Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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far western provinces; she was unlikely to meet anyone from there and could always claim not to know
them. The papers also mentioned "stress," the Arkan euphemism for someone whose mind was no longer
quite topped up to the cork. That would account for minor gaucheries.
This empire is deeply fucked, Shkai'ra thought, smoothing her gloves and sucking fruit juice through the
straw that pierced the bandages over her mouth.
The tavern was only a few kilometers outside the City Itself. Here in the central provinces the inns were
a half-day's journey apart, on roads that made even the magnificent military highways on the frontiers
look like goat-tracks. Each inn was lividly ornate with carved marble and terracotta, at least in thesolas
section, which was out on a terrace flung across a forested ravine, pleasant with the scent of pines and
the sound of tinkling water. Half of the sleeping quarters had been commandeered for wounded.
The roads outside were full of refugees:okas women trudging bare-footed, raggedly gloved with their
children at their heels and their belongings on their backs;fessas families with carts; half-veiledsolas and
Aitzas in carriages… and very few men. Males between sixteen and sixty were being taken out and
herded off to makeshift training camps, bysolas themselves past retirement age or with only fuzz on their
cheeks, or wounds not quite bad enough to keep them bedbound or addled. Wagon trains rolled out of
the City, as well, full of equipment that looked either brand new or as if it had rested in an armory for the
better part of a century; every blacksmith shop she passed had been working overtime, with clumsy
conscripted field-slaves doing routine chores to spare the skilled men. And there were columns of troops
coming in from the west and south, with the lined faces of men force-marched beyond exhaustion.
Papers were checked and rechecked at roadblocks; this last time by regular scarlet-clad soldiers under
the command of a mask-faced man in black armor. She had passed dozens of corpses hanging from
trees with their severed heads tied between their ankles; the last hundred kilometers had rarely been out
of the sight or stink of such. Signs on their chests; she couldn't read them but knew they must say,
"deserter" or "defeatist" or "rumor-spreader."
They're finally getting their heads out of their asses, Shkai'ra thought. She had been on the losing
side of enough wars to know the signs.Good thing it's too late .
The Empire had never managed to mobilize more than a fraction of its strength, and now it never would;
like a crocodile killed with an arrow through the eye, the armor and fangs and smashing tail would go on
twitching uselessly, without a directing mind.Not that the mind was much to begin with .
Press on. Even though she'd been at as brisk a pace as she could with two mounts, it had taken her
eighteen days to get this far. The Empire was in dire enough straits, she'd caught on quickly, to
commandeer the horses and armor of out of commission soldiers—though not swords, since they were
often family heirlooms. She'd been able to take this lovely smooth road only at night and away from
cities, towns, roadblocks, traveling army units, watch, or anyone else who stood a good chance of
bringing her down alone.Eighteen days… and Megan asked the rokatzkfor what, sixteen? She thinks
he'll give her a month; I hope she's doing some zteafakazgood stalling .
Shitshitshitshit.
The last roadblock was at the gate of the City Itself; Arko was built in a deep crater around a lake, and
the only ways in were by a ramp-tunnel and thelefaeti , the winch-powered lifts. Shkai'ra had had to
leave her horses stabled and her armor stored at the last tavern, buying expensive silence; they were no