Shadow’s Son

by Shirley Meier, S. M. Stirling

  What’s your name? The words filled her head, as if a god were speaking to her soul, bypassing her will. Her mouth answered; not speaking, but the words resonating in the web. Shkai’ra Mek Kermak’s kin, Senior in Stonefort.

  Known as ...

  Shkai’ra. Her tongue left out the click and the ‘ghhh’ sound foreigners couldn’t pronounce.

  Are you really from across the Lannic? Peraila. As her tongue answered, the sliver of her that could still think thought, It must be like the fires of Zoweitzum if you lied the first time, or if it’s enemies who have you and you’re carrying secrets ...

  Do you come to us meaning truly to fight for us and with us, loyal in action and will to us, to our cause, to our enmity against Arko, without connections or loyalties to Arko or to anyone who might wish us ill? The ritual question, quick and practiced; yet every word dropped down into her soul like warm oil into an aching ear.

  Yes. Hate those glove-wearing sheep-raping fat-assed children of diseased donkeys anyway. A chuckle, deep as the ocean, from Peraila. Why? He was curious. We had trouble with them. I’d like this war even if Megan didn’t want to get in on the kill. Rich, they are too. Good looting.

  Well, that’s it, then. The woman. It’ll wear off in a while. They went on to Megan, soft words soothing. Have you ever been truth-drugged before?—Nyata.—Answer in Enchian, so I can understand you.—All right. No.—How do you feel?

  Naked without my knives. Free of self-control. There is nothing that hurts here. Shkai’ra saw the woman’s smile, limitlessly beneficient, a goddess’s; no need to struggle, just surrender, as they had. This would go worse with Megan when she came out of it than it would for her, Shkai’ra knew; the Zak was more attached to her tension.

  Free to be honest, the woman said, as we all could be, without drugs, in a kinder world. That was the greatest and deepest truth in the world, Shkai’ra knew, with utter certainty. When she was herself, she knew with equal certainty, it would seem fucking banal.

  They had many more questions for Megan: whether she did assassin-work, and thief-work, about her claws, whether her powers were sufficient to be useful in the war, what causes she had used and would use her skills for, why she’d joined. Finally the ritual question with its precise wording came again. Yes, Megan’s high rich voice answered. With my heart.

  As they waited for it to wear off, Peraila and the woman spoke for a bit in fast Yeoli, then he was gone, and she dug into some paperwork, every now and then sparing a glance. Time parted like thick honey as Shkai’ra’s mind swam up out of the drug-silence; she felt Megan’s shoulder against her arm tighten, tension creeping back like a thief through an alley door. Release can never last long enough, can it, kh’eeredo ... When she could, she gripped Megan’s tiny steel-clawed hand in hers. She knew all was well when, as she wistfully murmured, “I could bed that paymaster,” the little hand gave her big one a sharp slap. As they sat up, the Ikal woman offered them tea.

  As Peraila led them through camp, Megan sheathed the last knife and shook off the last mistiness of the drug; very soon she would be bargaining. It had stopped drizzling; it was pouring. They passed cook-fire after cook-fire, a hundred carcasses turning on spits. Can’t we just make the deal now, she thought, and meet the next mucky-muck, Ikal or Special Forces or whatever, tomorrow?

  “I’m hungry,” Shkai’ra said. “And I’m tired and my bones hurt where the breaks’ve healed, and I want something hot, meat with potatoes and garlic and a drink and then just snuggle down with you and go to sleep.”

  “You’re complaining?” Megan said snidely. “I thought you could ignore anything.”

  “It’s catching,” Shkai’ra said. Nastywetcoldfurheavy-cavewarmsnooze, Hotblood joined in. Softdrywarmarms, Fishhook demanded. Megan held back a snarl.

  They approached a tent, large for a Yeoli one, with a double guard in front of its canopy; near the feet of one of them a young man knelt, Yeoli warrior-style, apparently meditating, as athletic Yeolis did. He was wearing only a Yeoli kilt, his arms, chest and legs bare, but was outside the shelter of the canopy, seeming quite happy with the cold rain pouring down over his skin and slicking his dark hair into tendrils, eyes closed, head back, mouth slightly grinning. Just the sight made Megan pull her head deeper into her collar, grumbling inwardly. Looped, she thought at him, emphatically.

  In a moment she was glad she hadn’t said it out loud, for it was he who rose and greeted Peraila, saluting, then turned to them with a smile that flashed gold; two of his front teeth were capped with it. “Megan, you must be, and Shkai’ra.” His Enchian was only slightly touched with the Yeoli lilt. “And your creatures. Nye’yingi. Come in out of the rain. Your big creature, we’ll have to leave outside, as long as he can be unobtrusive; it’s dry under the flap. Quite the evening, isn’t it?”

  “Dah, the gods are certainly pissing tonight,” Megan answered.

  “All over you,” Shkai’ra added, to Megan’s knife-sharp nudge; but the man just laughed.

  Leaving the Ri with the order to lie still, they followed the Yeoli in. The occupation didn’t sit well with some of them, Megan thought. His back was crossed with the distinctive scars of the Arkan ten-beaded whip; in fact his ropily muscular body was scarred to a gruesome extent all over, some of them obviously from lights, some ritual, and some plainly left by tortures; the Arkan initials A.M. had been written on his lower chest, it seemed, with a branding-iron. Around his neck, along with the obligatory crystal, he wore a human tooth as a pendant—another quaint Yeoli custom, keeping the teeth of dead kin.

  The front room of the tent was an office, with a folding desk covered messily with papers under an Arkan pole-lamp, with the flame glassed in, a file cabinet and a set of foldable traveling bookshelves. The only titles Megan could catch in an unobtrusive glance were, to her surprise, Arkan: Laws of War and Empire, Elements of Tactical Excellence, Great Generals of History: Ilesias, Ankammas, Nenissas and Kurkas ...

  The Yeoli towelled himself dry, and with a gesture invited them to sit on the rug. “Tea?” The mucky-muck’s out, Megan thought, so the lackey has to entertain us until he gets back. Koru, I’m hungry, how long is this going to take? At least he had a warmth about him, gracefully authoritative without being superior, and pleasant to be near; he was handsome, too, even with his cheek scarred clear across, the scar bending with his smile.

  Just as he was pouring, Fishhook decided to be friendly, launching herself in a gliding leap from Shkai’ra’s shoulder to his, slipping and beating one wing in his face until she was steady. “Forgive me, Teik, Megan said quickly, reaching; wing-cat claws made no distinction between bare skin and branches. Peraila reached fast as well, strangely protective, Megan noticed, for the badger he looked like. Lovers?

  The dark-haired Yeoli just chuckled, managing to pet the cat with one hand and pour tea with the other. “No, no, no, I like wing-cats, he—she?—can stay there. Oh, yes, you’re a nice one, aren’t you? A-e, pretty puss puss puss ...” In a moment of scratching her under the chin, he earned a sonorous purr. “Well, he said, handing out steaming cups, “I share the salt.”

  Wait a moment, Megan thought, even as she answered by sheer habit, “And I with you.” He’s the mucky-muck? Nobody tells me anything, I just want to work here. And since when did Yeolis know about sharing the salt?

  He went blithely on. “I’d like to know more about your gifts, Megan, and your beast, Shkai’ra, not to mention the other services you’re offering ... as soon as someone gets a loud nose out of my ear.”

  “Excuse me, Teik,” Megan said politely. “Or should I say, kras. You don’t seem to be one of those nice people who for professional reasons don’t introduce themselves—”

  “You know,” Shkai’ra interjected helpfully. “Spooks.”

  Megan pretended Shkai’ra wasn’t there. “May we know your name?”

  “I’m sorrrhy!” Peraila said, more obsequiously than she’d thought he had in him. Was that an effect of the candlelight, or was his face
actually reddening? “I’m terr-rrhibly sorrhy, I guess no one ...” He trailed off lamely, with a bleak look at the other.

  “No matter,” said the dark-haired Yeoli, shrugging, and extended his hands with another warm smile. “It’s Fourth Chevenga Shae-Arano-e, semanakraseye na chakrachaseye.”

  * * *

  V

  The Glory of Arko.

  Cat-step, cat-step, back-stretch, twirl ...

  Give all the gentlemen a good long look at your rear, there’s a good boy, Tikas would tell him. Bigger tips that way. I love you, Tikas, he thought. You are so tall and handsome and wise. You tell me everything I need to know and teach me so well. I want to be like you some day. Pirouette, stretch, lead with the elbow, nice taut silhouette, and now the hand-spring ...

  He wasn’t going to be nervous, just because the governor of Korsardiana was going to be here tonight. That was baby-stuff. He was a big boy. Lead. Leads didn’t get nervous. Some day he was going to be famous, he’d decided: a Famous Performer. Famous Performers didn’t get nervous.

  Tikas was making the other boys practice passing oysters from their mouths to the guests. “No, no, you have to throw your head back more, sweetheart. And bat your eyes; that’s it. So beautiful you are. Know it. Then all the world will see it too.” Tikas knew everything, because he was so old: sixteen.

  The boy leaned to the left and drew his hand in front of his face, fingers spread. Gold and black lace gloves, so elegant ... Ninth measure. He knew the Glory of Arko really well now. “That’s very graceful, Rasas, dear.” Tikas had noticed, was smiling, proud. The boy felt as if everything in the whole wide world were good. One day I’ll be that tall and beautiful, he thought, have a voice that deep and manly.

  Tikas turned to Ardas, Rasas’s best friend. “Present the wine-cup from the left to be unobtrusive. If the gentleman wants more, tilt your head sideways, darling, to show off your lovely, smooth neck. Remember, delicacy! No great, gauche moves—what’s that I see on your face? A grimace? Wipe that off. A lord is a lord, and even his farts are noble. As if what you feel matters—get that out of your head, or do you want to feel more of the whip?”

  It was a big party. The Aitzas all wore sword-belts around their paunches, and their gloved fingers were full of rings, like crusted filigree, their golden hair streaked with silver. Concubines leaned on the arms of their chairs, so tall and graceful, their lips so shiny red. Some got to wear satin draped over their smooth shoulders, being past Third Threshold, twenty-one. Everyone had yellow rose-petals in their hair and falling off their clothes, from the panels in the ceiling of the Garden Room, painted like clouds, that open up releasing a rain of flowers.

  Tikas made them work hard, even beat them sometimes, but it was worth it. They had it good, compared to most slaves, getting fed more, wearing nice things. Look at me, I’m strong and limber and graceful and clean, I smell good. Patchouli went well on him, Tikas said. His body could do amazing things, things he hadn’t thought possible until Tikas had showed him. Good to be small, for a dancer.

  The beat-sticks rang in time, the chorus’s voices climbed higher and higher. He shook his hair, cut like a horse’s mane, from side to side, felt it wisp and hit his shoulders. Most slaves didn’t get to keep any hair. Through the lace gloves his hands felt the sticky-powdery rosin on the dance-floor in front of the fountain. Spin, spin ... Marble pillars winking, blur of torchlight, people; now the hard part. But he could do it perfectly. Cat-step, spin, back-leap, feeling the music ... Tikas said always feel the music, but never forget the audience. Feel their eyes, too. Don’t let them see the sweat, the rosin, the aches. Make them see grace, beauty, love ... Back-leap, faster ... Make love to them through their eyes. Seduce them. No one in the world knows better than a boy your age ... Hands, feet, hands ... Now the climax, the most dramatic part, though not the hardest as people thought, he saw the mark on the floor, spin, fall—slide. The musicians’ strings pulled him, stop. Beat-sticks ticking, throw back the head, let the hair trail gracefully on the marble floor. Silence.

  He knew he’d done it the best he’d ever done it.

  They got up to bow, and now he was allowed to have his head up, he saw the audience. The governor of Korsardiana was sitting in the chair of honor, next to Master Nuninibas. Tikas knelt at his feet. Rasas smiled, in pride, in triumph, in the joy of skill.

  “Rasas.” Tikas’s voice. Called, he cast his eyes down at the green marble of the dais, the edge of the Master’s sandals and his toes, Tikas’s blue silk loincloth. He stepped gracefully. He was sweaty, but must not show it ... Oh no. The fringe of his loin-cloth was stuck to his legs, the satin pulling, not hanging elegantly. Celestialis ... What’ll the governor think? Maybe he and Master won’t notice. But if I twitch it free they will for sure. But maybe if I do it real sneakily ... no, they’ll notice, what do I do? He kept walking towards them, he had to. My humble Slave God, he prayed, keep Master from noticing, so he won’t mention it to Tikas, and I won’t get whipped. Temonen household boys must be perfect. If only Tikas sees, I’ll just get scolded. He was there; he knelt, and then the loincloth didn’t matter. He bowed all the way to the floor, first to Master, then to his honored guest. The governor’s sandals were gilded, the nails on his toes thick and knobbly.

  Now, he was allowed to look at the governor’s face, being a pleasure-boy. The face was bread-loaf-shaped, eyes like grey glass beads with blue around the edges, set in folded pink dough. His hands were big and fat in white gloves. He was ugly. Rasas smiled and batted his eyes.

  The governor looked him up and down, the eyes not changing, like beads. I think that’s another sign of nobility, Rasas thought, glass eyes that don’t look at your face. He nodded and turned away talking about grown-up noble things to another lord.

  “Time to shower, dear,” Tikas whispered. He had to be clean.

  In the little room the boy stood in front of the governor, who lay in the scented cushions. The boy dimmed the lamp, took his gloves off, knelt and unlaced the sandals, massaging away the marks on the man’s toes. Calluses were scratchy. The man’s stomach hung over his belt in a big fold; he’d been sweating a lot in the cracks. The boy unbuckled the man’s kilt, ermine-fur soft on his fingers. He smelled of old perfume and sour wine, oysters on his breath. Pull the gloves off one finger at a time. Draw it out, tease him as long as he lets you. They enjoy it more that way in the end. His bread-loaf face smiled, except for his bead-eyes, though they were brighter. His palms were wet.

  He pulled the boy into his arms, rubbed against him for a while, then pushed down his head. If he’s ugly, Tikas said, pretend it’s me. Even though I’m not there, I’ll feel it, I will, wherever I am. It’s for me you’re doing it. Rasas did it for Tikas. It was hard though; Tikas at least bathed twice a day.

  Then the Governor yanked him up, a grin stretching his doughy face, and clamped a wide hand over his mouth and nose. Give them what they want, always, Tikas would say, even if it is your death-throes; die gracefully ...

  He’d get through this. He had before. It wasn’t as bad as it had been; when he’d been little, he hadn’t known it would end. Now he was big enough, the governor wouldn’t tear him, or if he did, he’d heal again. He knew how to tell himself he wasn’t really there, his body was just a lump of meat, that he’d leave behind when he went to Celestrinlis. He liked being nearly grown up, ten years old—things didn’t hurt anymore. He knew how to think of something else, to look ahead. He never cried anymore.

  Tikas would take care of him afterwards, put salve on his bruises and kiss him and rock him in long warm arms until he fell asleep. I’ll be all right.

  It was dark in the boys’ barracks. He could hear Ardas, his best friend who he played pretend brothers with, breathing sleeping breaths in the next pallet.

  After Tikas had held him for a while, he’d pretended he was sleeping so Tikas wouldn’t worry about leaving him. Tikas was busy.

  He shouldn’t be awake, he knew. He needed his beauty sleep. But he coul
dn’t sleep. He shouldn’t think what he was thinking, but the memory kept pushing its hands into his head and hanging on like claws.

  He’d thought after it happened he would be happy for the rest of his life. Now he knew it was something too good to happen more than once in forever. It was a long time ago.

  I was afraid of him, when Master lent me to him. A barbarian, with long straggly writhing hair the color of dark red earth, and not even dyed: born that way. He was a famous gladiator that Master had invited to the party. He didn’t wear gloves, and had dark hair on his knuckles like pig’s bristles. He was called the Wolf, Mannas the Wolf. Rasas was afraid the Wolf would tear him up with his teeth and eat him.

  Mannas came into the little room, and Rasas wanted to back up against the wall, but he stayed where he was, sitting gracefully. The barbarian’s head nearly reached the ceiling, or so it seemed, and his bare hands were gnarly, sword-callused from fighting, from killing other gladiators. He had so many victory-chains around his neck they were a wreath of gold that sparkled like glitter every time he moved; on his sword-arm, just above the elbow, he wore a black arm-ring, ebony. He sat down. Always give them what they want, even if it kills you. Though Rasas wanted to run crying, he started to do what he was supposed to. The barbarian stopped him. Looking straight at him, which showed how base-born he was.

  “I’m a Yeoli,” he said, in his strange accent. “I don’t lust ahfter little boys. I only said yes to give you tseh night off.” Rasas didn’t understand. “No, no, no,” the barbarian said, pulling the small hands off his dark-hairy chest. His big brown-bristled ones were gentle and strong at the same time, stronger than anyone else’s that Rasas had ever felt, even though they did nothing to hurt. He’s displeased. What am I doing wrong? “You don’t hahve to,” Mannas said, kept saying. “It’ll be ourrh secret, just between you ahn’ me, so you won’t get in any trouble. I won’t tell. I promise. I swearrh.” He held the bright clear glass thing dangling around his neck and said some strange words Rasas didn’t understand. Then: “Second Firrhe come. You know no one breaks tsaht oath, Arkahn orrh Yeoli.”