his armored jacket and jammed the drug dispenser against the side of Tezozуmoc's neck.
"Oh now, not fair…" wheezed the prince, eyelids rolling up. His body shuddered and fell limp on the floor. Sweat slithered down Colmuir's nose and spattered across the boy's gilded shirt.
"Oh, Saint Mary of the Angels," the Skawt muttered, waiting for the wickedly sharp sword blade to plunge in between his shoulder blades. He had a sinking feeling the ablative, armored mesh would not stop the ice-pick-like stroke for more than a heartbeat.
The guttural exchange between the Resident and the Jehanan general was now a three-way conversation as Bhrigu, kujen of Parus, had arrived, and the sound level was rising very, very quickly. The prince hopped nervously from one foot to the other, complaining loudly to Petrel in a mishmash of NГЎhuatl and Jehanan. The Skawt could feel more people – men in Army dress boots and trousers – crowding into the salon. All of the prince's 'new friends' had fled.
Dawd edged into Colmuir's field of vision, pudgy face lit with a kind of inner glow. "Nice party, Master Sergeant? The Governor's got kujen Bhrigu calming down his man. Apparently the bonny lass is regarded with protective affection by General Humara there. But we need to get his highness out of here immediately." Dawd peered at the boy's face. "Knocked him out, did you?"
"Aye." Colmuir rolled sideways, saw the massive shape of the Jehanan soldier had withdrawn. A solid wall of Mixtec officers – though none of them were armed with more than carving knives snatched up from the buffet tables – was between the limp, sweaty shape of the prince and a steadily growing crowd of hissing Jehanans. The rose-tinted female had disappeared. "Didn't take much. Don't see how the lad can drink, smoke and drop so much in one night…"
"Youth," Dawd grunted, slipping one arm under Tezozуmoc's. Colmuir took the other side and together they sidled off, heading for the servants' entrance at the back of the entertaining room. A tall, well-dressed woman with white-shot hair held the door open for them. She looked down at the prince with a pensive expression as the two Skawts hustled him into a brightly lit, tile-floored maintenance corridor.
Itzpalicue watched the bodyguards dragging the prince away in an eyecast v-pane transmitted by a spybug loitering near the roof of the kitchen corridor. She sniffed with longstanding amusement. Her opinion of the prince had not changed in years. "Well, he certainly livens up a party, doesn't he?"
Will he live? a female voice replied. The old woman nodded, marking the efficient way the two Skawtsmen were moving the body.
"Of course," Itzpalicue said quietly to the empty air. The mezzanine balcony had emptied with amazing speed once word of the altercation lit through the party. An excited buzz throbbed in the air as hundreds of people chattered madly about what they imagined they'd seen. "He's young and took no direct harm. Worse for his liver, to judge by the prodigious quantity of stimulants he downed this evening. But I suppose he'll get another fresh one."
He was sweating like a malaria victim when he greeted me, Mrs. Petrel said in a concerned tone. Does he spend all of his time like this?
"Probably," the old woman answered drily. "With the Light of Heaven for a father? This son is not cast from the same alloy as the others. But no matter, more fuel for my fire. We'll make sure he gets home safely this time. Can't have him dying in some sordid brawl over a joygirl – that would not play well on the holocast nets, no indeed."
Bhazuradeha is no courtesan. Greta's voice was very sharp. She may be the finest poet in this generation of Jehanan – certainly the most talented in Parus. General Humara was enraged because she was singing part of her new composition, Skythe-Color-of-Birthshell-Fragments, for the prince. They were verses the general had yet to hear – and among these people, such things are touchy matters. Humara is particularly sensitive.
"A few stanzas were cause for attempted murder?" Itzpalicue bristled at the implied reprimand in the woman's voice. "Over poetry?"
Over an impromptu audition. Bhazuradeha is very ambitious. Humara feared the prince would become her patron in his place.
"Not a very discerning woman." The old Mйxica snorted into her hand. "What would she want from our dissolute boy?"
To be elevated beyond the reach of these squabbling petty nobles. The safety to speak that which is in her heart. In time, holocast access via the Development Board's new satellite network. The chance for her words to reach millions of her fellow Jehanan, rather than merely the tens of thousands who gather to hear her recite in public.
"Tens of thousands?" Itzpalicue said in disbelief. "For a poet?"
If Nezahualcoyotl of Tetzcoco were alive today, how many of your people would wish to hear him read Nitlayocoya or Song of Flight in person? A hundred thousand? A million?
"That's entirely different. The Doomed Prince was a Mйxica!"
Of course.
Itzpalicue terminated the conversation and switched back to the operations channel. She did not enjoy being mocked. Frenetic air surged around her like a living sea, making her tremble with reflected excitement, fear, rumor and adrenaline. She started a breathing pattern to slow her heart before she lost focus.