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

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"Shkai'ra here could say yes to that," Megan answered, "but I am a merchant. I own the Slaf Hikarme,
F'talezon. And for now: horse-dealers. My aching calves—server! More painkiller."
"My craft is one that didn't exist here two years ago," the Yeoli said, somewhat proudly. "Brickmaker."
The sleeve of his brown cotton shirt caught on the table and slid up slightly, showing a wrist scarred in a
way Megan knew: from a manacle.
"Yes… I learned it undertheir whips. They made us work so hard people died, broke their backs, their
hearts… there's not just sweat mixed into what this city's built out of, but blood too, lots of blood. The
mark Arkans leave on a land, wherever they go. A year, it was. They wanted to make me an overseer,
but I said I'd die first. I ended up a sort of manager."
"When the city was liberated, the warriors broke our chains. We were so happy, we decided we would
torch the works. Smoky black torture-chamber, where we lost so many friends… But the warriors said
no, there were orders, no sacking was allowed. We began arguing, someone got the flat of a blade on
the head that cut him somehow, and next thing we knew it was a fight, bricks flying everywhere, Yeoli
against Yeoli. When there hadn't even been a fight for the city… so senseless. I guess being treated like a
beast makes you think like one."
"Then there are warriors among us, talking calm, getting between people, and we hear this hoarse voice
in the middle of it. 'Chen! Stop! You lunatics, what are you child-raping doing? Where's the God-in-you?
Yeoli, you want to hit a Yeoli with a brick, hitme!' Everything goes quiet all of a sudden. Everyone who
doesn't know his face knows the official collar. Or just—well, there's just something about him that says
he'shim . Aiigh, did we feel like idiots!"
"He jumps up on a stack of bricks, calling for his herald. We all want to explain ourselves, I guess, so
the chant starts, 'Burn the works! Burn the works!' He holds up his arms for silence, yells, whistles
war-codes, nothing works. Finally he pulls one brick out of the stack, and underhands it high up into the
sky over us; everyone gets a little quieter then, trying to see where that brick is going to come down. '
Listen!' he yells in the meantime. You are slaves no longer! You're a workfast, if you want to be!"
" 'You can work the time you want to,' says he, when we shut up, 'set up the place your way, sell at your
price and the profit's all yours. No one will ever crack the whip on you again. There's nothing wrong with
these things; they're made of good Yeoli clay and straw, the Arkans just have a good trick for building
that they've generously passed on to us. And you are the only ones who know it.' "
" 'But it's torture to work in there!' " someone cuts in.
" 'Are youawake ?' he says. 'Haven't you noticed, you're free? You canchange that, make it good! Or
walk away and do something else. But think of all the rebuilding that needs to be done all over the plains,
where there's not much stone or wood. Whoever stays is going to be making money hand over fist.' "
"We all look at each other. We hadn't thought of it that way. In chains, you forget how to be free. He
sees the seed is planted, so he says, 'Now everyone who isn't hurt take care of someone who is,' and
goes off."
"The next day, those of us who wanted to stay tore all the locks off the doors and the chain-bolts out of
the floors, cut more windows in the walls, did this and that to make the place safer, and chose a
manager… ahem. Thara-e Brick-fast, established last month, building materials of premier quality at