Murgen drifted
through the Palace like a ghost. He found that thought vaguely
amusing, though nothing made him laugh anymore. A decade and a half
in the grave destroyed a man’s sense of humor.
The rambling stone pile of the Palace never changed. Well, it
got dustier. And it needed repairs ever more desperately. Credit
that to Soulcatcher, who did not like having hordes of people
underfoot. Most of the original vast professional staff had been
dismissed and replaced by occasional casual labor.
The Palace crowned a sizable hill. Each ruler of Taglios,
generation after generation, tagged on an addition, not because the
room was needed but because that was a memorial tradition. Taglians
joked that in another thousand years there would be no city, just
endless square miles of Palace. Mostly in ruin.
The Radisha Drah, having accepted that her brother, the
Prahbrindrah Drah, had been lost during the Shadowmaster wars, and
galvanized by the threat of the Protector’s displeasure, had
proclaimed herself head of state. Traditionalists in the
ecclesiastical community did not want a woman in the role, but the
world knew this particular woman had been doing the job practically
forever anyway. Her weaknesses existed mainly in the ambitions of
her critics. Depending who did the pontificating, she had made one
of two great mistakes. Or possibly both. One would be betraying the
Black Company when it was a well-known fact that nobody ever
profited from such treachery. And the other error, of particular
popularity with the senior priests, would be that she had erred in
employing the Black Company in the first place. The terror of the
Shadowmasters being expunged in the interim, by agency of the
Company, did not present a counterargument of any current
merit.
Unhappy people shared the meeting chamber with the Radisha. The
eye automatically went to the Protector first. Soulcatcher looked
exactly as she always had, slimly androgynous, yet sensual, in
black leather, a black mask, a black helmet and black leather
gloves. She occupied a seat slightly to the left of and behind the
Radisha, within a curtain of shadow. She did not put herself
forward but there was no doubt who made the ultimate decisions.
Every hour of every day the Radisha found another reason to regret
having let this particular camel shove her nose into the tent. The
cost of having tried to get around fulfilling an unhappy promise to
the Black Company was insupportable already.
Surely, keeping her promises could not have been so painful.
What possibly could have happened that would be worse than what she
suffered now had she and her brother helped the Captain find the
way to Khatovar?
At desks to either hand, facing one another from fifteen feet,
stood scribes who struggled valiantly to record anything said. One
group served the Radisha. The other was in Soulcatcher’s
employ. Once upon a time there had been disagreements after the
fact about decisions made during a Privy Council meeting.
A table twelve feet long and four wide faced the two women. Four
men sat behind its inadequate bulwark. Willow Swan was situated at
the left end. His once-marvelous golden hair had gone grey and
stringy. At higher elevations, it had grown extremely sparse. Swan
was a foreigner. Swan was a bundle of nerves. Swan had a job he did
not want but could not give up. Swan was riding the tiger.
Willow Swan headed up the Greys. In the public eye. In reality,
he was barely a figurehead. If his mouth opened, the words that
came out were pure Soulcatcher. Popular hatred deservedly belonging
to the Protector settled upon Willow Swan instead.
Seated with Swan were three running-dog senior priests who owed
their standing to the Protector’s favor. They were small men
in large jobs. Their presence at Council meetings was a matter of
form. They would not take part in any actual debate, though they
might receive instructions. Their function was to agree with and
support Soulcatcher if she happened to speak. Significantly, all
three represented Gunni cults. Though the Protector used the Greys
to enforce her will, the Shadar had no voice in the Council.
Neither did the Vehdna. That minority simmered continuously because
Soulcatcher arrogated to herself much that properly applied only to
God, the Vehdna being hopelessly monotheistic and stubborn about
keeping it that way.
Swan was a good man inside his fear. He spoke for the Shadar
when he could.
There were two other men, of more significance, present.
They were positioned behind tall desks located back of the
table. They perched atop tall stools and peered down at everyone
like a pair of lean old vultures. Both antedated the coming of the
Protector, who had not yet found a suitable excuse for getting rid
of either, though they irritated her frequently.
The right-hand desk belonged to the Inspector-General of the
Records, Chandra Gokhale. His was a deceptive title. He was no
glorified clerk. He controlled finances and most public works. He
was ancient, hairless, lean as a snake and twice as mean. He owed
his appointment to the Radisha’s father. Until the latter
days of the Shadowmaster wars, his office had been a minor one. The
wars caused that office’s influence and power to expand. And
Chandra Gokhale was never shy about snatching at any strand of
bureaucratic power that came within reach. He was a staunch
supporter of the Radisha and a steadfast enemy of the Black
Company. He was also the sort of weasel who would change all that
in an instant if he saw sufficient advantage in so doing.
The man behind the desk on the left was more sinister. Arjana
Drupada was a priest of Rhavi-Lemna’s cult but there was not
one ounce of brotherly love in the man. His official title was
Purohita, which meant, more or less, that he was the Royal
Chaplain. In actuality, he was the true voice of the priesthoods at
court. They had forced him upon the Radisha at a time she was
making desperate concessions in order to gain support. Like
Gokhale, Drupada was more interested in control than he was in
doing what was best for Taglios. But he was not an entirely cynical
manipulator. His frequent moral bulls got up the Protector’s
nose more often even than the constant, quibbling financial caveats
of the Inspector-General. Physically, Drupada was known for his
shock of wild white hair. That clung to his head like a mad
haystack, the good offices of a comb being completely
unfamiliar.
Only Gokhale and Drupada seemed unaware that their days had to
be numbered. The Protector of All the Taglias was not enamored of
them at all.
The final member of the Council was absent. Which was not
unusual. The Great General, Mogaba, preferred to be in the field,
harrying those designated as his enemies. He viewed the infighting
in the Palace with revulsion.
None of which mattered at the moment. There had been Incidents.
There were Witnesses to be Brought Forward. The Protector was not
pleased.
Willow Swan rose. He beckoned a Grey sergeant out of the gloom
behind the two old men. “Ghopal Singh.” Nobody remarked
on the unusual name. Possibly he was a convert. Stranger things
were happening. “Singh’s patrol watches an area
immediately outside the Palace, on the north side. This afternoon
one of his patrolmen discovered a prayer wheel mounted on one of
the memorial posts in front of the north entrance. Twelve copies of
this sutra were attached to the arms of the wheel.”
Swan made a show of turning a small paper card so the light
would fall upon the writing there. The lettering appeared to be in
the ecclesiastical style. Swan failed to appreciate his own
ignorance of Taglian letters, though. He was holding the card
inverted. He did not, however, make any mistakes when he reported
what the prayer card had to say.
“Rajadharma. The Duty of Kings. Know you: Kingship is a
trust. The King is the most exalted and conscientious servant of
the people.”
Swan did not recognize the verse. It was so ancient that some
scholars attributed it to one or another of the Lords of Light in
the time when the gods still handed down laws to the fathers of
men. But the Radisha Drah knew it. The Purohita knew it. Someone
outside the Palace had leveled a chiding finger.
Soulcatcher understood it, too. Its object, she said,
“Only a Bhodi monk would presume to chastise this house. And
they are very few.” That pacifistic, moralistic cult was
young and still very small. And it had suffered during the war
years almost as terribly as had the followers of Kina. The Bhodi
refused to defend themselves. “I want the man who did
this.” The voice she used was that of a quarrelsome old
man.
“Uh . . . ” Swan said. It was
not wise to argue with the Protector but that was an assignment
beyond the capacities of the Greys.
Among Soulcatcher’s more frightening characteristics was
her seeming ability to read minds. She could not, really, but never
insisted that she could not. In this instance she found it
convenient to let people believe what they wanted. She told Swan,
“Being Bhodi, he will surrender himself. No search will be
necessary.”
“Hunh?”
“There is a tree, sometimes called the Bhodi Tree, in the
village of Semchi. It is a very old and highly honored tree. The
Bhodi Enlightened One made his reputation loafing in the shade of
this tree. The Bhodi consider it their most holy shrine. Tell them
I will make kindling wood out of the Bhodi Tree unless the man who
rigged that prayer wheel reports to me. Soon.” Soulcatcher
employed the voice of a petty, vindictive old woman.
Murgen made a mental note to send Sahra a suggestion that the
guilty man be prevented from reaching the Protector. Destruction of
a major holy place would create thousands of new enemies for
Soulcatcher.
Willow Swan started to speak but Soulcatcher interrupted.
“I do not care if they hate me, Swan. I care that they do
what I tell them to do when I tell them to do it. The Bhodi will
not raise a fist against me, anyway. That would put a stain on
their kharma.”
A cynical woman, the Protector.
“Get on with it, Swan.”
Swan sighed. “Several more of those smoke shows appeared
tonight. One was much bigger than any seen before. Once again the
Black Company sigil was part of all of them.” He brought
forward another Shadar witness, who told of being stoned by the mob
but did not mention the demon Niassi.
The news was no surprise. It was one of the reasons the Council
had been convened. With no real passion, the Radisha demanded,
“How could that happen? Why can’t you stop it? You have
men on every street corner. Chansdra?” She appealed to the
man who knew just how much it cost to put all those Greys out
there.
Gokhale inclined his head imperially.
As long as the Radisha did the questioning, Swan’s nerve
stood up. She could not hurt him in ways he had not been hurt
before. Not the way the Protector could. He asked, “Have you
been out there? You should disguise yourself and go. Like Saragoz
in the fairy tale. Every street is clogged with people. Thousands
sleep where others have to walk over them. Breezeways and alleyways
are choked with human waste. Sometimes the press is so thick you
could murder somebody ten feet from one of my men and never be
noticed. The people playing these games aren’t stupid. If
they’re really Company survivors, they’re especially
not stupid. They’ve already survived everything ever thrown
at them. They’re using the crowds for cover exactly the way
they’d use the rocks and trees and bushes out in the
countryside. They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t stand
out. They’re not outlanders anymore. If you really want to
nail them, put out a proclamation saying they all have to wear
funny red hats.” Swan’s nerve had peaked high. That was
not directed at the Radisha. Soulcatcher, speaking through her, had
issued several proclamations memorable for their absurdity.
“Being steeped in Company doctrine, they wouldn’t be
anywhere around when the smoke emblems actually formed. So far, we
haven’t even figured out where they come from.”
Soulcatcher unleashed a deep-throated grunt. It said she doubted
that Swan could figure out much of anything. His nerve guttered
like a dying lamp. He began to sweat. He knew he walked a tightrope
with the madwoman. He was tolerated like a naughty pet for reasons
clear only to the sorceress, who sometimes did things for no better
reason than a momentary whim. Which could reverse itself an instant
later.
He could be replaced. Others had been. Soulcatcher did not care
about facts, insurmountable obstacles or mere difficulties. She
cared about results.
Swan offered, “On the plus side there’s no evidence,
even from our most eager informants, that suggests this activity is
anything but a low-grade nuisance. Even if Black Company survivors
are behind it—and even with tonight’s escalation.”
Soulcatcher said, “They’ll never be anything but a
nuisance.” Her voice was that of a plucky teenage girl.
“They’re going through the motions. They lost heart
when I buried all their leaders.” That was all spoken in a
powerful male voice, by someone accustomed to unquestioning
obedience. But those words amounted to an oblique admission that
Company members might, after all, still be alive, and the final few
words included in a rising inflection betraying potential
uncertainty. There were questions about what had happened on the
plain of glittering stone that Soulcatcher herself could not
answer. “I’ll worry when they call them back from the
dead.”
She did not know.
In truth, little had gone according to anyone’s plan out
there. Her escape, with Swan, had been pure luck. But Soulcatcher
was the sort who believed Fortune’s bright countenance was
her born due.
“Probably true. And only marginally significant if I
understood your summons.”
“There are Other Forces Afoot,” Soulcatcher said.
This voice was a sybil’s, rife with portent.
“The Deceivers have been heard from,” the Radisha
announced, causing a general startled reaction that included the
disembodied spy. “Lately we’ve had reports from
Dejagore, Meldermhai, Ghoja and Danjil about men having been slain
in classic Strangler fashion.”
Swan had recovered. “In classic Strangler work, only the
killers know that it happened. They aren’t assassins. The
bodies would go through their religious rites and be buried in some
holy place.”
The Radisha ignored his remarks. “Today there was a
strangling here. In Taglios. Perhule Khoji was the victim. He died
in a joy house, an institution specializing in young girls. Such
places aren’t supposed to exist anymore, yet they
persist.” That was an accusation. The Greys were charged with
crushing that sort of exploitation. But the Greys worked for the
Protector and the Protector did not care. “I gather that
anything you can imagine can still be found for sale.”
Some people blamed a national moral collapse on the Black
Company. Others blamed the ruling family. A few even blamed the
Protector. Fault did not matter, nor did the fact that most of the
nastier evils had existed almost since the first mud hut went up
alongside the river. Taglios had changed. And desperate people will
do what they must to survive. Only a fool would expect the results
to be pretty.
Swan asked, “Who was this Perhule Khoji?” He glared
over his shoulder. He had a scribe of his own recording the meeting
back there in the darkness. Plainly, he wondered why the Radisha
was familiar with this particular murder when he was not.
“Sounds like the guy got something he had coming. You sure it
wasn’t just his adventure with the little girls gone
bad?”
“Quite possibly Khoji did deserve what happened,”
the Radisha said with bitter sarcasm. “He was Vehdna, so
he’ll be talking it over with his god about now, I would
imagine. His morals don’t interest us, Swan. His position
does. He was one of the Inspector-General’s leading
assistants. He collected taxes in the Checca and east waterfront
areas. His death will cause problems for months. His areas were
some of our best revenue producers.”
“Maybe somebody who owed—”
“His child companion survived. And
he did call for help. The sort of men who handle troublemakers in
those places arrived while it was happening. Stranglers did it. It
was an initiation killing. The Strangler candidate was inept.
Nevertheless, with the help of his arm-holders, he managed to break
Khoji’s neck.”
“So they were captured.”
“No. The one they call Daughter of Night was there.
Overseeing the initiation.”
So the strong-arm guys would have been scared witless once they
recognized her. No Gunni or Shadar wanted to believe the Daughter
of Night was just a nasty young woman, not a mythic figure. Few
Taglians of those religions would find the courage to interfere
with her.
“All right,” Swan conceded. “That would mean
real Stranglers. But how did they recognize the Daughter of
Night?”
Exasperated, Soulcatcher snapped, “She told them who she
was, you ninny! ‘I am the Daughter of Night. I am the Child
of Darkness Forthcoming. Come to my mother or become prey for the
beasts of devastation in the Year of the Skulls.’ Typically
portentous stuff.” Soulcatcher’s voice had become the
mid-range monotone of an educated skeptic. “Not to mention
that she was vampire-white and a prettier duplicate of my sister as
a child.”
The Daughter of Night feared no one and nothing. She knew that
her spiritual parent, Kina the Destroyer, the Dark Mother, would
shelter her—even though that goddess had stirred not at all for
more than a decade. Rumors about the Daughter of Night had run
through the underside of society for years. A lot of people
believed she was what she claimed. Which only added to her power
over the popular imagination.
Another rumor, losing currency with time, credited the Black
Company with having forestalled Kina’s Year of the Skulls
back about the time the Taglian state chose to betray its hired
protectors.
The Deceivers and Company alike had a psychological strength
vastly exceeding their numbers. Being social ghosts made both
groups more frightening.
What signified most was that the Daughter of Night had come to
Taglios itself. And that she had shown herself publicly. And where
the Daughter of Night went, the chieftain of all Deceivers, the
living legend, the living saint of the Stranglers, Narayan Singh,
surely followed like a faithful jackal and worked his evils,
too.
Murgen considered aborting his mission to warn Sahra to call
everything off till this news could be assessed. But it would be
too late to stop everything now, whatever else was happening.
Narayan Singh was the most hated enemy of the Black Company
still standing upright. Not Mogaba, nor even Soulcatcher, who was
an old, old adversary, were as eagerly hunted as was Narayan Singh.
Nor did Singh harbor any love for the Company. He had gotten
himself caught once. And had spent a long time being made
uncomfortable by people overburdened with malice. He had debts he
would love to collect, should it please his goddess to permit
that.
The Privy Council, as was customary, degenerated into nagging
and finger-pointing soon afterward, with the Purohita and
Inspector-General both maneuvering to get a rung up on one another,
and maybe on Swan. The Purohita could count on the backing of the
three tame priests—unless Soulcatcher had other ideas. The
Inspector-General usually enjoyed the support of the Radisha.
These squabbles were generally prolonged but trivial, more
symbol than substance. The Protector would let nothing she
disapproved of come out of them.
As Murgen started to leave, his presence never having been
detected, two Royal Guards rushed into the chamber. They headed for
Willow Swan, though he was not their captain. Perhaps their news
was something they did not care to share with the unpredictable
Protector, their official commander. Swan listened for a moment,
then slammed a fist onto the tabletop. “Damn it! I knew it
had to be more than a nuisance.” He bulled past the Purohita,
giving the man a look of contempt. There was no love lost
there.
It has started already, Murgen thought. Back to Do Trang’s
warehouse, then. He could prevent nothing already in motion, but he
could get word to those still at headquarters so they could get
after Narayan and the Daughter of Night as soon as possible.
Murgen drifted
through the Palace like a ghost. He found that thought vaguely
amusing, though nothing made him laugh anymore. A decade and a half
in the grave destroyed a man’s sense of humor.
The rambling stone pile of the Palace never changed. Well, it
got dustier. And it needed repairs ever more desperately. Credit
that to Soulcatcher, who did not like having hordes of people
underfoot. Most of the original vast professional staff had been
dismissed and replaced by occasional casual labor.
The Palace crowned a sizable hill. Each ruler of Taglios,
generation after generation, tagged on an addition, not because the
room was needed but because that was a memorial tradition. Taglians
joked that in another thousand years there would be no city, just
endless square miles of Palace. Mostly in ruin.
The Radisha Drah, having accepted that her brother, the
Prahbrindrah Drah, had been lost during the Shadowmaster wars, and
galvanized by the threat of the Protector’s displeasure, had
proclaimed herself head of state. Traditionalists in the
ecclesiastical community did not want a woman in the role, but the
world knew this particular woman had been doing the job practically
forever anyway. Her weaknesses existed mainly in the ambitions of
her critics. Depending who did the pontificating, she had made one
of two great mistakes. Or possibly both. One would be betraying the
Black Company when it was a well-known fact that nobody ever
profited from such treachery. And the other error, of particular
popularity with the senior priests, would be that she had erred in
employing the Black Company in the first place. The terror of the
Shadowmasters being expunged in the interim, by agency of the
Company, did not present a counterargument of any current
merit.
Unhappy people shared the meeting chamber with the Radisha. The
eye automatically went to the Protector first. Soulcatcher looked
exactly as she always had, slimly androgynous, yet sensual, in
black leather, a black mask, a black helmet and black leather
gloves. She occupied a seat slightly to the left of and behind the
Radisha, within a curtain of shadow. She did not put herself
forward but there was no doubt who made the ultimate decisions.
Every hour of every day the Radisha found another reason to regret
having let this particular camel shove her nose into the tent. The
cost of having tried to get around fulfilling an unhappy promise to
the Black Company was insupportable already.
Surely, keeping her promises could not have been so painful.
What possibly could have happened that would be worse than what she
suffered now had she and her brother helped the Captain find the
way to Khatovar?
At desks to either hand, facing one another from fifteen feet,
stood scribes who struggled valiantly to record anything said. One
group served the Radisha. The other was in Soulcatcher’s
employ. Once upon a time there had been disagreements after the
fact about decisions made during a Privy Council meeting.
A table twelve feet long and four wide faced the two women. Four
men sat behind its inadequate bulwark. Willow Swan was situated at
the left end. His once-marvelous golden hair had gone grey and
stringy. At higher elevations, it had grown extremely sparse. Swan
was a foreigner. Swan was a bundle of nerves. Swan had a job he did
not want but could not give up. Swan was riding the tiger.
Willow Swan headed up the Greys. In the public eye. In reality,
he was barely a figurehead. If his mouth opened, the words that
came out were pure Soulcatcher. Popular hatred deservedly belonging
to the Protector settled upon Willow Swan instead.
Seated with Swan were three running-dog senior priests who owed
their standing to the Protector’s favor. They were small men
in large jobs. Their presence at Council meetings was a matter of
form. They would not take part in any actual debate, though they
might receive instructions. Their function was to agree with and
support Soulcatcher if she happened to speak. Significantly, all
three represented Gunni cults. Though the Protector used the Greys
to enforce her will, the Shadar had no voice in the Council.
Neither did the Vehdna. That minority simmered continuously because
Soulcatcher arrogated to herself much that properly applied only to
God, the Vehdna being hopelessly monotheistic and stubborn about
keeping it that way.
Swan was a good man inside his fear. He spoke for the Shadar
when he could.
There were two other men, of more significance, present.
They were positioned behind tall desks located back of the
table. They perched atop tall stools and peered down at everyone
like a pair of lean old vultures. Both antedated the coming of the
Protector, who had not yet found a suitable excuse for getting rid
of either, though they irritated her frequently.
The right-hand desk belonged to the Inspector-General of the
Records, Chandra Gokhale. His was a deceptive title. He was no
glorified clerk. He controlled finances and most public works. He
was ancient, hairless, lean as a snake and twice as mean. He owed
his appointment to the Radisha’s father. Until the latter
days of the Shadowmaster wars, his office had been a minor one. The
wars caused that office’s influence and power to expand. And
Chandra Gokhale was never shy about snatching at any strand of
bureaucratic power that came within reach. He was a staunch
supporter of the Radisha and a steadfast enemy of the Black
Company. He was also the sort of weasel who would change all that
in an instant if he saw sufficient advantage in so doing.
The man behind the desk on the left was more sinister. Arjana
Drupada was a priest of Rhavi-Lemna’s cult but there was not
one ounce of brotherly love in the man. His official title was
Purohita, which meant, more or less, that he was the Royal
Chaplain. In actuality, he was the true voice of the priesthoods at
court. They had forced him upon the Radisha at a time she was
making desperate concessions in order to gain support. Like
Gokhale, Drupada was more interested in control than he was in
doing what was best for Taglios. But he was not an entirely cynical
manipulator. His frequent moral bulls got up the Protector’s
nose more often even than the constant, quibbling financial caveats
of the Inspector-General. Physically, Drupada was known for his
shock of wild white hair. That clung to his head like a mad
haystack, the good offices of a comb being completely
unfamiliar.
Only Gokhale and Drupada seemed unaware that their days had to
be numbered. The Protector of All the Taglias was not enamored of
them at all.
The final member of the Council was absent. Which was not
unusual. The Great General, Mogaba, preferred to be in the field,
harrying those designated as his enemies. He viewed the infighting
in the Palace with revulsion.
None of which mattered at the moment. There had been Incidents.
There were Witnesses to be Brought Forward. The Protector was not
pleased.
Willow Swan rose. He beckoned a Grey sergeant out of the gloom
behind the two old men. “Ghopal Singh.” Nobody remarked
on the unusual name. Possibly he was a convert. Stranger things
were happening. “Singh’s patrol watches an area
immediately outside the Palace, on the north side. This afternoon
one of his patrolmen discovered a prayer wheel mounted on one of
the memorial posts in front of the north entrance. Twelve copies of
this sutra were attached to the arms of the wheel.”
Swan made a show of turning a small paper card so the light
would fall upon the writing there. The lettering appeared to be in
the ecclesiastical style. Swan failed to appreciate his own
ignorance of Taglian letters, though. He was holding the card
inverted. He did not, however, make any mistakes when he reported
what the prayer card had to say.
“Rajadharma. The Duty of Kings. Know you: Kingship is a
trust. The King is the most exalted and conscientious servant of
the people.”
Swan did not recognize the verse. It was so ancient that some
scholars attributed it to one or another of the Lords of Light in
the time when the gods still handed down laws to the fathers of
men. But the Radisha Drah knew it. The Purohita knew it. Someone
outside the Palace had leveled a chiding finger.
Soulcatcher understood it, too. Its object, she said,
“Only a Bhodi monk would presume to chastise this house. And
they are very few.” That pacifistic, moralistic cult was
young and still very small. And it had suffered during the war
years almost as terribly as had the followers of Kina. The Bhodi
refused to defend themselves. “I want the man who did
this.” The voice she used was that of a quarrelsome old
man.
“Uh . . . ” Swan said. It was
not wise to argue with the Protector but that was an assignment
beyond the capacities of the Greys.
Among Soulcatcher’s more frightening characteristics was
her seeming ability to read minds. She could not, really, but never
insisted that she could not. In this instance she found it
convenient to let people believe what they wanted. She told Swan,
“Being Bhodi, he will surrender himself. No search will be
necessary.”
“Hunh?”
“There is a tree, sometimes called the Bhodi Tree, in the
village of Semchi. It is a very old and highly honored tree. The
Bhodi Enlightened One made his reputation loafing in the shade of
this tree. The Bhodi consider it their most holy shrine. Tell them
I will make kindling wood out of the Bhodi Tree unless the man who
rigged that prayer wheel reports to me. Soon.” Soulcatcher
employed the voice of a petty, vindictive old woman.
Murgen made a mental note to send Sahra a suggestion that the
guilty man be prevented from reaching the Protector. Destruction of
a major holy place would create thousands of new enemies for
Soulcatcher.
Willow Swan started to speak but Soulcatcher interrupted.
“I do not care if they hate me, Swan. I care that they do
what I tell them to do when I tell them to do it. The Bhodi will
not raise a fist against me, anyway. That would put a stain on
their kharma.”
A cynical woman, the Protector.
“Get on with it, Swan.”
Swan sighed. “Several more of those smoke shows appeared
tonight. One was much bigger than any seen before. Once again the
Black Company sigil was part of all of them.” He brought
forward another Shadar witness, who told of being stoned by the mob
but did not mention the demon Niassi.
The news was no surprise. It was one of the reasons the Council
had been convened. With no real passion, the Radisha demanded,
“How could that happen? Why can’t you stop it? You have
men on every street corner. Chansdra?” She appealed to the
man who knew just how much it cost to put all those Greys out
there.
Gokhale inclined his head imperially.
As long as the Radisha did the questioning, Swan’s nerve
stood up. She could not hurt him in ways he had not been hurt
before. Not the way the Protector could. He asked, “Have you
been out there? You should disguise yourself and go. Like Saragoz
in the fairy tale. Every street is clogged with people. Thousands
sleep where others have to walk over them. Breezeways and alleyways
are choked with human waste. Sometimes the press is so thick you
could murder somebody ten feet from one of my men and never be
noticed. The people playing these games aren’t stupid. If
they’re really Company survivors, they’re especially
not stupid. They’ve already survived everything ever thrown
at them. They’re using the crowds for cover exactly the way
they’d use the rocks and trees and bushes out in the
countryside. They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t stand
out. They’re not outlanders anymore. If you really want to
nail them, put out a proclamation saying they all have to wear
funny red hats.” Swan’s nerve had peaked high. That was
not directed at the Radisha. Soulcatcher, speaking through her, had
issued several proclamations memorable for their absurdity.
“Being steeped in Company doctrine, they wouldn’t be
anywhere around when the smoke emblems actually formed. So far, we
haven’t even figured out where they come from.”
Soulcatcher unleashed a deep-throated grunt. It said she doubted
that Swan could figure out much of anything. His nerve guttered
like a dying lamp. He began to sweat. He knew he walked a tightrope
with the madwoman. He was tolerated like a naughty pet for reasons
clear only to the sorceress, who sometimes did things for no better
reason than a momentary whim. Which could reverse itself an instant
later.
He could be replaced. Others had been. Soulcatcher did not care
about facts, insurmountable obstacles or mere difficulties. She
cared about results.
Swan offered, “On the plus side there’s no evidence,
even from our most eager informants, that suggests this activity is
anything but a low-grade nuisance. Even if Black Company survivors
are behind it—and even with tonight’s escalation.”
Soulcatcher said, “They’ll never be anything but a
nuisance.” Her voice was that of a plucky teenage girl.
“They’re going through the motions. They lost heart
when I buried all their leaders.” That was all spoken in a
powerful male voice, by someone accustomed to unquestioning
obedience. But those words amounted to an oblique admission that
Company members might, after all, still be alive, and the final few
words included in a rising inflection betraying potential
uncertainty. There were questions about what had happened on the
plain of glittering stone that Soulcatcher herself could not
answer. “I’ll worry when they call them back from the
dead.”
She did not know.
In truth, little had gone according to anyone’s plan out
there. Her escape, with Swan, had been pure luck. But Soulcatcher
was the sort who believed Fortune’s bright countenance was
her born due.
“Probably true. And only marginally significant if I
understood your summons.”
“There are Other Forces Afoot,” Soulcatcher said.
This voice was a sybil’s, rife with portent.
“The Deceivers have been heard from,” the Radisha
announced, causing a general startled reaction that included the
disembodied spy. “Lately we’ve had reports from
Dejagore, Meldermhai, Ghoja and Danjil about men having been slain
in classic Strangler fashion.”
Swan had recovered. “In classic Strangler work, only the
killers know that it happened. They aren’t assassins. The
bodies would go through their religious rites and be buried in some
holy place.”
The Radisha ignored his remarks. “Today there was a
strangling here. In Taglios. Perhule Khoji was the victim. He died
in a joy house, an institution specializing in young girls. Such
places aren’t supposed to exist anymore, yet they
persist.” That was an accusation. The Greys were charged with
crushing that sort of exploitation. But the Greys worked for the
Protector and the Protector did not care. “I gather that
anything you can imagine can still be found for sale.”
Some people blamed a national moral collapse on the Black
Company. Others blamed the ruling family. A few even blamed the
Protector. Fault did not matter, nor did the fact that most of the
nastier evils had existed almost since the first mud hut went up
alongside the river. Taglios had changed. And desperate people will
do what they must to survive. Only a fool would expect the results
to be pretty.
Swan asked, “Who was this Perhule Khoji?” He glared
over his shoulder. He had a scribe of his own recording the meeting
back there in the darkness. Plainly, he wondered why the Radisha
was familiar with this particular murder when he was not.
“Sounds like the guy got something he had coming. You sure it
wasn’t just his adventure with the little girls gone
bad?”
“Quite possibly Khoji did deserve what happened,”
the Radisha said with bitter sarcasm. “He was Vehdna, so
he’ll be talking it over with his god about now, I would
imagine. His morals don’t interest us, Swan. His position
does. He was one of the Inspector-General’s leading
assistants. He collected taxes in the Checca and east waterfront
areas. His death will cause problems for months. His areas were
some of our best revenue producers.”
“Maybe somebody who owed—”
“His child companion survived. And
he did call for help. The sort of men who handle troublemakers in
those places arrived while it was happening. Stranglers did it. It
was an initiation killing. The Strangler candidate was inept.
Nevertheless, with the help of his arm-holders, he managed to break
Khoji’s neck.”
“So they were captured.”
“No. The one they call Daughter of Night was there.
Overseeing the initiation.”
So the strong-arm guys would have been scared witless once they
recognized her. No Gunni or Shadar wanted to believe the Daughter
of Night was just a nasty young woman, not a mythic figure. Few
Taglians of those religions would find the courage to interfere
with her.
“All right,” Swan conceded. “That would mean
real Stranglers. But how did they recognize the Daughter of
Night?”
Exasperated, Soulcatcher snapped, “She told them who she
was, you ninny! ‘I am the Daughter of Night. I am the Child
of Darkness Forthcoming. Come to my mother or become prey for the
beasts of devastation in the Year of the Skulls.’ Typically
portentous stuff.” Soulcatcher’s voice had become the
mid-range monotone of an educated skeptic. “Not to mention
that she was vampire-white and a prettier duplicate of my sister as
a child.”
The Daughter of Night feared no one and nothing. She knew that
her spiritual parent, Kina the Destroyer, the Dark Mother, would
shelter her—even though that goddess had stirred not at all for
more than a decade. Rumors about the Daughter of Night had run
through the underside of society for years. A lot of people
believed she was what she claimed. Which only added to her power
over the popular imagination.
Another rumor, losing currency with time, credited the Black
Company with having forestalled Kina’s Year of the Skulls
back about the time the Taglian state chose to betray its hired
protectors.
The Deceivers and Company alike had a psychological strength
vastly exceeding their numbers. Being social ghosts made both
groups more frightening.
What signified most was that the Daughter of Night had come to
Taglios itself. And that she had shown herself publicly. And where
the Daughter of Night went, the chieftain of all Deceivers, the
living legend, the living saint of the Stranglers, Narayan Singh,
surely followed like a faithful jackal and worked his evils,
too.
Murgen considered aborting his mission to warn Sahra to call
everything off till this news could be assessed. But it would be
too late to stop everything now, whatever else was happening.
Narayan Singh was the most hated enemy of the Black Company
still standing upright. Not Mogaba, nor even Soulcatcher, who was
an old, old adversary, were as eagerly hunted as was Narayan Singh.
Nor did Singh harbor any love for the Company. He had gotten
himself caught once. And had spent a long time being made
uncomfortable by people overburdened with malice. He had debts he
would love to collect, should it please his goddess to permit
that.
The Privy Council, as was customary, degenerated into nagging
and finger-pointing soon afterward, with the Purohita and
Inspector-General both maneuvering to get a rung up on one another,
and maybe on Swan. The Purohita could count on the backing of the
three tame priests—unless Soulcatcher had other ideas. The
Inspector-General usually enjoyed the support of the Radisha.
These squabbles were generally prolonged but trivial, more
symbol than substance. The Protector would let nothing she
disapproved of come out of them.
As Murgen started to leave, his presence never having been
detected, two Royal Guards rushed into the chamber. They headed for
Willow Swan, though he was not their captain. Perhaps their news
was something they did not care to share with the unpredictable
Protector, their official commander. Swan listened for a moment,
then slammed a fist onto the tabletop. “Damn it! I knew it
had to be more than a nuisance.” He bulled past the Purohita,
giving the man a look of contempt. There was no love lost
there.
It has started already, Murgen thought. Back to Do Trang’s
warehouse, then. He could prevent nothing already in motion, but he
could get word to those still at headquarters so they could get
after Narayan and the Daughter of Night as soon as possible.