Megan forced a natural smile. “Shit, Chevenga, you don’t owe me. Like I said, it could have been the other way around, and you would have had to save me.” He would have, she thought. “These things all come out even.” Yes, a voice seemed to say in her mind. They do. “Nobody owes me anything.”
He reached to kiss her hand again; she had to let him. This time there was something small and hard in his, that he slipped into hers as he opened his fingers. He winked, and put a finger over his lips. She looked; it was a Serpent Incarnadine. She’d won the second-highest award for actions of stealth already. This was the highest.
“Th-thank you, kras.” The honorific came without thought.
“I give it as Chevenga, not chakrachaseye,” he said. “Unofficially, I mean. I’d say thank you, but then we’d end up in a gratitude contest all day. When I should be letting you go, before Kaninjer gags me.”
She got up. “Say hello to Sova,” he added.
She put lightness back in her voice. “Right. Thanks, now hurry up and heal. Invulnerable. We need you.” She tried not to walk out too fast, the Serpent hot in her palm.
The next night she overheard two of the darya sema-nakraseueni liyai, the Elite Demarchic Guard, talking at a campnre, as she passed.
“It was on some secret mission, so no one knows how he got wounded.”
“Aigh. I wonder how cursed close he came.”
“I’ll tell you one thing: whatever happened, he was ashamed enough to un-decorate himself for it.”
“Un-decorate?”
“’Tax. He has two Serpent Incarnadines—right?”
“Right.”
“Not any more.”
“Hah?”
“Take a look, next time he inspects us. He’s only got one. No shit, I was there.”
* * *
XIX
Like an eye glancing aside from heaven’s gaze, Shkai’ra thought, as she walked down from the gate towards the City amidst the flood of refugees, imagining a bird’s-eye view. Dark blue pupil, a lopsided rim of white buildings flecked with gardens, and the darker green of the woods and fields which the law preserved about the rim of the crater. The interior walls of the crater rose nearly two hundred meters, polished smooth as a politician’s lies. The far wall of the crater was hidden in a haze of heat and moisture, trapped in this pocket in the earth. On the cliff-face above the Marble Palace was something impossible to ignore: the Imperial Eagle of Arko, stretched out rampant in bas-relief picked out with gold, four hundred meters across and three hundred nigh. Even now in mid-afternoon it glowed fiercely. At dawn, Shkai’ra thought, when the sun came over the eastern cliffs and caught it directly, it must blaze like an idea in the mind of a god.
The Imperial capital had started on the western shore of the lake; the Marble Palace was there, well back from the water, the gold leaf blinding from the pitched roofs and towers. A broad processional avenue, fringed by mansions and public buildings, and then lower structures in sickle-curves along the lake. Those would be the poorer quarters, where the fessas shopkeepers and artisans lived, and the free-poor okas. And it was huge, as big as Illizbuah on the far side of the Lannic. A million souls or more in times of peace; who knew how many hundred thousand more, since everyone in the provinces to the immediate east who had something worth stealing was running for the capital.
She studied their faces a little; Arkan women were shy before men, but one as wounded as she tended to be ignored. The okas were dumbly miserable, as at some natural disaster, flood or plague or rain at harvest. Most of the Aitzas seemed merely irritated, affronted at the disruption of their orderly lives; she even heard two daughters of minor nobility chattering about the unexpected chance to participate in the capital’s social season and visit the Mezem. The solas were more quiet; a mixture of shame and fear, Shkai’ra supposed, since their Steel-Armed God, and Arko itself, charged them with its defense. The families of the warrior caste alone were likely to have an idea of what war and conquest meant, here, far from the Empire’s borders. and it was less unimaginable to them that the Empire would lose the war.
Arko’s streets were laid out on a grid, paved with granite blocks over concrete. Less filthy than most large cities, even with the extra numbers crowding in; there were stone grills at regular intervals, leading down to understreet sewers. Shkai’ra looked about at buildings gone seedy-gaudy, yellow tile along the edges a little chipped, many of the fountains at intersections dry and filled with litter; yet even in the poorer fessas district there was fine building and artwork enough for the rich of some lands she had seen. There were many shops, and the jewelers, trinket-sellers and tailors seemed to be doing a roaring trade.
Fewer food shops, and the prices—she could hear people haggling—were outrageous.
She grinned behind the bandages. Chevenga was making no effort to stop or molest the tens of thousands pouring ahead of his troops, so long as they took nothing useful to his army. They streamed in through the lefaeti and the great tunnel, thousands every day, thanking the appropriate god of their caste for the barbarian’s inexplicable mercy. Then they went to the market to buy food. Meat and fresh greenstuffs seemed to be short already; fruit and flour were still plentiful, from the winter wheat harvest. But give it a little time ...
The taverner looked up as Shkai’ra walked in, eyes widening slightly. She made a grating, bubbling noise at his question, and held up half a silver chain; he bowed, rubbing his hands at that.
“By all means, a room, bath, and dinner,” he burbled, as she laboriously signed “Emmas Penaras, solas,” in the register that Imperial law required all innkeepers to maintain; most of the rest of the column was simple symbols, with the innkeeper’s handwriting beside them. “You honor our house, distinguished and heroic solas.” There was pitying contempt in his eyes for the soldier who could not bear to show his face among his own.
“Eat ... room,” she rasped, deepening her voice. Her Arkan was weak, most of it things along the lines of “where is your unit” and “give me your gold or wear your intestines.”
Shkai’ra took a seat as they readied the accommodations. The place was a mixture of strange and familiar; openwork arches on all sides, here where the weather rarely became more than chilly, an unlit charcoal brazier in the hearth. Tables, and a counter with covered jugs of wine, water and soup set into the stone flush with the surface. Some things were the same in this sort of dive anywhere there were big cities: the grubby, defeated-looking hangers-on playing chess in a corner, the dedicated soaks, the bitter-eyed youngsters with shoddy-bright clothes, and knives—here worn under the arm with the hilt down. Something bothered her for a moment or two before she realized. Arko, of course; the crowd was all-male, down to the tired-looking prostitutes on stools in the corner. The sweet-musky odor of Arkanherb drifted under the rafters.
Now, she thought, a bath—It was very fortunate that Arkans bathed and excreted in private wherever they could—and tomorrow, I go to ... it. The Great Central Edifice of Post, to find out the relevant facts about Box 596, General Deposit, 5th Southwest Quarter, intersection of Delas Rii; Crescent and Aesas-Berakalla Road.
The Edifice of Post was a large building even by Arkan standards, a square block of greenish stone four stories tall; the topmost story below the flat roof was streaked with pigeon dung from the forest of coops. Fast, light horse-drawn carriages drew up by the side entrances, to be unloaded by burly stevedores in loincloths and gloves under the direction of rabbity clerks. More crowds of people pushed in the row of glass doors on the bottom level, facing the court; long lines of them, in fact, in clothes ranging from rags to outfits that made her conservative dark-green long-sleeved tunic and brown cotton pants look extremely restrained.
Wouldn’t mind mugging him, she thought, eyeing an Aitzas whose clothing positively shimmered, almost enough to dim the jewelled arm-rings, earrings and bracelets. The courtyard had an exaggerated version of what she was coming to think of as the Arko-city smell: charcoal smoke and alco
hol fumes, since wood fires were forbidden, sweat, hot damp stone, soap, perfume and Arkanherb.
She craned her head as she elbowed her way into the courtyard; it was rather odd that the area around the near-identical building on her left—it even had the same noisome pigeon coops on the roof—was virtually abandoned. Except for the clerks, who were moving with a swift dispatch that seemed positively unnatural. Oh, yes. That’s the tax-collection headquarters. Getting all the money into Arko. Governments facing defeat found all sorts of unexpected calls for cash, not counting that which stuck to the fingers of high officials heading for safer climes. Rake it in, buckos, we want it all here when the Alliance army arrives. Good thing they haven’t had time to debase the currency yet.
It was a little strange not being one of tallest people around, too; Arkans were not as big as Kommanza, but nearly, which meant many of the men in the crowd were taller than she. She looked into the long room between the glass doors. Plenty of movement in the long chambers that opened out beyond the counter; plenty of milling about in front of the counter, but the clerks actually serving at it moved with a glacial slowness that raised indolence to the level of an art.
Civilization, she thought contemptuously. Back in the Zekz Kommanz, on the northern plains of Almerkun, if you had a message you sent a messenger with a couple of good horses. Oh, well, it could be worse. I could still be working in Senlaw. The ancient trading city at the confluence of the Maizap and Zaura rivers, south of her homeland; there aristocrats waged blood-feuds over kidnapped rosebushes, and the ministry of interior decoration drew more funds than the army.
The line in front of Shkai’ra moved more quickly than most, almost as swiftly as the one reserved for Aitzas business; she had let the chicken blood in her bandages age, and gobbled a little occasionally. Even the other solas present—some of them wounded as well—drew back. Finally she stalked up to the stone counter, littered with rubber stamps and pads of cotton soaked in inks of various colors.
“Hrrrrrg,” she said, and showed one of the cards Megan had had done up. PigebQ Post Delivery Service.
The clerk swallowed and recoiled slightly, rattling off a string of Arkan too quickly for her to follow. She let her eyes roll and twitch, tapping the side of her head where the bandages covered the ears.
“Fifth floor, through there, nobleandheroicsolas,” he said, more slowly and carefully, pointing to a door to the right of the counter. “You’ll need a pass to enter the nonpublic section.”
He scribbled quickly and sealed it with half a dozen of the rubber stamps; they were in hardwood holders with a U handle on the back; some of them would have made passable bucklers. A watchman stood by the door, bristle-cropped okas-caste haircut. Up an open stairwell, ink and old tea smells. Floor after floor of corridors, open offices crowded with desks ... clerks writing, or sleeping with their heads on their desks, or looking out the windows and whittling on sticks, once a group of younger men playing some throwing game with parcels wrapped in paper or burlap.
One of them looked at her pass on the fifth-floor landing, dropping his parcel; something crunched and tinkled as he kicked it aside. “Diras Tekis, third office on the left,” he said quickly, not looking at her bandages, “nobleandheroicsolas.”
Shkai’ra felt fresh sweat break out on her upper lip, under the weight of stinking gauze. This was the moment of final commitment; once she passed through the clerk’s office, nothing could go wrong. I hate plans like that, she thought, feeling her breakfast of creamed wheat sitting chill in her stomach. An oak door, walls done in murals showing heroic postal couriers fighting their way through hurricanes, snowstorms, wolves, bandits and tigers amid implausible mountains and jungles, painted by someone who had evidently never left the city, or waited for a letter.
Down another corridor; it was quieter here, but she could smell pigeons above. A middle-aged fessas looked up as she closed the door of his office behind her. Stone walk, she thought; still, best to be quiet about it.
A gabble of Arkan; she caught the word “help you,” miassiu. She leaned across the desk, tapping at her ear. He frowned, swallowed, and forced himself not to draw back as he repeated the phrase, slowly as if to an imbecile. “How may I help you?”
“Like this,” Shkai’ra said happily in her own tongue. Her hands shot forward; there was a moment of struggle, but she was clamping on the carotids, not strangling. It took a moment longer than she expected, difficult to find the veins in a neck so soft; then he slumped senseless across the paper-littered tile surface of the desk.
Work quickly, she told herself. There was another chair, a sturdy thing of glued wood; she whirled it around and propped it under the glass knob of the door, kicking it softly to drive it home.
The man stirred, murmuring. She went around the desk, tipped him back into his chair. It was another example of Arkan fancywork, swivel-mounted on springs. He slumped back bonelessly, and she had to fight the peculiar limp difficulty of an unconscious body as she rolled back the silky fabric of his sleeve and slapped the inside of his elbow sharply to bring up the vein. It had looked easy when the Haian did it back in camp—Megan, how do you fare, my heart—no, no time for that—but she frowned as she took out the hardwood case with the syringe.
“Yes, I speak Enchian,” the man said dully, the drug having taken full effect. He spoke it better than she did, actually. Gods, why can’t everyone speak Kommanzanu? Then again, that might be a little inconvenient. Her birth-tongue had scores W words for grass, horses, and various ways of killing, but she could not think of a way to say “post office” in it without taking fifteen minutes of circumlocutions.
“See this? What is it?” she said, holding out the pigeon’s tag that Fishhook had brought in.
“A pigeon message,” the man said dreamily. Shkai’ra restrained an impulse to pound his face on the table; somebody under truth-drug felt little pain, and needed none to make them give the right answers. Just ask the right questions, you stupid mare, she told herself.
“If,” she said, and stopped. Organize it like a battlefield message, or a question to Sova in training. “If, ah, you had this message, and wanted to find out who sent—no, who was going to pick it up, what would you do?”
“Look at the records.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. “Look at this message, and tell me how I can spot the person who picks it up, and any others sent from the same person to the same person.”
A long silence, while the Arkan’s plump lips moved, as if he was talking to himself. “I can’t.”
“Why not!?”
“Because I can’t remember all the incoming messages,” he said, in the same dull, mildly amiable tone.
For a moment she tasted vomit at the back of her throat. Think, think! How can he do his business if he doesn’t know what messages come in? “Ahhh.” I must get Megan to kick my ass. He wrote it down, of course-Civilized people needed to do that, they had such terrible memories. How many times had she been astounded at a horse-trader who couldn’t remember each individual in a herd by name and points, or recite their bloodstock’s genealogies without cracking a book? She could still list her own ancestors back twenty-three generations without breaking stride, or identify every horse she had ever owned for longer than a day or so.
A half-dozen more questions brought the right file-ledger to light; for a heart-stopping moment she thought she would have to go out of the office to get it, but it turned up behind a reference volume on the desk. She had to turn the pages herself, maddeningly slowly when she could make nothing of the fine-lined Arkan script, and every question had to be utterly specific; half a dozen times she was forced to go back to the beginning.
“So,” she said at last. “Two eight-days out of three, give or take a few, Box 596 and one of two others—at this delivery post over in the 3rd South-west Fessas Ward—get pigeon messages, and are collected by the same person. Then on the third eight-day, the other two boxes get a message, and the same person collects. Numbers 771 and ..
.”
Aren’t we a clever little sheepraper? Shkai’ra thought vindictively of the Arban spy back at camp. I’d love to have a long conversation with you, Just yourself and me and a little sharp knife. “And the next day is five days from now.”
“Now,” she continued, “if you looked as if you were sleeping, how likely would someone be to disturb you?”
“Not for a few hours, probably,” the man said.
Shkai’ra took a small elongated leather sack out of the back pocket of the trousers liberated from a dead solas, and weighed it in her hand. On the one hand, Megan’s pretty squeamish about bystanders, she thought. It was a little odd, if endearing and sweet—you did what you had to to get the job done, and anyway, who cared about strangers? Zoweitzum, most of the people I’ve known had personalities that’d be improved by death. But you had to be careful with Megan; just because you loved someone didn’t make the differences of race and custom any less, and Shkai’ra had to live in her world. On the other hand, he knows far too much, including where I have to be to follow the next lead to Lixand. Bad luck, clerk.
She positioned the sap over her shoulder and struck with a whipping flex to the temple. The man’s body jerked and slumped. This was one of the few ways of killing quickly that did not make the sphincters relax; nobody with a nose would miss that, even here one floor under the pigeon shit. Then she arranged his arms on the desk and laid his head down in the position she had seen other clerks in, arranging his shoulder-length fessas hair over the soft wet spot.
The next clerk gabbled in Arkan. Shkai’ra lolled and gargled and tapped her ear, but he was looking extremely suspicious, thrusting the sheaf of forms at her and offering a pen. She flicked her eyes right and left; a few of the others waiting in the outer room were glancing her way. Shitshitshit, is that the word for order or is he saying I order you ... that’s inferior-to-superior inflection, Zaik be with me now. Of course he might not be; the Kommanz god of war—chief god of war, all their deities were involved in it—was notoriously fickle. Glitch, godlet of fuckups, two more sheep. She took the pen and scrawled her Arkan cover name on a convenient blank space near the bottom.
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