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

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"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-croppedokas-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. Ihate
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-agedfessas
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.