Tales from Kalgachia - 18

Konstantin Shazarovich Rufin, Kalgachia's Chief Emissary to the Tumultuous Wastes, could not for the life of him guess what he had done wrong.

The letter of recall had come at a most unexpected time and place - namely a lakeside hunting lodge just outside the town of Leurbost in northern Nova England, no more than ten minutes after he had finalised the purchase of the property and been handed its keys by it's previous owner, an elderly gentleman of almost holy jollity whose face was permanently flushed from a lifetime of capillary-popping ale consumption. No sooner had the old man made his parting pleasantries and begun an unsteady walk back toward town than a sidecar motorcycle approached in the opposite direction, the backfire of its exhaust making the lodge's previous owner visibly jolt as it roared past him and swung off the road to a screeching halt on the lodge's rough gravel driveway.

Rufin had purchased the lodge for the quality of the local sound, or rather the lack of it. For all the natural beauty of the Kalgachi mountains, it was always accompanied by some howling wind or other. Here, however, only the gentle lapping of the lakeside waters broke the rich silence. A perfect getaway for Rufin to make the best of the little free time he had. It was with some annoyance, then, that he marched out of the lodge to confront his noisy visitors. An official from the Directorate of the Tumultuous Wastes, whom Rufin vaguely recognised but could not name, was hopping out of the motorcycle's sidecar. His rider, a soldier of the Nova English Army who had obviously been talked into providing a lift for him, remained patiently astride the motorcycle as the messenger skipped up to Rufin, presenting him with the offending document.

"I've had a pig of a time trying to find you, sir," was his only greeting. "I'd have waited for you to resurface in Newcastle but Oktavyan Centre was most insistent that you have this immediately. Cheerio!" He walked back to the motorcycle, addressing the rider. "I'll be owing you a pint, Gerald. Call in at the Mardy Moot at Draycott on the way back..."

Rufin, being sufficiently shocked by the letter's contents, did not even notice his visitors leave.

That had been thirty-six hours ago. Since then had played out the long car journey to Port Neil, the fitful sleep in anticipation of the following morning's El Kal flight, the nerve-wracking air journey over the war zones of Taylor Bay and the Western Sea, a bumpy landing at El Kal's main airstrip in southwestern Lithead and another car trip - this time chauffeured - toward the Kalgachi capital of Oktavyan, along a road constantly patrolled by KDF Whirdlebirb helicopters to drive off any wandering Tee-als. Rufin's letter had instructed him to report to the Directorate of the Tumultuous Wastes' lower reception desk - accessed through a station on the Oktavyan Subway named 'Faraway Friends' - the moment he arrived in the city. By the time he had sent off his driver and descended into the bowels of a subway station, it was a little after midnight and he found the train platform deserted. It was just as well - moving around Oktavyan during the day, he was often stopped by people who recognised him from televised diplomatic press conferences and assailed him with all manner of inane comments. High-profile officials were a rare thing in Kalgachia; the occasional general might be seen on parade or an archabbot in church, the appearance of a Lord Lieutenant was downright exotic and the country's ruling Perfecti were never to be seen at all. Some refused to believe the latter even existed, to the point that it was among the more worn-out of Kalgachia's popular conspiracy theories. The Perfecti generated a lot of paperwork for a non-existent office, thought Rufin, although that was a tired old joke in itself.

Like the platform, the train which arrived was completely empty. No breathless jabbering Bergburgers and no violent Laqi drunks, thought Rufin as he stepped aboard and luxuriated in his solitary seat. Faraway Friends was only five stops away, and Rufin knew the journey well enough.

His first pangs of panic arose when the train, at the point where it was due to slow down for Faraway Friends station, sped up instead. In an instant the darkness of the tunnel gave way to the whizzing lights of the station platform, only to be replaced by more darkness as the train overshot the station and plunged into the tunnel at the far end. After a moment's deliberation Rufin rose to his feet, preparing to move up the train and rouse the driver when a sudden deceleration almost threw him off his feet. With a squeal of brakes the train finally came to a stop and, after a moment, its doors slid open. In the middle of a pitch-black tunnel.

Then, Rufin heard footsteps.

From a small and barely discernible opening in the side of the tunnel, completely unlit, approached a very young girl of around eight years old. She was attired in the Froyalanish fashion, her blonde hair neatly braided. She also appeared to be blind; she wore sunglasses and carried a kind of flexible cane, a dark shiny thing shaped to a shallow curve which tapered to nothing at the tip. Then Rufin realised its origin; he remembered a television programme he had seen about Tee-al whiskers being useful as walking aids for the blind. He momentarily wondered how this particular whisker had been acquired but realised if he solved that, he would have to move onto the fact that its owner had boarded his train from a hole in the subway tunnel where no kind of station was listed. And the fact that train had missed Faraway Friends to get here. And that fact that his mystery companion was a Froyalaner of all people. And the fact she was travelling the subway alone at such a young age. And the fact it was way past her bedtime. The weight of all the unanswered questions was causing Rufin to feel dizzy, but he remained transfixed on the little girl as she felt her way into his train car, sitting a short distance away from him on the opposite seats. The doors slid shut and the train began slowly clattering into motion again. The girl neatly removed her sunglasses and folded them away, causing the hairs on the back of Rufin's neck to rise in silent terror at what lay behind them - her eyes, or whatever sat in place of them, were absolutely black and shone like those of the bug-eyed Deep Singers Rufin recalled from his Minarborian youth.

Although he was sure he had made no sound, the girl turned her head to look directly at him. Then she flashed an innocent smile, quite at odds with her eyes which suggested a desire to devour Rufin's soul.

"Hello!" she said. Her accent was oddly Oktavyanesque, flat but forceful without a hint of the Froyalanish burble.

Rufin was paralysed with horror, but some streak of courage - or was it madness? - briefly surfaced above his frenzied throughts and he heard the sound of his own voice offer a halting reply. "H-hello...?"

The girl appeared satisfied with this and took her black-eyed gaze off him. The rest of the journey was spent in the most awkward silence Rufin had ever experienced. The train seemed to be in a different tunnel now; it passed through no more stations, and Rufin felt a steady increase in the train car's ambient temperature toward an uncomfortable level. There was also a sensation of descending a very slight incline; the train was not just going further, but deeper. Enough time had elapsed now that it must be outside the bounds of Oktavyan City, seemingly denying Rufin all hope of showing his face at the Directorate of the Tumultuous Wastes in a timely fashion. The excuses were already stacking up in his head: "It looked like a normal train, Director. It got me to my destination too, it just didn't stop. With respect, sir, I think you'll find all that missing Kalgarrand is merely an accounting error. No sir, I don't know anything about an off-book house purchase..."

Somewhere in the back of Rufin's mind, the possibility of him never being in a position to deliver those excuses, or indeed to draw breath at all, arose and was driven out by a physical shake of his head. Glancing at his fellow passenger, he decided against asking who she was or just where exactly they were going. She had not given any indication that he was on the wrong train, and he did not intend to give the fact away. Sooner or later, they would arrive somewhere. The increasing heat was adding to the tiredness from Rufin's long journey, and he considered the option of sleeping in the hope that he would wake up in the normal world again. He decided against it in the end - it may have been what the little girl was waiting for.

Suddenly the girl emitted a quiet giggle, followed by another. Then a series of half-vocalisations as she was possessed by an excitable jollity, followed by a sudden squinting of her black eyes as if in silent concentration. Then more giggling. This continued for some minutes until she was interrupted by the gentle squeal of brakes, and the train finally began to slow down.

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This station was similar to others on the Oktavyan Subway - a well-decorated labyrinthe of polished granite pillars and inversely vaulted ceilings from which pale white lamps hung like stalactites. But unlike the others this station had no name displayed on its platform wall, only a string of complex sigils rendered in golden mosaic tiles against the granite. Rufin surveyed these from his seat, having resolved to wait on the train until he was sure it was at the very end of the line.

The little blind girl, having made her way to the door, stopped and 'looked' at Rufin before she stepped onto the platform. "Are you coming?" she said quietly, with a cut-glass elocution far beyond most girls of her age.

To Rufin it sounded more like an order than a question and he thought it best to comply. "Ah, yes," he forced a smile and rose to his feet. "Sorry, I was drifting off to sleep."

The girl gave no reply, only smiled and made her way along the platform with the Tee-al whisker twitching its way ahead of her. Rufin, seeing no other obvious exit, followed her at a distance. The platform exit let into a pedestrian tunnel which, unusually for the Oktavyan Subway, followed a gentle but constant curve until Rufin was no longer sure which compass direction he was facing. Somewhere ahead of the blind girl the sound of quiet muttering voices permeated the tunnel; their source, in the form of two uniformed KDF officers, swept into the tunnel from a seperate branch and continued in the same direction as the blind girl. One of them was carrying a briefcase secured to his wrist by handcuffs. Rufin strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

"...anyway according to Captain Flighty, the Déor-fýst training was basically five hundred ways of hitting a man in the balls. He says the main benefit will be keeping the cossacks in line."

"Don't the SPR have Cossacks too? I thought the whole regiment was getting the training."

"Ah crap, forgot about that lot. Remind me not to stay in the mess if they roll up, then... it'll be a testicular extravaganza. The wife and I are still trying for a baby and I need to keep the old family jewels intact..."

The sight of two KDF men had brought Rufin to the best conclusion he could muster - he had somehow ended up at General Staff Rhizome Glacis, one of the KDF's three reduntant deep-level command complexes which was rumoured to be in the Oktavyan area. But the curving tunnel terminated abruptly at a checkpoint occupied by a half-Nezeni man in a civilian suit with incredibly long hair sprouting from his nose, making Rufin doubt his military hypothesis immediately. He was accompanied by a similarly dressed man of stout, swarthy appearance - possibly Laqi - who stood beside a door in the wall. The two KDF officers and the blind girl waited in line while Rufin tagged on at the back, pondering whether to admit being 'lost' or try talking his way through. He watched the hairy-nosed guard remove a small labelled vial of clear liquid from a shelf behind him, producing with his other hand a small blood sampler of the kind used on diabetics. This was applied to the first KDF officer's waiting fingertip, the quiet snap of the needle's deployment causing Rufin to wince. The resulting drop of blood was duly collected in the guard's vial and he held it upto the light, swilling its contents together with a wiggle of the fingers. In an instant its contents flashed from red to dark green, like an iodine clock.

"Jolly good," smiled the guard with an affirmatory nod, which the KDF officer returned as he stepped past the checkpoint and waited for his companion to undergo the same test from a fresh vial. Rufin's heart sank - the guard appeared to be using a selection of personalised reagents, matched to the genetic composition of authorised visitors' blood. Watching the two officers step smartly through the door guarded by the big Laqi, Rufin realised he could not talk his way out of the situation.

"Odny!" Chirped the hairy-nosed guard as the blind girl approached. "How nice to see you again. Have you had a good week?"

"Yes sir," said Odny, holding out her hand. She kept 'looking' toward the entrance door, and after a moment it was opened from the far side. Another young girl of her age, this one a Nezeni with a sandy grey face and red hair, peered out from around it. Both girls uttered quiet squeaks of delight at each other's presence, the latter bouncing on her heels in impatience for Odny's blood to be checked.

"Won't be a moment, Rubina," said the guard, addressing the other girl as he shook the vial of Odny's blood until it turned green. "There we are, all done." At these words, Odny felt her way hurriedly forward with her whisker aid while Rubina advanced to take her hand. This steadying companion acquired, both girls broke into an excited run and disappeared through the door.

While the guard threw the used vial into a bin, Rufin - having rehearsed his explanation a hundred times in his head already - adopted his most apologetic voice. "Forgive me, brother," he said, "but there appears to have been some mistake. I was due to-"

"Ah, Mister Rufin!" The guard's jolly smile of recognition threw Rufin into confusion. "Now bear with me one moment, I've got yours in here somewhere..." To Rufin's astonishment, the guard began to rummage in a set of drawers beneath the shelf of vials, mumbling various names to himself as he did so. "Ah! Rufin! Konstantin Shazarovich. Here we are..." he produced a vial of reagent whose small label did indeed bear Rufin's full name. "How was your flight from Nova England?" he casually asked as he cleaned his blood sampler with an antiseptic cloth.

Rufin stood speechless that he was apparently supposed to be here, and that whoever ran this complex had somehow acquired a blood sample from him to make a test reagent. He could only find one word - "Fine."

"Jolly good," said the guard. "It's a wonder nobody's been blown out of the sky yet. Now if you don't mind..." he nodded to indicate Rufin's right hand.

The stab of the needle was as unpleasant as could be expected, but the little blind girl had not yelped and Rufin had no intention of displaying less courage. He accepted it with a wince, rubbing the pain out of his finger as he watched the drop of blood swirl around in the vial. Just like the others, it flashed to dark green as if a switch had been flicked.

"Excellent," said the guard. "Go on through."

There was, as yet, no explanation of what this place was or why Rufin was here - but the guard's effortlessly jolly manner made him feel considerably more at home than he had been a minute previously. Others had begun to line up behind him and he decided not to bother the guard with questions - things could only become clearer from this point. He nodded farewell, made his way tentatively past the big Laqi guard and opened the door.

In a small lobby - among wandering bureaucrats, military officers, church officials and folk in hooded robes whom Rufin assumed to be the Troglodyti - another Nezeni, this one clad in a sort of silken court dress, stepped forward to greet Rufin.

"Emissary Rufin!" His green-hued face was a picture of propriety as he advanced and shook Rufin's hand. "The name's Neren. Most honoured to have you with us. Will you forgive the way you were conveyed here? All will become clear."

"This isn't Command Rhizome Glacis, is it?" said Rufin.

"The KDF budget doesn't stretch to this level of decor," said Neren with a subtle smile. "How was your journey?"

"I've had worse," said Rufin. "But forgive me if I spare you the niceties. I must ask you... am I in trouble?"

Neren's composure was briefly broken by a cackle of mirth. "Oh no, sir," he said. "Quite the opposite... quite the opposite! And if you're not given to wasting time, let us not waste it. Come..." He strode out of the lobby so swiftly that Rufin had difficulty keeping up. "Our brother sovereigns are waiting!" he said as they descended an ornate and extremely long staircase.

'Our brother sovereigns' - Rufin had only ever heard the term used in reference to one body of individuals. Now the nature of this elaborate underground complex, and the subterfuge and weirdness which had accompanied his journey here, was resolved in all of its painful clarity. Painful because despite Neren's assurances, Rufin still did not know why the Council of Perfecti, rulers of all Kalgachia, had summoned the likes of him.

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As with most visitors to the Perfecti in council, Rufin found their meeting chamber something of an anticlimax. He was expecting some great gilded atrium; instead he was confronted with a modestly-adorned, circular room with unrendered granite walls which was, considering its purpose, incredibly small - there was barely enough room to walk around the nine thronelike seats which surrounded a raised, highly polished slab in the middle. The whole lot had been carved out of the local rock, simple in design and immovable. Although there were nine seats, Rufin immediately noticed that one was empty. The others were occupied by eight figures of Nezeni appearance, except they were more than Nezeni - The odd hues of their skin were too overwhelmingly rich, their facial shapes too divergent from the human norm - the eyes of one were located on protrusions of his skull, set far apart like a hammerhead shark. These were no Nezeni; they were full-blooded Deep Singers of the Minarborian breed, the kind of creatures Rufin thought had fled into a thousand secluded burrows during the collapse of that Empire. Perhaps he stood in once such burrow, he mused to himself. The announcement of Neren, who had led him into the chamber, returned his attention to the situation at hand:

"Brother sovereigns, the Chief Emissary of the Garden." With this Neren offered the Ketherist bow - tilting backward rather than forward, the latter gesture being considered an insulting suggestion that the subject was archonically located. Without turning around he stepped backwards, passing Rufin and pulling the chamber's doors softly shut behind him. Rufin, mainly to be seen doing something vaguely appropriate, offered a Ketherist bow of his own while the heads of the Perfecti turned to observe him.

"Dear old Mister Rufin," said the one at the far end of the table - a blonde yellow-faced individual whose intiative in speaking, and the fact that his seat seemed to have a little more space around it than the others, suggesting he was presiding. "I thank you for joining us. Not that you had the choice, I realise." He spoke with a smooth Nezeni hiss, an antiquated tone originating in Shirerithian Shimmerspring and Minarborian Whisperwood which was still spoken in the Tee-al infested backwoods of Lithead.

"It's an honour to be here, brother sovereign," said Rufin, marvelling at the resemblance of the chairman to certain members of the Yastreb clan of Benacian history, most closely the undead Minarborian upstart Albede. The rumours of one being the ultimate ruler of Kalgachia appeared to be true.

"And we are glad to confer it," said the chairman. "We have been reading your dispatches from foreign nations with great interest and admiration. They have assisted us greatly in the formulation of policy... in all areas, not just matters pertaining to the Tumultuous Wastes."

At this Rufin's heart swelled with pride, if only for a moment before the chairman brought him back down:

"It is only unfortunate that your financial activities have been less than transparent. We have no objection to your purchase of a private lodge in Nova England with the funds of your Directorate... it is the least you deserve for your service to this country. But your attempts to conceal it from us have been..."

"...comical," cut in one of the others.

"Well I would not put it so abrasively," said the chairman, "but yes. Mister Rufin, May I introduce our sovereign brother responsible for internal security. He is the reason we in this council have long since given up keeping secrets from each other."

"Brother sovereign," Rufin nodded in acknowledgement, his face transitioning from the beetroot red of embarrassment to the pallor of mortal fear. He had not quite expected this level of censure for a matter of financial irregularity in Kalgachia's most junor organ of state. If it was this bad for him, he briefly wondered what kind of punishment they got in the more important Directorates. "If there is any act of penance and restitution on my part which might atone for these things, I would gladly-"

"Small fry," said the one responsible for internal security. "Do not let it concern you, Mister Rufin. Nor the matter of your peculiar requirements for sexual gratification..."

Rufin's face went back to red. He thought he had been careful.

"The fact is," continued the one responsible for internal security, "your sins have been eclipsed by another individual responsible for our relations with the Tumultuous Wastes. That is the reason we have summoned you here."

"Yes, we were all surprised to learn of your thing about flowers," said the chairman, "but it is harmless enough. We would only advise you to avoid the more predatory flora of Lithead and the frontier regions. They are likely to resist your... advances, with considerable-" he stopped himself. "But it won't do to insult your intelligence... I'm sure you've figured that out already. Others have been more reckless, however. You will notice that this council is presently a member short."

"Yes, brother sovereign." Rufin's response, on account of his scandalous exposure, came in an almost silent whisper.

"Tell me," said the chairman. "Have you heard of Dayanitis?"

"You can't catch that from a flower," said an individual who wore an old Minarborian general's uniform and was, presumably, responsible for the KDF. A flutter of chuckles came from a few other Perfecti.

"Brothers, please," said the chairman with a disapproving frown. "I think we've belittled our Chief Emissary enough." He looked to Rufin with a sympathetic roll of the eyes. "You are familiar with the disease, though, are you not?"

By this point Rufin felt as if he were physically naked. The floor of the chamber, much to his disappointment, had not honoured his silent request to open and swallow him up. "I have heard of it, brother sovereign, but I cannot claim to be personally familiar. Given all the other things he knows, my brother sovereign responsible for internal security can doubtless confirm that I am not lying."

To Rufin's relief the quip got another round of laughs, this time from the whole council.

"Your honour remains intact in that regard, Mister Rufin," said the chairman with a smile. He looked across the slab. "Perhaps our sovereign brother responsible for health and public welfare can explain the situation?"

"Very well," said the one responsible for health and public welfare, clad appropriately in a white doctor's coat. "Some forty-eight hours ago, our sovereign brother responsible for foreign relations committed suicide by self-inflicted gunshot wound in his hotel room at a ski resort just outside Jollity. Not a very jolly scene, as I'm sure you can appreciate."

Rufin's eyes flashed in shock, both at the revelation and the fact that the council had chosen to tell him. "Indeed, brother sovereign," he said. "My condolences to you all."

"He will be sadly missed," said the one responsible for health and public welfare. "He met you on numerous occasions, under the guise of Fifth Secretary of your Directorate. Alias Maksym Papakhov."

"Papakhov!?" Rufin could not help but blurt at the revelation. He had always wondered why the man he knew as Papakhov hardly ever seemed to be around, but was always present for the most important meetings. He had worked with one of the Perfecti and not even known it.

"Our sovereign brother's suicide," continued the one responsible for health and public welfare, "was compelled by an untreated case of Dayanitis. The symptoms comprise a progressively more intense itching sensation which escalates to blinding, debilitating pain. He was in Jollity to supervise the accomodation of Nova English tourists in the city, but it appears he took it upon himself to sample the town's less salubrious attractions. The tragic thing is, if he had only sought medical help he would have been cured of the condition."

"But he obviously didn't want me to know," said the one responsible for internal security. "So he kept it quiet. Am I really that much of a monster that a man would rather shoot himself from pain than come clean to me?"

"Well to be honest, my sovereign brother, at times you are," said the chairman. "But that is your vocation and your sacred calling to our nation. Please do not beat yourself up about it. Our brother responsible for foreign relations made his decision fair and square."

"I would rather be inclined to observe," said an individual in an incredibly ornate emerald green robe who appeared to be responsible for the church, "that the decision was made for him by a floral hand. In the circumstances, Dayanitis seems an appropriate manifestation of the Garden's displeasure at his... activities".

The council visibly shuffled in their seats, most of all the chairman. "Were that observation to come but anyone from yourself," he said, "I would condemn it for disrespect of our fallen brother. If his demise is the will of the Garden, consideration of its implications would be sensitive enough to require occlusion among my Troglodyte brethren."

"But of course, brother chairman," pouted the one responsible for the church. "And I wish them well in their difficult task. Pray continue."

"And so you see, Mister Rufin," said the chairman, "that we Perfecti are not so perfect as we might like to be. Then again, nothing truly perfect can exist in material form... that is the domain of the Garden Ketheric. But what we can do is ensure that we are as close as possible to that perfection, and that means enlisting the finest people for a given task. In our discussions for a replacement of our fallen brother responsible for foreign relations, we concluded quite rapidly around the personage of yourself."

In an instant, everything in Rufin's life prior to him entering the Perfecti's chamber felt like the memories of a seperate person. His jaw slowly hung agape. Surely he had misheard. "Th-the personage of... whom, brother sovereign?"

"You," said the chairman. "We'd like you on the council."

Rufin flashed the kind of helpless smile which comes from a psychotic schism. "But brother sovereign..." he muttered, "...I hardly think myself qualified to-"

"If you are underqualified, everyone else in Kalgachia is less qualified," said an individual sat next to the hammerhead. "The DEO assures me of that."

"And besides," said the one responsible for internal security, "yours was the name put forward on our fallen brother's suicide note. As far as we are concerned, it has the weight of law."

The council allowed Rufin a moment of silence while all the thousands of implications of their offer began to sink in. "I suppose," he said, "to refuse the untold honour of your invitation would put me in a... difficult position."

"Most difficult," said the one responsible for internal security, the true meaning of his words being conveyed to Rufin by a humourless, iron gaze.

"The Garden wills it," said the one responsible for the church. "Consider the many events, beginning with your birth, which have conspired to bring you here. You do not need the Troglodyti to make sense of them. By millions of tiny increments the Garden has delivered you straight into our company... chosen from among millions of others."

"Very well, brother sovereign," said Rufin, "As you put it like that... I can do no other than accept."

"Then take the weight off your feet and be seated," said the chairman, indicating the empty seat with a knife-handed gesture.

Rufin tentatively stepped forward and paced around the table, settling onto the hard granite throne as bidden.

"Now, my sovereign brother," said the chairman, "allow me to furnish you with a few ground rules..." The change in Rufin's style of address was instant; no convoluted initiation, no paperwork. Across the slab, the other Perfecti looked at him with respectfully restful eyes.

"...Firstly," said the chairman, "I'm afraid your globetrotting days are over. We simply cannot afford to risk one of our number venturing outside Kalgachia. We will make arrangements for you to sell your lodge in Nova England through an intermediary and reimburse you... not that you really need money in our line of work. Secondly, the private quarters adjacent to this chamber will become your main place of residence. Any visits you make to the surface will be followed at every step by those in the service of our sovereign brother responsible for internal security. I suggest you get used to it. It could be worse, you could be banned from visiting the surface entirely like I am. And thirdly, we are no longer your brother sovereigns... we are your sovereign brothers. The rest you will pick up as you go along. Following so far?"

"Yes, brother sov-... sovereign brother," said Rufin.

"Good," said the chairman. "Now I don't wish to tell you how to run your own Directorate, but you may wish to make your first order of business the appointment of your replacement there. During your tenure as Chief Emissary you managed to please everyone we wanted pleased, and frustrate everyone we wanted frustrated. If you can identify the person most suitable to carry on that tradition, we can enact this transition with the minimum of hassle. Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Well," said Rufin, pondering for a moment. "Are you familiar with Bitt Knotty?"

"Led our aid delegation to Diwangdao," said the chairman, "for all the good it did. His humanitarian supplies are probably being picked over by Shirerithian landsers as we speak. But I suppose Mister Knotty can hardly be blamed for their invasion."

"With any luck," said the one responsible for the KDF, "The Jingdaoese will have laced the supplies with poison."

"Quite the enterprising idea, brother," said the hammerhead. "Remind me never to dine in your quarters."

The chorus of laughs died down and the chairman offered a nod to Rufin. "If Knotty's your man, make it so. You recall Neren, who brought you in here... run all your missives through him and he'll make sure they go to the right people. Now... do you have any questions?"

"I'm sure I'll have plenty in time, brother," said Rufin. "But... just one for now. What's the deal with that blind Froyalanish girl?"

"Little Odny?" said the chairman. "We got her from Shireroth, back when her kind were a tradeable commodity. She was born in one of their labour camps during a rubella outbreak so she's been blind from birth. She's a little deaf, too. Came here as part of a rush order of farm labourers... it was obvious the Shirerithians had scraped up any old dregs to meet the deadline... most of them were useless. But little Odny turned out to have certain... abilities which caught the interest of my Troglodyte brethren. Often the case with the sensory-deprived, I gather."

"Is that why she comes here?" said Rufin.

"Oh no, she does her work with a special coven of Trogs in some hole or other... you'll have passed it on the way here. They're the ones who plucked her eyes out and replaced them with polished obsidian spheres. At her request, I gather... or rather the request of some non-corporeal entity she is apparently on good terms with. No, we only invite her here as a playmate for Rubina."

"Is that the red-haired girl?"

"That's the one. They have a certain... bond."

"And why does Rubina come here?"

"Come here?" said the chairman, breaking into a smile. "Little Beenie lives here. Her main hobby seems to be getting in the way of my sovereign brothers... she'll be tripping you up in the hallways soon enough. Be nice to her if you can, though... she's my daughter."