Shirley Meier & S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millenium 01 - Shadow's Daughter

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Shadow's Daughter by

Shirley Meier

Chapter One

It was spring in F'talezon, and the Blutrosh, the Blood-roses,

bloomed. The hand-sized blossoms nodded in the breeze over the

head of a four-year-old child sitting on the white stone steps in

the sunshine, pulling her tunic over her knees. The house was set

into the ground, with only the windows, the door and the roof

showing, like most of the other old houses in the Middle Quarter

of the city. Her mother called the flowers her sisters because the

newly planted bushes had first bloomed on the child's birthday.

Megan Lixandashkya sat with her arms clasped around her

knees, knowing she wasn't supposed to pull her tunic so far. She

scrunched her knees up high; it wouldn't stretch so much that

way. Her father had woven it new. Down the street one of the

drover's husbands laughed with the roheji seller as he bought

some of her pastries hot out of the oil.

Around the corner she could hear the Old Brewery Gate

rumbling open onto Brewer's Street; the horses snorting and

stamping, harness jingling as they hauled the barrels out. She

didn't like horses much, though she didn't mind their smell

mixed with the bread-rising smell of the beer.

Downstairs, inside, she could hear her mother singing, her

hands flying over the lace-frame like the Veysneya, the

Silverwings, in Koru's Temple. They flew in the light of the rose

window, and the painted faces of the Goddess, hundreds of years

old, gazed down from the smooth-polished rock walls. The

Ladyshrine down the street in the park was a tiny shrine

compared to the temple, but Megan liked the statue of Koru

there much better. Her father would take her there sometimes,

holding her hand because she was too little to walk alone and

might be lost, or stolen by those whose market was children.

Lixand Mikhailovych, called Weaver, whistled as he opened

the yard gate with one hand, balancing a sack of 'maranth flour

on one shoulder. He was average height for a Zak, four and a half

feet tall, with dark brown hair, and green eyes set in a lightly

tanned round face that smiled more easily than it frowned.

"Ness! Megan! I'm home…" He laughed and caught Megan's

hand when she ran and hugged his legs. "Come on, bylashka,

little princess, help me put this in the cupboard and come for a

walk with me."

Megan would stretch her legs and trot to keep up to her papa

whenever they went on these walks, while he told her stories.

Mama always said that if he weren't a Gospozhyn, a Great

Master in the Weaver's Guild, he'd be a storyteller. Megan

always liked listening, though she didn't always understand.

They walked past the lawyer's house, with its red brick and

worn black gargoyles. It leaned and always looked like it wanted

to fall on their house, but never did; past the baker's house, that

smelled so good, past the drovers' houses and the empty space

that had nothing in it but broken, burned stones and grass taller

than Megan; past the brewers' houses and the nigh grey wall of

the Sysbaet School.

They were good teachers as well as healers, almost as good as

Haians, and she might be able to go to the school and learn to

read. Megan wanted to learn, but her parents said that it cost a

lot of Dragonclaws and they didn't have time to teach her more,

though they tried. She knew her letters already because Papa

said that it was a good thing to know. He knew because his

family had had enough money for schooling before the Great

Fire took most of his family, and Ness had learned from her

mother, Grandma-who-was-with-Koru. If you couldn't read, you

couldn't be apprenticed in the Guild and would have to be a

beggar or a thief.

The cobblestones were old; worn by the tread of generations

of people. Because the year had been dry so far the sewer in

mid-street was cracking mud and didn't smell, which to Megan's

mind was almost as nice as when the fall rains came and washed

the mud and odor away. Her papa nodded hello to the neighbors

who sat on their front steps or walked along Szyzka Lane.

The bare trees' branches reminded Megan of old people's

gap-teeth. The buds were just big enough to make small

shadows to step in. She skipped from shadow to shadow,

pretending the sunny spaces were the rat pits in the Va Zalstva,

the Arena, where she mustn't step or she'd be devoured. Her

papa got ahead of her a little and she gave up her game, running

to catch up. Even this far down the street she could still hear the

vats in the brewery groaning and sighing, like sleeping men

snoring.

"Megan, you mustn't let go my hand until you're bigger,"

Papa said and stroked her hair back out of her face. "Bylashka,

my little shadow, in a crowd, anyone can get lost. I want you to

be careful, even when you walk with me."

"I will, Papa." She held tight to his hand and walked onto the

dusty grass of the park as if she were grown up, instead of

running ahead like she wanted to.

The park was a small patch of grass with a few trees along the

streets and the stream, and lilacs around the Shrine. Across the

park the Sneykh tributary gurgled to itself, on its way down to

Chas Lake. It was a shallow creek cascading from the Dark

Lord's Temple in the northern cliff wall of the City. The Sneykh

was usually dirty because the Dark Lord's priests sacrificed into

the water. The other stream, the Byeliey, ran out of the

Ladyshrine on the south cliff wall, and was carefully kept clean.

"Tell me the best story again, please," Megan said. Papa sat

down on one of the wood benches of the shrine and took her on

his lap, and Megan hugged him looking over his shoulder at the

white fountain with the statue of Koru. She's so beautiful, she

thought.

"Szyzka Lane," Papa began, "is a street with Middle Quarter

ways of thinking, hanging on to the First Quarter's skirts with its

fingernails so it doesn't slide any farther down the rift. It's the

sort of street that, every morning, blinks its shutters, looks

around, and wonders vaguely where its grandeur has

disappeared to overnight. It's the sort of place where quiet

people live quiet lives, away from the notice of the Prafetatla

above and the thieves below. We have nothing that either of

them wish to steal and when the riots come, we pull in our heads

and wait until they're gone. We didn't always have riots,

Megan-mi."

"Tell me, Papa." She didn't understand it all, but she liked

sitting on his lap, hugging him when he had time like this, on a

rest-day at Hand'send. She loved feeling his big arms around her

so she'd be safe and cozy.

"The Zarizan, the Young DragonLord, Ranion, is the only

Heir. His father the Dragon, the Woyvode, was harsh, ruthless,

the very spirit of Prafetatla before he grew old and weak, but he

cared what happened to us, here and in the other lands. The

Kievir nearest the young Lord, Dark One notice him, cares for

himself and his own zight, or pride, and nothing else. When the

Old Dragon fell ill the first time, the Four-days War happened

with the Thanes. No protection was offered us, no retaliation for

people persecuted. That was when pogrom began along the

Thanish border—"

"Which is why

Mama-came-to-the-city-you-met-and-fell-in-love-andhadme!"

Megan finished in a rush, glad to get to the best part. Her papa

laughed, all crinkly laugh-lines that she liked better than the

frown ones, then he stood up and swung her around, off the

bench high like a bird, before setting her down and taking her

hand.

"Yes, yes, little bylashka. We had you." Then he poked her

cheek gently with one finger. "Nice to see a smile there, little

solemn face!" They walked all the way around the park, from the

fountain past the path through to Svinina Street where the

Guildhall was. Then Megan let go and ran and ran in big circles,

arms wide, pretending she was a bird, flying high, always staying

in sight and coming back to her papa.

Someone had made a swing out of an old bell rope and a

board, and her father pushed her so she swung high, laughing.

Then he took her down and said, "We'd better go back or your

mother will wonder what happened to us." He always said that

before they left, every time. She pouted, then tickled him, and he

put her on his shoulders to "keep you out of trouble" and carried

her up the street that way, higher than the world.

She was high enough to see the sun shining in the bits of

broken glass set along the tops of the garden walls. People looked

different enough from this angle that she felt shy about waving

to them, but did anyway; it was neighborly.

Everyone's yard was different within the stone and brick

walls; plots of dirt for vegetables later in the year, grass, covered

flowerbeds or stone and sand gardens. As Papa opened their

wooden gate, they could hear voices inside the house. "Hello,"

Papa called, and stepped inside as Megan ducked her head

under the lintel.

The inside door was still open, along with the shutters around

the top of the house. From the landing, ten steps led down into

the house proper, where the stone floor was covered with bright

carpets. Sitting cushions were scattered here and there. In the

kitchen corner a red-tiled stove sat and a small brazier helped

keep the floor warm. Across from the stairs, the wallbed was

open to air out and the feather tick, pillows and blankets hung

outside to get the winter's mustiness out of them. Near the stairs

stood a wooden chest with Megan's bed tucked in behind it like

a miniature wallbed. The sun shone in through the shutters,

cutting the room in half slantwise from top corner to bottom

opposite, bright and dim light, dust dancing in the breeze from

the outside.

"Lixand, Marte's come to visit." Mama's voice was cheerful as

she called from her cushion by the table, but Megan could hear

tears in it. Beside her, Megan's aunt Marte put down her kahfe

cup with a click. Mama cries sometimes when Aunt comes,

Megan thought. When Papa put her down and went to greet his

sister, Megan hid in her bed.

She crawled in under the feather tick and pillow, all her own.

Her mama had traded at the Big Market for the feathers and

sewed the patchwork cover with pieces of Papa's old green coat

and bits of felt from her worn-out boots. The tick wasn't like her

parents' that had a red cover all of a piece and two pillows each

as big as Megan. Some mornings when Mama opened the carved

doors of the bed, Megan would run across the cold floor and

climb into the wallbed with them. She wasn't a baby any longer,

needing her parents to keep her warm, and had a bed all her

own, but she liked those mornings.

It smelled wonderfully of cedar in the dark, but she poked her

head out since it was getting too hot and her braids were coming

undone. Then she moved to the top of her tick, hugging her

stuffed bear Brunsc, listening to the adults' voices and the click

of Ness's good cups. They sat on the cushions by the brazier,

drinking kahfe, though Megan didn't understand why her

mother would serve it; kahfe was only for special company.

"Lixand, you have your position to consider," Aunt Marte

said. "As next in line for the Guildmastership, you should at least

live in a more prosperous neighborhood. Somewhere in the First

Quarter, where you can associate with people of your own

station, people of—quality." She always looked sideways at

Mama when she said things like that.

"We like it here," Lixand said quietly.

Megan peeked over the edge of the trunk for a second before

ducking down again. Like Lixand, Marte had dark brown hair

and very fair skin that burned easily. Next to her husband, Ness

was tiny with raven black hair and slanted eyes almost dark

enough to be called black. Megan tended to favor her mother

which, for some reason Megan couldn't understand, angered

Marte. Aunt wrinkled her nose as if there were a foul odor in the

room, and Megan pretended that Brunsc had teeth and could

bite her.

"Of course, I understand your tastes, brother," Marte said and

smiled, but she kept looking at Ness. "Never quite refined

enough."

"Marta Mikhailashkya, my tastes are none of your business."

Megan remembered one time when he'd almost hit her; she was

kin so he restrained himself. He was starting to sound that angry

again.

"Oh, certainly. Ness, dear, the kahfe is lovely." Megan lay

down again and started to play with Brunsc. He only had one ear

left because she'd chewed the other one off when she was a little

baby. Her mama said she was a big girl now. She lifted him up

over her head, pretending she was old enough to have access to

the manrauq, the power of mind that all adult Zak had, and

could make him float without holding him in her hands. Her

mother could do that, but it would tire her out.

Megan didn't want to listen to Aunt Marte. She didn't

understand how Aunt could make Mama sad and Papa angry all

at the same time without raising her voice.

"Megan," Papa called to her. She pushed Brunsc out to see if

it was safe, and when the toy just lay there dribbling sawdust

from a little hole under his arm, she looked around the corner of

the trunk.

"There's the child! Megan, come here," Aunt Marte said, and

held out her thin hands, beckoning. Megan didn't move. "Willful,

isn't she? Just like western stock."

"Megan, come out and be polite." Papa's voice was like his

flint and steel scraping to start a fire. "Your aunt is just leaving."

Marte had a peevish, annoyed look, entirely unlike her

younger brother. She was taller than he was and her hair was

streaky with grey. Lixand's face was flushed and if Ness held her

cup any tighter she was going to break it. Megan crawled out

dragging Brunsc to protect her and Marte held out her hands

again. Those hands never felt like what her voice said, usually

holding too hard or pinching. Megan shook her head and stayed

by her papa, hiding her eyes on his leg. She thought that her

aunt smelled like the medicines she made. "Such a sweet little

grig! Such a child, Ness! With her looks you'd think that both

her parents were City Zak of the purest sort," Marte said. Ness

looked away, silent. Megan wanted to spit on her aunt's feet, but

wouldn't; she was kin.

Lixand looked tired. "Marte," he said, "she looks like her

mother and I am proud of my family." He took a deep breath

and tried to be civil. "Tell me, have you made a connection with

the Haian?"

"No, but I've made some other good contacts, nonetheless.

The Haian isn't likely to be here long, ever since the Woyvode

started showing his disfavor towards them." She got up as she

spoke, brushing her sleeves hard as if to slap the dust of the

house off. "Good Blossoming to you."

Lixand only said, "Shall I see you home? One can't be too

careful in the City nowadays…"

She laughed as she walked over to the stairs and her shadow,

as she walked by, was cold. "Oh, no. I'm quite safe." She looked

happy, which made Megan feel both small and scared. "No," she

said again. "I don't have to worry. Especially with the new

contract I have. Just think on my advice, little brother." He took

her by one elbow and walked her up the steps as if to make sure

that she left quickly. Ness was shivering. Megan stood a moment

clutching her bear, then ran to hug Mama.

"Your poor little cousin," her mama said, rocking her. "Poor

Rilla."

"Poor Rilla," Megan parroted. "Can she come't' stay again?

She's a funny baby."

"Maybe soon, Megan-mi. Your aunt says that she's too little to

be away from her mother." Ness's face was closed as she

repeated the words, and Megan could tell that her mother didn't

feel them to be true. The door clicked upstairs and Papa came

down, his feet making soft scuffing noises on the mat.

"Ach, she's venomous today." He sighed, then kissed Ness.

She shushed him and nodded down at Megan in her lap. That

means I'm not supposed to hear that. Papa hugged them both.

"Don't worry, love," he said to his wife. "She's been like that as

long as I can remember, thinking I'm living below my status. She

knows I don't play the cutthroat games for position and I won't

let her pour poison in my ear. It's not as if I'm the only candidate

for Head of Guild, and it's safer if I keep out of the way till the

dust settles. There are rumors of murder; we'll be safer keeping

our heads down."

Ness was silent, holding onto her family.

"I'm four. I'm four." Megan skipped and sang beside her

mother, holding her hand as they went down to the school. Four

was important because that was when school could start. It was

important enough for Ness to take time off from her work at the

Guildhall, though they could ill afford the loss of her work time.

Megan would normally have been with her parents in the baby's

hall at the Guild.

Instead, she was being very careful not to wrinkle her good

black tunic and Ness had spent a bit of time brushing Megan's

hair, braiding it up neatly out of the way. She took one long

stretching step and three little running ones to keep up with her

mother, humming.

They stopped before the Sysbaet's gate, and Megan craned

her neck up at the phoenix carved in inlaid light and dark wood.

Ness sighed and Megan looked to see what was the matter.

"Someone's stolen the bellpull again," Ness explained. The bell

was too high to reach, being metal and very precious.

Megan's eyes filled with sudden tears. "If they don't hear us

knock we won't get in and I won't start school and I'll be a

beggar…" She bit her lip, trying not to cry.

"Hush. They'll hear the bell." Ness took a deep breath and put

one hand on the gate to steady herself, closing her eyes. The

clapper of the bell started to swing to the Zak woman's thought.

She wasn't strong enough to swine the whole bell, so she started

it swinging then pushed at the right time. In a minute it rang,

once, a tiny ring— then louder, a jangle. Ness was breathing a

little hard. "There," she said. "They'll hear that."

"Thank you, Mama." Megan knew her mama was good at

magic, manrauq, even if she was only barely a red witch.

The Sysbaet was older than the Weaver's house and dug

further under the ground, perhaps the oldest place in the Middle

Quarter. It was hard to dig so deep now with handtools. The old

buildings had been dug out of the mountain with metal

monsters before the Fire, when the sky burned. Some of the

oldest tunnels were dangerous, full of the sickness that the

Flames had burned away.

"Yes?" The monk who answered the door had his brown robe

tucked up into his belt, his sleeves rolled back, hands wet. Megan

wondered what he was washing. "How may we help?"

"One for the school, Sysbat." Megan looked up at him and

hung onto her mama's hand. Suddenly she was afraid. What if

they didn't take her? Or what would happen if they did? She'd be

in a strange place where everyone knew lots more things than

she did. Maybe she couldn't learn how to read or figure.

"Isn't she a bit young, Teik?" Megan grabbed onto Mama's

hand with both of hers.

"She was four this spring. We understood that that was the

minimum age for your scholars."

"Four?" The monk looked away in apology for his tone. He

was more used to laborers and their children, who were taller,

almost like naZak.

"She's beautifully tiny, Teik. Will you come this way?"

"Thank you." They followed him down the grey and black

stone stairs. The walls were smooth, as smooth and polished as

manrauq could make it. The monk had been using his power to

smooth chisel marks in a newly carved niche in the wall, dipping

his hands into a bucket of water to cool them.

The light came in from the bluish glass in the roof, glass out

of the mountain where the metal was. Any glass now was

brought up the river, from Bjornholm or the Empire of Arko.

The sun hit the mirrors along the corridors, and where a mirror

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