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

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The rider was young; her teeth grinned under the wet greased iron of her helmet, like a sudden bright
crack in stone. "Ayo, you join ahn' sell us horrse, some plunder we haven't drunk yet. Horsse-master
farrh up, paymahster furtser; so late in tseh day, you wait till we make cahmp,seya ?" She looked Megan
up and down, the familiar what-are-you look of someone who'd never seen a Zak before.Wait till she
sees Hotblood . "Where you from?"
"Ftalezon and Brahvniki an—" No, Megan decided, she'd never believe where Shkai'ra was from.
"Brahvnikians. I escorrt you." She whistled a single-tune and was answered from three different places.
"Wait, sentry—" All through Megan's explanation of how Hotblood mustn't get near horses from up the
Brezhan, the woman's eyes and the set of her lips kept saying the same thing over and over: "Highly
irrehgularrh." They ended up between the supply train and the rearguard; the carts were for supplies and
the wounded, it appeared. The last was a six wheeler double-teamed, probably carrying heavy stuff, with
a phalanx of Yeolis, the rearguard, marching behind it. The pikers had their cloaks draped over their
packs, and the archers' weapons were snug in their waxed-leather cases.
The foot soldiers seemed glad of something interesting to look at; one who knew Enchian made
conversation, somewhat boorishly, boasting loudly to Shkai'ra about her sexual prowess. Someone on
the cart tried to haggle with Megan for a horse, but someone else argued with him, with much Yeoli
arm-waving, making it clear all horse sales were supposed to go through the Horse-master. Not wanting
her first impression to be under the table dealing, she politely declined. And they all walked and rode on,
cold to the bones, wet clothing slapping shockingly against marginally warmer skin, cloth catching and
pulling, breathing wet air that stank of wet horse, wet human, and worst of all, wet Hotblood. Curled in
Shkai'ra's hood, Fishhook kept up a continual low growling complaint, both audibly and in Megan's
mind;wetnastywetwetlick-notthirstywetwet —hisss—wet.
Through the drizzle the light dimmed, grey-silver darkening to steel grey, clouds seeming to touch the
ground. "Trees ahead," someone called between songs. Then a cry came all down the line that had a
ritual sound to it; the day's march was over, set camp here. The column flowed slowly into a fork
between two rivers, breaking up into organized chaos that spread beyond sight in the failing rain.
It was the usual sort of horse deal: "You wanthow much for those plugs?"—"You're asking me togive
away these children of my heart, sons and daughters of the wind?" Megan resisted the urge to be too
dishonest in exaggerating their quality; she'd be sticking around. Shkai'ra waited patiently through the
haggling, picking her teeth with her thumbnail, holding Hotblood by the forelock to keep him from trying
to eat the people around him.
"For that price, these beautiful, high-bred, loyal creatures are yours," Megan said. She left the smelly,
bad-tempered brutes with them, wiped her face clear of rain with one hand. The herdsmen from
Brahvniki had been given their final pay that morning; now they went their way.If I were comfortable,
I'd feel more human. And more valuable . "Done. Ready to sell yourself?"
Shkai'ra took off her hat and shook out her damp braids, dropping a kiss on Megan's head. "la. I'm
easy but not cheap, so you do the haggling while I look menacing, love."
The two women walked east, leading their mounts and packbeasts. The camp bustled wetly, soldiers
and camp-followers splashing through sodden turf rapidly turning to liquid mud; pitching camp,
scavenging for deadwood and stones to build fires, putting up spits. Somebody had obviously stolen a