Shadow’s Son

by Shirley Meier, S. M. Stirling

  Shkai’ra snorted. “A slow child, hmmph. I’ve noticed people who favor mob rule tend to be that way. Not that I’ve ever seen it carried so far as an entire race taking a vote over an invasion. Which brings me to a concern I had. The man’s been given marching orders by his mob. And says he wants them. But from what we heard, it sounds like they had to all but pull his toenails out to get it out of him, grudge or no grudge. Is he really whole-hearted about this fight?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a Yeoli thing. Any method, other than a vote, of deciding on an act so major—and so much against their customs; they’ve never done it before—Yeolis would consider unthinkable.”

  Megan nodded. She had been taught a little Yeoli politics—very little, it being seen as subversive by the Dragon’s Nest—and remembered the main principle, “the people wills,” in Yeoli, semana kra, hence semanakraseye, literally, “the-people-wills-one.” Laws were initiated by citizens at large and enacted through plebiscites of various forms, sometimes complex, involving percentages and such; the semanakraseye existed only to oversee their administration, and to act quickly in case of war or emergency. Over the military, though, his power was absolute.

  “And they are very jealous of their power; all sorts of ways they have, of clipping a semanakraseye’s wings. Including a forbiddance on his voicing his wishes regarding national policy. They made an exception this time, wanting to know as you do, Shkai’ra, whether he was whole-hearted.”

  “But he had to make a show of sticking to the rules,” Megan said, “I understand.”

  “Oh, it was more than show. Chevenga is an adherent of mob rule, to the bone; he was bred that way from birth. Knowing him, he genuinely squirmed at having to say what he wanted, dreading to interfere with the vote. I know it’s hard to believe. A sad irony, for him: no one will believe it, they’ll think as you did that it was a show, that he pulled the strings all through, and he’ll be pinned with having wreaked change on his people without their consent, when all he did in truth was act on their wishes. He just doesn’t know how to do it any way but brilliantly, that’s the trouble; with him as the sword in their hands, his people couldn’t resist taking on the giant.

  “And of course if he wins—well, he wouldn’t leave Arko leaderless afterwards, to fall into chaos; he’d consider it a breach of responsibility. So he’ll take over as Imperator. Arkans falling on their faces every time they enter his presence; imagine what Yeola-e will think of that! Poor Chevenga: he’ll be the one who pays in the end, more than anyone else, I know, for he’ll arrange it that way. Well, that’s neither here nor there for you. You asked whether he’s whole-hearted. I’d say he is.”

  Megan rubbed her hands thoughtfully up and down the sleeves of her shirt. “Well, it’s good to know that an honest man stands a chance of becoming Imperator, anyway. Ivahn, thank you for being one I can count on for news.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “That is almost like saying I’m a gossip, my friend.” She crinkled the corners or her eyes at him. “Or an acerbic old fox.”

  Who in Halya told him I said that? He knows pissing everything. “Why don’t we say ... oh ... a person with a great many sources of intelligence, instead?” She pushed herself away from the wall and held out her hands to him. “Thank you again for your advice. We’ll be leaving as soon as we can.”

  “So be it,” he said, taking her young hard hands in his gnarled gentle ones. “Good luck, Megan, Shkai’ra. When you find your son, will you bring him to visit?”

  “I wouldn’t dare not to. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve called you an old fox.”

  “An acerbic old fox,” he corrected. “Should I mind what is so apropos?”

  “Not if it’s meant affectionately, you acerbic old fox.”

  He laughed. “Zak imp. Honey-giving One be in your souls on your journey.”

  “Safe journey,” Matthas’s landlord wished him, as he handed over the big brass key. “Honey-giving One be with you, and may you sell lots of rubber and silk in Karoseth. An indefinite time, you say; I’ll expect your letter, then.”

  “Thank you.” Thank Celestialis I did take this trade on as a cover, he thought as he headed to harbor, a guard of two Brahvnikian hirelings in tow. An established merchant can get a bank loan to finance a business journey. The Benai had been amenable enough, despite his nationality, though they’d charged him hefty interest.

  Now off to Selina, a quick change of nationality—he could convince Yeolis he was a Thane easily enough—put together the caravan and do what everyone else was doing: join Shefen-kas’s army.

  That was where the evil twosome had gone. For him, there was no other way to cross through Yeola-e than to say he meant to sell to the army. Their security wouldn’t be too hard on a middle-aged merchant, obviously untrained in war—especially one who’d give good prices—and he’d be able to take his time once he’d got there. He didn’t expect to be able to make an attempt to truth-drug them before that; he’d heard about Shkai’ra Farshot’s mount and its night-senses. What sort of person, let alone woman, would own a Ri? Not a good idea to tangle with that in the dark. But in the army, there’d be more people around for camouflage, and the beast, because of its penchant for horsemeat, would have to be kept apart from the main camp. Besides, I can make a little money from the army too, which I’m fikken well going to need ...

  * * *

  IV

  From the Pages, Machine-Scribed News-Chronicle of the City of Arko, 16th Day of the First Month Vernal, 55th to the Last Year of the Present Age (front page):

  MASSIVE LOSSES INFLICTED UPON YEOLIS AGAIN

  In a brilliantly executed fighting retreat, General Perisalas Kem, Aitzas, inflicted huge losses on Yeoli barbarians near the city of Tinga-e, at the tragic expense of his own life.

  “We found it strategically advantageous to occupy higher ground outside the city after the battle,” an aide of Perisalas stated. “In terms of casualties we were by far the victors. We are not certain how many of the enemy were slain, but the streets were ankle-deep in blood.”

  The conquest of Yeola-e has moved into its latter, most difficult stages, sources say, requiring a strategy of “attrition rather than advancement”: to wear the enemy down through inflicting losses. Hence the recent series of strategic withdrawals, which Generals Perisalas and Abatzas Kallen, Aitzas, now retired, have shown particular excellence in instigating.

  Our hearts and prayers fight for our valiant heroes engaged in the divine work of conquering barbarism in all benighted lands.

  “How long is it since the Yeolis took Tinga-e back?” Megan asked Tema, a local girl going into the market in town, and accompanying them because she loved horses. Brat, Megan thought.

  “Oh, tsaht was late last fall,” she said in her bad Yeoli-accented Enchian. “Wassa complete rout. Blood ankle-deep, all over tseh city. Was great.”

  Megan gathered the reins tighter and said, in her sweetest voice, “Quiet down, you sickly, vicious, stupid nasty-tempered walking pile of dog-food. Sooo, soooohhh, calm down, mash-for-brains.” She tried to mimic Shkai’ra’s tone. The beast swivelled its ears back and nodded forward, dragging the reins loose. It knew. It couldn’t stand her, either.

  She looked back at Shkai’ra on Hotblood, a few hundred paces behind. The Ri carried his wedge-shaped head lower than a horse would, silver-white forelock falling down between his green, forward-looking eyes, the eyes of a hunting carnivore. His black-on-black striped hide was glossy from having had to eat more cereals than he liked lately. He yawned, showing his tearing fangs. She hoped the wind wouldn’t change; one whiff of the Ri and this herd of Aeniri horses would become totally uncontrollable. Instead of half uncontrollable, as they were now.

  Fifty, they’d bought, which also meant finding six more people who both wanted to join the Yeoli army and herd on the way there for board, not to mention two herd-dogs. And Shkai’ra’s mount’s favorite meat happened to be horse, of which every horse from near Ri country with a sense of smell wa
s aware. At least with all the mounts to switch, they could move fast. All armies were horse-hungry. It would finance the trip.

  She dropped behind the herd and waited for Shkai’ra to catch up; her horse was Yeoli, didn’t truly understand what a Ri was and so was only somewhat dangerously nervous near it. Against the sore places on her rear, dust had worked its way into the folds of cloth; her calves and thighs screamed. If I could still grip with my legs, I’d be fine. As it is, those muscles just will not work. Hotblood’s paws hit the dust of the road with a shduf-puff sound, softer than a horse’s hoof. She makes riding look so fish-gutted easy ...

  “You’re not fooling anybody, kh’eeredo, least of all her,” the Kommanza said blithely, flowing along with her mount, nodding at Megan’s. Her eyes laughed. “Just relax!”

  “I know.” Her and her Koru-forsaken beasts. Give me a good river-ship any day. Megan risked sparing a hand to wipe dust out of her eyes and look ahead to Thara-e. Her animal suddenly decided to move sideways and dumped her on her behind in the road. Coincidence, obviously. Shit.

  Shkai’ra leaned over Hotblood’s withers, guffawing. Hotblood stretched his neck and hissed; she got the feeling he was laughing too. Her faithful mare trotted happily off to the herd ahead.

  She heard Tema’s shrill voice up ahead, talking to one of the others. “Cahn I try riding? Just forrh a bit? Cahn I, cahn I, pleeeeeease?”

  Guttersnipe. Megan brushed off her pants and started walking.

  “Come up, pillion.” It was Shkai’ra, leaning over in the saddle and extending a hand down to her; Megan bit back the thought that the Kommanza was being patronizing and accepted a pull up. “We should be closing up soon; bathe, set up the tent, and I’ll give you a rub with liniment.” Hotblood rolled an eye back at her. “Carrion-breath here says he still thinks we’re being followed.”

  Megan leaned against Shkai’ra’s arm, side-saddle, trying to find a position that didn’t rub any aching spots, sneezing at Hotblood’s odor. “It’s probably that caravan that’s a ways behind. He thought the same thing a while ago and it was just them. Koru, I’d kill for a bath.”

  They were in the ruins of Thara-e already, it seemed; Megan wasn’t used to cities with no definite boundaries like walls. The Yeolis had thought this one was far enough inland not to need them. It had been wood. Sacked and burned last year, snowed and rained on since. At least there’d been no battle to liberate it; apparently Chevenga had sent ahead a small force to catch the Arkan governor sneaking out of the city with the war-chest, killed him, then bribed five thousand of the Arkan soldiers into deserting and the general into surrendering. With their own gold—the merchant in Megan snickered.

  “They’ve been diligent, for the numbers of hands they have left,” she said to Shkai’ra.

  “Ia.” The Kommanza nodded at the new wood and Arkan-brick houses ahead. “Roads smoothed out, fields cleaned up ...”

  “Those fields are being tended by everyone who can walk.” Oldsters sat and weeded or turned the earth by hand as far as they could reach, because the horses and oxen were gone with the army, or eaten; toddlers worked, directed by their parents. They knew they’d have to farm to eat, war or no war.

  “Ia,” Shkai’ra said again, with the distracted look on her face that meant she was mind-talking to Hotblood. Probably going over another order not to kill anything or anybody until she tells him. The buildings nearer the center of the town were Arkan-built, during the occupation, it seemed. People looked up as they passed; some waved, some didn’t.

  Once they had the herd corralled and Hotblood stabled for the night, they went into town, to the first place always open after war went through, if it ever closed: the inn. It was an old stone place, a rarity here, obviously rebuilt after the fire: the walls were soot-stained, the rafters new.

  “Morrre passers through,” the serving-boy said in a pleasantly accented Enchian. “From Brahvniki? I hate to say, we hahve no beerrrh.” Yeolis tended to like wine better, and so had more. It was good; from being stored in cellars for longer than expected, Megan thought, because there’s fewer Yeolis to drink it.

  “You have baths?” Megan asked.

  The boy made a face. “Tseh neighbo’hood baths were three buildings down.” A heap of rubble, they’d seen: the process of picking the stones up and mortaring them back together again had just recently begun. “But we cahn heat water ahn’ bring a wooden tub to you’ chamber.”

  “Please,” Megan said fervently, lowering herself to the seat of a corner table with a wince. I should be fish-gutted used to this by now. Of course, she inwardly added to comfort herself, Shkai’ra still gets seasick.

  “May I join you, friend allies?” It was a Yeoli man, dressed roughish, looking too able-bodied to be here, not with He Whose Bottom Is Dipped in Gold; that was the running joke, now, whenever they mentioned Chevenga. Shkai’ra looked the Yeoli up and down, appraising on several levels at once, as usual; he didn’t look like one who carried hidden knives, though, and the place was full, so Megan said, “Certainly.” They all swapped names, and she forgot his immediately.

  “You are going to join the army, I guess,” he said, ordering wine. His Enchian was crisp and accentless. “Spirit infuse you.”

  “Thank you.” Megan leaned back. “Where are they now?”

  “Coming up fast on Roskat was the last I heard.”

  Shkai’ra whistled through her teeth. “At that rate, they’ll be halfway to Arko before we catch them. He moves, that king of yours. We’ll have to stop lolling about and really ride.”

  As Megan moaned, the Yeoli grinned, and made the hand-sign: palm up, itai, their word for chalk, meaning yes. They’d already gone through the old joke, How do you gag a Yeoli? Tie his hands behind his back. “He always does things fast.” Almost religiously he added, “It’s not king, though. It’s semanakraseye.” The-people-wills-one. Every Yeoli, without exception, would make that correction; one was almost tempted to say “king” just to get a rise out of them.

  They’d heard no Invincible or Immortal, though; his own people’s only nickname for him was amiyaseye: beloved. Mostly they just called him Chevenga, as if they knew him personally.

  “You are fighters by trade?” he asked.

  “Shkai’ra here could say yes to that,” Megan answered, “but I am a merchant. I own the Slaf Hikarme, F’talezon. And for now: horse-dealers. My aching calves—server! More painkiller.”

  “My craft is one that didn’t exist here two years ago,” the Yeoli said, somewhat proudly. “Brickmaker.”

  The sleeve of his brown cotton shirt caught on the table and slid up slightly, showing a wrist scarred in a way Megan knew: from a manacle.

  “Yes ... I learned it under their whips. They made us work so hard people died, broke their backs, their hearts ... there’s not just sweat mixed into what this city’s built out of, but blood too, lots of blood. The mark Arkans leave on a land, wherever they go. A year, it was. They wanted to make me an overseer, but I said I’d die first. I ended up a sort of manager.”

  “When the city was liberated, the warriors broke our chains. We were so happy, we decided we would torch the works. Smoky black torture-chamber, where we lost so many friends ... But the warriors said no, there were orders, no sacking was allowed. We began arguing, someone got the flat of a blade on the head that cut him somehow, and next thing we knew it was a fight, bricks flying everywhere, Yeoli against Yeoli. When there hadn’t even been a fight for the city ... so senseless. I guess being treated like a beast makes you think like one.”

  “Then there are warriors among us, talking calm, getting between people, and we hear this hoarse voice in the middle of it. ‘Chen! Stop! You lunatics, what are you child-raping doing? Where’s the God-in-you? Yeoli, you want to hit a Yeoli with a brick, hit me!’ Everything goes quiet all of a sudden. Everyone who doesn’t know his face knows the official collar. Or just—well, there’s just something about him that says he’s him. Aiigh, did we feel like idiots!”

/>   “He jumps up on a stack of bricks, calling for his herald. We all want to explain ourselves, I guess, so the chant starts, ‘Burn the works! Burn the works!’ He holds up his arms for silence, yells, whistles war-codes, nothing works. Finally he pulls one brick out of the stack, and underhands it high up into the sky over us; everyone gets a little quieter then, trying to see where that brick is going to come down. ‘Listen!’ he yells in the meantime. You are slaves no longer! You’re a workfast, if you want to be!”

  “‘You can work the time you want to,’ says he, when we shut up, ‘set up the place your way, sell at your price and the profit’s all yours. No one will ever crack the whip on you again. There’s nothing wrong with these things; they’re made of good Yeoli clay and straw, the Arkans just have a good trick for building that they’ve generously passed on to us. And you are the only ones who know it.’”

  “‘But it’s torture to work in there!’” someone cuts in.

  “‘Are you awake?’ he says. ‘Haven’t you noticed, you’re free? You can change that, make it good! Or walk away and do something else. But think of all the rebuilding that needs to be done all over the plains, where there’s not much stone or wood. Whoever stays is going to be making money hand over fist.’”

  “We all look at each other. We hadn’t thought of it that way. In chains, you forget how to be free. He sees the seed is planted, so he says, ‘Now everyone who isn’t hurt take care of someone who is,’ and goes off.”