They gathered in Xiatoktok’s office well before the bank opened. ’Te looked at times murderous, then sad, then impressed, then back to murderous. ’Mia kept it locked down, the banked fires of her rage glowing in the corners of her eyes. ’Tok just sat there, staring at his desk and rubbing the faded face off a gold coin.

“It was necessary. Good, even. What you did, and how you did it, it was good for us and good for the Clan. Released a lot of tensions that had been building for years in the City.” ’Te decided to get the meeting rolling. “The Joint Stock plan can now really get going. Our takeover of the bank is shored up on the City side. The Throng feels powerful and in control, so… less chance of riots, less chance of sabotage in a crisis.”

He punctuated the points with his hands, chopping the right down into the left.

“That is all good, but there are consequences.”

’Tok nodded slightly. ’Te carried on.

“The reputational damage, to you personally and to the Bank as an institution, is significant. Those pictures make you look weak. Like prey.” ’Te looked grim. “Bank’s not even open and I’ve seen people sniffing around.”

’Mia nodded at that.

“People have been approaching our employees. Offers are being made. And accepted.”

“For once, the Business Council seems to be the least of our problems. This time it’s all the peer and near peer interest groups setting up to make a play.”

The gold coin was from a tiny little kingdom that had existed for barely more than a generation. A powerful warlord built his little pocket domain, then rounded up every scrap of gold, silver and copper that he could lay hands on. He then struck coinage. His face glaring out of every coin, telling everyone exactly who was the king in those parts. Most of his features had been rubbed away over time.

“Not exactly how we planned for things to go.” ’Tok murmured.

“That’s what happens when you move before you are ready. We were prepared to take the bank, not keep it.” ’Mia callously shrugged. “I can keep ahold of the staff, but you will need to do something to reestablish your prestige. Urgently. Today if possible. Don’t let those pictures define you in the public’s mind.”

“You are meeting the Patriarch tonight, right? Leaking that could help. Rumors that you have his trust would go a long way.” ’Te said unenthusiastically. “But frankly, it’s so crude and obvious that it might backfire.” ’Mia tapped her chair and offered her own suggestion.

“Start selling the seized corporate interests. Particularly the ones that were purely Clan property. Our first concern will naturally be finding those who can best manage the companies, not how much they can pay. We are the custodians, after all.” ’Mia’s smile was gentle. “We wouldn’t want some unscrupulous sort running those companies into the ground. That would be bad for everyone.”

’Tok gently tapped the heavy coin on the fine wood of his desk.

“There could be something there. As will simply turning up at work, looking immaculate and acting like nothing is wrong.” ’Tok started sifting through some of the larger corporations sitting in their portfolio and picking out plums. The plums were swiftly matched to owners in his mind.

“There is one other thing you need to do. You need to destroy somebody.” ’Te said. “You need to utterly break them, or make them break themselves for you. And you can’t be direct about it. You need to display both power and subtlety. We can’t just bribe our way out of this. Love will fade and turn to hate when we stop paying them off. Fear lasts longer.”

“Tricky to do in just a day. But not impossible.”

’Mia and ’Te could handle the tedium of trading corporations for support. The real plums had long since been reserved by the top factions. ’Tok took on the hard job of picking the person who offended him. He quickly skimmed through the disciplinary reports his managers had passed up the hierarchy, as well as a few more detailed reports from his spies in the various departments. It seems some members of the Raging Flood Group were loudly complaining that they would have to buy new wardrobes in the latest “stable boy” style. One of their number, a young teller in the retail banking division by the name of Xiasai, had even daringly declared that the President was checking the fit of his future uniform.

’Tok let his eyes gently close as he started to slip into the timeless world within his mind. He breathed in, out, in, out, iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii...

He came to some time later, temples pounding, ravenously hungry. His internal clock said that it had been less than a minute, which couldn’t possibly be right. He was frozen in that stroke-state for far longer. Surely it was longer. What the hell was going on? He opened the Frozen World in his mind decades ago, the accumulated time neatly stacking the blocks of memory into easily sorted piles for his review. He was painfully hungry, but he didn’t want to eat anything. It hurt to think about it. He thought about something else.

’Tok pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to recall what he knew about the Raging Flood Group. They were primarily focused in the… Something to do with noodles? Dough. Milling! They were big investors into some milling projects, hence the name. Some derivative industries too. They had a half dozen or so waterwheel powered grain mills, contracts with local bakeries, that kind of thing.

And they were wholly owned by Xia clansmen. No Throng investment, though plenty of Throng employees, customers and creditors. Not to mention the people living in nearby villages, or in the other cities of the Alliance where the businesses were located. He checked his ledger of seized companies and accounts. Yes, there they were. It couldn’t be all their businesses, but it surely was a lot of them. Now just why…

He quickly looked over the other accounts attached to people he could recall were part of the Raging Flood Group. He couldn’t recall many. They were just too minor for him to care about, usually. A pattern emerged, then a focal point.

It seemed that the Raging Flood Group was an unacknowledged patronage network of Xiatamzan, one of the Business Council members currently enjoying the Clan hospitality in the penal cells under Central House. They had relatively little presence in the bank, their members occupying the lowest rungs a Xia could be employed at. They just couldn’t muscle their way past the better established groups. Most of the group was overseeing the mills and other investments. They probably thought it was time to move boldly. Perhaps they thought that they could make themselves appealing to a new patron.

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He grinned thinly. Naïve. He rubbed his temples. The headache was turning into a migraine. Time to share the pain. Let’s see, what was the name of… oh hell with it.

“Duty!”

“Yes President?”

“What was the name of the firm I was talking to immediately before I got blown up?”

“Apaata and Innik Grain Merchants. You were speaking to Apaata and Innik.”

“Which one handles correspondence?”

“I believe the meeting was booked by Innik, President.”

“Alright. Get a courier. I will have a note for them in a minute.”

“At once, President!”

Neither mentioned the former duty secretary, who’s somewhat radioactive and thoroughly minced remains were to be cremated later that day. The funeral was on his calendar. What more could the man have wished?

Xiatoktok placed a sheet of crisp, brilliantly white stationary in front of him. The letterhead was hand embossed and painted bright vermillion with aching care. He picked a pen from their little tray, gleaming copper nibs sharpened just that morning. The crystal ink bottle was opened, exposing the ink, briefly, to the air. The black of the ink was made primarily from the sap of pine trees not less than a century old mixed with burnt bones. In other cities, they used the bones of debtors. That was forbidden in Cold Garden, so he contented himself with the bones of prizewinning racing cheve. He dipped the pen neatly in the ink, wiped the excess on a lint free cloth, and set to writing.

To the Right Honorable Innik,

I hope this note finds you well, and well on the way to restoring your house to harmony. The hours since our unhappy meeting have been full of activity, and I think you would agree that much has changed. I fully expect that one of the things to change will be your patronage of my bank. You have every right to be angry. You were placed in an impossible situation, not by any carelessness or defect in your efforts, but by the internal politics of the Xia. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. And I unreservedly apologize to you and your partner, for the harm it has done you personally and professionally.

Words have weight in trade, but only so much. I do wish to try and persuade you to remain with us as a valued customer, angry though you rightly are. Money and information weigh far more than mere words on the scale, do they not? To that end, and to match apology with amends, I am making you a gift of both. For the information- The following mills, grain supply houses, breweries and bakeries have serious liquidity problems and cannot be relied upon to fulfill their contracts or make good on any debts: White Water Mill, The Old Stone Mill, Grayson and Grayson…

As for money, I am waiving all interest on any debt owed to the bank by you or your firm for the next six months. I am further extending you a five million Rad business credit line with zero percent interest, payable in a year. This line of credit will only be good for five days, mirroring the five days you were without your accounts. Any further loans, mortgages or credit lines you wish to create during those same five days, beyond the original five million Rads, will be charged at no more than three percent interest, regardless of the term of the loan. Further, we will waive any and all bank fees, and I will personally ensure that loan approval will be made nigh instantaneously.

Wishing you the very best of health, and the greatest prosperity,

Xiatoktok

He scattered fine white sand over the paper, blotted it dry, and gently tipped the sand into a pot. It would be roasted clean in a kiln, sieved, and reused by junior clerks. The letter was delicately eased into its special envelope. The ink was, by deliberate design, not waterproof and it easily smudged. The etiquette amongst the Xia elite was to keep the letter creaseless and in special, waterproof ornate envelopes. Specially trained couriers would speedily deliver the letters, and if the Xia in question was truly an elite, the letters were carried upon the flat of the courier's hands. He rang for his secretary, grinning. He remembered his father’s old maxim: “It’s not the King of Hell you have to worry about, it’s all the petty devils.”

“Make a note of the time.”

“Yes President. It is nine-fifteen in the morning. Is there a particular file you wish that note added to?”

“No, just keep it on your desk for now. The letter is to be delivered to Apaata and Innik Grain Merchants, and put directly in the hands of either Apaata or Innik. Preferably Innik.”

“Yes, President. It shall be done at once.”

Now, could the Raging Flood Group force him to make a second move?

The day progressed at its usual steady tempo. The number of hushed whispers grew throughout the day, as did the number of hidden glances at Xiatoktok’s person. To be seen in public, to be photographed in public, dressed as a servant, was more than a scandal. A member of the main line, serving at the leisure of another? More than one back crawled at the thought. More than one pair of eyes looked hungry. Money changed hands in the shadows, along with scraps of information and promises of support.

The funeral was at the eleventh hour in the morning, before the sun reached its peak and started sliding into night. Naturally, Xiatoktok paid for the funeral and led the mourners to the temple. His secretary’s husband walked beside him, looking brave.

The ritualist stood at the altar and recited the funeral oration. The same old words- he was one of us. He was a good Xia. He will be missed, but he is not lost. He rests in silk and ancient oak. He is part of the eternal continuity of the Xia. He is eternal as gold. The husband stayed brave until it was time to throw the money over the casket.

He took the fistfuls of bills, all once valid currency now sold as collectables from a not too ancient cache. Carefully, with shaking hands, he sprinkled them over the length of the casket. The money slid off, except for one bill that miraculously stuck to the top. He burst into tears, sobbing. Xiatoktok clasped him by the shoulder, then strode forward and directly pressed his funeral money on the casket. His former secretary would rest easy.

After the guests had tossed their ghast-gilt, the funeral procession left the temple and proceeded to the cremation ghat. The pyre was built right on the river’s edge. The river hadn’t had time to freeze yet, though it was bitter cold. The ritualist handed the burning torch to the husband, who reluctantly, tearfully, set the oil soaked wood alight.

As the fire burned white, then blue, the mourners started the ritual tearing of the clothes. Most, the secretaries' actual friends and family, tore little strips of cloth, to symbolize the grief-rent clothes they would wear if they could have afforded them. The professional mourners tore the barely sewn seams of their clothes, great rents of emotion rising with the smoke and the steam from mouths. The husband tore his thin funeral robes. The mourners watched Xiatoktok. Would he, after everything, rend his clothes? Normally there would be no question about it, but-

His hands did shake, a little. He immediately brought them under control, gripping the sleeves of his robe. With a grand flex and the tailor’s thoughtful efforts, the sleeves were torn to shreds, and cast into the fire. He stood there, in the cold, in his tattered robes, untouchable in his dignity. It was necessary. It was right. He wanted to run away. He stood on the ghat until the pyre burned to ash and the wind carried his secretary down the river.