Thomas Harlan: House of Reeds

A stifling blanket of heat and humidity started to choke Anderssen before she'd taken two steps into the surging, agitated crowd. Her medband squeaked an alarm before being drowned out by the booming roar of thousands of panicky townsmen. She reached back, seized hold of Malakar's harness and started plowing forward, head down, shouldering natives out of the way on either side.

Claws scraped her face, clutched at her shirt and pants, then fell away behind. Malakar hooted mournfully, hands tight on the back of Gretchen's field jacket. Intermittent blasts of some kind of alarm horn shook the air. A sea of noise rolled back and forth over them, echoing from the vaulting roof and the awnings over the buses. The stench of the crowd faded, replaced by the smell of smoke and burning plastic.

Anderssen stumbled through a wood-and-glass door at the front of the bus station. Broad flights of steps littered with discarded goods – potted plants, shoes, smashed sun-hats, broken bottles and fallen, ripped paperbacks, sections of sod, torn clothing, harness buckles and straps – led down to the curving road. The huge crowd inside petered away to a few mournful souls sitting on the sidewalk, huddled in blankets or staring sightlessly at the sky, rain sluicing from their scales.

Despite the rain, a thick pall of smoke hung over the city, hiding the upper reaches of the ancient Khus .

Gretchen shifted her pack, checked her jacket and pockets. Malakar was still clinging to her back, panting, snout down. Water streamed from her long head.

"You all right?" Anderssen put her arm under the old Jehanan's shoulder. The human was soaked already, shirt clinging to clammy flesh, hair plastered to her forehead. "It's not far."

"This…this old walnut has never seen so many people in one place in all her life."

The avenue was empty. The usual throng of runner-carts and wagons and trucks was gone. A long, low building across the street was on fire, belching smoke into the rain. The gutters were already full, flowing sluggishly and spreading into huge ponds where debris blocked the drains. Gretchen searched for a landmark, realized the burning edifice was the train station and turned right. "This way."

They hurried down the sidewalk, feet splashing through oily pools, past abandoned stands advertising sweets, grilled meat, newspapers, religious votives and icons, all the paraphernalia of a living city. The kiosks were abandoned and empty, shutters banging against empty stalls, garbage heaped in drifts across the sidewalks.

The doors of the hotel were locked, drapes drawn tight behind barred windows. Gretchen banged on the wooden panel, her shoulder pinched with the effort of keeping Malakar upright. The gardener was staring curiously back down the lane, rain spattering on her long snout.

"Hello!" Anderssen called through the mail slot. "I'm a guest here! I have a room!"

"I think," Malakar whispered in amazement, "those were actual Araks who passed us! I've heard they're bloody handed savages from beyond the vale of Acare! They eat the flesh of their own kind – or whatever live prey they can catch. Did you see the necklaces of teeth?"

"No. Can you ask these people to open the door?"

After Malakar had hooted and trilled and generally sounded like a reasonable, polite lizard, someone peered out at them through the drapes and then, grudgingly, opened the door to let them in out of the rain.

"Very dangerous," the desk clerk declared, shaking his stumpy triangular head in dismay. "You do not know what kind of horrific creatures have lately been here! They threatened to chop down my door and eat the yolks of my eggs raw! While I watched!"

Gretchen nodded politely and dragged the gardener away and up the stairs before Malakar fell to discussing the proclivities of the mysterious Araks. Anderssen really only wanted to lie down in a real bed. Her stomach was growling with hunger.

"Hello?" The door to the room swung open and Gretchen winkled her nose, smelling burning tabac. She held Malakar back out of caution. "Is someone here?"

" Hrrr! " A rumbling growl answered and a disheveled black shape appeared out of the bedroom. Anderssen felt a tight band around her heart ease and sagged against the wall, so vastly relieved she could barely comprehend the pressure which had been dragging at her. "Maggie. You're alive."

"Hunt-sister!" the Hesht yelped in delight, seizing Gretchen in an enormous, bone-crushing hug. Then Maggie held the human out at arm's length, paws gripping Anderssen's shoulders. "You are whole and undamaged? We thought a ghost was whispering to us on the comm…"

"I know, I know." Anderssen hugged the Hesht back, sagging into her soft, plushy fur. Magdalena felt wonderfully warm and dry. "We tried to reach the khus , but there were troops everywhere… I'm glad you ran when you did."

" Hoooo! " Malakar made a pleased sound, long snout snuffling at Magdalena. "Your friend is not a human at all. Such strange, soft scales she has!"

"No," Gretchen stepped aside, wiping her eyes. "Malakar, this is Magdalena. She is a Hesht – another asuchau race – they live in great clan-arks which travel between the stars, but she works with me for the Company. Maggie, this is Malakar, she was a gardener at the House of Reeds; which is to say, she was a teacher-of-kits."

"Well met," Magdalena said, ears twitching forward. She bowed politely. "If you are a friend of the hunt-sister, then you are welcome to our pack."

"Hoooo…" The gardener seemed pensive, covering the tip of her snout in embarrassment. "I do not know if clever-thoughts counts me as friend or not."

Gretchen smiled crookedly. "We've chased each other over enough rooftops, I think we can say we are friends. You didn't turn me in to the Master of the Garden, though I haven't given you any answers to your questions."

Malakar nodded, emulating the Hesht's bow. Magdalena twitched her whiskers at Anderssen and winkled her plushy nose. "Parker is here too – but he has been hurt."

"Hurt?" Alarmed, Gretchen pushed past Maggie and into the bedroom, where she stopped and stared at the pilot, who was buried under a pile of quilts. "He doesn't look hurt to me," she declared. "He is smoking in my bed, and has plenty of colorful magazines filled with interesting pictures to entertain him."

"Hi, boss." Parker took a long drag on his tabac and offered her a pained smile. "They're for my health – the tabacs, I mean. A restorative! All these" – he gestured at the native magazines scattered on the coverlet – "are really Maggie's. I'm just trying not to move too much."

Anderssen leaned over him, eyeing the bandages taped to the side of the pilot's head, his neck and the visible part of his shoulder. "What happened to you?"

Parker grunted, his lips a little white. "The side of a train kind of, uh, hit me, boss."

"You are injured." Gretchen gently peeled back the top of the quilt. The pilot's chest, arm and side were a dark, angry purple under a layer of quickheal gel. She hissed, concerned. "How bad is this?"

"I can't walk," Parker said, watching her nervously. "My leg and arm are…uh…broken. The doc said I've got a concussion and I chipped some teeth." He grinned. Two of his bicuspids were jagged. "I'm kind of doped up right now, so I hope you don't need me to fly anything…"

Gretchen shook her head, looking pale. "You were hit by a train?"

"No." Maggie wrapped her arms around Gretchen's shoulders, holding the anguished human close. "We were in the train and there was a wreck. Parker can't land on his feet, so he used his side and leg and arm instead." The Hesht blew mournfully through her fangs. "We were lucky – many passengers were killed."

"Ok-ke." Anderssen patted the Hesht's furry arm and sat down in a chair beside the bed. Feeling dizzy, she put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. "Is…is there anything to eat?"