Bleak Seasons by Glen Cook

Shadar fish place possessed of a very distinctive air.
    My men scattered to their families or someplace where they could drink beer. I
     was satisfied. With one quick, nasty stab we had decimated the surviving
     Deceiver leadership. We almost got that fiend Narayan Singh. I got within
     spitting distance of Croaker’s baby. In all honesty I could report that she
     seemed all right.
    Thai Dei knocked the prisoners to their knees, wrinkled his nose.
    “You’re right,” I agreed. “But this place don’t stink half as bad as your swamp
     does.” Taglios claims the river delta but the Nyueng Bao disagree.
    Thai Dei grunted. He could take a joke as well as the next guy.
    He does not look like much. He is a foot shorter than I am. I outweigh him by
     eighty pounds. And I am far prettier. He has crudely cropped black hair that
     sticks out in unkempt spikes. Skinny, lantern-jawed, taciturn and surly, Thai
     Dei is entirely unappetizing. But he does his job.
    A Shadar fishmonger brought the Captain to us. Croaker was getting old. We were
     going to have to call him Boss or Chief or something. You cannot call the
     Captain the Old Man once he’s really old, can you?
    He was dressed like a Shadar cavalryman, all turban, beard and plain grey
     clothing. He eyed Thai Dei coolly. He did not have a Nyueng Bao bodyguard
     himself. He loathed the idea despite his having to disguise himself whenever he
     wanted to walk the streets alone. Bodyguards are not traditional. Croaker is
     stubborn about Company traditions.
    Hell, the Shadowmaster’s officers all employ bodyguards. Some have several. They
     could not survive without them.
    Thai Dei reflected Croaker’s gaze impassively, unimpressed by the presence of
     the great dictator. He might say, “He is one man. I am one man. We begin even.”
    Croaker examined my prizes. “Tell it.”
    I told it. “But I missed Narayan. I was this close. That bastard has a guardian
     angel. There’s no way he should have slipped Goblin’s sleep spell. We chased him
     for two days but even Goblin and One-Eye couldn’t hang onto his track forever.”
    “He had help. Maybe from his guardian demon. Maybe from his new buddy the
     Shadowmaster, too.”
    “How come they went back to the grove? How did you know they would be there?”
    I thought he would say a big black bird told him.
    They are less numerous these days but the crows still follow him everywhere. He
     talks to them. Sometimes they talk to him, too. So he says.
    “They had to come someday, Murgen. They are slaves to their religion.”
    But why this particular Festival of Lights? How did you know?
    I did not press. You don’t press Croaker. He has grown cranky and secretive in
     his old age. In his own Annals he did not always tell the whole truth about
     personal things, his age especially.
    He kicked the shadowweaver. “One of Longshadow’s pet spook doctors. You’d think
     he wouldn’t have enough left to waste them anymore.”
    “I don’t reckon he expected us to jump them.”
    Croaker tried to smile. He produced a nasty, sarcastic sneer instead. “He’s got
     lots of surprises coming.” He kicked the Deceiver. “Let’s don’t hide them. Let’s
     take them to the Palace. What’s the matter?”
    Ice had blasted my back, like I was out on the wind of the Grove of Doom again.
    I didn’t know why but I had a grim sense of foreboding.
    “I don’t know. You’re the boss. Anything special you want in the Annals?”
    “You’re the Annalist now, Murgen. You write what you have to write. I can always
     bitch.” Unlikely. I send everything over but I don’t think much gets read. He
     asked, “What was special about the raid?”
    “It was colder than a well digger’s ass out there.”
    “And that walking sack of camel snot Narayan Singh got away from us again. So
     that’s what you write. Him and his kind are going to get back into our story
     before we’re done. When we’re roasting him, I hope. Did you see her?