Shadow’s Son

by Shirley Meier, S. M. Stirling

  I think I know who put wadiki in your water, Megan thought, hiding it behind a stony mask. Bukangkt—odd to see a brawny broken-nosed Lakan in Arkan plate—beckoned her. “I sent them searching,” he said, in bad Enchian. “But kras said if she ever went missing, you her kreedo best to find her. And do with Hotblood.”

  “I’ll do my best. Spare an arm? I’ve got a leg-wound.” He dismounted, and helped her off the pony, half-carrying her to where the Ri was pacing. Wrongwrongwrong redfurieadmare gone GONE want want. She called him both with her voice and thought. He turned to look at her. Smallsnippysharpdisagreeable, he acknowledged her, but turned his head with almost a snort of disdain. Notimportant redfurmissMISS!

  LISTENWEASELASS! Her fury tinged her thought red. He hissed at her. Shkai’ra (redfur) wants this, NEEDS this. To rescue Lixand (blondcolt). She sent images of a Ri-mare—with red fur—defending her young.

  Disagreeable, he thought but stopped pacing, turned and lowered her head to stare into her face, the eyes set for binocular vision strange in the horse’s head, green with a hint of Shkai’ra’s grey.

  Listen. We’ll take off the saddle. You pretend sneak-sneak to look for Shkai’ra. Hunt blondprey, follow, don’t come back till I or Shkai’ra calls you.

  —He tossed his head, breaking eye contact. Nonono—!

  Sulk. He sidled around so Bukangkt could reach the saddle-girths. Once it slid off into a heap the Ri sprang away from it and her, reared and loped off toward the woods.

  Megan thought at him. He stopped near the edge of the trees, sniffing the ground.

  Sneaksneakfindredfurleadmare. Then he disappeared in the underbrush.

  “I’ll go over there, if you don’t mind,” Megan said, “and try to find her in my own way. Don’t touch or disturb me until I move again, you understand?” The Lakan nodded. “If the sun is down before I move, have someone come over and call me; I might need it by then.”

  “Column still march,” Bukangkt said. “Flank-riders not know, disturb you.” More riders came in, having heard the dispute, breaking the pattern. “Do you fuckheads or do you not fuckheads,” he roared, “have orders that not been changed?” They dispersed again at a gallop, what little of their faces showed through their visors, reddening.

  “All right, how long can you give me?” She translated hastily to the Arkan clock in her head. “A bead? With one person seeing that I’m not disturbed?”

  “Sure, yes, kras kreedo.” He called up one of the others, a Brahvnikian. More likely to understand a Zak; this Lakan wasn’t stupid as she’d thought from Shkai’ra’s first words of him. “And you, Mad Cow ... you got reprieve. We get you truth-drugged, and then chop up your fucking fat ass!”

  Megan settled herself with her back against a tree, her wounded leg straight out along the ground in front of her. A bit of a show ... She drew a deep breath when there was only the one watcher sitting his horse. In the orange-pink light of the setting sun she imagined a faint shimmer of light around herself, heard the man gasp. Right. It flowed off her, over her head, formed itself into a neat-shimmer-like bird-shape that hovered a moment, sharp pointed beak shape apparently casting about, then darted in the direction the Ri had taken, and disappeared. The Brahvnikian pretended very hard not to see.

  Another deep breath. Not too hard to do because it was faint. She sat absolutely still, breathing very slow, eyes almost closed so she could still see through the lashes. Remember, when they call you, you’re exhausted.

  She heard her Brahvnikian warn off the flankers, heard Bukangkt come back. The sun was almost down, sending shadows looming along the ground in front of her when the Brahvnikian walked his horse close, and called, “Whitlock.” She didn’t move. “Megan, called Whitlock!” Ahead, she imagined the bright spot of yellow light arrowing toward them, backed by the dark-edged fish-scale clouds. She imagined it flashing like a bolt of lightning, vaguely bird shaped, to angle down and strike her in the top of the head as if she were absorbing it. Then she stirred, made as if to get up, fell back, hands out to catch herself. She shook her head and squinted up at the Brahvnikian, who clearly didn’t want to come close but felt he should help, hesitating on his horse. Behind him she could hear Bukangkt clearing his throat.

  “Nothing,” she said hoarsely. “I couldn’t find her. Give me a minute, and a hand, and I’ll ride back to report.” Witchcraft as a game of smoke and mirrors—

  He just said,”Shit. Shit shit shit.”

  “You don’t think ... anything worse could have happened to her than just ... going missing, do you?”

  The girl poked up the campnre with a stick, making the flaming logs crash together, and a shower of sparks fall upwards into the night sky.

  “I hope not.” Megan’s shrug was slow, as if she were afraid she’d break. She pressed a hand to her middle, though her stomach wasn’t acting up. “I have to hope that they’ll offer ransom, if that’s what happened. I just don’t understand why I couldn’t find her, even if I’m not blood-kin.” Her folded hands clutched her sleeves. I’ve always done my best to tell Sova the truth as I saw it. I hate having to lie to her.

  “I guess ... we just have to wait, and hope she’s all right. She ... she wouldn’t be easy for anyone to kill.” The girl filled her voice with forced hope. “That’s for sure.” She poked the fire again. “I sure wouldn’t want to be an Arkan or even ten Arkans, trying to kill her.” The saber was leaning on the log, next to her; she hadn’t let it out of her sight. Now Megan saw her look at it, her eyes widen with a thought and then go casual again, as she decided not to say it. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking, “Maybe khyd-hird somehow knew. ...”

  On the eighth day the note appeared, specifying which latrine. Right on schedule, she thought. An efficient rokatzk.

  Well, some nice Arkan bowman had kindly given her the perfect excuse. Using the stick Sova had cut for her, she limped to the appointed copse at midnight.

  Struggle. Play it for all it’s worth. Pain, pain, pain ... Putting all her weight on the stick to keep it off the leg entirely, she made an involuntary grunt. Good. It did start to hurt worse, aided by the pretense. H’kuritz rokatzk.

  “You knew damn well I was wounded, and how badly,” she hissed, when she heard the cool voice greet her. “Why did you still fish-gutted drag me here?”

  “Why, to see if you were up to making it, of course,” he answered cheerily. “That’ll give me an idea of how long it’ll take you to heal ... you know, in case you decide to tell me any tales, exaggerating the recovery time or such; not that you would—of course not!—but just as a precaution, you understand.”

  Shit. Turns out today’s one of those days in which I really should have stayed in bed. “I see.” She bit back the desire to be sarcastic; it didn’t help. Any other tests? Like dancing a Zurke? “Do you mind terribly if I sit down? I have to.” All she let show in her voice was weariness and pain. The predictable answer came: “Of course not!”

  She settled to the ground, her breath catching as she jarred the leg. “Look, Arkan, just give me time to heal up. Please? I’ll do it for my son’s sake, when I can. I swear.”

  “Good. But when is when you can? How many days? Let’s be specific and not have any misunderstandings to leave you convenient outs.”

  She put her hand over her eyes. “An eight-day to heal up. An eight-day to do it. Sixteen days.”

  To her amazement, he said, “That’s reasonable. Your oath’s on it, then?”

  “Yes,” she gritted. “Yes.”

  “The best of luck to you, then.” She could hear a smile in his voice. His loose-clothed shape ghosted away into the night.

  When she comes back—not if, but when—she comes back, I want to ask her something. Sova was squiring for Megan, now; in the secured section’s pool of squires, she’d come up for firewood detail.

  She’s a great warrior. She wandered all over Almerkun, being a great warrior, getting greater; like she says, the only real training is the real thing. Then she
came over here, to be in a family. I’m going to ask her: where was she happier?

  Once she’d happened to snap up the first split wood she could find for Megan’s fire—that was the good part of firewood detail, eating first—she went back to the splitting place at the edge of the forest. The tang of trees laid open filled the air; a good ten axes were ringing. I don’t think I could do that, she thought. I’m too small, and probably too weak, even if I am trained. Most of the people chopping had height and weight on her, though they were all squires, the warriors having orders to rest. But I can’t stand here watching, I have to do something. She settled for helping a Yeoli, placing the logs on his chopping block so he wouldn’t have to put down his axe.

  “You want to learn how to do tsaht,” a voice close behind her whispered. “Wahtch him, how he does it, closely, with tseh unthinking gaze, like you wahtch you’ war-teacher show you a move.”

  She did for a while; then it occurred to her that she didn’t know who the voice, cracked with age and broadly Yeoli-accented, belonged to, and perhaps she ought to turn around and check. Its tone had been so sincerely friendly and helpful that danger hadn’t crossed her mind.

  It was an old Yeoli man, grinning wrinkly at her with the same expression as his voice had held, bald but for a fringe of thick white curls, and stripped to the waist to show a thin chest stringy with muscle, and arms with veins standing up under loose age-lined skin, the whole marvelous network of them showing. By the sawdust sweat-pasted to his shoulders, he was obviously helping here; but she’d never seen a squire that old. His crystal was tight-tied, close to his neck, not dangling, as Yeoli warriors wore them, but he had no wristlets, and besides he was too old for that as well.

  “Nye’yingi,” he said, sticking out gnarled ancient hands and grinning wider, the grin going all the way up past piercing pale green-gold eyes, up into his thick-lined forehead. “I’m Azaila Shae-Chila.”

  “I’m Sova. Called Far-Traveler.” She’d never taken the hands of someone so old before; they were hard and bony and dry, but had a warm grip.

  “Good! Pleasedtomeetyou. Look at tsaht.” She found her eyes back on the youth with the axe almost without knowing it. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do what the old man said, stranger or not; he hadn’t said it like a command, but more like a little boy calling a little girl’s attention to something wondrously fascinating, with an enthusiasm too strong not to share. “You see how he’s bending his knees when tseh ahxe comes down? Ahn’ whipping his body, with his stomach? It’s tseh same as anything, you put you’ whole body into it, use tseh best form, it doesn’t mahtter how small or weak you arrhe ... Well, you cahn’t really learn without trying it yourself, ahn’ all tseh ahxes are taken; we better do something before we get caught shirking. I need someone for tseh otser end of a saw, shall we?” As if he were a handsome swain gesturing to the dance-hall; she followed, entranced.

  He took up the first unused saw to hand, a long arm-length of toothed steel with wooden handgrips at either end, and went to the first felled log whose branches had been hacked off enough to saw. It’s not much less wide than the saw is long, she thought. I don’t know if I can do this, and what about him, so ancient? But without a thought the oldster positioned the saw and looked at her, her hands went to the handle, and they started.

  Don’t get out of rhythm with him, she told herself. Easily enough she fell into it, then tried directing her strength at different angles and times in the stroke, until she found the one that made the saw-teeth chew through the wood fastest. Then she enjoyed it. Then her arms were tired; her exercises didn’t include any that used exactly these muscles so steadily for so long. Then her arms were hurting, and sweat poured from her face; she wanted to let go to wipe her forehead, but Azaila kept going. In fact he hadn’t even stopped grinning. We’re going to take a break soon, I hope ... He’s an old man, he’s got to rest. Well, I’m not going to call a rest until he does. He didn’t; soon her arms felt near to breaking, and he didn’t even slacken the pace. He must’ve been a lumberjack all his life, she thought, swallowing back tears of pain. I’m not going to stop. We’re not even halfway through ... No, wrong thought, we’re almost halfway through. It’ll get easier after that.

  As they worked down to the narrowing bottom curve of the log, just knowing it would soon be finished eased the pain, and she found her second wind. Finally the saw broke through, and the section fell off with a satisfying thump. The old man stood up grinning. Sova straightened slowly, gingerly uncurling her fingers. “Good! Good! Now we take it to split.” Gotthumml, I have to lift half of that? Or else ... no way. I’m an angel in dragonfly-wing pants if he can lift it himself.

  “I take one end?” she volunteered bleakly.

  He waved the suggestion away. “Nah. Too hard. We do tsis.” The section had landed on its bark-covered side; giving it a hefty push with a sandalled foot he started it rolling along the new-trampled path towards the splitting place. “Shape like a wheel, why naht make it one, seyar. A little heft hyere ahn’ tsere over roots ahn’ rocks, no problem! We small weak people, we hahve to try harder ahn’ be smarter, seya? Might ahs well both do it, only one of us cahn’t saw.”

  So they kicked and shoved and lifted the log along together.

  Near where the trees thinned, brightening the near-dusk light, the old man started, and straightened up, gazing ahead. “Look at tsaht!” They were within sight of the splitting-place; Sova tried to notice what he had. There were only the people working; then she saw one who hadn’t been there before, bare-chested so his scars showed, black hair sweat-tendriled, splitting wood like any commoner, except that he was using one hand, apparently effortlessly: Chevenga.

  “He’s amazing,” she said gushingly.

  “Tsaht’s for sure!” said the old man, spitting., “Tseh strutting little cockerrrhel, he could do tsaht at eighteen, he only wants to show tseh world he’s better with one hahnd tsahn everyone else with two. One string of good bahttles ahn’ I tell you! I’ll rub his face in tseh dirt of truth, yes, escuse me, kere Sova.”

  For a moment she missed his meaning; as he began to stride away, she understood. “But, but ... ! He’s the semana . . .”

  “Semanakraseye na chakrachaseye,” Azaila rattled off over one bony shoulder. “Exahctly.”

  “But, but ... I. You couldn’t ... I mean, he’s ... I mean ...” She remembered khyd-hird lying in the grass of the field when she and Chevenga had sparred, a wooden sword gently tapping the back of her neck; khyd-hird, whom she’d thought the best, bettered. They’d sparred several other times, and Chevenga won most. This old man would get flattened.

  “Couldn’t, pfah,” the old voice snapped, receding. “I’m going to.”

  And he did.

  He just walked up, waited until the semanakraseye’s axe was stuck in the log, and tapped him on the shoulder; then there was a flurry of motion too fast for her to follow, and both disappeared, downward. Kicking her log onto its flat side she jumped up on it, balancing on tiptoes, to see over the underbrush.

  Chevenga was flat on the ground, face-down, with Azaila on his back, the old legs pinning the young arms, somehow, and the old veined hands ... yes, each gripping a fistful of black curls, indeed grinding that famous face in the dirt, back and forth, Chevenga’s thrashing struggles only making it worse. He tried to squirm loose, looking for purchase for his feet, trying to draw his knees under himself; the old man just rode him like an unbroken horse, laughing, and shouting, “Yield, cockerrrrhel! Yield, Invincible! If you’re so shit-hot you cahn one-hahnd ahxe, tsen get an ahxe twice as heavy ahn’ cut twice ahs much wood, dahmmit!” All around the chopping had halted; people stood staring.

  Suddenly both were still. “All right, all right, Azaila,” the familiar soft voice, muffled, said. “I yield.” The old man got to his feet, slapped the semanakraseye on the head and came back to Sova, leaving him wiping dirt from his cheeks and shaking it out of his hair.

  Sova waited in horror,
sickness starting in her guts, for Chevenga to call the guards, have the old man seized. Maybe they’ll execute him right here, Gotthumml, I hope not, I don’t want to see it, it shouldn’t happen at all. But he just stood up, his reddened face making the scar on his cheek stand out white, grinned sheepishly, and said nothing.

  She stood staring, blinking, as Azaila came beside her. “Well?” he said, grinning personably again. “Tsis log’s hyere, should be tsere, what’s keeping us? I wonder how it got ahn its end.” As if nothing had happened, he reached down to turn the log on its side again; she rushed to help.

  “Urn ... most honorable kras,” she said obsequiously, as they rolled the log. Such manners seemed the better part of valor.

  “Tsaht’s Azaila to you.”

  “Az ... aila. Um ... how did you do that?”

  The old man made the brush-off sign. “Easy. It was his time to get thrahshed. Better I do it tsahn tsem, seya?” He gestured with his thumb in the direction of the Arkan camp. “People always preach a principle loudest just before tsey break it, show off most before tsey screw up. I had to stop him.”

  Sova blinked. “His time?”

  “Some otser day, he would thrahsh me. So I don’t do it tsaht day, heh heh heh!” When he laughs, she thought, he really laughs loud, not caring what anyone thinks; even his eyes laugh. “He doesn’t need it tsen. Today, he thought he could defeat tseh world ... Wrong, wrong, wrong. He’s young. You know, blows always hit you in the weak spot, you know tsaht? You hahve to count on it, be certain it will hahppen. Because tsey always come everywhere; you just notice tseh ones hit you in the weak spot.”