The cheves panicked, bolting from the tavern as cheves do when set on fire and their drivers are cut down with crossbow bolts. The carriages seemed to hold up to the fire somewhat well, though the decoration and padded driver’s bench instantly caught fire. The bolts that hit the carriages either bounced off or only stuck in a couple of centimeters. More bolts whistled after the cheves, cutting them down in a flurry of screams and blood before they cleared the block.
Men in thick gambesons and deep hoods ran up to the carriages with broad headed spears and crowbars, looking to crack the carriages open and finish the job swiftly. Not wishing to risk accidents, the crossbowmen stayed back, covering the breaching operation.
It was a not so minor miracle that the carriages hadn’t fallen over, and the assassins didn’t care to see how far the famed “Clannish Luck” stretched. More thoughtful killers might have remembered that with the Xia, it was never luck. It was preparation.
Gun loops opened in the sides of the carriages. Ghostly blue light shone out with a sound like frying meat, like hissing grass, drowned out by the screams of the mutilated assassins. One had caught only a glancing blow, thinking himself safe until he felt the flash on his face running like candle wax, his eyes growing dim as they bulged and wept and collapsed. He lived long enough to scream, once, wetly, before he fell.
In desperation, the crossbowmen threw the remaining few incendiaries, hoping that more fire might do the trick now when it had failed in the past. The blooms of flame did force the carriages to cover their gun loops for a moment- but now they were at an impasse. The incendiaries had spread fire over the carriages, but they didn’t seem to be burning the carriages themselves. The Xia couldn’t shoot out, but the crossbowmen couldn’t shoot in. They looked at each other helplessly, conferred and retreated.
The carriages didn’t open. The fire went out after a couple of minutes, with just a few little licking flames lighting the street. Seven minutes after the assault began, a strong force of Xia guards rushed to the scene. They cut loose the dead cheves, hauled them clear, then attached fresh teams of cheves to the carriages and hauled them back to the Bank. The doors to the carriages never opened once since the Xia boarded them.
A half hour after the guards left, the Crossbowmen came down from the roofs where they were hiding, swearing sulfuriously.
“The paranoid bastards didn’t even come out for their rescuers! It’s enough to make you spit blood.” One grumbled quietly. Then he made a wet, choking noise as a garrote tightened around his neck. His comrades were in no position to laugh, as they were making much the same noises.
“The President would like a quiet word with you,” was the last thing they heard before their visions faded to black.
They were gathered in ’Tok’s office, chairs brought in along with soothing cups of herbal tea. ’Mai’s maid and valet were honored with cups of their own, though nothing short of an actual gun to his head would compel ’Tok to permit a servant to sit in his presence. Still, they had killed two assassins, each, and his intolerance for informality was not so great as all that. He graciously had them served with the same cups as everyone else.
“I am starting to wish the Patriarch had blessed me with a shield, rather than a spear.” Gentian tried to sound light-hearted. She failed, but everyone appreciated the effort.
“Nah, the spear suits you. Very dashing, and it’s always a comfort being able to stab someone before they can reach you.” ’Mai disagreed.
“You are so right!” ’Tam clapped her hands together and agreed in a squeaky voice. She had dropped four assassins by herself, and would have bagged a fifth if ’Te hadn’t slammed shut the gun loop before the flames got into the wagon. She swore a blue streak about it too, unkindly pointing out that ’Te had only managed one of his own.
“Shields are good. Both together are excellent. Don’t suppose the interrogators want a hand?” ’Ja asked with clearly feigned casualness.
“It’s been thirty minutes, Dear.” ’Tok said in the calming tones known to husbands of strong willed women.
“Right. I for one don’t intend to spend the night sitting here, so…” ’Ja gestured towards the door with her tea cup.
“It’s been thirty minutes, Dear.” ’Tok repeated, using the subtle variation in tone detectable by the wives of strong willed men.
’Te and ’Tam looked wryly at each other, and shook their heads. They had always preferred a more direct means of communication. They could yell at each other in two different languages, while signing at each other in two more languages with their hands. And had, repeatedly. Generally before a bout of explosive sex, then more yelling at each other and flouncing off to their various lovers. Gentian was far from the only Xia servant that thirsted for drama, and their family always provided generously.
“In all seriousness, we shouldn’t expect anything tonight, nor anything reliable tomorrow. It takes time to gather information, verify it, follow up leads and all that.” ’Mai said. “I’m glad for the tea, but I think a strong guard to see us to our homes and beds are what we really need right now.”
“True enough.” ’Tok agreed. “Though I don’t know how much sleep I will manage. Fingers crossed the crash catches me soon.”
They all nodded at that. Then ’Te raised his cup in a toast and said “To Victory!”
Gentian held it together until they were in the privacy of their carriage, then she shakes hit. She collapsed onto ’Ja’s lap. ’Ja and ’Tok gathered in on her, holding her and each other. They were shaky too. Assassination attempts never got routine. ’Tok got his wish. The adrenaline crash hit him as he was changing for bed. They barred the bedroom door tightly, and slept.
The next day, in a calculated display of calm, Xiatoktok took a tour of some newly established joint stock companies. He said little in public, just smiling urbanely and nodding at the enthusiastic explanations of various managers and presidents. What could he say? The iron bog looked very damp, well done? Good job digging the foundation for a foundry? But saying something wasn’t the point. Being present, visible, interested, unafraid. That was the point. Because the Cold Garden rumor machine was running full tilt before breakfast, and had only accelerated since.
“President Xiatoktok, I am so relieved to see you well! We were so worried when we heard the news.” The beefy woman would probably have clutched his hands had he not hidden them behind his back. “I heard that the whole block burnt down, and those raider bastards impaled the entire staff of the Golden Sparrow on their own spits and left them to roast in the flames. What kind of sick, evil, depraved SCUM…”
She went on in this vein for another four minutes. Xiatoktok didn’t care to interrupt. She was a lot more interesting than he intended to be.
“But, you know all that, you were there! So heroic. But what brings you to our little operation?”
“Ah, Executive Hoblic, you can’t call it a little operation any more can you? Bringing thirty small haulage firms under one banner isn’t small at all.” Xiatoktok smiled.
“Well, with the new financing systems, it wasn’t too hard to raise the needed money. Kind of dreading the annual meeting, as well as paying the shareholders though.” She chuckled ruefully, rubbing the back of her neck with thick fingers.
“Well, those are serious things, and I’m not going to pretend you shouldn’t be thinking about them, but don’t let it interfere with you getting your business off the ground.” Xiatoktok didn’t actually smile, but you could hear it in his voice. “You are working with Xiachohe as your records custodian? Don’t hesitate to lean on him. Work him hard. He’s young and energetic, and eager to prove himself.”
“Haha! Well, I remember that feeling. Ah, it’s all changed so fast. This morning I realized that I won’t ever have to hitch another wagon, unless I really want to. I might not be able to sleep in yet, but I can skip that, at least.” She shook her head in amused disbelief.
“Progress, Executive Hoblic. No matter what the world throws at us, we must move forward.”
Her eyes met his, finally revealing the steel she had forged over a lifetime. “Yes, President Xiatoktok, I absolutely agree. Always forward.”
As he left the new haulage firm, Xiatoktok noted the flags flying over every wagon. Green, with thirty stars swirling around each other, climbing upwards. The bottom right corner of each was burnt, so that none would forget the Night of Burning Tears. From the top of the flagpole dangled a blackened bell with no clapper, mourning those lost in the Black Revel. The flagpole itself was simple, though decorative. Plain polished ash, well rubbed with oil, and a small, brightly polished brass spear head on top. It was a popular arrangement at the places he visited. He wished he knew who had put the idea out there. He wanted to give them a job.
Stolen novel; please report.
Xiatoktok’s last stop of the day was a little… politically delicate. He called in on the Sacred Grove of the Dusty ghetto. The Humbles, and a number of their worshipers gathered under the budding trees to meet him. Spring was slow coming every year, but the grove seemed to be eager to get a jump on it. Lots of extra nutrition, Xiatoktok thought morbidly.
“President Xiatoktok. I thank you for your invitation to meet. Though I don’t really know why you wanted to meet.” The Humble spoke calmly. There was an exhaustion in his eyes that Xiatoktok recognized. Burnout. But then, the poor bastard had every reason to be burnt out.
“Humble Revnik, I thank you for meeting me, and here especially.” Xiatoktok spoke quietly. Not hiding anything, there were dozens of ears around them. Just not grandstanding or playing to the crowd. “I thought we ought to meet given the odd situation we both find ourselves in. On the one hand, our Joyful neighbors have found new appreciation for our peoples. On the other hand, they have clearly noticed how remarkably well prepared we were for… spontaneous urban violence… and have directly skipped past the uncomfortable truth to the more comfortable paranoia and lies.”
You were getting ready for pogroms, the same as us, Xiatoktok said with a look. The Humble looked back, saying nothing. Nothing to be said.
“Well. Seems like we are now in the funeral business. Going to be in the forestry business in a major way, next month. So maybe that will ease their hearts some.” The Humble's voice was flat.
“Business is actually the reason I am here. And, indirectly, forestry, I suppose. You know about the new businesses we are trying to set up in the New Territories?”
“The sawmills and tile factories? Yeah. Honestly not sure how that’s going to work, but more investment is always welcome.”
“Our thought as well, but then it occurred to us that the Dusties are famously communitarian and self-reliant. We’re still going to invest, mind you, but we thought we would help you invest in yourselves.”
“Oh? Not sure how we could do that more than we already are.”
Xiatoktok nodded. “Most Dusties are, and I’m sorry for being blunt here, poor as hell and like it that way. It’s all well and good saying you can borrow a shovel off a neighbor if yours breaks, but eventually you run out of shovels, right?”
“Sure.” The Humble humored him.
“Well, like you said, not really much money to go around. On the other hand, for those times where you do need a new shovel, or some extra goats or whatever, you don’t need a whole lot of money. But banks, mine included, don’t make six rad loans, and those villains who do make small loans charge interest that even I think is criminal.”
The crowd nodded at that. Some dark mutterings broke out.
“It leaves you trying to borrow from your neighbors, but it always feels different borrowing money, doesn't it? Hurts good feelings between folk, weakens community bonds. Assuming your neighbor even has the money to loan you in the first place.” The Humble nodded at that too, but Xiatoktok could see he was tiring of the conversation fast.
“So what I propose is the creation of a special bank. The bank takes no deposits and only makes loans. Capitalized, initially, by an investment from my Grand Redoubts bank and any Dusties looking to invest. We cap the loan amount at a hundred rads, and the longest repayment period is a year. Interest rate of ten percent, flat, for everyone. Borrow a hundred rads, pay back a hundred and ten by the end of the year, on whatever payment schedule. Very generous, but not a charity, you see? Very small sums, but all invested in small, practical things that grow the community and help you improve the world. And it makes a tiny profit, so you can grow the number of loans it can make.”
That made a stir! This was not how banking was done, but if the lights coming on in people’s eyes were anything to go by, it’s how it would be done in the future.
“You would also need to provide teachers. Banking isn’t something you can just figure out as you go.” The Humble looked interested too, but wary.
“We would. Like the bank, we don’t see this as a charity, but a small investment to make our world a better place.” Xiatoktok spoke calmly, and with absolute authority. “When you get right down to it, our people hold radically different philosophies but similar methods. Always preparing for what comes next, because something definitely will come next, whether we are alive to see it or not. And we are minorities, perhaps dangerous minorities, in a city that is not very fond of cultural diversity.”
That got a dry chuckle out of the Humble. “We have to look out for each other? Not that we weren’t doing that already, mind you.”
“Something like that. Something like that.” Xiatoktok looked down the street. The ghetto had been somewhat rebuilt over the last few months, but it was still in far worse shape than the rest of the city. And the rest of the city was terrible. Deaths from starvation, exposure and disease had ravaged the Dusties. It was vanishingly rare to see a fat Dusty before the Night of Burning Tears. It was now unheard of- a morbid, cruel, joke.
“And, Humble Revnik, if you will forgive a little blatant self interest, the shortest route from the South Gate to my house passes by your neighborhood. I am not so deluded as to think that your people will suddenly leap to my defense because I helped you set up a micro-finance bank. But I am strongly motivated to see you build a neighborhood you would be determined to defend at all costs.”
“Not much we can do to save you from forty Collective assassins riding War-Gvetch and wielding harpoons.” The Humble’s smile was crooked.
“War-Gvetch died out with the Third Empire. Thankfully. They needed a lot of meat, from what I read. I do remember the past, Humble Revnik. It’s the Xia’s burden, and our calling. But we always press forward towards a better tomorrow.”
“Yes, President Xiatotktok. Forward. Always forward.”
For the second time in two days, Xiatoktok felt the weight of time shift around him. This time, he smiled.
In a well lit little cell, simply but comfortably furnished, a former assassin paced. He had been here for… well he wasn’t sure how many hours. But he knew how this went. They wanted to break him with fear before they started in on the torture. Bastards! Bastards! Didn’t have the decency to just kill him, they had to break him first. But he wouldn’t. He had people counting on him. He would die first.
The cell door opened. Two men, one thin and gray, the other thin and tanned, came in.
“Oh, now my torturers are here? What kept you?” The prisoner snarled. The two men looked confused.
“Sorry, torturers?” The tanned man asked. “I think you have the wrong idea about how interrogation works.” The gray man nodded along, and continued.
“Yes, torture, exhaustion, any of those nasty methods you may have heard of, can produce results, but not reliable results. If we just wanted you to tell us something we already wanted you to say, then sure. That works. But we want you to tell us things we don’t know.”
The tanned man took over again. “Yes, fear, stress, pain, all those things, completely throw off the interrogation process. It’s kind of counter intuitive, but building trust between us will really be the fastest, most reliable way to discover the truth.”
The prisoner gawped at them. The two interrogators both spoke in a flat, near monotone. It was less creepy and more… someone describing the best way to pick out cabbages at the market, and they didn’t really care that much about cabbages.
“So… I’d trust you a lot if you just let me go?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, but no, we do have to get that information.” The tan man shook his head. The gray man pulled up the room’s one chair and waved the prisoner towards his bed. The prisoner sat on it in a sort of bemused shock.
“Look, I appreciate you not going straight for the, eh, pliers or hammers or whatever, but… I really can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything to begin with, and what I do know means I don’t want to tell you anything. I got people to protect, you know?”
The gray man nodded understandingly. “I get that. I really do. Tell me, do you know what this is?” He reached into his pocket and held up a globby looking object.
“Some kind of blue glass thing, but the glassblower sneezed when she GHURK!”
The tan man crossed the room in two explosive steps, yanked the prisoner’s head forward and down, then jabbed his index finger into the join between the spine and the skull. It only pierced a centimeter or so, but apparently it was far enough. The tan man gently pulled the head back up, leaving his finger in place.
The prisoner’s eyes fluttered for a few seconds, then he blinked and smiled. “Sorry, yes, it looks like a terrible accident in the glass maker’s shop. Is it important?”
“No, I just always wondered.” The gray man shrugged. “Someone will know, one of these days. Say, what’s your name?”
“Oh, I can’t tell.” The prisoner struggled for a moment, then smiled a little wider. “You have an honest face. I’m Cin Shoborutinia. The Skageniw Shoborutinia, mind you, not the Parcos Shoborutinia. I have a cousin by the same name and we get confused all the time.”
“I get that. My name is Ralph.” The gray man calmly lied. “I don’t have a cousin named Ralph, though. What brought you to Cold Garden?”
“Oh, well, it’s kind of a sad story…”
Playing with this guy’s brain chemistry is somehow even more boring than gardening, thought the Bo with his finger in a brain. But I suppose they are both equally pointless. And this gets me a bonus, so that's… something. Ah. Maybe I can do something nice for Allie. I remember kids liking treats…