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

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the great building's walls.
"Arrr, sor," she drawled. The watchmen would be city born and bred, and probably contemptuous of all
peasants anyway; the thing was to keep the vowels consistent. "Ta good man, promise m'two bonny
yang lads a position, good wages, 'e say. I waits 'ere for 'em." That stretched her meager store of Arkan
to its breaking point, so she let half a copper chain show on her palm.
The watchmen's eyes locked on it; the older man's hand swept across hers as he licked his lips, and the
younger's hands shook a little more. They spoke among themselves for a moment; she caught "position
on their knees"from one as they laughed and strolled on around their rounds, the iron ferrules of their
javelins clinking on the hexagonal paving-stones of the sidewalk. This was a good neighborhood,
three-story flats for shopkeepers and artisans above a row of stores and workshops spilling out onto the
street. Or not; the jewelers and goldsmiths had wooden latticework over their portals. Despite the
frenetic bustle, many of the shops were shuttered, and the menfolk were mostly old or young or crippled.
The plate-glass door swung open, and there was a puff of slightly cooler air from within. Itwas the man
she had seen opening the boxes numbered 771 and 253. Youngish, lacking two fingers on his right hand,
dressed flash-elegant seedy in saffron cotton tunic and gartered tights and a pleated kilt beneath. Shkai'ra
bent to the handles of her pushcart; a vendor of candied figs blocked her way, crying his wares. She
kicked him behind one knee.
"Much sorry!" she said, trotting past as the man picked himself up. She would abandon the cart if she
must, but it was invaluable camouflage for now; her injured leg had stiffened, the wound swelling a little
despite her washing it out with brandy and bandaging it. It sent a stab of pain up to the small of her back
every time her bare foot struck the pavement. Her loincloth chafed in the damp heat, and her belly
rumbled with hunger.Sorry I didn't rip your fucking lungs out through your nose, cowbuggering
Arkan , she thought savagely. Shkai'ra wanted to kill someone, very, very badly. With luck, there would
not be much longer to wait.
The inn had no sign; Shkai'ra did her best to look terrified at the glares of the hangers-on as she limped
down the street toward it. The man she was following hesitated for a moment, then turned in through the
broad gate that lead to the outer courtyard.
Her adopted persona certainly would have been frightened, she reflected, slowing to a stop. The
neighborhood looked run-down even by the standards of the one where she had mugged theokas
woman. The inn had no sign, and for once there were none of the fancy Arkan plate-glass windows.
Plain brick and wooden shutters for all the buildings along here; all the ones that had not been turned out
and abandoned, that was. No refugees had set up housekeeping in the ruined ones, which said
something. So did the youngsters who lounged at the corners, puffed kilts and knives openly worn, with
the front of their heads shaved and the short hair trained up in spikes from ear to ear. Obviously of
military age, especially now as military age descended with each day, but the pressgangs seemed to have
avoided this area. There were more women about than in the other parts of the city, bare-faced and
heavily made up. Two of them glanced up, pausing as they butchered the body of a dog that looked to
have died of mange, a steady appraising stare from blue eyes ringed with Black mascara.
Always wartime down here, Shkai'ra thought, and let some of the cringe out of her walk. Defending
herself hereabouts could arouse too many questions; she let the cart tilt back with its pulling shafts in the
air and stood with her arms crossed, scowling.