century.
I mentioned that to Narayan. He smiled.
“That is our greatest tool, Mistress. No one believes we exist. You have seen how Sindhu and I make little effort to hide from the men. We go among them and say we are the feared and famous Stranglers and they had better not displease us. And they don’t believe us. But they fear us even so, because they know stories and think we might try imitating the Deceivers of old.”
“There are some who believe.” I suspected those included Smoke, the Radisha, and some others in high places.
“Always. Just enough.”
He was a sinister little man. And probably really a vegetable peddler honored in his community as a good Gunni, good father, good grandfather. But during the dry season, when large portions of the Taglian population were on the move for reasons of trade, he would be, too. With his band, pretending to be travellers like other travellers, murdering those others when the opportunity arose. He was good at that, obviously. That was why Sindhu thought so highly of him.
Now I understood their caste system. It was based on number of successful murders.
Narayan was, likely, secretly, a wealthy man. The followers of Kina always robbed their victims.
They were more egalitarian than other cults. Narayan, of low caste and cursed with a Shadar name, had become jamadar of his band. Because he was a brilliant tactician and favored of Kina-meaning he was lucky, I assumed-according to Sindhu. He was famous among the Stranglers. A living legend.
“He doesn’t need arm-holders,” Sindhu said. “Only the best black cloths kill so quickly and efficiently that they don’t need arm-holders.”
A living legend, and my lieutenant. Interesting. “Arm-holders?” He used the word as a title more than as a job description.
“A band consists of many specialists, Mistress. The newest members begin as grave-diggers and bone- breakers. Many never advance beyond that level, for they develop no skill with the rumel. The yellow rumel men are the lowest ranked Stranglers. Apprentices. They seldom have a chance to kill, being mostly assigned as arm-holders for red rumel men and as scouts and victim-finders. Red rumel men do most of the strangling. Few win the black rumel. Those almost always become jamadars or priests. The priests do the divining and take omens, intercede with Kina, and keep the chronicles and accounts of the company. When it becomes necessary they act as judges.”
“I was never a priest,” Narayan said. “A priest has to be educated.”
Never a priest but once a slave. He’d managed to keep his rumel throughout his captivity. I wondered if he had fought back, dealing silent death.
“Sometimes. When the moment was propitious,” he admitted. “But Kina teaches us not to slay indiscriminately, nor in anger, but only for her glory. We do not slay for political reasons-except for the safety of the brotherhood.”
Interesting. “How many followers do you suppose Kina claims?”
“There is no way to tell, Mistress.” Narayan seemed almost relieved by this line of questioning. “We are outlawed. We come under sentence of death the moment we take our oath to Kina. A jamadar will know how many there are in his band and will have contacts with a few other jamadars but he’ll have no idea how many bands there are or how strong they might be. There are ways we have to recognize one another, ways we communicate, but seldom do we dare gather in large numbers. The risks are too great.”
Sindhu said, “The Festival of Lights is our great gathering, when each band sends men to the rites at the Grove of Doom.”
Narayan silenced him with a gesture. “A great holy day but little different than the Shadar festival of the same name. Many of the band captains, come but bring few of their followers. The priests attend, of course. Decisions are made and cases judged but I would guess that not one in twenty believers attends. I would guess that there are between one and two thousand of us today, more than half living in Taglian territory.”
Not many at all, then. And only a minority of those truly skilled murderers. But what a force to unleash in the darkness if I could make it my instrument.
“And now the true question, Narayan. The heart of the thing. Where do I fit? Why have you chosen me? And for what?”
Chapter Twenty
Crowing and clatter wakened Croaker. He rose and went to the temple entrance. Ghostly dawn light permeated the misty wood.
Soulcatcher had returned. The black stallions were lathered. They had run long and hard. The sorceress was besieged by squawking crows. She cursed them and beat them back, beckoned him. He went out, asked, “Where have you been? Things have been happening.”
“So I gather. I went for your armor.” She indicated the horse she hadn’t ridden.
“You went all the way to Dejagore? For that? Why?”
“We’ll need it. Tell me what happened.”
“How were they? My men.”
“Holding out. Better than I expected. They may hang on for quite a while. Shadowspinner isn’t at his best.” The voice she chose rasped with irritation. When she continued, though, it had become that of
a cajoling child. “Tell me. It’ll take forever to get it out of them. They all try to tell me at once.”
“The Howler came past yesterday.”
She raised that wooden box to eye level, though she didn’t make him look at the face inside. “The Howler? Tell me.”
He did.
“The game grows more interesting. How did Longshadow lure him out of his swamp?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was speaking rhetorically, Croaker. Go inside. I’m tired. I was in a bad mood already.”
He went. He didn’t want to test her temper. Outside, she chattered with a flock of crows so dense she disappeared among them. Somehow she brought confusion out of chaos. Minutes later the temple vibrated to the beat of countless wings. A black cloud flew away south.
Soulcatcher came inside. Croaker kept his distance, kept his mouth shut. Not much intimidated him but he wasn’t one to stick his hand in a cobra’s mouth.
Morning came. Croaker wakened. Soulcatcher appeared to be sleeping soundly. He resisted temptation. It was less than a flutter of a thought, anyway. He wouldn’t catch her off guard that easily. Chances were she wasn’t asleep at all. Resting, yes. Maybe testing him. He couldn’t recall ever having seen her sleep.
He made himself breakfast.
Soulcatcher wakened while he cooked. He didn’t notice. A dramatic pink flash startled him. He whirled. Pinkish smoke swirled beyond the sorceress. A child-sized creature pranced out, flipped the woman a salute, sauntered over to him. “How they hanging, chief? Long time, no see.”
“Want an honest answer or one that will please you, Frogface?”
“Hey! You ain’t surprised to see me.”
“No. I figured you were a plant. One-Eye doesn’t have what it takes to manage a demon.”
“Hey! Hey! Let’s watch our tongue, eh, Cap? I ain’t no demon. I’m an imp.”
“Sorry about the ethnic slur. You did fool me, some. I thought you belonged to Shapeshifter.”
“That lump? What could he offer?”
Croaker shrugged. “You been in Dejagore?” He contained an old anger. The imp, supposedly helping the Black Company, had been absent in the final debacle there. “What’s the news?”
The imp stood only two feet tall though he had the proportions of an adult. He glanced at Soulcatcher, received some intangible permission. “That Mogaba is one bad actor, chief. He’s giving the Shadowmasters’ boys all the trouble they ever wanted. Making them look like fools. Eating them up a nibble at a time. ’Course, it can’t last.
