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

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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 wasvery 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 mugginghim, she thought, eyeing anAitzas 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 alcohol 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.