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

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course, and there had been a gratifyingly small number of those on the Alliance side. The warm air
smelled of drink, food, sweat and dust.
A nice, convincing victory, she thought happily, dropping out of Megan's dance-circle and heading for
the rows of jugs sitting in buckets of water at the edge of the light.And my load of outlaws,
barn-burners, and horse-thieves did our part very nicely, even if it was before everyone else got
up . She hooked a finger in the jug's handle and pulled it out, resting it on the crook of an elbow as she
worried the wax-sealed cork out of the neck. A stream poured down into her mouth when she raised it,
white wine, cool and slightly tart; the wet outside of the pottery was pleasantly cool against the
sweat-slick skin of her arm and bare torso.
Shkai'rawalked over to the circle.
"Megan!" she called. "I've got to go look in on my cutthroats!"
"Don't haul too many of them into the bushes, and come back before dawn!" Megan shouted back,
without breaking stride in the intricate manoeuver.
Oh, good, she thought.And I willbe back . The sentries around the inner camp were looking a little surly
as they passed her through; this must be a punishment detail.
The celebration around the fires of Shkai'ra's Slaughterers, as the unit had begun calling itself—it
sounded better in the dog-Enchian lingua franca of the army— was considerably more advanced. They
were bivouacked next to a contingent of Hyeme light infantry, some of whom seemed to have joined the
party. That southern kingdom was a matriarchy, and had sent the only all-female contingent to the army
of the alliance against the Empire. There was a good deal of dancing here, too; some of the Hyerne were
playing tabor-drum and long flutes, and two-score others were demonstrating a whirling spear-dance that
ended with flying leaps across the fire. A few practical souls were still picking over the big pile of Imperial
cavalry armor off to one side, stuffing pieces that fit into their equipment bags.
Shkai'ra did the rounds of those who weren't dancing or mattress-dancing, offering congratulations and
condolences where deserved; she had been to the infirmary to see the seriously wounded earlier in the
day. The jug was soon emptied, out there were others doing the rounds. At last she sat down on a
coverlet to watch, firelight and moonlight glinting on oiled bodies and the edges of spearheads. One of the
dancers finished with a leap and a yell and thrust her spear into the ground while she was still head-high in
the air; then she grabbed the hand of an applauding Enchian trooper and led him over to Shkai'ra, smiling
with a flash of white teeth against dark skin. The Hyerne spoke not one word either of them could
understand, and the trooper an Enchian so pure it had nothing in common with the lingua franca. But
there seemed little need for words, and less after they were all three naked.
No one in this army calls me Whitlock's Thane-brat or Kin-Slavey or Rokatzk-Spawn or
Bugger-Bait, thought Sova happily.
Khyd-hird always thinks anyone with war-training doesn't hear things like that; but she can't
read them written on the walls, she doesn't know about kid-packs who shout them from alleys
they can run away into, she doesn't notice people too powerful forZhymatato cross whispering
them to me under silky smiles at soirees …
Here, no one seemed to think about her race when they met her, aside from politely asking what it was,