Thomas Harlan: House of Reeds

They swirled, flashing smiles and pert golden breasts, around him. All alike they were, shimmering with scales and sparkling indigo dust in their hair. "Come with us," they cried, weaving and bobbing in a stamping, quick-footed spiral. Their hands were on him before the prince could react and he giggled, starting to feel alive again, as they swept him away towards the ancient, crumbling edifice of the altar of San Marco. A quartet of bronze horses reared above him, festooned with garlands of flowers and paper lanterns.

Amazingly, the crowd parted in front of them, as though the sea ebbed before his majesty.

"Wait!" The prince stared around in dismay, seeing nothing but a frenetic sea of heads, banners, masks, feather headdresses and upraised arms. "Where did she go?"

The woman with long hair had disappeared.

"You'll see her again," chimed the ring of scaled girls holding him tight. "Soon!"

Mumbling a constant, unintelligible litany of curses, a tall, elderly, lean-faced man shoved his way through the crowd. Despite the rolling waves of heat rising from the mob of dancers, he had not cast aside his heavy leather coat. Immediately behind him, a shorter man with wild dark brown hair and a dyspeptic expression tried to follow.

"D'ye see him?" Master Sergeant Lorne Colmuir spat out the wet, crushed remains of a tabac, his head in constant movement, trying to pick out one depressingly familiar brown visage among all the masks and painted faces bobbing on the dance floor. "Our wee-wee bairn?"

"I can't see anything ," Sergeant Leslie Dawd answered, bulling his way to his companion's side. He tried to stand on tiptoe and was immediately crushed into the Skawtsman's side. Furious, the Eagle Knight lashed out, knocking down a drunken man with an elephant-face mask. Colmuir lent a hand, dragging the shorter man to his feet.

"Circle roight," Lorne growled, already moving left, leading with an elbow and pressing through the crowd.

" 'Roight.' Learn to speak properly…" Dawd grumbled, smoothing back his disordered, sweat-stiff hair. Leading with both hands, he jammed through a line of copper-skinned men, tall prongs of multi-colored feathers dancing against their backs. "Useless, useless waste of a prince…"

He stumbled out into a tiny void in the chaos of the crowd, nothing more than the counter-rotating calm generated by a stream coiling around a rock. Sergeant Dawd shook out his shoulders, letting the gunrig under his coat settle, bracing to plunge into the mob again.

A girl – no, a woman – popped out of the wave of caroling dancers in front of him. He caught sight of piercing blue eyes between strands of heavy black hair and got an impression of a lithe, muscular body before she was in his arms.

"Hello." Her voice was husky and hot, hotter than the steaming air filling the ancient cathedral. Her hand was around his neck, slippery on his skin and cold – something hard pressed against his spine – Dawd tried to jerk away, left arm slashing up to break contact.

Bzzzt! His entire body convulsed in a bone-wrenching spasm. The woman grinned, flashing a brilliant smile, and was gone into the crowd. The sergeant staggered, body jerking with successive electric shocks. Despite overwhelming, teeth-grinding pain, his hands scrabbled to tear the jitterbug away from his neck.

The thudding beat changed as the Runner completed his last circuit of the hall, and the Four Hundred dancers began to shout their war cries in counterpoint to the roar of the Mйxica drummers. Flames cavorted above the crowd, hurled up by men in wolf-cloaks, spinning wheels of sparks flashing against the dark roof.

The crowd surged again, the tiny space collapsed, and Dawd went down, wracked by electrical shocks and trampled by dozens of unwary revelers.

Colmuir sprang up onto the dais holding the drummers, left hand over his ear to keep the near-physical blast of the amplifiers rising in a black tower from crushing his eardrum. Ignoring the startled looks of the naked, sweating musicians he weaved quickly through them, eyes on the crowd below, looking for a too-familiar youth…there!

A clutch of girls in little more than silver and gold paint were disappearing through a low arch, a stumbling Painal-the-Runner among them. The Skawtsman cursed, vaulted a row of flute players and plunged into the crowd beyond.

Two enormous brutes – faces unexpectedly bare, masses of iron rings glittering on clenched fists – grabbed at him. Twisting sideways, Colmuir dove between them, hands plunging beneath his coat and vest. The bouncers collided, bounced back shouting in rage and were gone behind a wall of spinning penitents in long white mantles. The Skawt bounded through the archway, hands filled with a pair of Nambu 'double-rack' automatics. A fresh contingent of celebrants – winter coats still draped over their costumes, snow dusting their hair – scattered away as he charged up the staircase.

At the top of the stairs, the Eagle Knight skidded to a halt, taking a measured glance down the corridors branching away on either side. The flash of silver heels caught his eye and he was taking the next flight of steps three at a time. Laughter rang in openness and he was suddenly surrounded by pale watery light.

The half-dome of a boat bay rose before him, all green plexi and damp iron ribs. Beyond the man-high windows shining lights moved in the depths – submersibles and party barges cruising among the drowned towers and palaces of old Venice – searchlights briefly illuminating the empty windows and doorways of the dead city. Colmuir darted forward, thumbing off the safeties on both automatics. A sleek black Stiletto minisub was floating in the right-hand boat pool. One of the silver girls had keyed the hatch and was throwing back the glassite dome.

"Halt, in the name of the Empire!" The automatics bucked and a sharp crack-crack-crack bounced back from the plexi dome as the master sergeant opened fire. Tracers slashed through the prince-nappers and one of the girls staggered, crimson splashed across her golden breasts.

The enemy broke ranks, and Colmuir threw himself to one side, crashing to the floor behind a valet station. The brief glimpse of their deft, coordinated movements filled him with a sharp burst of fear. Despite his sudden appearance, they'd separated left and right without the slightest hesitation.

The hammering roar of a submachine gun raked the valet station, tearing gaping holes in the light wood. Lorne flattened, trying to scramble away. Twisting on the floor, he dropped behind the lip of the left-hand boat pool, one leg splashing into chill seawater.

Something metallic tumbled overhead and splashed into the dark water.

"Curst!" Colmuir vaulted back the other way, both automatics blazing in a wild figure eight.

Whooomp! The grenade went off, blasting water in all directions. Drenched, the Eagle Knight scuttled back towards the entranceway. The dead girl sprawled on the dockside. The Stiletto was still rocking at anchor, a string of bullet holes spiderwebbing the cabin canopy.

A low groaning sound permeated the air. His wild spray of fire had cracked the heavy glassite panels holding back the chill waters of the Adriatic.

Without a pause, Colmuir darted towards the far exit tunnel, thumbing the magazine ejectors on his pistols. Strips of smoking plastic bounced away on the metal decking. He reached the corner, flattened himself against the wall, and jammed fresh ammo coils into each weapon.

There was a grinding noise as glassite and metal twisted around the hairline cracks in the clear panels.

Grimacing, Colmuir punched a locking code into the boat-bay panel on the wall, then ducked around the corner, pistols raised. The deck under his feet shuddered as the lock door began to descend, squealing on long-unused tracks.