The only check on
Tobo was Lady, who could not maintain her level of interest. The
only check on Lady was the wonder boy. And he had other things on
his mind. And altogether too much of that touched by the
darkness.
No Shukrat, no Croaker, no Lady paying attention. Nights in the
city lost their traditional noisome urban charm. Some people began
to compare the new age to a time when the Protector had loosed her
murderous shadows upon the city, for no more obvious reason than
existed behind the unleashing of the horrors out there now.
The fact that there were few actual deaths went unremarked.
The Unknown Shadows enjoyed themselves greatly, tormenting the
living. As did Tobo, who found himself free to do anything he
wanted.
Except in his dreams.
A woman had begun to haunt those. A beautiful Nyueng Bao woman
who seemed to be the embodiment of sorrow. He understood in his
heart that this was his mother as she had appeared when she was
young, before she had met his father. Usually she was not alone.
Sometimes she was accompanied by a young, unbent Nana Gota. And
sometimes by another woman, always gentle, always with a smile,
forged of steel tougher than that of Uncle Doj’s sword Ash
Wand. This woman, who had to be his great grandmother, Hong Tray,
never spoke. She communicated more with a disapproving eye than
Sahra could say in a hundred words.
His vengeances were unacceptable to all these women who had
created and formed him.
Tobo could not determine if he was being touched by the ghosts
of his ancestors—a possibility entirely in keeping with Nyueng Bao
beliefs—or if the women were the product of some
conscience-stricken cellar of his mind. The darkness within him was
strong enough to make him want to defy them.
None of them wanted to be avenged.
Sahra’s ghost warned, “You won’t just hurt
yourself, darling. If you go on you’ll be running into a
trap. Put aside your pain. Embrace your true destiny and let it
lift you up.”
Hong Tray studied him with eyes like cold steel marbles,
agreeing that he had come to a crossroads. That he was about to
make a choice that would shape the rest of his life.
He knew, of course, that the words the ghost women spoke, and
the ghosts themselves, had to be metaphors.
He had no trouble with his conscience when he was awake. So he
tried to avoid sleep.
Sleep deprivation clouded his judgment even further.
The hidden folk always reported the same thing: Aridatha Singh
would not leave his offices. He worked day and night, seldom doing
more than catnap, as he tried to hold the Taglian world together by
the weight of his own will. The struggle to maintain control ought
to have beaten him down and have shredded his spirit in days. Most
men would have started cutting throats to more swiftly facilitate
reconstruction and assuage frustration. Aridatha just beat people
down with reason and public opinion. He treated with no one in
secret. He made sure the world knew when someone refused to handle
the city’s business publicly.
Obstructionists were becoming known. The mood of people
displaced by strife and fire was not forgiving of traditional
factionalism.
The unthinkable happened. Several men of high caste were beaten
savagely. Shadar were seen in the crowds, encouraging the violence.
No one wondered, though, and Aridatha Singh did not appear to be
aware of that personally.
It was deep night but a light traffic continued to and from the
City Battalions barracks containing Aridatha Singh’s
headquarters. A dark fog slowly gathered around the place. People
grew sleepy. Shadows scampered among the shadows. For an instant,
here and there, little people or little animals were visible
briefly—had anyone been awake to see them.
Tobo came walking through it all, so tired his eyes were
crossing, so sure of himself that he had not brought his flying
post nor had he armored himself in Voroshk black. So sure of
himself that he did not double-check reports from his Unknown
Shadows.
He expected to walk in, complete his revenge, and be gone with
no one the wiser. Aridatha Singh’s fate would become a great
and terrible mystery.
The hidden folk could tell him nothing about Singh’s
office. They could not get inside it. It was kept sealed airtight.
But the sentries outside were snoring.
Tobo shoved the door. It gave way only grudgingly, swinging
inward. He stepped inside, panting. Across the room three men had
fallen forward onto a worktable or lay sprawled in their chairs.
“Not good,” Tobo muttered, unexcited by the presence
of the potential witnesses.
“Not good at all,” Aridatha said, lifting his face
off the desktop.
Tobo just had time to catch the swish of air behind him before
something hit the back of his head with force enough to crack bone.
He went down into the darkness knowing he had been betrayed, that
he had walked into a trap. The Unknown Shadows scattered in every
direction, going mad, making Taglios a city of nightmares.
Sahra, Gota and Hong Tray all awaited Tobo on the other shore of
consciousness. All three told him that this was a disaster entirely
of his own devising. He could have avoided it simply by doing the
right thing.
He had been warned beforehand. He had not listened.
Sahra’s sorrow was deeper than ever Tobo had known it
before.
The only check on
Tobo was Lady, who could not maintain her level of interest. The
only check on Lady was the wonder boy. And he had other things on
his mind. And altogether too much of that touched by the
darkness.
No Shukrat, no Croaker, no Lady paying attention. Nights in the
city lost their traditional noisome urban charm. Some people began
to compare the new age to a time when the Protector had loosed her
murderous shadows upon the city, for no more obvious reason than
existed behind the unleashing of the horrors out there now.
The fact that there were few actual deaths went unremarked.
The Unknown Shadows enjoyed themselves greatly, tormenting the
living. As did Tobo, who found himself free to do anything he
wanted.
Except in his dreams.
A woman had begun to haunt those. A beautiful Nyueng Bao woman
who seemed to be the embodiment of sorrow. He understood in his
heart that this was his mother as she had appeared when she was
young, before she had met his father. Usually she was not alone.
Sometimes she was accompanied by a young, unbent Nana Gota. And
sometimes by another woman, always gentle, always with a smile,
forged of steel tougher than that of Uncle Doj’s sword Ash
Wand. This woman, who had to be his great grandmother, Hong Tray,
never spoke. She communicated more with a disapproving eye than
Sahra could say in a hundred words.
His vengeances were unacceptable to all these women who had
created and formed him.
Tobo could not determine if he was being touched by the ghosts
of his ancestors—a possibility entirely in keeping with Nyueng Bao
beliefs—or if the women were the product of some
conscience-stricken cellar of his mind. The darkness within him was
strong enough to make him want to defy them.
None of them wanted to be avenged.
Sahra’s ghost warned, “You won’t just hurt
yourself, darling. If you go on you’ll be running into a
trap. Put aside your pain. Embrace your true destiny and let it
lift you up.”
Hong Tray studied him with eyes like cold steel marbles,
agreeing that he had come to a crossroads. That he was about to
make a choice that would shape the rest of his life.
He knew, of course, that the words the ghost women spoke, and
the ghosts themselves, had to be metaphors.
He had no trouble with his conscience when he was awake. So he
tried to avoid sleep.
Sleep deprivation clouded his judgment even further.
The hidden folk always reported the same thing: Aridatha Singh
would not leave his offices. He worked day and night, seldom doing
more than catnap, as he tried to hold the Taglian world together by
the weight of his own will. The struggle to maintain control ought
to have beaten him down and have shredded his spirit in days. Most
men would have started cutting throats to more swiftly facilitate
reconstruction and assuage frustration. Aridatha just beat people
down with reason and public opinion. He treated with no one in
secret. He made sure the world knew when someone refused to handle
the city’s business publicly.
Obstructionists were becoming known. The mood of people
displaced by strife and fire was not forgiving of traditional
factionalism.
The unthinkable happened. Several men of high caste were beaten
savagely. Shadar were seen in the crowds, encouraging the violence.
No one wondered, though, and Aridatha Singh did not appear to be
aware of that personally.
It was deep night but a light traffic continued to and from the
City Battalions barracks containing Aridatha Singh’s
headquarters. A dark fog slowly gathered around the place. People
grew sleepy. Shadows scampered among the shadows. For an instant,
here and there, little people or little animals were visible
briefly—had anyone been awake to see them.
Tobo came walking through it all, so tired his eyes were
crossing, so sure of himself that he had not brought his flying
post nor had he armored himself in Voroshk black. So sure of
himself that he did not double-check reports from his Unknown
Shadows.
He expected to walk in, complete his revenge, and be gone with
no one the wiser. Aridatha Singh’s fate would become a great
and terrible mystery.
The hidden folk could tell him nothing about Singh’s
office. They could not get inside it. It was kept sealed airtight.
But the sentries outside were snoring.
Tobo shoved the door. It gave way only grudgingly, swinging
inward. He stepped inside, panting. Across the room three men had
fallen forward onto a worktable or lay sprawled in their chairs.
“Not good,” Tobo muttered, unexcited by the presence
of the potential witnesses.
“Not good at all,” Aridatha said, lifting his face
off the desktop.
Tobo just had time to catch the swish of air behind him before
something hit the back of his head with force enough to crack bone.
He went down into the darkness knowing he had been betrayed, that
he had walked into a trap. The Unknown Shadows scattered in every
direction, going mad, making Taglios a city of nightmares.
Sahra, Gota and Hong Tray all awaited Tobo on the other shore of
consciousness. All three told him that this was a disaster entirely
of his own devising. He could have avoided it simply by doing the
right thing.
He had been warned beforehand. He had not listened.
Sahra’s sorrow was deeper than ever Tobo had known it
before.