“Occasionally?” Sova said, blinking. That went past Shkai’ra, but Megan smirked, then shook her head scoldingly.
The Kommanza raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “How good a parent I can be, I don’t know. I know what not to do, mostly: the way I was raised was shit.” Sova’s thin brows rose in surprise. “Administered by people who were shits, and all it taught me was to turn out more shits, if you take my meaning. I’m still learning else.”
“I don’t want to be a shit,” said Sova. “Khyd-hird, you molded me no less than my parents. They would have said it was a man’s mold. I wanted to marry a nice Thanish man, and live in a nice house in Branvniki. I can’t now, never will. You say that’s only because I was raised to want nothing else; but maybe, underneath that, I really did want it. I’ll never know now. I never would have known had things been left as they were, either; I wouldn’t have known either way.”
Shkai’ra paced. “You’ve got choices, girl. More than most: peasants grow to be peasants, because their lord’ll lop their heads if they try otherwise, or else they get dragged off to the levy and filled full of arrows. Crafters count themselves lucky to get apprenticeship ... You have half a dozen callings you could take. You’re getting a good general lessoning—I can hardly write more than my name, you know—”
“Emmas Penaras, solas,” Megan cut in. Shkai’ra’s words were lost in laughter, even Sova’s.
The Kommanza went on, “So if you want to shake the dust of the House of the Sleeping Dragon off your feet, you can, easily enough.”
“I didn’t think you cared what I wanted,” said the girl. “You certainly didn’t, at first.”
“Well—true. But that changed. Don’t you remember the words: ‘Sova, do you consent to be the child of these, as of their blood?’ We wanted you to be our daughter, by then; we felt like you were our daughter. You’d fought at our side, shed blood with us; we knew you and ... hmmm. A lot of reasons. Megan saw something of herself in you, I think, and wanted to make the story come out better this time.” Sova looked; the Zak nodded, confirming. “Shyll has a loving heart, and you appealed to it. Rilla likewise, and ... well, you’ll have to ask them for the details.
“Me ... had I a daughter born of my blood, I couldn’t ask for better. You’re as brave as any youngser I’ve met, you’ve learned fast, you’re smart, and you’ve got a loyal heart, when push comes to shove.” She grinned. “Don’t get a swelled head, girl, but I’m actually quite proud of you. Besides, having you around makes life ... more alive, ia? Of course, you’re sullen and flighty and give me grief, at times, but I said you were a daughter to be proud of, not a god. Gods know, I’m no vessel of sweetness and light ....
“It was for honor, too. Once we had you, we had to do something for you, and would have—fosterage, an apprenticeship, something. Less would be acting like a shit to someone who’d done me no wrong; that’s ... injurious to the self, if nothing else, I’ve learned that. I was under obligation; I’d taken you from your home, such as it was, and for your brother’s sake, who died like a zolda, a hero—he was in my care, so it was in a way, as you said, my fault.
“Sova called Far-Traveller.” The girl blinked, to hear herself named so formally. “If you feel I still owe your honor a debt, I will pay any sum within reason, if that will settle accounts; you can break my sword or strike me in public, if you wish.”
Sova’s jaw dropped, her eyes showing white all around the pupils; the red on her cheeks deepened. “Break your sword? Break your sword?”
Always in excess, my love, Megan thought. Fighting, making love, paying for goods, honoring debts.
Shkai’ra inclined her head. “Whatever you wish. When you decide, I will abide by it.”
The girl went on staring, anger and amazement and shame and fear fighting it out in her eyes. “I ... I have to think about this. Excuse me.” She sprang up, whirled, and darted away to the other side of the ship.
She lay in her berth, her mind a storm of thoughts, but her insides full of a strange, huge peace. I can’t believe I said all that, she thought, for the hundredth time. I can’t believe I did it. Then it came to her. That’s what I chased them to the war for. I chased them to say that.
Papa hits Mooti, Mooti hits ’Talia, Franc and I hit Piatr, khyd-hird hits me ...
She’d had one big brother before—never two little ones. At first, on the trip, they’d been unnaturally well-behaved, fearing, it turned out, that Ardas would get put off at some port if they were bad. But they’d slowly come to realize—partly from Sova’s own reassurances—that no such thing would happen, that the full-Arkan boy would be publicly adopted as she had been.
So now, she thought, they run like little hellions all over the ship, pestering the crew, talking back, playing pranks. It’s because they have nothing to do. It hadn’t escaped her notice, that they weren’t being made to do pushups or sword-drill or fetch and carry much for Shkai’ra. I know why, she thought. Because Lixand really is a child of the blood, and zhymata’s figuring it wouldn’t be fair to make Ardas do it as well. Though whenever Shkai’ra did make one of them fetch and carry, it was always Ardas, she’d noticed. He was always happily willing. Ya. He knows where his bread’s buttered, too.
Impact, low, from behind. Shrieking little-boy laughter. She whirled around. They were playing tag, and Ardas had blundered into her. She grabbed him by the collar, drew back her hand. Maybe you don’t know quite well enough where your bread’s buttered, Arkan brat, and you need to learn some more. I’ll get some of my own back ...
She froze. The boy had flinched and thrown his hands over his head; now his bright blue eyes peeked between tiny shielding fingers, terror-stricken. She saw tears brimming, caught in the sunlight.
Papa hits Mooti, Mooti hits ’Talia, Franc and I hit Piatr, khyd-hird hits me ...
But I don’t have to. I don’t. He’s just a little kid playing tag. He didn’t mean to hurt me. Why hit him?
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Sovee! I didn’t mean to! Please forgive me, please?”
Someone hit him a lot, she thought. Too much. And other things ... he was a pleasure-boy. Gotthumml curse me, if I make that go on. “I forgive you,” she said, letting go. “Of course I do—I’m your sister! But be careful. It’s rude to run into people, it makes them mad.”
With another apology, Ardas ran off, Lixand with him.
I can choose, she thought then. It hit her like a lightning flash, but a lightning flash of sunlight: warm and dazzling instead of grey and cold. I do have choices. I can be anything I want, do anything I want.
“I’ve thought about it,” Sova announced, “and I’ve decided what I want to do to collect my honor-debt, khyd-hird.”
They had just put into port in Brahvniki, and were arranging the transfer of the spoils to a ship of the Slaf Hikarme. The early fall sun shone bright on the white onion domes and brilliant blue walls of the Benaiat across the river, the duller grey of the kreml wall on this side, above.
Shkai’ra walked to her, stood straight, facing her. “As I said, I’ll abide by it.”
Megan came to stand at one side, with the boys. The crew, sensing something was afoot, went on with their work but with one eye over their shoulders. Except for those who were off-shift; they gathered openly. On the piers, people nudged each other, curious, recognizing some of the players in this scene.
“You said I could break your sword, demand any sum, or strike you in public,” said Sova, in a tone not unlike a politician’s making a speech. “Well ...”
“As far as your sword goes, it’s far too valuable to break. And since I’m the only one in the family with the heft for it, as you said, you’re going to bequeath it to me. So it seems to me breaking it would be quite against my own interests.”
“As for paying compensation: since your money is the family’s money, and mine is too, our financial affairs all bound up in each other’s, it would seem somewhat superfluous to demand such.” It must be Megan taught her those
big words, thought Shkai’ra. I sure didn’t. “That leaves only one alternative.”
Zaik-damned, thought Shkai’ra. That’s why she’s been doing strength-exercises so hard and long ever since we had that talk. This could hurt. If she remembers half of what I taught her, she should lay me out ...
But in the silence, as they faced each other, the Thane-girl seemed to lose some of her nerve, her look of pride and triumph fading some. “Maybe I should do this where no one’s watching,” she said.
“No.” Shkai’ra chopped with her hand. Tempting; but honor is honor. “I said public, and I meant it.”
“All right then,” said Sova. “Turn around.”
“Turn around?” But she did as the girl asked, and understood as soon as the first kick came. A loose definition of the word “strike.” Oof. That did hurt. Close enough, oww! Glitch, I didn’t specify strike “once,” did I? Dip me in shit, ouch!, damn ...
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 Shefen-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 his Aitzas-long 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 were fessas, not Aitzas.
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, 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 am fessas. 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’m fessas. 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 drug had worn off enough that he could think again.
His will could only watch from far away while his mouth dug his grave. They knew everything. The more he’d told, the more intrigued they’d got. “Now you know how Shkai’ra felt when you truth-drugged her,” they’d laughed.
Now they pulled him up by his arms, and led him out of the cell. He didn’t resist, his limbs numb. Suddenly he became too aware of everything, flames too bright, noise too loud; he could feel every hair at the back of his neck, all of a sudden, where the blade of the axe would first touch as it blurred down. He found himself imagining it, heavy black steel, the edge shining, whetted razor-keen—or dull, depending on how many people it had eaten since it was last sharpened—the block with its curved neck-rest and old blackened gore. He swallowed, felt his throat close; that would soon be parted, the blood that now throbbed in the arteries spraying out free.
His legs were water, his guts felt as if they wanted to fall out. No, I won’t feel the sharpness or dullness of the edge, he thought; they say wounds that severe don’t hurt. It will just be a strange, blunt impact. Will I see the block spin for a moment as my head tips off? And then ... A too-vividly written passage from an old book came to him, of a kindly executioner asking the condemned whether he cared how he looked; if so, he should relieve himself first, for the body voids at the moment of beheading. He didn’t care, he decided, whether he sprayed the heathen whoresons all over with shit. But the thought brought no relief. I guess
I didn’t want to die for my country, he thought. I guess in the end I’m a coward. Probably most people are.
They took him upstairs, the corridors turning brighter and more ornate as they rose. A public execution? He marveled at the richness that had been before, clear from what was left. All theirs now, he thought. They led him through doors that had been glass but were now only frames or hinges, with pairs of curly-haired sentries whose dark eyes followed him.
They took him to a room with a thick oaken door, pulled it open, led him through an anteroom, another door. An office; an ebony and gold filigree desk open at both ends for two to work across it, with some Yeoli behind it; the wool of his marya looked rough and upcountry in this place, the shape under it too rugged for an office. Yet there was something in the man’s presence ... he looked at his face.
He’d seen engravings in the Pages, before that in the Watcher, the posters, paintings, mosaics. Strange, to see a sight so familiar looking more alive than his remembrance of it, because his remembrance came only from its images. Now those hard, scarred features framed by the famous halo of black curls faced him, those notorious piercing dark eyes with their touch of sadness fixed on his—living, seeing. He recognized the gleaming swatch of gold hanging against the rough-knit wool: the Imperial seals, fastened to a neck-chain.
Shadow’s Son Page 42
