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 EPILOGUE From somewhere in the dungeon came a steady dripping. Sometimes it seemed near, sometimes far. What liquid, he wondered as he lay on the cold stone with its thin layer of straw; while half-asleep, he was convinced it was blood. Clanging. Calling. The officious Yeoli-accented voices, butchering an Arkan name. Making a man choose. He'd learned, from listening: they were giving everyone the choice. Swear allegiance to Snefen-kas, or die. Imperator, he was calling himself now; Imperator and you better believe it. I wondered… The old fart general had had him truth-drugged, learned the whole thing from end to end. And taken pity on him, of all things, admiring his plan. "To Hayel with Eforas Mahid," he'd said. "Eforas Mahid matters less than rotted shit in mud,now ." And sent for his best healer. My clawed cheek… In the infirmary of an Arkan camp, being driven further back into Arkan territory every battle, Matthas had waited, for fever, for sickness, aware of every tiny twinge inside… and waited, wondering just how slow acting a poison those demonic claws had carried… and waited, while the four gashes healed, into scabs, then scars—spectacular scars, he'd be able to tell a wonderful story of a bear or lion, if he lived—and waited, and realized the Zak had put no poison on the claws at all, but had only said she had, to torment him. I wondered, he thought now. Why she hadn't turned him in to Shefen-kas, he knew: she'd have been incriminated herself, not having done it sooner.But why didn't she kill me, when she could have, and hated me so ? Now he knew. She'd let him live to witness the result of his failure: to see the Empire fall. To see the City sacked; not knowing what else to do, he'd gone there, one of thousands of refugees. Irefas credentials had been enough to explain hisAitzas-'tong hair to the gate guards; but that would gain him no mercy, he knew when the fires and screams started, with the conquerors. He could likely get away from the random killing by hiding in the woods, he decided—lucky I have no home here to try in vain to defend, like all these poor bastards—but when it was over and he had to come out, he'd more likely be left alone if he werefessas , notAitzas . So he'd knelt in a thicket under the cliff, breathing deep to keep the knife steady, and was half-done cutting his hair, struggling to keep it even—when a bunch of shrieking Yeolis had stumbled into him.Sheer chance. Sheer fikken chance, they were the type honorable enough not to kill an Arkan who threw himself on their mercy, as long as I showed them the way to the Marble Palace dungeon, so they could throw me in . He heard rustling on the stone. Something slithered away from his hand. Torchlight flickered, making a square of firelight through the tiny barred window, moving like water on the wall. He was thirsty. The boots slowed down instead of passing, tread lightening as he'd noticed it did when they were about to stop. A key turned in the lock. The door swung creaking, thumped against the wall; torchlight filled the cell,
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html blinding. "You." They had truth-drug. He knew that. He'd heard men struggle, cry "No!"; then the same voice flat and mindless, revealing secret intentions, treasons against the Yeolis, dully spilling its own death. Sometimes they'd scrape someone, and he'd hear personal things, things so trivial he couldn't see why they were such terrible secrets, or things that made him flinch. "Name." He couldn't see the Yeoli's face in the dark, the light behind him placed to shine on his noteboard. "Matthas Bennas.Fessas ." "You got hair long." Even holding a pen, the hand waved."Half-long. Like hurry-cut. 'Tai, note here says you caught cutting it." "I amfessas . Truth-drug me if you like. Send for the birth register of Karoseth, son of Mantalas Bennas, born Month of the Pipe, 106. Why my hair's half-long… is a story longer than it ever was." They didn't believe him, of course. Out came the box, the syringe. Naked Yeoli fingers handled it quite deftly.Tricks we taught them , he thought. "You swear to Chevenga or die—choose," said the first man. "I'll swear if you like. But I'mfessas . What's it matter?" After all those years, he thought with an inward laugh,of cursing that I was fessas. "Well, swear anyway. Or die." What choice do I have, realistically? It wasn't as if there was still an "our side" left to work for, to struggle to maintain his loyalty to, to get paid by. An old memory came, a childhood memory, of Karoseth, the wind with its sea-taste through the spread-hand palm trees, playing Don't Step on the Crack on the boardwalk. Then rain pattering on the clear glass pane of his office in Brahvniki, the smell of thick Brahvnikian tea in the samovar, a finger-cup of Saekrberk.I'll be a merchant for the rest of my life , he thought.Most people in the world would fall on their faces to their gods for such good fortune as that . He cupped his hands on his temples. "On my hope of Celestialis, Second Fire come if I forswear…" As he forced his tongue to shape those obscene syllables, he thought,it's a simple matter of this: do I ever want to see the sun again ? He did. "Fourth Shefen-kas Shae-ra-noi. Imperator." Three times they made him say it, as if to make his tongue keep it ringing in his brain so it sank deep into his heart, like a slow knife. Then they made him lie down in the filthy straw, and extend his arm.Celestialis. Too suspicious. Too suspicious. They're going to truth-drug me anyway. I'm dead. It's done. I swore, and I'm dead anyway . Even descending into it feels different, in enemy hands, he thought, when the drag had worn off enough that he could think again.
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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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Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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