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In those days the Black Company did not exist. This I know because there were
laws and decrees that told me so. But I did not feel entirely insubstantial.
The Company standard, its Captain and Lieutenant, its Standardbearer and all the
men who had made the Company so terrible, had passed on, having been buried
alive at the heart of a vast desert of stone. “Glittering stone,” they whispered
in the streets and alleys of Taglios, and “Gone to Khatovar,” they proclaimed
from on high, the mighty making what they had been so determined to prevent for
so long over into a great triumph once the Radisha or Protector or somebody
decided that people ought to believe that the Company had fulfilled its destiny.
Anyone old enough to remember the Company knew better. Only fifty people had
ventured out onto that plain of glittering stone. Half of those people had not
been Company. Only two of those fifty had returned to lie about what had
happened. And a third who had come back to retail the truth had been killed in
the Kiaulune wars, far away from the capital. But the deceits of Soulcatcher and
Willow Swan fooled no one, then or now. People simply pretended to believe them
because that was safer.
They might have asked why Mogaba needed five years to conquer a Company that had
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