In those days the
spine of the Company was a woman who never formally joined, the
witch Ky Sahra, wife of my predecessor as Annalist, Murgen, the
Standardbearer. Ky Sahra was a clever woman with a will like sharp
steel. Even Goblin and One-Eye deferred to her. She would not be
intimidated, not even by her wicked old Uncle Doj. She feared the
Protector, the Radisha and the Greys no more than she feared a
cabbage. The malice of evils as great as the deadly cult of
Deceivers, their messiah the Daughter of Night and their goddess
Kina, intimidated Sahra not at all. She had looked into the heart
of darkness. Its secrets inspired in her no dread. Only one thing
made Sahra tremble.
Her mother, Ky Gota, was the incarnation of dissatisfaction and
complaint. Her lamentations and reproaches were of such amazing
potency that it seemed she must be an avatar of some cranky old
deity as yet undiscovered by man.
Nobody loves Ky Gota except One-Eye. And even he calls her the
Troll behind her back.
Sahra shuddered as her mother limped slowly through a room gone
suddenly silent. We were not in power now. We had to use the same
few rooms for everything. Only a short while ago this one had been
filled with loafers, some Company, most of them employees of Banh
Do Trang. We all stared at the old woman, willing her to hurry.
Willing her to overlook this opportunity to socialize.
Old Do Trang, who was so feeble he was confined to a wheelchair,
rolled over to Ky Gota, evidently hoping a show of concern would
keep her moving.
Everyone always wanted Gota to go somewhere else.
This time his sacrifice worked. She had to be in a lot of
discomfort, though, not to take time to harangue all who were
younger than she.
Silence persisted till the old merchant returned. He owned the
place and let us use it as our operational headquarters. He owed us
nothing, but nevertheless, shared our danger out of love for Sahra.
In all matters his thoughts had to be heard and his wishes had to
be honored.
Do Trang was not gone long. He came back rolling wearily. The
man behind the liver spots seemed so fragile it had to be a miracle
that he could move his chair himself.
Ancient he was, but there was an irrepressible twinkle in his
eyes. He nodded. He seldom had anything to say unless someone else
said something incredibly stupid. He was a good man.
Sahra told us, “Everything is in place. Every phase and
facet has been double-checked. Goblin and One-Eye are sober.
It’s time the Company speaks up.” She glanced around,
inviting comments.
I did not think it was time. But I had said my piece when I was
planning this. And had been outvoted. I treated myself to a shrug
of despair.
There being no new objections, Sahra said, “Start the
first phase.” She waved at her son. Tobo nodded and slipped
out.
He was a skinny, scruffy, furtive youngster. He was Nyueng Bao,
which meant he had to be a sneak and a thief. His every move had to
be watched. In consequence he was so generally observed that no
individual examined in detail what he actually did so long as his
hands did not stray toward a dangling purse or some treasure in a
vendor’s stall. People did not look for what they did not
expect to see.
The boy’s hands stayed behind his back. While they were
there, he was not considered a threat. He could not steal. No one
noticed the small, discolored blobs he left on any wall he leaned
against.
Gunni children stared. The boy looked so strange in his black
pajama clothing. Gunni raise their children polite. Gunni are
peaceable folk, in the main. Shadar children, though, are wrought
of sterner stuff. They are more bold. Their religion has a warrior
philosophy at its root. Some Shadar youths set out to harass the
thief.
Of course he was a thief! He was Nyueng Bao. Everyone knew all
Nyueng Bao were thieves.
Older Shadar called the youngsters off. The thief would be dealt
with by those whose responsibility that was.
The Shadar religion has its streak of bureaucratic rectitude,
too.
Even such a small commotion attracted official attention. Three
tall, grey-clad, bearded Shadar peacekeepers wearing white turbans
advanced through the press. They looked around constantly,
intently, oblivious to the fact that they traveled in an island of
open space. The streets of Taglios are packed, day and night, yet
the masses always find room to shrink away from the Greys. The
Greys are all men with hard eyes, seemingly chosen for their lack
of patience and compassion.
Tobo drifted away, sliding through the mob like a black snake
through swamp reeds. When the Greys inquired about the commotion,
no one could describe him as anything but what prejudice led them
to presume. A Nyueng Bao thief. And there was a plague of those in
Taglios. These days the capital city boasted plenty of every kind
of outlander imaginable. Every layabout and lackwit and sharpster from the length and breadth of the empire was migrating to the
city. The population had tripled in a generation. But for the cruel
efficiencies of the Greys, Taglios would have become a chaotic,
murderous sink, a hellfire fueled by poverty and despair.
Poverty and despair existed in plentitude but the Palace did not
let any disorder take root. The Palace was good at ferreting out
secrets. Criminal careers tended to be short. As did the lives of
most who sought to conspire against the Radisha or the Protector.
Particularly against the Protector, who did not concern herself
deeply with the sanctity of anyone else’s skin.
In times past, intrigue and conspiracy had been a miasmatic
plague afflicting every life in Taglios. There was little of that
anymore. The Protector did not approve. Most Taglians were eager to
win the Protector’s approval. Even the priesthoods avoided
attracting Soulcatcher’s evil eye.
At some point the boy’s black clothing came off, leaving
him in the Gunni-style loincloth he had worn underneath. Now he
looked like any other youngster, though with a slightly jaundiced
cast of skin. He was safe. He had grown up in Taglios. He had no
accent to give him away.
In those days the
spine of the Company was a woman who never formally joined, the
witch Ky Sahra, wife of my predecessor as Annalist, Murgen, the
Standardbearer. Ky Sahra was a clever woman with a will like sharp
steel. Even Goblin and One-Eye deferred to her. She would not be
intimidated, not even by her wicked old Uncle Doj. She feared the
Protector, the Radisha and the Greys no more than she feared a
cabbage. The malice of evils as great as the deadly cult of
Deceivers, their messiah the Daughter of Night and their goddess
Kina, intimidated Sahra not at all. She had looked into the heart
of darkness. Its secrets inspired in her no dread. Only one thing
made Sahra tremble.
Her mother, Ky Gota, was the incarnation of dissatisfaction and
complaint. Her lamentations and reproaches were of such amazing
potency that it seemed she must be an avatar of some cranky old
deity as yet undiscovered by man.
Nobody loves Ky Gota except One-Eye. And even he calls her the
Troll behind her back.
Sahra shuddered as her mother limped slowly through a room gone
suddenly silent. We were not in power now. We had to use the same
few rooms for everything. Only a short while ago this one had been
filled with loafers, some Company, most of them employees of Banh
Do Trang. We all stared at the old woman, willing her to hurry.
Willing her to overlook this opportunity to socialize.
Old Do Trang, who was so feeble he was confined to a wheelchair,
rolled over to Ky Gota, evidently hoping a show of concern would
keep her moving.
Everyone always wanted Gota to go somewhere else.
This time his sacrifice worked. She had to be in a lot of
discomfort, though, not to take time to harangue all who were
younger than she.
Silence persisted till the old merchant returned. He owned the
place and let us use it as our operational headquarters. He owed us
nothing, but nevertheless, shared our danger out of love for Sahra.
In all matters his thoughts had to be heard and his wishes had to
be honored.
Do Trang was not gone long. He came back rolling wearily. The
man behind the liver spots seemed so fragile it had to be a miracle
that he could move his chair himself.
Ancient he was, but there was an irrepressible twinkle in his
eyes. He nodded. He seldom had anything to say unless someone else
said something incredibly stupid. He was a good man.
Sahra told us, “Everything is in place. Every phase and
facet has been double-checked. Goblin and One-Eye are sober.
It’s time the Company speaks up.” She glanced around,
inviting comments.
I did not think it was time. But I had said my piece when I was
planning this. And had been outvoted. I treated myself to a shrug
of despair.
There being no new objections, Sahra said, “Start the
first phase.” She waved at her son. Tobo nodded and slipped
out.
He was a skinny, scruffy, furtive youngster. He was Nyueng Bao,
which meant he had to be a sneak and a thief. His every move had to
be watched. In consequence he was so generally observed that no
individual examined in detail what he actually did so long as his
hands did not stray toward a dangling purse or some treasure in a
vendor’s stall. People did not look for what they did not
expect to see.
The boy’s hands stayed behind his back. While they were
there, he was not considered a threat. He could not steal. No one
noticed the small, discolored blobs he left on any wall he leaned
against.
Gunni children stared. The boy looked so strange in his black
pajama clothing. Gunni raise their children polite. Gunni are
peaceable folk, in the main. Shadar children, though, are wrought
of sterner stuff. They are more bold. Their religion has a warrior
philosophy at its root. Some Shadar youths set out to harass the
thief.
Of course he was a thief! He was Nyueng Bao. Everyone knew all
Nyueng Bao were thieves.
Older Shadar called the youngsters off. The thief would be dealt
with by those whose responsibility that was.
The Shadar religion has its streak of bureaucratic rectitude,
too.
Even such a small commotion attracted official attention. Three
tall, grey-clad, bearded Shadar peacekeepers wearing white turbans
advanced through the press. They looked around constantly,
intently, oblivious to the fact that they traveled in an island of
open space. The streets of Taglios are packed, day and night, yet
the masses always find room to shrink away from the Greys. The
Greys are all men with hard eyes, seemingly chosen for their lack
of patience and compassion.
Tobo drifted away, sliding through the mob like a black snake
through swamp reeds. When the Greys inquired about the commotion,
no one could describe him as anything but what prejudice led them
to presume. A Nyueng Bao thief. And there was a plague of those in
Taglios. These days the capital city boasted plenty of every kind
of outlander imaginable. Every layabout and lackwit and sharpster from the length and breadth of the empire was migrating to the
city. The population had tripled in a generation. But for the cruel
efficiencies of the Greys, Taglios would have become a chaotic,
murderous sink, a hellfire fueled by poverty and despair.
Poverty and despair existed in plentitude but the Palace did not
let any disorder take root. The Palace was good at ferreting out
secrets. Criminal careers tended to be short. As did the lives of
most who sought to conspire against the Radisha or the Protector.
Particularly against the Protector, who did not concern herself
deeply with the sanctity of anyone else’s skin.
In times past, intrigue and conspiracy had been a miasmatic
plague afflicting every life in Taglios. There was little of that
anymore. The Protector did not approve. Most Taglians were eager to
win the Protector’s approval. Even the priesthoods avoided
attracting Soulcatcher’s evil eye.
At some point the boy’s black clothing came off, leaving
him in the Gunni-style loincloth he had worn underneath. Now he
looked like any other youngster, though with a slightly jaundiced
cast of skin. He was safe. He had grown up in Taglios. He had no
accent to give him away.