Shadow’s Son

by Shirley Meier, S. M. Stirling

  Koru, a rokatzk philosopher. “I understand your point of view, Arkan,” she said coldly, as though resigned. “I, of course, don’t necessarily agree, having suffered enough at Arkan hands. It will take some time. I imagine you don’t care how I do it; so I choose to be subtle. You understand the necessity, I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to free my son to leave him an orphan moments later.”

  “Of course, of course, of course,” he said, like an overly syrupy party host. “Though I am well-apprised of your superior capability in such matters; no one covers a getaway better than an illusionist. An illusionist—I.”

  For once the Arkan’s smoothness was broken, interrupted, it seemed, by his own thought; but in a moment he d put it aside or filed it away, and went on. “And you understand that while time may not be of the essence for you—an eight-day wouldn’t come between you and your child—it is very much of the essence for us, with him rapidly coming between us and our future. How long did you have in mind?”

  “An iron-cycle is roughly what I’ll need,” she said, sending a questing thought for Fishhook’s mind. Nothing. “That should still give your army time to break the Alliance, if they’re as good as they’re supposed to be.”

  “My dear.” His voice picked up a scolding edge. “First of all, stop the childish little stabs at my race. You don’t want to try my patience unnecessarily, believe me. Second: all the rest of Arko may kid itself about how this war has gone, and will go. You and I are not such fools, so don’t think to beguile me with that. And an iron-cycle is a damn long ... what in Hayel is an iron-cycle?”

  Whoops, thought Matthas. Almost gave away I’ve lived on the Brezhan, there!

  An illusionist ... the visions in camp ...

  “Thirty days.” Megan pursed her lips. “Look, Arkan, how do I know you won’t snuff my son just to clear up loose ends even if I do what you want? You ask me just to trust you, with no reassurances.”

  “If you won’t trust me, there’s no point in talking further; I shall just cease sending the order I’m sending, and never think of it again. But let me reassure you. First, I will swear the oath sacred to all: Second Fire come if I lie, I will deliver your son to you unharmed if you succeed at what I ask, kill him if you fail. Second, do I need to explain why it would be bad tradecraft to doublecross your ...”

  “No. I’m familiar with the principles. Fine, I’ll trust you, but if you do betray me ... I’ve gone a long way before, for revenge.”

  “As would be understandable and just.”

  “I need an iron-cycle to set things up properly.”

  “Thirty days. Why so long?”

  “Do you think I carry subtle poisons with me?”

  “Of course you do. What else would you be doing for Shefen-kas? You think I haven’t done my homework on you? Besides, I don’t care how you kill him, knife in the back or duel of honor, so long as you kill him dead, and soon.”

  “I already told you, I won’t leave my child an orphan. An iron-cycle is what I need!”

  “You’re telling me it would take you thirty days to acquire a poison?”

  “And establish my route home.”

  “That’s just a matter of thinking it out! You aren’t convincing me, Whitlock. I know you’d love to stall, to find some way to squirm out of this; you and I both know you have every reason to lie to me now. More than I to you.”

  Fishhook? she thought.

  goodmeatnobonesman?, the cat’s thought came back.

  followman,. “Look, Arkan, you can get messages to me. Give me what time you think reasonable, and call me to account then, whether it’s tomorrow or ten or twenty days from now. Is that reasonable enough?”

  “Very reasonable. What say we meet again in an eight-day, and we’ll take it from there?”

  “All right.” Her voice was resigned.

  I hate you, I hate the ground you walk on and the air you breathe. I hate your guts and if I could curse you, I would. I hope my ill-wish gives you pox and dysentery and leprosy, and that you die a mass of painful sores.

  She turned to walk away. “Good luck,” he said. “I will pray for your success.” Everything you make me feel, you asshole, your people will feel, next time I go into the Arkan camp.

  The intrigue is intriguing, thought Matthas, as he slipped back to his tent. But this trade has its pains. Like dealing with the likes of her, and having my honor, my integrity and my race shot on by same. After all these years, it shouldn’t get under my skin, but somehow it still does; I guess at least I haven’t had all my innocence burned out of me.

  Everyone thinks you’re an asshole when you’re a spy. At times in his career,—mostly early in it, he’d wondered himself. He reassured himself by reviewing the ethic that required the work of him: I had a gift for it, more than anything else. To do what you are best at is to serve your Empire, and the Gods, best. Yet did he have that gift because he was in some way innately cruel, relishing the dirty work he so often had to do? (It was, he’d noticed, generally against people who relished dirty work more than he, as they plotted or wreaked harm on Arko. Such as Megan, most likely, and Shkai’ra, certainly.)

  At the end of each bout of such doubts, he always came to the same conclusion, making him wonder every time why he bothered thinking these things at all. He had to do his duty, as best he could. That was virtue in itself, and—like it or not—what sort of person it showed him to be didn’t matter. When I am Aitzas, he thought, I’ll have the luxury of moralizing. He looked forward to that. Likelier now; it seemed she’d bought his story of the poison tooth. That made for much easier breathing.

  Megan went back to the tent, lay down so none of her limbs would fall asleep on her, and in her mind stretched to find Fishhook.

  In the distant silence she could hear the cat’s thoughts, like meows muffled through two rooms and four heavy wooden doors.

  goodmeat sheepsmell licklick groomtoes manmove??? slowslow swoop goodsheepmeat smellsneeze followfollow catchleaf chewholdkickkick play??? bitespit situplicklick meant that meant to whereman??? goodmeat follow hunt-sneak ... bird! Slowdumb BIRD! The mental whisper faded.

  Megan sat straight up. “Shit, shit, shit. The damn beast is off chasing birds! I’ll wring her fool feline neck!”

  “Don’t worry, my heart,” Shkai’ra said from the other bedroll where she’d settled down to let Megan track the wing-cat without disturbance. “Convince flutterbrain that the man gave her the bird and she’ll find him. Or else she’ll get interested in him again afterwards. She at least got the smell of him. We’ll be able to find him, drop some snooze-drips in his water so he doesn’t chomp himself dead, truth-drug him and then just keep sending his messages not to kill Lixand until the army gets to Arko.” She was spouting every idea she could think of, to calm Megan down. “We’ll do something.”

  Megan lay back on her elbows, breathing hard. “All right. You’re right, love, it was just an off chance.” She smiled a twisted grin. “Worst comes to worst, I’ll kill him and I’ll learn to live with myself as a Halya-damned oathbreaker, friend-killer.”

  Shkai’ra gathered her up close in her arms, onto her lap. “Shhh, my heart, it’s not that bad, not yet. You’re letting the worst rule you. We’ll find the guy, rescue Lixand, then scrag him.”

  Megan buried her face in Shkai’ra’s neck. “I’m doing this all the time, aren’t I?”

  “Not too much. Too much and I’d scream at you.”

  The smile Megan gave this time was more sincere. “Why, thank you. That would help immensely.” She stretched the kinks out of her muscles. “But you are right, in a number of ways. I love you, you great brute.”

  “I love you too, you small snippy disagreeable.” Megan tried to smile at Shkai’ra’s version of the Ri’s name for her.

  “You forgot sharp.”

  “Sorry. Sharp. A-hia, we’ll work it out.”

  Zaik knows how, the Kommanza thought. But somehow.

  Fifteen strokes, Sova thought. At least it wasn’t to falli
ng, the flogging that lasted as long as your strength, and one stroke longer. Fifteen strokes she’d be able to count. It was hardly as if she’d never been struck before.

  The army was in the usual bustle and confusion of making camp; the flogging-posts were always among the first things set up, eighty thousand warriors, now, producing a good deal in the way of discipline problems. She’d watched before, as they were off-loaded from a wagon, work-crews standing in the bed of the vehicle to pound them in with stone-headed mauls: old oak posts with frayed tops, dark and stained. She’d expected not to get any closer acquainted. Those to be punished waited, some bound and under guard, most standing with knots of their friends, faces contrite and nervous. Dust made her sneeze, and there were the usual smells of dung and leather and sweat and greased iron.

  She’d told Echera-e the first day he’d been up and around, two days after he’d been hurt; it was another two days now, and he’d been judged fit. “Fifteen stroke ... we getting light cause she you’ motser,” he said. “Some kras outcahst, forrh tsaht. Most flahg to falling. Bet she say us it tsaht, next time.” Now he stood beside her, his rough-callused hand in hers; his friends were there, more subdued than usual. They seemed to agree with him that the sentence was on the light side of justice, though, if anything. Sova had felt it was harsh, until she thought about it. If everyone ran around doing what they wanted, they’d cut through us like old cheese.

  The two hadn’t been sure whether they’d get the choice, but each wanted to go first. They’d toyed with the idea of having the whip-wielder alternate strokes; but that, they realized, would make it last twice as long for both. The anticipation between, they both knew, was as bad as the pain. Sova swallowed; there was a fig orchard just north of the punishment field, and she could smell the over-sweet smell of the dropped fruit, hear the wasps buzzing about them.

  Shkai’ra rode up on Hotblood with most of the Slaughterers behind her, and Megan, perched on her pony, worry lines on her face. “Attention to orders!” the Kommanza barked.

  Echera-e and Sova looked at each other and straightened, stepped forward to stand before the commander; the Yeoli’s eyes stopped for a moment on the man uncoiling the whip by the post, one of his own countryfolk. That was the rule, in this army, formed of nations that had in the past often been enemies, and were still sometimes touchy about perceived humiliations. Sova swallowed.

  As one they exchanged the salute with Shkai’ra. Her voice continued in a tone like iron.

  “Sova Far-Traveller, military apprentice, and Echera-e Lemana, common rank, did willfully disobey orders while in action and in the face of the enemy; specifically, did refuse to obey the signal to retreat although they heard and understood same, thereby endangering the mission and the good order and discipline of this army.”

  “Therefore, they are sentenced to punishment corporeal, for their own improvement and as example general. In light of the fact that the offense was committed while attempting to rescue a wounded comrade with courage that would be commendable in other circumstances, and in view of their youth and previous clean records of both parties, sentence is commuted to fifteen strokes. I warn Military Apprentice Sova Far-Traveller, and am authorized by his own commander Makalina Shae-Sorel, rigaryekrachaseye, to so warn Echera-e Lemana, that the next such offense will be punished by flogging to falling. The sentenced may choose the order of punishment and whether they will be bound.”

  “Told you,” whispered Echera-e.

  “Stone, knife, and parchment?” They’d never come to a decision; there was no time to do it any other way now. They extended their fists. “One, two, three ...” The first time both showed knife, and shared a nervous giggle; the second, Echera-e’s knife beat Sova’s parchment, and they gave each other a quick hug.

  He peeled off his shirt and stepped up to the post, taking a firm grip on it, waving on the binding-rope. They d both had an answer to that choice, without words. The whip-wielder had been warming his arm; the regulation Yeoli whip was too thick to crack, but could be made to whistle viciously through the air, as he was doing now. Echera-e spoke the ritual words, loud enough for everyone to hear and steadily, as tradition required. “So be it, I submit myself.”

  I can’t turn away or shield my eyes or flinch, Sova thought, as the whip whistled around and thumped across his back for the first stroke, a sound like a hand-blow. Not in front of all these people, when I’m next; it would look like cowardice. Shame him, too, who loves me. It came to her that this was the sort of thought people had in war songs, and she’d thought it naturally, for the first time. Because the songs ... come out of truth.

  She kept her eyes on him, silently wishing, “Strength, livling.” He didn’t flinch himself, though she saw him tremble, and his head start to bow until he checked it.

  “Five!... Six!” The count-herald’s voice was clear and weighty. Echera-e’s tanned back had come up brilliant pink in a broad stripe on the first stroke; now the stripes were enough to blend together into one huge patch. “Ten!... Eleven!” Pink grew brighter, angrier. I should look at his head, not there. Strength, my love. “Fourteen!... Fifteen!” The flesh of his back looked almost bloodied now, though it was unbroken.

  Finished. And he’d managed not to cry out. He straightened, aching slow, kissed the whip-wielder’s hand as Yeoli tradition required, and saluted Shkai’ra. His face was flushed red, but when his eyes turned to Sova he grinned.

  The cruel sourness of fear had come up in her mouth of itself on his fourteenth stroke; now it watered, hard. If I spit, everyone will know. My turn. I won’t cry out. I mustn’t cry out. But I don’t know if I can keep myself from crying out, or stay still like he did. She wanted to cry. His brave grin cut through the fear some, and she loved him for it, but it didn’t cut through it all.

  Everyone was looking at her. They wouldn’t change whip-wielders; there weren’t enough other Thanes in the army to find one for her. Now. Only cowards hesitate. She took off her shirt, trying not to let the cloth show the trembling of her hands, smelling the stink of her own fear-sweat while she pulled it over her head. They were waiting. Echera-e was with his friends; vaguely she saw him leaning on another youth’s shoulder, and his hand make the first symbol to her, strength. Her own steps toward the post seemed jerky and wooden, like a puppet’s; the arm that waved away the binding rope didn’t seem her own.

  It’s just pain. I know what it’s like to feel pain. She gripped the post, feeling the wood rough and splintery on her fingers. Send the pain out of yourself, the voice said inside her; Shkai’ra’s. Stare at a spot, send the pain into it. Control breathing, deep to the base of the lungs, slow. Other people had given her the same hints for taking floggings. Set your teeth, concentrate on not biting your lip. She tried not to expect the first blow. Why isn’t he starting? It must be just because time seems like an eternity right now. Then she remembered.

  She cleared her throat, and forced her voice to be strong, and steady. “So be it.” It sounded distant as a far-off sentry-call. I hope it sounded better to everyone else than it did to me. “I submit myself.”

  She set her teeth, and started the long slow breathing; then came the whistling of air, and the first blow.

  I flinched. My face flinched, I didn’t think of my face, shit! Next stroke, my face is rock, my face is stone ... She made her eyes bore through the spot on the post, worn grey wood-grain. Breathing, I’m forgetting ... The second stroke came, before she was ready for it; she’d never be ready for it, but she managed not to flinch somehow. It’s not so bad. Not as bad as I feared. She caught on, then, to the rhythm.

  Lines she’d heard someone quote from an old strategy book came into her head, and somehow stayed there, the pain searing them in, in fluid Yeoli. There is rhythm in all things. There is a season to everything. She breathed, and burned into the spot with her gaze, and put all her soul into keeping still and silent. With all her soul she counted with the count-herald, to know and celebrate in her bones that it would only be elev
en more, ten more, nine more, half over, to measure out her strength to last just as long as she needed. It’ll be over. It’ll be over in a moment and then he’ll hold me, and we’ll stagger off to the healer together and get our backs salved. ‘Ten!’ She felt her face flinch again. I almost yelled. Don’t relax, yet. Only five more, I can make it, breathe in, and out, and in, and out ... Eleven. I can make it. Twelve. I can make it. Just three more. Thirteen. Hardly anything left, I can make it. In, out ... Fourteen. I’ve just about made it. Fifteen. It’s over, O Gotthumml great god Nurse Zhymata it’s over Echerry shit I’m still in front of everyone I’d better not fall over ...

  Grey cleared from her eyes. Straightening was agony, walking all she could do. The whip-wielder was there, his face sympathetic; dully remembering what Echera-e had done, as if she hadn’t known it before, she kissed the hand offered, and saluted khyd-hird, who sat impassive. Sensation returning, she realized she had tears in her eyes; but she was sweating so much as well, maybe no one had seen. In the ring of faces was only admiration. It occurred to her that they might never have seen a fourteen-year-old flogged before, since Yeolis under sixteen didn’t get flogged. I did it. I didn’t cry out or fall over or faint or anything. I did it. Echera-e’s arms welcomed her, clasping her shoulders.

  * * *

  XIV

  To: Slaf Hikarme, Rilla called Shadow’s Shade and Shyll called Dog Lord

  From: Megan called Whitlock

  Dated: Seventh Iron-Cycle, Sixth Day, Year of the Lead Cat

  I greet you both, with love, from the middle of the largest gathering of naZak that I have ever seen in one place at one time. We are all well; Sova arrived with not so much as a scratch on her. She is doing well fighting in Shkai’ra’s collection of “odds and sods” mercenaries and is associating with a very nice young Yeoli boy, Echera-e. Since she speaks not a word of his tongue and he very little Enchian, this is doing wonders for her Yeoli language lessons, among other things.