Soldiers Live by Glen Cook

hard to fool. But she can also get fixed on one idea to the
     exclusion of other possibilities.
    “She doesn’t want to make any more enemies.”
    “More? We don’t have any. Not out here. They may not like us much but they all
     kiss our asses. They’re scared to death of us. And they get more scared every
     time another White Lady or Blue Man or wichtlin or whatnot lumbers out of
     folklore and joins Tobo’s entourage.”
    “Uhn. Is that the spot? I saw something Tobo called a wowsey with the Black
     Hounds yesterday.” That is my honey. She can see those things clearly, even over
     here. “It’s as big as a hippo but looks like a beetle with a lizard’s head. A
     lizard with big teeth. To quote Swan, ‘It looks like it fell out of the ugly
     tree and hit every single branch on the way down.’ ”
    Willow Swan seemed to be cultivating a new image as a churlish but colorful old
     man.
    Somebody has to step in and take One-Eye’s place. Though I was sort of thinking
     about picking up the stick myself.
    “What do we know about the forvalaka?” I asked. I had avoided asking for
     specifics before. I knew the damned thing got away. That was all I needed to
     know until I was prepared mentally to start planning the conclusion of its tale.
    “It left its tail behind. It suffered severe burns and several deep wounds and I
     blinded it partially with my last fireball. It lost several teeth. Tobo has
     created a number of fetishes using those and bits of flesh torn off by the Black
     Hounds while it was fleeing toward the shadowgate.”
    “But it did have what it takes to get back to Khatovar.”
    “It did.”
    “Then it’s going to be as hard to kill as the Limper was.”
    “Not anymore. Not with what Tobo has.”
    “He had your help?”
    “I’m ancient in the ways of wickedness. Am I not? Didn’t you write something
     like that a time or two?”
    “Especially after I got to know you . . . Ouch! Well . . . as long as you’re a
     bad girl like you’re being a bad girl right now . . . ” I do not recall if I did
     write the exact words she claimed but I know I recorded those approximate
     sentiments many years ago. Without exaggerating. “I’m going to go after it.”
    “I know.” She did not argue. They were humoring me. They wanted to keep me
     quiet. Sleepy was involved in touchy negotiations with the File of Nine. The
     Court of All Seasons and the monks of Khang Phi were behind us already. The
     warlords of the File remain unconvinced that it would be wise to give us what we
     want even though the Company has grown to the point where it has become a
     serious burden on Hsien’s economy. And poses a threat, if the notion of conquest
     happens to take root. I, myself, do not see one warlord, or even a cabal of
     warlords, out there, who would stand much more chance than smoke in a high wind
     if the notion did take us. Most of the warlords are clear on that, too.
    They still want Maricha Manthara Dhumraksha—our Shadowmaster
     Longshadow—desperately. Their hunger for revenge borders on racial obsession.
    They are not forthcoming about the evils Longshadow visited upon their forbears
     but we have our sources inside Khang Phi. Longshadow’s cruelties had been as
     capricious as any wickedness of Soulcatcher’s but far more terrible for their
     victims. The need to haul the Shadowmaster up before a tribunal colored every
     consideration of the warlords, the legal and noble courts, even the several
     spiritual traditions of Hsien. Maricha Manthara Dhumraksha was the one thing
     they all agreed upon. Nor did I ever sense a hint of a chance some rogue would
     try to acquire control of Longshadow in an effort to amplify his own power.
    Sleepy did not want a short-tempered, foulmouthed but still influential former
     Captain stumbling around being sarcastic and opinionated while she was trying to
     wring the one last concession she wanted out of the File of Nine. She was
     confident that our years of