Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...
Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...
Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...
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"Yes, I speak Enchian," the man said dully, the drug having taken full effect. He spoke it better than she<br />
did, actually. Gods,why can't everyone speak Kommanzanu ? Then again, that might be a little<br />
inconvenient. Her birth-tongue had scores W words for grass, horses, <strong>and</strong> various ways of killing, but<br />
she could not think of a way to say "post office" in it without taking fifteen minutes of circumlocutions.<br />
"See this? What is it?" she said, holding out the pigeon's tag that Fishhook had brought in.<br />
"A pigeon message," the man said dreamily. Shkai'ra restrained an impulse to pound his face on the<br />
table; somebody under truth-drug felt little pain, <strong>and</strong> needed none to make them give the right answers.<br />
Just ask the right questions, you stupid mare , she told herself.<br />
"If," she said, <strong>and</strong> stopped.Organize it like a battlefield message, or a question to Sova in training .<br />
"If, ah, you had this message, <strong>and</strong> wanted to find out who sent— no, who was goingto pick it up , what<br />
would you do?"<br />
"Look at the records."<br />
Breathe in. Breathe out. "Look at this message, <strong>and</strong> tell me how I can spot the person who picks it up,<br />
<strong>and</strong> any others sent from the same person to the same person."<br />
A long silence, while the Arkan's plump lips moved, as if he was talking to himself. "I can't."<br />
"Why not!?"<br />
"Because I can't remember all the incoming messages," he said, in the same dull, mildly amiable tone.<br />
For a moment she tasted vomit at the back of her throat.Think, think! How can he do his business if<br />
he doesn't knowwhat messages come in ? "Ahhh." Imust get Megan to kick my ass. He wrote it<br />
down,of course- Civilized people needed to do that, they had such terrible memories. How many times<br />
had she been astounded at a horse-trader who couldn't remember each individual in a herd <strong>by</strong> name <strong>and</strong><br />
points, or recite their bloodstock's genealogies without cracking a book? She could still list her own<br />
ancestors back twenty-three generations without breaking stride, or identify every horse she had ever<br />
owned for longer than a day or so.<br />
A half-dozen more questions brought the right file-ledger to light; for a heart-stopping moment she<br />
thought she would have to go out of the office to get it, but it turned up behind a reference volume on the<br />
desk. She had to turn the pages herself, maddeningly slowly when she could make nothing of the<br />
fine-lined Arkan script, <strong>and</strong> every question had to be utterly specific; half a dozen times she was forced<br />
to go back to the beginning.<br />
"So," she said at last. "Two eight-days out of three, give or take a few, Box 596 <strong>and</strong> one of two<br />
others—at this delivery post over in the 3rd South-westFessas Ward—get pigeon messages, <strong>and</strong> are<br />
collected <strong>by</strong> the same person. Then on thethird eight-day, theother two boxes get a message, <strong>and</strong> the<br />
same person collects. Numbers 771 <strong>and</strong>…"<br />
Aren't we a clever little sheepraper? Shkai'ra thought vindictively of the Arban spy back at camp.I'd<br />
love to have a longconversation with you, Just yourself <strong>and</strong> me <strong>and</strong> a little sharp knife . "And the<br />
next day is five days from now."