S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millennium 05 - Shadow's Son.pdf - S. M. Stirling - widez2

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Our first inclination is to thank each other, but we're all getting paid for this, so…

For critical help and support, thanks to the rest of the Bunch of Seven, who at the time were: Janet

Stirling, Louise Hypher, Mandy Slater and Julie Czerneda. Also to Dave Edmund and Dave Kirby.

For letting us stay at the cottage in Muskoka, again: Margaret Layton and Dave Kirby.

For inspiration: Way Lem (who recently moved to Muskoka), Fred Foreman (who helped pioneer

Muskoka), A. Pajitnov and V. Gerasimov (the creators of Tetris), Mike Oldfield, and the usual host of

others.

For helping perfect strangers at the mere mention of the name Fred Foreman, in the spirit of Muskoka:

Gail Dempsey.

And a particularly large second thank you to Janet Stirling, for doing the dishes and putting up with three

oversensitive, compulsive/obsessive, cranky, caffeine-gulping writers instead of the usual one.

Book I: Summons

The address was written with an Arkan pen, leaving none of the sputters and blots a quill would leave.

Megan Whitlock picked up the sealed envelope from the pile on her lap-desk. News I've waited for ?

No, probably more of the usual pieces of glass and luxury items have risen again, with the Arkan-Yeoli

war drawn out so much longer than anyone expected…"—the usual information that came across the

desk of the proprietor of a great merchant house.

She put the packet down, stretched, and strolled to the gallery that overlooked the atrium, its roof of

glass and translucent agate letting in soft winter light, and leaned over the heavy oak railing. Megan was

short, even for a Zak, a race shorter on average by a good head and a half than most others, with pale

skin, a thin, faded white horizontal scar across the top of one cheek and the side of her nose. Her

mid-calf-long hair was black with an ice-white streak at one temple, woven into elaborate braids which

held the long mass neatly away from the heart-shaped face and out of her black eyes. The fingers of her

hands tapped the honey-colored wood, her gray steel claws making a clicking sound.

She'd been working all day; time for a break. Below, Shkai'ra sword-danced, the drill that began with

the Nine Cuts; beginning slow, her movements flowing into each other with a delicate grace incongruous

in a woman her size. She was near six feet, in Zak measure 178 schentiam , a good two heads taller

than most Zak. Her copper-blond hair was tied back in Kommanza warrior braids, bouncing on

muscular shoulders slicked with sweat. The hawklike features too were unusual in F'talezon; now they

wore a look of introspection, lips parted in a slight smile.

I married a woman from across the Lannic , Megan thought, smiling to herself as she breathed in the

sweet cinnamon-scented oil burning in the lamps that hung from the iron strapping of the roof. I'm used

to how she looks, but I'm still not used to her being my wife; or Billa; or Shyll being my husband

either .

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Nearby Sova, now fourteen and already considerably taller than Megan, tumbled with the puppies on

the flagstones, giggling, ash-blond hair pulling loose of its braids. Full-grown, the girl would be as tall as

Shkai'ra, and not less muscular if the Kommanza had her way; now she was all feet and hands and

tangled limbs, her breasts finally rounded. The pups,Dee and Dah, were bigger than the girl now, though

not full-grown; greathounds not only outsized common dogs by double, but grew faster in their first

months.

Megan had never expected to adopt a Thane, one of her people's oldest enemies; but then not much in

her quest up the River Brezhan a year and a half before, to regain the Slaf Hikarme from Habiku

Smoothtongue, had gone as expected. Even the ending, not quite: in her rage at what he'd done to so

many of her old shipmates, not to mention her, she'd planned to put him in a cage welded shut, and hang

it up in this very atrium. That hadn't worked out. But every now and then, pacing in the gallery, she would

imagine it was there, the room echoing with his screams, or perhaps mad laughter, instead of Sova's

carefree noise, and know it would have been for the worse. For one thing, it would have made the house

unfit for raising children.

Back to work. She ground a fist into the small of her back as she straightened; this sedentary life was

making her stiff. Only a bit more, she promised herself as she went back to the packet on her desk.

Examined closer, the writing seemed familiar. She broke the seal.

To MEGAN called Whitlock, Slaf Hikarme' (House of the Sleeping Dragon) F'talezon.

Third Iron-Cycle, Tenth Day, Year of the Lead Cat.

My investigations regarding your expatriate son LIXAND, heretofore futile for the year that I have

undertaken your contract, have suddenly borne substantial fruit. It seems very likely he is in Arko the

City Itself. An agent of mine discovered a dancing boy owned by the AITZAS Family TEMONEN,

ofFidelity Street , who fits his description perfectly: blond, black-eyed, small of build, about ten years

old. Probing revealed that RASAS, as he is called there, was bought at the age of two in the

slave-market of Arko, which matches well with the time he was abducted from you.

By all indications, he is healthy and well-fed, being prized as a lead performer in NUNINI-BAS

TEMONEN's troupe of dancing boys. I made the utmost attempt to purchase him, but was refused

absolutely; it seems he is also a favorite of the Lord.

I await your instructions.

Hoping you find this information of great value, I am your faithful agent,

TIRPAS ORREN, fessas

Avenue Aven

Arko, the City Itself.

She read it three or four times, her hands shaking, pulse pounding in her ears, barely believing. After

eight years, she knew where her son was. After eight years wondering, then this last year, when it had

finally become possible, feverishly searching through a network of spies hired in every major city in the

Empire of Arko, there was a house and a city to pin him to, circumstances to imagine, a setting to make

his life seem real to her. A place to track him to, to find him, to buy or steal or carve him free of… no,

not buy. She'd stated clearly from the start, the maximum price Tirpas was authorized to offer: all she

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had, short of destituting the family. That was rather a lot. Tirpas had obviously offered that and been

turned down. How rich is this fish-gutted bastard, that my son isn't worth that amount? Or how…

besotted …

Steal or carve, then. She'd considered going into the Empire personally before, despite the risk—

foreigners were accorded no right to freedom there, and slave-catchers knew it—but had decided

against. A hireling who knew the ropes in Arko and didn't need to run and hide had been a better bet, for

such a needle-in-a-hay-stack search.

But now the search was done. She ran back down the stairs, and called into the atrium. "Shkai'ra! How

soon can you be ready to leave on a long trip?"

The Kommanza lowered her sword, wiped one forearm across her face. "Two days, traveling light.

Where to? Business or pleasure?"

Rilla, Megan's second wife and cousin, came down the steps with a basket of flower bulbs over her arm.

She was taller than Megan by almost a hand-width, mink brown hair trimmed short and sharp around her

face, giving her an elfin look, making her dark amber eyes seem much bigger. "Dark Lord, Sova," she

said. "We'll have to buy a warehouse of tunics; if you want to play with the dogs, wear an old one! Go

change, now!"

Sova thumped on the ribs of the puppy who held her down, making a bang like a drum. "I want to hear

about this trip."

"Arko," Megan said. "Business. Is Shyll home yet? I want to talk to everyone about this."

Rilla put the basket down. "No, he'll be back for the evening meal. Do you mean business in Arko,

Meg? Nobody does that who isn't Arkan."

"My agent's found Lixand." Rilla froze, silent, then nodded.

Megan turned away up the stairs, the soft sigh of the door closing cutting off a question of Sova's, and

walked back to her office. The setting sun shone red through the west window, touching the rim of the

city over theLakeQuarter . She would come out when Shyll came home, she decided. She shuffled the

papers with one hand, staring at the words without reading them, looking at the bloody light from the

setting sun on her fingers, remembering.

Lixand, my son . She'd borne him at fourteen, on the old Zingas Brezhani , River Lady, docked in

Bjomholm. I swore you'd be my son, with nothing of him in you. Baby, born in blood and pain, I

nearly gave my life for you. Too big for me, you were, my firstborn, ensuring you would be my last

. Soft blond hair under her fingers as he nursed, eyes that were blue like his at first, because he was an

Arkan, but then turned dark like hers, thank Koru , blinking sleepily…

Samgeld, the captain, her owner. Atzathratzas was his real name, or part of it, every Arkan tacks on all

the formal-sounding titles he can dig up —but no Zak could pronounce all those consonants. Solas ,

warrior caste. Nursing, she'd had too much of a woman's rounded shape to interest him. Ex-Arkan,

ex-soldier. May your soul freeze and burn at once in Halya .

My son. The day you were weaned, how you were weaned … He'd been two, both running and

speaking, knew already to avoid the captain. He was on deck, dealing with another Arkan, in their

clipped, snobbish tongue, hands hidden in gloves. The baby heard his tread before she did, looking away

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from the wood and string rattle she was dangling for him. She gathered him into her arms and stood up,

big toddler though he was.

Sarngeld's face was twisted in a frozen sort of smile she couldn't read. "Come, girl." I couldn't fight him

anymore: for your sake, my son. You were his hold on me . The wooden slave-links locked around

her wrists, the chains, to the staple in the floor of the cabin, which he hadn't used for a year…

Lixand had screamed a baby's bird-high shriek as Sarngeld tried to pull him from her chained-together

arms. The black crash in her head as he hit her, the only way to make her let go. My son. You couldn't

know what he would do .

"Sarngeld, master, leave me my baby, please don't drown him. Please, he's your son, don't kill him.

Please, he's only a baby. Don't, please, master." She begged in a way she had never begged before.

She'd never willingly called him master, got down on her knees, on her face. My son. I would have done

anything .

"Kill the brat?" He laughed at her. "He's worth money!"

Maybe I knew what all that would mean, for the years ahead . She'd screamed and lunged to the end

of her chain. All she could do was tear her fingers bloody on the wooden links, maddened, and scream

her child's name as his father carried him on deck. To the other Arkan, just before the ship cast off for

the day. " Lixaaaaaaand !" If she screamed it enough, maybe he would remember it.

Later that night, Katrana the healer had stolen his keys, freed Megan, got her knives. I killed him, and

took the ship. But that was too late to get you back. You were gone, into the Empire, where I

couldn't go, sold Dark Lord knows where to Dark Lord knows whom . Eight years ago.

The family sat down for dinner, in the atrium near the fountain, with candles floating over the flocks of

eye-sized jewelfish. The big lamp overhead threw shadows from the plants over the tables and cushions.

Gar-soup with dumplings, 'maranth bread, roast beef, vegetables and hot sauce, cloudberry tart…

Megan pushed her food around her plate with her eating-pick. I'd have killed for this much food,

when I was eleven and on the street . Shkai'ra was working on seconds, and another stein; she had

been out on the estate with Hotblood yesterday. How she could stand riding a cross between a horse

and a wolverine, that would sooner tear your head off than take a lick of salt from your hand, Megan had

never understood. She herself had a bad enough time with ponies.

Shyll was picking at his food, too. Another Zak in the House of the Sleeping Dragon, first husband: an

open-faced man with green eyes, wheat-blond hair cut shoulder length, but a build too slight and wiry for

anyone to mistake him for a Thane. I seem to have a taste for blonds, despite my past .

Rilla stared, lost in thought, as she nursed littleNess , two iron-cycles old now; the baby's eyes were

closed as she suckled. They were still baby-blue but with hazel flecks, more and more like her father

Shyll's every day. Your mother loves you, as my parents did me before they died , Megan thought.

Soft hair in the crook of her arm, she remembered, hungry lips tugging impatiently at a swollen breast; the

milky smell of a clean baby. Love, Lixand-mi, love … She tore her mind away from that, looked down

at the cold food on her plate, cleared her throat.

Shkai'ra finished her beer and wiped the foam off her lips with the back of a hand. "Well," she said; she

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spoke good Zak now, but with a rough accent she would probably never lose. "We'd best settle who's

going, shouldn't we?" She looked sideways at Rilla and smiled a little crookedly. "Damn, I'd been looking

forward to having one myself. Well, needs must when the demons drive; sooner started, sooner finished."

Dammit , Megan thought, I should be used to her saying what I'm thinking by now. We've been

together long enough . "Rilla isn't going anywhere for now," Megan said. "Not with Ness on her arm."

Her cousin looked up from the baby and nodded, the thought unspoken: I could have another, or three

more, if I liked. You'll only ever have one . "Nor Shyll either."

"Wait a moment—"

"No, husband. Our family has a business to maintain. Can Rilla carry that alone, as well as the baby? Or

would you have Shkai'ra look after the books?"

There was a general shudder around the table at that. Shkai'ra snorted and reached for another wedge

of pie. "Better I'm at your back, Megan, or you'd come home to find us all sold off to pay the debts."

"What about me?" Sova; her pale brows, long enough almost to join in the middle, were even. She'd had

two years of Shkai'ra's rigorous war-training now; at thirteen, she'd been blooded, against minions of

Habiku on the river.

"No," said Megan. "You're well into this year's school and you're not wasting time gallivanting about with

us."

"Wasting time? I thought khyd-hird," —she nodded her head towards Shkai'ra— "would want me to

squire."

" la ," said the Kommanza. "It'd be good practice for her."

"No." Megan cut the air with her down-turned hand. Play us off against each other, will you, girl ?

"Sova isn't Shadow's Son going to be away from school for the length of time it will take to find Lixand."

To the Thane-girl: "I want to give you all the opportunity you can to learn more than how to sneak and

kill. You re staying here and that's final."

Shkai'ra tilted her head on one side and visibly restrained herself from speaking. We'll talk later ,

Megan thought. Sova dug back into her dinner, face unchanged. Showing no sign of what she wants to

do, go or stay. I love her but she makes me angry sometimes. I suppose all children would at that

age. I wasn't a child then; I never had time to be. Yet was I ever such a stranger to those who

loved me, as she is to us sometimes ?

"It's damn risky," said Shyll.

"It'll be less so now than ever before, love. Look how the Arkans are getting cut up in Yeola-e. They've

spread themselves so thin that patrols will be fewer, borders more weakly guarded; it'll be easier to

move, and hide."

"From the news," said Shkai'ra, "the Yeolis were on their last legs only five months ago. How have they

won back so far?"

Ivahn, the Benaiat of Saekrberk, had told of this in his letters to Megan. It was useful to have for a friend

the one who was as close to a head of state as the freeport of Brahvniki could have; he knew everything

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S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millennium 05 - Shadow's Son.pdf

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