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

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Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html 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.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Another five minutes, she thought, letting her eyes flick across the open gate. The youngster with the missing fingers was even more nervous, for which she did not blame him. Whatever else he was, he was no spook; of course, a near-six-foot tall woman with a handcart was so conspicuous that even a professional might be forgiven for discounting it as a shadow-tail. He backed into a corner by a watering trough, smiling uneasily as the man watering a mule made conversation. The man had no nose. Her quarry's face took on a more genuine expression as another man came out of the inn and walked towards him over the courtyard. They spoke. Shkai'ra watched him out of the corner of her eye, in snatches. This one looked uncomfortably alert. Afessas , by the haircut; silver-grey in the amber blond of his hair, perhaps forty fairly hard years. Slender, and still handsome in the boyish oval-faced way Arkans preferred, but he moved well. Conservatively dressed in plain forest green kilt and blue tunic; from the way the tunic was left open down the chest there was something underneath it. His hand met that of the other man's. I'm going to follow this one more carefully, Shkai'ra thought.He knows which end of a knife you pick up . "Amazing what whining, cringing and playing stupid can get you," Shkai'ra mused to herself as she pulled the handcart off to the gravel verge of the highway. "I should have tried it before." The man had turned east after leaving through the tunnel-gate; none of the guards had seemed much inclined to do a thorough search of the belongings of a smelly peasant-womanleaving Arko; the incoming stream was being diverted to camps in the countryside, now. A bad moment when a spearhead had chinked on her sword, but the sentries had believed her when she began crying and begging them not to take the family's heirloom iron stewpot; rubbing onion on her eyes was something Megan had advised her on. Then glacial-slow progress; the man she was following had fidgeted, but he was not impatient enough to force a quarrel on the roadway. Theneveryone had been pushed off the road for a military convoy; five rejin of cavalry, from the banners, a glitter of lances and a harsh cry to make way. Not more than three thousand of them, understrength, and the drooping necks of the horses showed why. You had to be very desperate to push heavy horse like that, they seemed to have ridden their remounts to foundering and been forced to use their chargers for the last stage of the route-march. The iron clamor of their shod hoofs on the stone-surfaced concrete of the highway overrode the endless weary shuffle of the foot traffic inching by to either side. A good three weeks beforethey'refit for duty , Shkai'ra reflected, pitying the mounts if not the men. Movement out of the corner of her eye; thefessas dodging off into the woods, west and to the right of the south-facing highway. Naughty, she thought, pulling out a shapeless bundle that concealed sword and dagger and a small buckler she had liberated from a watchman who incautiously stopped to take a piss in an alley.Very naughty , she thought, skidding down the four meter side of the embankment; some conscientious soul had planted it with a prickly bush to keep the dirt from eroding. Doubtless anyone watching assumed she was going into the pinewoods that fringed the west side of the road to take a dump. The closed canopy of the umbrella pines made left the tall trees pillars or a green-roofed hall; the air beneath was still and hot and smelled of resin baked free by the sun. It was drier than the closed bowl of
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people around for camouflage, and t
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Und now I vind dose two—Celestial
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wounded only in the carts on march,
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Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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