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

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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 thefessas shopkeepers and artisans lived, and the
free-poorokas . And it washuge , 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. Theokas were dumbly miserable, as at some natural disaster, flood or plague or rain at
harvest. Most of theAitzas 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. Thesolas 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
poorerfessas 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 thelefaeti 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
heroicsolas ." 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